I am from Transylvania. Since this is a
little corner somewhere in Eastern Europe, in
Northwest Romania to be exact, I was expecting to
give the routine explanation of my origins, to
correct people and let them know, for example,
that Bucharest and not Budapest is the capital of
Romania. I was also prepared to constantly
mention what good places to visit Hungary and
Romania are, although the relationship between
the two countries is still like cats and dogs and
a war is going on right next door. But when it
comes to talking about Transylvania, both
Romanians and Hungarians, pour passionate
historical diatribes on you about how they were
actually the first people in Transylvania, and
how this country rich in ore, belongs rightly to
them and only to them.
Imagine my surprise when the faces of my new
American acquaintances lit up at my "I' m
from Transylvania". "Oh, really? How
coool!"One of them said that he dreamt of
two places to live in: San Francisco and
Transylvania. I thought he was just courteous,
but when he told me that he called all his
friends to tell them that he met someone from
Dracula's country, the mystery was solved. We
Transylvanians didn' t know we were so popular
here.
I am the first in my family who got this far
west.
For years I passed by the endless line in front
of the United States embassy in Bucharest,
reading the postered protests of my countrymen
who hadn't got a visa: "I applied for a visa
five years ago. My family is there! Why are you
torturing us?" "You talk about human
rights, but you don' t give visas!" they
would complain in capital letters. America seemed
so far away. I was thinking people in the line
were tougher than I. They were dealing with
officials which was an ordeal for me, answering,
answering, answe ring. If they succeeded in
leaving the country, the relatives left behind
had to go through endless interrogations that
might end with loss of their jobs, torture or
prison.
Now nothing like that happens, but still even the
thought of being interrogated gives me cold feet.
I asked the consul meekly for a visa for six
weeks and I got one for a year. Waving my
passport, I asked my friend to treat me more
deferentially because I possessed an American
visa. "Don' t boast like that!"he
smirked."First I had to l isten to all your
enraged pouring about bureaucrats and now your
adrenaline got high because of a visa!"
Well, he is a Westerner...
I had an uneventful journey, an uneventful
arrival, an uneventful stay. People are friendly,
generous, talkative. At least with me.
But the human scenery looks different here. The
main novelty are the giants, the fat people.
"Look, another cubic man is coming!" I
said when people as broad as they were tall
passed by. My friends sighed:"We are a rich
country!"Then they explained that it's the
poor who are so fat, because they eat fried food.
Tattoos are another story. People turned into
exotic marine creatures, their skin covered by
blue drawings seeming to reflect the ocean' s
color. Then I spotted roses and hearts, sunrises
and daggers, snakes and dragons, warriors and
lions, skulls and happy faces, even an alien
bursting out from a sexy stomach. I was told
tattoos are sort of a statement about yourself,
not purely body art. Maybe lovers here, instead
of looking deeply into each others eyes, just
examine one another's tattoos and get turned on.
Maybe they no longer say "I see the green of
the sea"or "the blue of the sky"or
"the mystery of the night in your
mesmerizing eyes..." but "Let' s have
wedding ring tattoos made." It' s just
different, as many other things.
For example I've never heard so much talk about
food as here. "The ham I bought is sooo
good! And only $37!" "What wonderful
catfish and squash they have at the Black -Eyed
Pea!" "Let' s go to Red and Blue. The
onion loaf is delicious there !"And people
would drive to the other side of the city to have
it!
I will remember all-you-can-eat-crab-dinners. My
nostrils still recall their spicy steam. It was
so messy, like in my childhood when I was allowed
to eat like a pig. All those people, working so
hard, crushing the red and white crabs with
wooden hammers, sipped the meat from the legs
without any sign of fatigue. I gave up after the
third one, and just watched the waitress pour
crabs on our table. I was dumbfounded how my
companions ate at least twelve of them.
And everywhere there is ice. A glass contains
more ice than liquid. My mother wouldn\rquote t
believe me that nobody here thinks ice gives you
a sore throat and cramps in your stomach.
As to the air conditioning... It is a wonderful
achievement. Several times a day I have the
opportunity to experience going from a fridge to
a sauna and back. Because it is sooo hot!
And the small talk. The small talk is ... fine.
Half of the conversation goes on saying nothing.
"How are you?" "Fine."
"Gooood." " And you?"
"Wonderful. But it's soooo hot."
"Oooh, yes!" And every second sentence
they say "Goood!" or "Very
interesting!" If you take it seriously and
say you are bad today, you might get smiles and
another "Great. Bye!" |
I asked my friend why everybody here swims in
happy talk. "Would you like to hear that my
wife left me and I' m almost broke?" he
said. "You' ve got to be optimistic. You' ve
got to sugar coat. You' ve got to smile! Why
depress the others?"
I thought Romanians to be the most hospitable on
earth, but here people are the very best! One day
I asked my host where to buy the device to adapt
my computer from the European to the American
style of plug. I didn' t know what I would get
into. The device cost one dollar, but we spent
half a day searching for it in several shops and
$50 on cabs. Which is nice. I guess this had
something to do with the frontier spirit: "
Don' t give up! We' ll get it," said my host
when I was half fainting in the heat, begging her
to go home after two lengthy negotiations with
sales people.
I will remember the walk of bricks, in Baltimore
near the harbor, where you can have your name
engraved for a few dollars to the delight of your
enemies who may come and spit and tread on it to
their hearts' content. Americans call this
cynicsm, but I had a hard childhood without TV
psychiatry.
Above all I will remember the walks I took in the
poor neighborhoods. All cities have the
"window-shop"area for tourists, and
hosts usually take you there. But it wasn't hard
for me to see the poor side of America, for
myself.
When I left Europe, I was expecting people to be
mean to me, make fun of my Eastern European
accent or try to cheat me out of my little money.
At every step to meet robbers with guns,
ghost-like drug addicts lying on the pavement,
homeless in cardboard bo xes and hordes of
prostitutes. And rapists. And serial killers.
I didn' t. So, when Mr. John Cain, a candidate
for the Baltimore City Council, invited me to
accompany him on an electoral campaign, I hoped I
would meet ordinary Americans. In my country the
candidates usually announce a public meeting and
people come to listen to their platform, ask
questions or express their discontent. In America
everything is delivered at home, Cain said. If
you wait for people to come to hear y our speech,
you've lost your voters.
When I saw Mr. Cain in shorts and walking shoes,
toting a bag with posters and leaflets, and heard
that we'd knock door to door in the
"dangerous neighborhood," I felt brave.
"I never went to war, but I'm a journalist
.. . Here, finally, is the opportunity to meet
danger," I thought, forgetting to voice my
concern that people wouldn't take us seriously
because of his casual attire.
But it was safe, no drive-by shootings,
unfortunately, no angry people threatening you.
Nothing to write home about.
Like mailmen, the candidate and his team walked
up every white, scrubbed step, faced barking
apartment dogs, listened patiently to complaints
about uncollected garbage and rats. The voters
looked familiar to me. The same sad, worr ied
faces, some suspicious, some smiling, just like
home. I wanted to see more. Next day Mr. Bob
Hilson from The Baltimore Sun, drove me
on the main street of ???? district. I was told
not to stare. People were sitting around - no
jobs to go to - some on the steps, some at street
corners. One shouted after us "Crack!
Crack!" making gestures with his hands as if
he was smoking. Two streets down a police car was
parked. I asked the policeman why didn't he
arrest the drug dealer. "We have no
proof." And he drove away. Here I was,
telling him I was offered drugs and he just drove
away. Glorious moment.
We walked on the street, talked loudly, ate
snow-balls, went to see a market half empty where
some municipality workers in orange T-shirts
laughed in a corner over their hot-dogs, marveled
at the acrylic finger nails and the shops with
rows of wigs in rai nbow colors. And nobody
threatened me. Obviously America wanted to be
nice to me this trip so I decided to go shopping
at Wall Mart.
There you can stroll and marvel at how cheap is
this and that item. For some are really cheap! I,
who have no money, could shop here! My tape
recorder cost me about $50 at home - a quarter of
my monthly income - and here it is $20! The same
with underwear. A "satin"set is $8 here
and $ 50 there. Last night I had wild dreams
about going home through Alaska driving a truck
full of underwear.
Written for The Baltimore Sun, but
unpublished, Summer 1995
On my website, September 1997 |