Monday, July 28, 2003
There are many bad things about Romania, like crappy customer service, horrendous public relations on the part of most institutions, a retarded banking system and antiquated, eastern morals. But there are also many good things, like girls who pay much more attention to their looks than a normal human being should (but, I must admit, it shows), lots of virgin nature (if you don't mind its being virgin, as in no toilets/fresh water springs/designated camping spaces for hundreds of miles) and really hard liquor. My current favorite good thing about Romania is the shuk (market place in the form of endless rows of tables loaded with fresh produce sold by the producer).
The shuk is a distinctly oriental institution. It is loud, crowded, dusty, vividly colorful and somewhat perilous due to the ubiquitous pickpockets and sellers of counterfeit stuff. It has a specific smell, a mixture of sweaty armpits, rotten potatoes and cinnamon. It has a distinct set of rules -- with some sellers you can bargain, with others you cannot; it is acceptable for some to charge you a bit more than they sell you, while you should not allow others to keep the change; some sellers provide plastic bags for you to put your leeks in, while others are likely to suggest that you transport your three pounds of extremely ripe tomatoes in your pockets. It's great!
The shuk that I go to is a five minute walk from my building. It lies on one square block in the center of my neighborhood. On the outside, it is surrounded by tiny stores (usually one prefab plastic and glass room, including storage space) selling panties, coffee, fried fish, ridicculously cheap shoes made in China, pet food, jewellery and, um, cell phones. Inside, it is a maze of alleys bordered by the produce sellers' counters: piles of potatoes (potatoes are big in Romania), tomatoes, lettuce, onions, green beans, carrots, peanuts, oranges, bananas, apricots, peaches, apples and berries. In the center of the shuk, on an elevated platform, are a tiny supermarket, a large fresh cheese store and a diminutive but richly supplied frozen fish store. Newspaper sellers are everywhere. And just outside the shuk, an area of approximately half a square mile is occupied by enormous piles of cantaloups and watermellons, sold at 5 cents a pound.
Apart from the obvious considerations related to the quality/price report and the pleasant exoticism, the best thing about the shuk is that it is genuine -- no pretenses, just good shit. And that, my friend, is what I like.
The shuk is a distinctly oriental institution. It is loud, crowded, dusty, vividly colorful and somewhat perilous due to the ubiquitous pickpockets and sellers of counterfeit stuff. It has a specific smell, a mixture of sweaty armpits, rotten potatoes and cinnamon. It has a distinct set of rules -- with some sellers you can bargain, with others you cannot; it is acceptable for some to charge you a bit more than they sell you, while you should not allow others to keep the change; some sellers provide plastic bags for you to put your leeks in, while others are likely to suggest that you transport your three pounds of extremely ripe tomatoes in your pockets. It's great!
The shuk that I go to is a five minute walk from my building. It lies on one square block in the center of my neighborhood. On the outside, it is surrounded by tiny stores (usually one prefab plastic and glass room, including storage space) selling panties, coffee, fried fish, ridicculously cheap shoes made in China, pet food, jewellery and, um, cell phones. Inside, it is a maze of alleys bordered by the produce sellers' counters: piles of potatoes (potatoes are big in Romania), tomatoes, lettuce, onions, green beans, carrots, peanuts, oranges, bananas, apricots, peaches, apples and berries. In the center of the shuk, on an elevated platform, are a tiny supermarket, a large fresh cheese store and a diminutive but richly supplied frozen fish store. Newspaper sellers are everywhere. And just outside the shuk, an area of approximately half a square mile is occupied by enormous piles of cantaloups and watermellons, sold at 5 cents a pound.
Apart from the obvious considerations related to the quality/price report and the pleasant exoticism, the best thing about the shuk is that it is genuine -- no pretenses, just good shit. And that, my friend, is what I like.
Sunday, July 27, 2003
Today we praise our sisters' fortitude. A real story.
A few years ago, my parents bought a house in the country -- a shabby little shack in a decrepit little village, a 2 hours' drive from Bucharest. They soon became friends with another Bucharest couple who happened to own the neighboring house. The couple has a 20 year-old daughter (whom we will call the Girl), who has a boyfriend of 4 years, aged 27 (whom we will call the Boy). On their return from this weekend's break in the country, my parents told me the following, which they had gathered from the Girl's parents.
On a warm night mid last week, the Boy dropped the Girl off at her place around 11 PM. He was a little tipsy, and the Girl worried about the safety of his drive home. Around 11:30 PM, she decided to check that he was all right, and called his house. No reply. She tried again. No reply. Starting to panick, she called one of her neighbors and asked him to drive her to the Boy's place. The obliging neighbor acquiesced, and they headed off...
A few blocks from the Boy's house, they discovered his car. On closer inspection, they also discovered that the Boy was in the car. With another girl.
Faced with the situation, the Girl lost her temper in a most admirable fashion. She flung open the door, grabbed the Boy by the collar of his shirt and started punching him hard in the face, breaking his nose and his lip, all the while calling him an assortment of dishonorable names at the top of her lungs. Hearing her screams, the inhabitants of the neighboring buildings thought she was being assaulted, and called the police, which arrived immediately. Not small was the police officers' surprise when they discovered that a young woman was beating the shit out of her unfaithful lover. They tried to temper her violence, saying "Miss, calm down, that's enough!", to which she replied "Hang on, I'll just be another second". When she was done with the Boy, she grabbed the object of his infidelity by the hair and tossed her out of the car. And then she went home, with her hands *and* arms blue. Needless to say, she dumped the Boy.
Over the next couple days, the Boy kept calling her to apologize. She did not budge. Yesterday, the Boy called the Girl and asked her to marry him. She broke into a hysterical fit of laughter and told him to fuck off.
The moral of the story is that sometimes a man needs a good beating to realize who his ideal woman is.
The other moral of the story is that them who want to sleep with people they're not supposed to sleep with should be really, really careful not to be caught.
The final moral of the story is that sisters are doing it for themselves.
***
The adorable quality of the story above notwithstanding, I am rather pizda ("pussy" in Romanian; but is pronounced "piss'd ah" and I am using it to signify "pissed off"; hope this reasoning is as clear to you as it is to me; thank you). Not in a particularly manic way, just in a tired and tense way. I entertained a cohort of disturbingly existentialist thoughts last night, while I was watching "Gia". As an atheist, it is hard for me to believe that there is anything beyond death. As an occasionally pizda atheist, it is easy for me to believe that there is no intrinsic point to living, and that the key to inner peace is focusing on clutter: breeding a passion to keep your mind off Big Issues, developing a healthy addiction, filling your time with satisfying activities. As a fruitcakey spiritualist, however, it is sometimes easy for me to believe that there is, in fact, a Plan. And as a spiritual hedonist (I typed "headonist"; I am tart), I like to believe that the Plan involves perpetuating the existence of Human Life (by creating, pro or otherwise) in a not-necessarily-painful-way (clutter). Sometimes, though, my endeavor to perpetuate Life becomes painful and unpleasant, which brings me back to "... and then you die". Apart from slight obsessive characteristics, however, I am a generally well-balanced, positive person, so my existentialist fits wane fast.
Damn chemistry.
A few years ago, my parents bought a house in the country -- a shabby little shack in a decrepit little village, a 2 hours' drive from Bucharest. They soon became friends with another Bucharest couple who happened to own the neighboring house. The couple has a 20 year-old daughter (whom we will call the Girl), who has a boyfriend of 4 years, aged 27 (whom we will call the Boy). On their return from this weekend's break in the country, my parents told me the following, which they had gathered from the Girl's parents.
On a warm night mid last week, the Boy dropped the Girl off at her place around 11 PM. He was a little tipsy, and the Girl worried about the safety of his drive home. Around 11:30 PM, she decided to check that he was all right, and called his house. No reply. She tried again. No reply. Starting to panick, she called one of her neighbors and asked him to drive her to the Boy's place. The obliging neighbor acquiesced, and they headed off...
A few blocks from the Boy's house, they discovered his car. On closer inspection, they also discovered that the Boy was in the car. With another girl.
Faced with the situation, the Girl lost her temper in a most admirable fashion. She flung open the door, grabbed the Boy by the collar of his shirt and started punching him hard in the face, breaking his nose and his lip, all the while calling him an assortment of dishonorable names at the top of her lungs. Hearing her screams, the inhabitants of the neighboring buildings thought she was being assaulted, and called the police, which arrived immediately. Not small was the police officers' surprise when they discovered that a young woman was beating the shit out of her unfaithful lover. They tried to temper her violence, saying "Miss, calm down, that's enough!", to which she replied "Hang on, I'll just be another second". When she was done with the Boy, she grabbed the object of his infidelity by the hair and tossed her out of the car. And then she went home, with her hands *and* arms blue. Needless to say, she dumped the Boy.
Over the next couple days, the Boy kept calling her to apologize. She did not budge. Yesterday, the Boy called the Girl and asked her to marry him. She broke into a hysterical fit of laughter and told him to fuck off.
The moral of the story is that sometimes a man needs a good beating to realize who his ideal woman is.
The other moral of the story is that them who want to sleep with people they're not supposed to sleep with should be really, really careful not to be caught.
The final moral of the story is that sisters are doing it for themselves.
***
The adorable quality of the story above notwithstanding, I am rather pizda ("pussy" in Romanian; but is pronounced "piss'd ah" and I am using it to signify "pissed off"; hope this reasoning is as clear to you as it is to me; thank you). Not in a particularly manic way, just in a tired and tense way. I entertained a cohort of disturbingly existentialist thoughts last night, while I was watching "Gia". As an atheist, it is hard for me to believe that there is anything beyond death. As an occasionally pizda atheist, it is easy for me to believe that there is no intrinsic point to living, and that the key to inner peace is focusing on clutter: breeding a passion to keep your mind off Big Issues, developing a healthy addiction, filling your time with satisfying activities. As a fruitcakey spiritualist, however, it is sometimes easy for me to believe that there is, in fact, a Plan. And as a spiritual hedonist (I typed "headonist"; I am tart), I like to believe that the Plan involves perpetuating the existence of Human Life (by creating, pro or otherwise) in a not-necessarily-painful-way (clutter). Sometimes, though, my endeavor to perpetuate Life becomes painful and unpleasant, which brings me back to "... and then you die". Apart from slight obsessive characteristics, however, I am a generally well-balanced, positive person, so my existentialist fits wane fast.
Damn chemistry.
