This weekend I went to Brasov to stay with Neah, a Fulbrighter and a fellow Pacific Northwesterner, for an early "American birthday" celebration. Why American, you ask? Well, in Romania, it's the birthday girl (or boy) who pays for everything. And quite frankly I like the American way of doing birthdays better, and so did my fellow Americans, so I didn't complain. 

Brasov is such a beautiful town. Situated in Transylvania, it was influenced heavily by the Austro Hungarian monarchy, and the architecture is solid proof of that. It even has a German name, Kronstadt, and many of the street signs were in German. Needless to say, I felt quite at home there. 

Saturday morning Neah and I joined one of her university students for a "Thanksgiving Celebration" at her church. It was a Seventh Day Adventist church, and Neah's student, who is in her early 50s, is the pastor's wife. A Romanian girl around our age sat in between Neah and I and translated the whole service, which, while not being a traditional service, was a cultural experience nonetheless. After a few hours of spontaneous thanksgiving and beautiful a capella music, we climbed three storeys to the attic space of the church for the harvest meal. Seventh Day Adventists preach vegetarianism, so of course the meal had no meat. But if I could eat such delicious food everyday, I wouldn't mind being a vegetarian at all! 

After the church service, Neah and I took the cable car to the top of Mount Tampa, the mountain with the Hollywood style "Brasov" sign at the top. The trees were just beginning to turn all shades of autumn colors, and the red shingles of Brasov in the valley made for a breathtaking view. 

Sunday Dan, another Fulbrighter living in Bucharest, and Neah and I met another of Neah's students who took us on a hike out into the hills west of Brasov. We started in the main square of the town, and just kept walking until the flat city roads turned into dirt paths with ever-increasing inclines. Pretty soon we were using all fours to climb to the top of "Solomon's Rock." It was a gorgeous 360 degree view from the top, but of course my pictures just don't do it justice. 

Monday morning we (Neah and I) took the hour-long train to Fagaras, where we presented on study opportunities in the US at Radu Negru High School, the top school in the town. The whole thing was quite the production. The local television station was there recording the whole thing, and interviewed us and a few of the 60 students present. Afterwards, a few of the 11th graders walked us through the town, and took us on a tour through the Fagaras Fortress, which, by the way, is closed on Mondays. Unless your celebrities like us, I guess. 

It was the first time in a while that I had been outside of Bucharest, and it was perfect timing for such a trip. The weather was gorgeous, and a good dose of the great outdoors (and a slow-paced, walkable town) was just what I needed to prepare for the cold snap in Bucharest. But Bucharest is growing on me, slow going as it might be.

So, as I had mentioned earlier, I have problems when it comes to shopping. I have learned how to say piece, "bucata," so that I can get two apples instead of two kilograms. But I realized that half of the confusion was that most people order by weight, not by individual pieces.


Last night on my way home from work, I decided to try ordering by weight. I went to this little fast-food bakery of sorts called Fornetti. It's one of those places where everyone crowds outside the window to order mass-produced simple carbs in a variety of forms. Nothing too spectacular, but it's on my corner and pretty darn inexpensive. Normally I will order 2 or 3 little pastries, which ends up costing me about 50 bani, or 25 cents. It's a great little unhealthy snack for very little money.


This time, I decide to go with the weight that's on the price tags, for 1.10 lei. I figured I'll have some leftovers and that's ok. So I'm trying to tell them that I want half of it to be apricot filled, the other half cheese-filled. And of course I don't know the word for half, I didn't think that one through very well before I decided to order. So these two girls about my age in line behind me ask if I speak English, and I tell them what I'm trying to order and they translate for me. After I ask them how to say half, "jumatate" (zhoomutahteh...easy enough, right?), and thank them, I look back to the ladies weighing my order, and realize my huge mistake.


For some reason that eludes me still, instead of ordering 100 grams as it says on the price tags, I said I wanted one kilogram. I basically cleaned them out. But by the time I realized what was going on I couldn't very well just tell them to put it all back, that that's not what I meant at all. They thanked me profusely as I handed over 11 lei and I walked away with a grocery bag full of pastries. I can only hope they thought I was sent out to stock up for a party; there's no other excuse for an American girl in Bucharest to buy so much unhealthy cheap food.


I have to say I laughed all the way home. I really have no idea how I managed to get 100 grams and 1 kilogram mixed up. I can't even blame it on America's non-metric system. It was just plain ridiculous of me. I think I was just so flustered that my brain short-circuited for a few seconds. I really have no idea what I'm going to do with all this food. I might start handing it out to the stray dogs and the homeless people on the street, because there's no way I could eat it all, even if I wanted to.


So yea, another little escapade in the life of Kymber in Romania. I suppose they're learning experiences, but after a few more of these I'll be ready to dish out some serious money for real lessons. It might not be as exciting that way, but it might ending up costing me less in the long run!

Down the street from my flat, at the far side of a park frequented by grandparents and their young charges, is Piata Crangasi. Every day from dawn till dusk this small square is bustling with farmers and merchants selling their goods to the crowds shuffling past their stalls. Young women selling apples, grapes and blueberries, weathered old men offering their peppers and cauliflower at bargain prices, all noisily competing for the attention and lei of the passersby. In the evening, as everyone slowly packs up for home, the sound of loud bartering is seamlessly replaced by the loose minor chords of that soulful Romanian music genre that is so skilled at sending shivers through me. A wizened old man dances exuberantly, resolutely, with his half-full beer bottle, while children dodge his sporadic steps. Maybe he's celebrating a day of good business, but my guess is he'd be still be dancing if he hadn't sold a single bean.

Every day, either before or after work, I stop here for some fresh produce. I have yet to have a transaction without some sort of misunderstanding, but people here don't seem to mind. After I use wild gestures to explain that I want two apples, not two kilograms of apples, and then inadvertently give them the entirely wrong amount of lei, they smile and say "nu suntet romunca." I've heard it enough to figure out that they're inferring that I'm not Romanian. And then begins the guessing game. 
France? Germany? England? 
America. 
Ahh! America! You speak English? She speaks English! 
They yell across the aisle and a man comes running over, telling me in a very thick Romanian accent that he is from England.
I know they're asking me what I, an American girl, am doing buying fruit and vegetables from their market everyday. Maybe in a few months I will be able to tell them. For now I just smile and tell them I don't understand.