Glory Ho

I attended the second part of an NGO Training in Bucharest, Romania. Read about the first training here. This time, we dug deeper into PR, fundraising, lobbying and project management for non-profits. I missed Michael terribly, didn’t learn much about the aforementioned topics, and the constant social effort was exhausting. In very anti-Andrea fashion, I even skipped sessions and occasionally escaped to my room for alone time.

But a few gems arose. In addition to meeting Ethan Hawke’s mother, who happens to be a former Peace Corps Volunteer and still lives in Romania, I spoke with Romanians about everything from Scissor Sisters to saran wrap. There were some thought-provoking exchanges:

On being a better volunteer. . .

I was chatting with my roommate, Alina, from Timosoara, Romania. She was complaining about the lack of commitment by her forty plus volunteers at the social work non-profit where she worked. She said she had trouble depending on them.

I sympathized. Volunteer management is tough everywhere, I said. If you’re not paying them, its hard to enforce attendance.

Volunteer Management, she said, with a puzzled look. Hmm. I’ve never heard it called that before.

I explained. It’s a common duty listed in the job description for NGO employees. And if you have forty volunteers, than you are, in fact, a volunteer manager.

I thought about what I used as volunteer incentives, but they seemed so basic. I didn’t want to insult her. She was nearly my age, a progressive Romanian with excellent computer skills, a terrific command of English and definitely well-educated. She’d also worked in the third sector a lot longer than me.

Well, you probably already do this, I said, but. . ., and proceeded to list the tactics I use like a bulletin board with volunteer photos, an appreciation night, monthly meetings, birthday cards, logging hours for quantifiable results, and encouraging idea and solution exchange between volunteers through personal workshops.

But these simple methods of communication and exchange were new to Alina. She was skeptical but appreciative and eager to try them out.

Wow, I thought. It’s just a different culture. Don’t I know that by now?

On communicating with your public. . .

The project manager for the Animus Foundation, an organization, which counsels the victims of human-trafficking, wanted to look at my American passport.

Bulgarian: You see? This is so practical! This information here in the beginning. It’s perfect for a traveler to have in their passport. Bulgaria would never think to do such a thing.

Andrea: What information?

Andrea: Oh, that information, I said, eyeing the five pages of small print, which went on and on with contact info for every conceivable department that a traveler or smuggler might need, like customs, taxes, social security, shots and what to if someone steals or “mutilates” your passport. There was advice on safety, insurance, natural disaster and embassy registration. There were blanks for emergency contacts while abroad. Mine were empty.

I’d never really read it, but yes, definitely practical. The American government goes to great lengths to ensure we’re aware of our rights and can solve problems while abroad. They protect us by communicating with us. This works.

On supervisor-employee relations. . .

A Bulgarian explained a surprising situation which occurred during her work abroad program in the United States.

For extra money, I got a second job working at a local hotel, for the catering department. One day during my second week, I was two hours late for work. Even though my boss didn’t see me, I was advised by my colleagues to tell her and apologize directly. I gingerly approached her desk. She was nice and let me off the hook, just advising me to make sure it didn’t happen again.

That was great. But then something strange happened.

She asked me how I felt about the job, if I like the team and felt comfortable with my duties.

I was amazed.This would never happen in Bulgaria. No one would ever do this. I don’t know why, but it just wouldn’t occur.

Basic communication, I thought. Why is it so hard?

We actually found a place called Amsterdam in Bucharest. There was something about the French music and the natural light and the big windows and the burgundy velvet curtain around the doorway and the saxophones and trumpets and teapots and cameras being sold second hand across the street that really worked. A man with a fauxhawk served us black tea on plates in the shape of a wave. I took notes on a napkin. These are the places a grey day is made for, I tell Michael. Who needs that silly old sun anyway?

In Bucharest, Michael taught me about photography. I think, sadly enough, that what I’ve been doing most of my life is actually called “documentation”. Not that I ever called myself a photographer. And there’s nothing wrong with documentation. But still. Sad. To make it an art form, he tells me, you must see the world in shapes. Look for lines between the light and the dark. Mix modes and swirls and blurs. Create your own masterpiece from a candy wrapper. I feel as though I am now searching for a new dimension at any given moment. Wow.

Alex ran his little villa like a house. Any question posed seemed to be answered with a Why not? So we used the computer, the laundry line, the towels and the kitchen with ease. We made our own tea and poured our own wine. The door was always unlocked. Alex slept in one of the 10 Euro rooms himself. The bathrooms were only as clean as you would expect a fifty year old man to be. The dorms had thick comforters, scary murals, wooden bunk beds and that morning breath smell, which seems to haunt every hostel. Room lights flickered like a disco long before guiding your way. There was a recipe for polenta, which is really just a fancy word for corn mush, painted on the kitchen wall. Polenta is actually Italian, but in a common form of what I call national-dish-sampling (something I sampled from the music industry’s now habitual practices) countries are always claiming other country’s food as their own. Alex kept the sugar in an old blue German tin, which reminded me of something my Grandma Enright used to do.

We couldn’t help but compare Bucharest to Sofia. It’s why we came. We wanted to see a country, which, from a global and journalistic perspective, was continuously lumped together with Bulgaria. Everything looked similar on the surface. Grey buildings, a lot of graffiti, the occasional attractively-pillared architecture, and an ugly assortment of imitation Times Square signs sat on stilts atop every roof. McDonalds signs bursting through in Technicolor. Very few smiles. Poor service.

But that where it ended. Compared to Sofia, the city of Bucharest maintained a much wiser use of space. Someone had known how to create a town square, tree-lined paths to greatness, manicured parks, a traffic circle with a center worth going around. Everything had been built on a grander scale. Buildings towered higher and could be seen from a distance. Fountains lounged lavishly for penny-throwers. Restored architecture, clever Christmas lights and modern cafes were plentiful. EU Celebration was everywhere. Bucharest had been imitating Western Europe for quite some time. That was obvious. Sofia, in contrast, was behind. While much cozier, it was constantly tripping over itself. Too, Bucharest was more on the ball with infrastructure. Instead of haggard female brutes beneath of cloud of smoke, the train station employed polite, uniformed clerks. Buses boasted electronic signs to announce stops prior to arrival and trams were less like squeaky train cars and more like airport monorails.

But it’s all about history, as usual.

Romania had been a kingdom, served by Ceausescu and his wife, an anti-Soviet, totalitarian team, who were inspired by the sweeping squares of communist North Korea and China to build their own capital in a similar style. They also wasted a whole lot of the public’s lei on structures which included helicopter pads and life-size megalomaniacal portraits. So, when Romanian rebels finally tired of the bread lines, taxes on childless individuals, massive debt and Stalinist style of control, and executed the couple (him, at this point delusional enough to be singing their national anthem and her screaming at everyone to go to hell) there was, amid confusion and fear, at least a small sense of triumph. This all happened back in 1989, the year that Seinfeld premiered and my husband graduated from high school.

The problem is that this kind of thing never happened in Bulgaria. There WAS no revolution. Bulgarians, for some reason, rarely formed rebel groups or staged uprisings. As a result, no one automatically qualifed by merit of their past actions or beliefs, to take on the new democratic roles and therefore, they remained open to anybody, including former agents and spies, who gradually became active in fund-smuggling.

For the fifty-seventh time, we realized that Bulgaria was different. A little more in the dark. A little less happy. A little more behind.

Hmmm.

In the countryside, a similar pattern. As we bolted through their plains on the snake-shaped spaceship they called a train, old people stared with wonder and spite. Every scene that was Romania, seemed Bulgaria, too. Green gates, rocky roads, scarfed babas, grey train stations, tired donkeys, littered ditches, empty trees, broken benches. A sadness we knew well. But then, the differences broke through. Haystacks, just like you might picture, along with their needles, were everywhere. Houses, medieval, massive and pointy, like a queen’s fingernails, “ta-da”-ed from country cliff-sides.

And as I watched out the window, I caught a glimpse, a flash, a moment the size and shape of a dream. One you try and paste to the wall inside your head, because you know that it will soon fade away. An old man—how do I know he was old? I couldn’t see his face. I just knew. He wore a long, grayish-blue trenchcoat and a fedora. Next to him, stood a five year old boy with a puffy winter coat. A hundred yards back from the tracks, in an empty, dirt field, they stood next to each other, both feet apart, like a photo that had already been taken.

They were waving at the train.

I shot my hand up, a little late. I hope they saw me. But it doesn’t even matter. They were waving at strangers, assuming they were friends. They were exuding positive energy into this cruel world. In the Balkans, it was a rare and startling gesture.

But it happened to me. I saw it. I swear I did. And I’m holding onto that, scratching to keep a grip with the few fingernails I’ve got left.

It is time to write about Bulgarian public bathrooms, the ones found in a train station or bus depot. I devote this blog to my sister-in-law Christine Enright, who sent me an email forward regarding Public Restrooms, one so hilarious that I keep it around for a good, “laughter through tears” experience whenever I need one. I’m sure she’ll be mortified.

It starts with an attendant who looks 100. She is actually 57. This woman is selling napkins and demands the correct change you never seem to have in your pocket. But if you want something to wipe with, you’ll find it. On the ground, from a friend, in a grate, wherever. You then descend the grimy steps, (bathrooms are always downstairs in this country). On the last step, you carefully roll up your pants to the knee. If in a hurry, bunching them above the knee is acceptable, but a definite risk, as they will fall much easier from this position should you have to make a quick dash. And this is always possible.

You step into the dirty pond of water, then toward the crowd of women who seem un-phased. But honestly, a Bulgarian could have a sewer rat chewing on their face and she would just carefully pick it off, toss it away and return to her cigarette. Communist, calm and collected. They are masters at the non-reaction.

So you’re on your tip toes to avoid soaking your socks with the water on the ground. The smell is pretty bad—conjure your worst port-a-potty experience. But holding it isn’t an option. The next stop could be worse.

You now keep one eye on your pant rolls, the other on the crowd people who will happily cut in front of you if they detect your lack of experience. You glance at your watch obsessively as there’s only 12 minutes until your bus leaves.. At this point, you check all five pockets for a third time to be sure there is not a phone, passport or wad of cash, which could fall not only into a toilet, which would mean it’s technically retrievable, but potentially into a black abyss, from where it is definitely not. If you’re unfortunate enough to be traveling alone and carrying a backpack, then you also check for straying straps to be sure any dangles have been reduced. I do not advise carrying any kind of purse during this experience unless you can somehow Velcro the entire thing to your body.

If time permits, you might look for a mirror, but most often, this will be in vain, and honestly, it’s better if you focus on relieving your bladder and keeping clean anyway. One slip, one distraction, one limp hand and you will be a very sad and dirty girl.

It’s your turn now. No doors actually lock, but this is a plus, as people know and wait respectfully out of site. No chance of someone barging in. You gulp the last bit of air you’ll have for a few minutes and walk in. As suspected, there is no toilet, just a couple of footpads and a hole. In a way, better–less to touch. But I assure you, it doesn’t feel better at the time.

But no worries, you’ve done this before, although you much prefer a tree or car bumper for leaning purposes. You head in slowly and deliberately, positioning your feet very, and I mean VERY carefully on the ribbed footpads to get a good grip. Unbutton your pants, pull them down gently as not to disrupt your rolls, then pull up your winter coat and assume the position. Not exactly a squat, because the very small hole isn’t only between your legs, it’s also behind your legs, so its actually best to bend your knees half way, then lean your upper body forward and down. Place one hand in front to catch yourself, should you slip. But don’t let go of that napkin. And don’t overcorrect and bump into the backpipe either. It’s positively filthy.

Now it’s time to go. You release gently at first, as your aim might be off and your feet, shoes, socks and all, are in the splash zone. When finished, you wait a bit, as standing up will position your drip source directly over your pants. Not good. Staying squatted, you then use that one napkin as wisely as possible. Remember, there is no dispenser. And searching your pockets for anything, at this point, would be suicide.

Keeping your feet in the same position, you slowly pull up your pants and let your coat fall back down to its normal length. You wisely leave your pants rolled, realizing you’re not out of this shit-hole yet. Thankfully, there is no flush to even consider. You step slowly out of the bathroom, past the waiting women and just for the hell of it, look around for anything resembling a faucet. The sink you see can’t possibly be cleaner than your own piss and would require too much touching, so you decide to buy a packet of baby wipes from the Roma beggar upstairs instead, waiting until you’ve cleared the stairwell before wiping your shoes and unrolling your pants. You are triumphant and relieved. Your husband or boyfriend is no longer there, but warm and safe, waving at you to hurry up, from the bus window.

Please remember me the next time you are in an American public bathroom.

A few years ago, finding the phrase “Night Train to Bucharest” on a page in my planner would have sounded exotic. The idea of crossing the Danube River on a communist-constructed train tressle in the middle of the night would have inspired travel research and work on my Peace Corps essay.

Now it’s just what we’re doing on Friday. A plan for the weekend. And I need to stop and appreciate.

Maybe you, too, are doing something now that once seemed either:

a. impossible
b. crazy
c. unfathomable
d. all of the above

Maybe its being a parent, or owning a business or having a clean bill of health or becoming friends with your sister or being the proud owner of a scarf that you crocheted yourself. It can be anything. Really. The point is that you relish these moments right now, mundane as they may seem. The phone ringing, grocery shopping, picking up your son, decorating your mantle, whatever. Try to stop fixating on the future.

On Thanksgiving, I spoke to my family. What great moments these were, particularly with my Dad and my brother. While I frequently talk to my Mom, (she’s still my touchstone, even across the world), the guys were harder to catch. But now, trapped in the house, forced to sap and socialize, with no meeting to attend or customer to handle and at a complete loss for a legitimate escape, we fell into long conversations.

We chatted well into the morning, or rather, my morning. Increasingly impressive accomplishments with my father’s laptop, which he now keeps in the kitchen. Dustin spoke of ex-boyfriend sightings at the local tavern, along with children I used to baby-sit, who now have children of their own. He shared a little bit of his life–still a fearless leader, I see, building communities wherever he goes.

But then my Dad surprised me. After my whining regarding what I would do with the rest of my life, he encouraged me to focus on the now. A bit indirectly, but I’m pretty sure this was the point. My Dad was talking about his team, the Chicago Bears.

Back in 1985, I was only ten, but Dustin, Philip and I sat in front of our four channel television set with our babysitter, Jodi, specially-purchased candy bars in hand, ready to run to the phone lest William Perry score a touchdown, because they were giving away refrigerators at the local radio station. Nevermind that I didn’t understand the game. Excitement was in the air! Even now, I can strangely recall every verse to the Super Bowl Shuffle.

Ever since then, the team has been fairly unremarkable. But this year’s Bears finally have some buzz. Legitimacy can’t help but leak from their promising performances and fans feel like the rest of the country is watching with them. My Dad was thrilled.

But, he lamented, everyone (fans, critics, that guy named Boomer) keeps talking about the damn Super Bowl and how far they might go and blah, blah, blah. Instead, he said, we should be enjoying the wins! The Bears are Winning, he said. The Bears are Winning Right Now!

He’s right you know.

And it doesn’t matter if you care about football or not. Think big, but think now.

So the other day, in Bucharest, temperature roughly around 38 degrees (yes, I mean Fahrenheit!), we were at the palace of the former Romanian ruler Ceausescu. The one who was assassinated back in 1989. This building, which happens to be the second largest structure in the world (the first being the pentagon) resembled a dreary, rain-washed wedding cake, sorely in need of a happy couple. We’d received some wrong directions and somehow walked nearly the entire perimeter of its castle-white walls and still hadn’t found the entrance. Our feet were crampy. We were cold.

But these are the moments when Michael pulls out his bag of tricks. And his recent one involves telling me: Andrea! The bears are winning. Remember, the Bears are Winning Right Now!

I would prefer, of course, that he said the Broncos are Winning, but its too late. The phrase has stuck, so I’ll always be reminded of my Enright family loyalties!

We tried to have Thanksgiving with the Bulgarians. Really, we did. Matt and Olivia, the Peace Corps couple who found true love and were recently married in a beautiful collage of Bulgarian-American traditions, including Livin’ on a Prayer and folk-dancing, invited us to Kalofer, a tiny mountain village. We needed the integration dues AND we really enjoy their company, so off we trekked, Michael stowing the just-purchased sausages in a bus-station ice cream cooler as we waited, while the rest of the ingredients to his scrumptious stuffing would be stowed securely beneath the bus for maximum diesel absorption. We arrived in the dark, on the side of the highway, using headlamps to guide us down the road.

Now, when Matt and Olivia described their Thansksgiving, or rather, sold it to us, they described an American-sent football DVD, and several other things like turkey, mashed potatoes, Bulgarians and banana bread. But the America-sent football DVD seemed to the loudest message we heard. Even after we discovered it would be the Bills playing the Chargers, it didn’t matter. Getting to eat American food WHILE watching an American football game AND sharing traditions like a good PCV seeemd priceless.

So we were psyched and started early on the big day. Oliva and I spent a lot of time in their teeny tiny kitchen making very time-consuming, but tasty coleslaw–(I never realized carrots could be shredded manually!) deviled eggs minus the paprika and cirene-mushroom dip (don’t ask). How strange to be cooking on this holiday. . it was typically my job to wander around snacking and trying to look helpful. But i got dirty and burnt and did a lot of dishes. It felt good to be part of the action.

As it turns out, the Bulgarians, having had enough of American traditions by watching Will Farrel, Tim Allen and Hallmark channel holiday specials over the years, weren’t terribly interested in our customs. But of course, if there’s any place where “it’s the thought that counts” it’s the Peace Corps. Soooooo, here’s how Thanksgiving really went. Because we are volunteers, and M & O’s apartment is small (they brush their teeth in the kitchen, okay?) we needed a place to host. So it had been decided that the event would be held at a friend and colleague, Elena’s house on Saturday, which also happened to be her 30th birthday. Hmmmm. Not too surprising, she had a few preferences of her own. And who can blame her, but. . . .For example, she refused to eat anytime in the afternoon, and when the party did begin well past dark, insisted on courses, meaning we were still digesting at 2 AM. Blech. Matt did cook a Turkey in Elena’s oven, but once the Bulgarians found out about the triptophan, they accused us of psychologically poisoning them and kept looking suspiciously in our direction, afraid of passing out, yet questioning the legitimacy of this ingredient. My mention of a classic Sienfeld episode was somehow unhelpful. And when Matt suggested a table-round “thankful” session, he was brutally rebuffed. They seemed to enjoy the stuffing, applesauce and banana bread, giving Michael plenty of shit for the role-reversal when he delivered a dish to the table where I was sitting down. As usual, every guest nibbled at their food, pausing for cigarette breaks now and then, allowing everything to get cold (!!) while trying not to stare at my third helping of applesauce. And that’s what Thanksgiving is primarily about. Food. This realization came after trying to relay this holiday to Bulgarians. I’ve found that when I’m forced to carefully explain a concept to foreigners, that the true meaning of that idea becomes clearer, even to myself.

If you hadn’t already guessed, there was no America-sent football DVD in the background. No, no, this was not allowed, Laura. Instead, Michael and I sat, our big-city lack of Bulgarian stamped like a big wishbone on each of our foreheads, and enjoyed the one great thing about this country. Here, we can be quiet without anyone asking us what’s wrong.