29 November 2008

Thanksgiving in Non-USA

[Note: Apologies for the delayed post. My internet was down, and I had to go to Chisinau to post, this week.]

The deconstructionist in me takes every opportunity to cast doubt on the significance of anything by examining the value of everything in every way. The romantic in me wants to feel, and in doing so works in perfect counter to my deconstructionist side. My approach to holidays is therefore torn, and end up valuing my holidays substantially, but not usually for the common reasons.

I'm sure we can all identify holidays that are important to us. Among international (not to say 'global') holidays, I'm sure the Christian flagship celebration of a certain individual's birth jumps out to a lot of people. Somehow, the 'secular' though historically-Christian-based American culture has managed to give their Christmas to non-believers by turning it into a celebration of both miraculous birth and incomprehensible consumption. Hence, Christmas isn't really my favorite time of year. I enjoy the opportunity to connect with family and friends, though. Giving gifts is a great concept, too, but I appreciate that my family doesn't go over the top on the commercial side of this holiday.

I identify Independence Day (4 July) and Thanksgiving as the two most significant American holidays. All the others are either relatively minor religious holidays or little more than weak excuses to have a day off of work or get drunk or both. The Fourth of July is a blast, and I have a fondness for the fire-risk. But ultimately, I'd have to say that Thanksgiving is my favorite, among holidays.

Whether I'm studying at university or living in downtown Portland, I see little of my family. Thanksgiving is one of the only times of the year that I get to catch up with those most important to me. We gather at the house with the largest table, labor over amazingly simple traditional family dishes (made complex only by their vast quantity), and rediscover all the qualities we love and hate about each other.

This year, I'm volunteering half-way around the world in a country which either doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving, or celebrates it so frequently that it no longer considers the feast a holiday. Because it is not a holiday in Moldova, we volunteers do not get the time off. Nonetheless, several of us have banded together to create a belated feast this Saturday. There was turkey, stuffing, huge mounds of mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce (if you're into that sort of thing), warm rolls, pies, and all the trappings of a standard Thanksgiving dinner. We connected with each other like some sort of family: dysfunctional and slightly estranged, but generally happy to be in good company.

In all, it was great success -- I now feel tired and weighed down by the excess of food I consumed. Look for pictures, to come.

P.S. -- my contribution was a Zundel family drink recipe: Orange Slush. It was a great hit, and I have been asked to pass the compliments along to those who shared it with me. Thanks dad!

21 November 2008

On height and width

Tall, thin, blue eyes, blond hair, primarily English heritage (meaning "white, for the most part"), casual. These are the basics of my physical appearances, and thus the most common bases of how others identify me. In Moldova, the colors of my eyes, hair, and skin don't give people much to think about as they shamelessly stare at me while I walk by. And, to my reasoning and observation (yah, I'm covering a priori and a posteriori here), neither should my height and width -- or, rather, the plenitude (not overabundance) of the one, and the deficiencies of the other. There are plenty of men and women all over this country who are both taller and thinner than myself. Whether those tall, thin Moldovans receive the same 'care' and 'attention' as I, a foreigner, I cannot say.

Let me preface by noting: one of the most common questions any young person in Moldova (whether a citizen or a foreigner) is asked is, "are you married?" If your answer to this questions should, unfortunately, be "no," then the next question is usually something like "why not?" or "let me introduce you to my [son/daughter/niece/nephew/sister/brother]." In some parts of the world, the frequency of such interrogation would be border-line harassment, but I have been assured by many that the incessant inquiry into my marital status is intended entirely for my own benefit, and I do not doubt it. I'm glad to know that so many people (who I've usually only just met) have such an interest in my well-being.

Moving on...

I am the humble inhabitant of a body that has an unchecked and out-of-control metabolism, which burns through anything I ingest as fast as it can, and then waits hungrily for the next meal. You may think this is a blessing or a curse, but for me it is just a fact of life. I've gone seven years without gaining (and keeping) a single pound. After about the fifth, I stopped caring. But the rest of the world didn't. If the most common question I am asked by Moldovans I have just met is, "are you married?," the most common question asked by Moldovans who know me is, without a doubt, "why have you lost weight? Have you been eating?"

Yes. In fact, I eat about as much as I can, but after seven years of trying to gain weight and failing, believe me: I've forfeited the struggle, and now wait for my metabolism to find a more profound preoccupation in life than burning through everything I throw at it. For now, I'm pretty content with my weight. Now I just need to learn how to say that in conversational Romanian.

My height not only compounds the 'problem' of my weight. Measuring in at a few fingers over six feet, I am taller than most of the people in the world, but by no means am I in the top fifth percentile. Those three fingers (meaning about an inch and change, for those of you who don't have normal-sized fingers) give me a real edge in life, and especially in Moldova. I catch the edges of door frames, low-hanging ceilings, and tree branches hanging over pathways. Usually I catch these with the sensitive spot right on the top of the head, but sometimes I also catch them with the forehead or even the brow. It stings for about an hour, and sometimes it leaves traces of blood or even scars.

...Oh, did you think I meant 'edge' like 'advantage'? No, no. I don't even like basketball. And I wouldn't mind having to climb on a chair to access tall cupboards, if it meant fewer headaches.

Solutions? I've taken to slouching and puffing out my cheeks when I leave the house. If I don't gain some weight by Spring, when my many layers of warm cloths will start to melt away, I may have to find additional solutions. If not, I may face enough (albeit well-intentioned) interrogation about my weight to finally break me down and give me body image problems. Potatoes soaked in butter and then fried with all manner of tasty meat? Bring it on!

14 November 2008

To experience...

Adapting to a new community is difficult, no matter where in the world you find yourself. Something makes you different, and that difference is often more of a hindrance than a help, when it comes to integrating into a new neighborhood or city. For me, that something is that I am American, and that I'm just not from around here.

What does that mean? It means that I don't fluently speak Romanian or Russian, and that no significant proportion of the families in town share my surname. It means that the closest thing I have to friends in town are the 10-year-younger students who attend my English classes. It means that I can't drink the well water, because I didn't develop a resistance to Giardia when I was a young child. It means that I drink my wine occasionally, and generally only in sips. And sometimes, it means that I spend a lot of time in my room, reading or typing emails or blog posts, because "becoming a part of the community" is going to have to wait until either the temperature goes back up, or my metabolism slows down enough to allow a protective layer of sub-dermal fat to develop so I don't chill to the bone when I decide to go say "buna ziua" to random people on the streets.

But I find that the town I'm in has a way of infiltrating me, making me feel warm and fuzzy, despite the frozen water-vapor that appears before me at each exhale. Sounds wash over me as I walk to school or the community center: the sounds of bells and chants spilling out of the church, like fog, slowly filling the valley; the muffled accordion playing cheerful melodies for the children inside the gradiniĊ£a; the clicking of scoundrel dogs scampering across the pavement behind me. Autumn, come almost to a close, still strikes me with colorful, impromptu art installations -- sometimes at the tops of trees, sometimes at their feet.

Am I still happy here? I have to ask myself this question a lot, especially after a bad day in the classroom or unprompted social drama from my fellow volunteers. I came here for change, and to do something meaningful (again... for a change). While my happiness fluctuates pretty wildly, and the challenges are often frustratingly insurmountable (can I use an adverbial modifier on this absolute adjective? Why not.), I have to admit that I am still happy. The preconceptions I had before coming over were all completely overturned, but I'm still experiencing change. And with that, hopefully growth, as well.

12 November 2008

Weekly Posts

I had a request to start posting more regularly, and more frequently. Fair enough. Fridays, being my least busy day of the working week, will be my goal. (Even nominally attempting to post regularly to weekend days is a joke, as they are, consistently, up in the air.)

I'm going to shoot for a post every Friday. I'll set a loose deadline for about 2:00pm, my time, but I am not going to be as strict about the time. I have a lot of ideas for posts just sitting in my head, collecting dust with all the other unexpressed musings. Keep your eyes open for Friday posts.