Plain View

The grey clouds have moved in and a light snow flits on a gentle breeze never seeming to touch the ground. I am wandering the streets of Pietroasa contemplating Pietroasa itself. I have been told that it compares to a third world country, that the people are poor. This is not what I find and I find such statements based on cultural ignorance and an arrogance bred by a TV nation. It is true that you will not find a Starbuck's here. Nor a McDonald's or KFC. I do not know about the socioeconomic background in Romania or what resources the infrastructure has available to it. But what I have found is a very generous and welcoming culture, a generation of a by gone era that sees no need to move into modern times. A life style lived that has worked and prospered for centuries. I also see the younger generations moving along with the rest of the modern world while keeping the old world tradition alive. Live simply is more than just a trend here or a novelty. Here are people rich with a cultural history and where tradition is a way of life. This brings me to today's story.

As I was walking two boys motioned me to join them in the horse drawn cart they were riding in (one of whom had a DVD in his pocket that contained an application for his home PC and the driver was repeatedly answering his cell phone). Why wouldn't I get into a homemade wagon driven by complete strangers in a foreign land where I do not speak the language? So I jumped in and off we went. We rode through fields on rutted, muddy, rocky roads where I promptly lost my Klean Kanteen as it must have bounced right out of my backpack. Snipe hunt kept coming to mind. But it was beautiful, nonetheless: open fields with hay stored for the winter in large free form stacks. The surrounding mountains covered in snow. As the wind picked up the clouds moved out and the sun was set to shine.

We made our way to the next village to pick up hay, as it turned out. After much teasing and high jinks we loaded the hay and rode back to Pietroasa on a much more comfortable cart, where, I found my Klean Kanteen (not after the horse stepped on it or perhaps the wagon rode over it, of course). Once back in Pietroasa, after more language lessons, we unloaded the hay at their local farm. I was then shown all their sheep and rabbits and invited in for freshly made cheese pie.

During my brief stay here I have been witness to many an intimate moment between friends and family. Welcomed in so unabashedly to a kitchen as I were one of their own.

And once I was back in the kitchen of my hostess the usual high jinks were in store. I do not eat enough. Apparently small children eat more than I do. And because of this I will be the death of my host mother. All of this I surmise not through verbal but body language: she throws her head back, eyes closed, dismissing my inadequate diet with the flick of her rest. Then her head slumps back and an arm cross her chest in dead repose.