Just Trying to do the Right Thing...

For several days now, I have stared at a blank page searching for inspiration and motivation to write my last blog post in Romania. I have wondered how I'd like it sound and feel but with the intensely dynamic emotions charging through on a moment's notice, I waffle: make some smart ass cracks about my new wardrobe and the cable company's inability to cancel a freakin' contract? Or do I soften my perspective instead to reminisce about the people and places we encountered?  I guess since I don't pay by the word, I can write about all of it though not necessarily in that order. Let's begin with a bitch fest.

People move all the time so it seems that canceling a contract should not be rocket science.  I understand the obligation to payout a contract even with cancellation with or without a fee. Believe me, I get it. That was my intent when I started the whole process but apparently due to the 2014 year comin' round the mountain, Mr. Rep told me their computers could not handle future payments, as if they might blow up in smoke like we all feared during the millennium change. Surely there's a loophole, I insisted. After shoving me off to another line, I bided my time as the line swelled with pensioners and other assorted customers, ignoring the stifling smoke overhead and ebola-infused cough coming from God-knows-where.

Finally, I made it to the hot seat. Ms. Rep again demanded I return their cable box before they could move forward. Triumphantly, I handed her proof that it indeed was returned the visit before.  Though I am pretty sure she fake dialed her fake colleague, she did say that by filing a complaint with their legal department, I could cancel the contract and pay the remaining balance. But of course- my complaint would not be processed for another week. Come back they said.

I came back. I sat down in a vacant seat ready to play. The customers entourage in front of me carefully poured over their packages of documents, delicately looking at their Chopard watches. Corporate account I supposed. Ten minutes turned into twenty, twenty into thirty. Then Ms. Rep spoke to another waiting customer, equally as eager to get his business done, and he stormed off. He left in such a huff papers scattered. Then she turns to me and tells me I had to leave due to her pending coffee break from 1-2pm. Astounded, what else could I do? I know I'm stubborn, but this blew me away. She flat out refused to help me and pointed to the freakin door. Douche baggery at its finest.

Enter, Mark. He silently took my keys after I got to work and set off to settle the matter himself. As we should, Foreign Service folks are obliged to follow up on bills and accounts prior to leaving post. We can't just flash the Diplomat Princess Card and refuse to pay bills, but Mark figured, "they don't know that." After about an hour he came back to work where he filled me in: Ms. Rep told him: no-way, no-how could the contract get cancelled; that I was mistaken and she never told me file a complaint; that she didn't care if we didn't pay the bill.  Washing his hands of her classless attitude, Mark then found another cable office where he somehow convinced them to turn off the cable by the end of the week. We will have three days to go until this madness unfolds. Will our cable bill come to a victorious end or will the saga continue?

The Pack Out. And Me.

We all do it. We all have done it. We all will do it again: the big "Pack Out."  Clothes and household must-haves will fly around the house much like an uncovered blender set to high and everything becomes a dire life changing decision: Do we keep the 20 half empty tubes of lip balm and jars of hard earned spices? Do we keep the pile of bike-to-work t-shirts or the collection of ugly mugs? With impending explosions of tape, boxes, and organization rapture, it is easy to lose sight of the really important things, right?

Regardless of how we choose to go about managing these issues, the reassuring thing is pack out will eventually happen: with or without a carefully sculpted check list, with or without enthusiastic participation. A twisted enjoyable treat for some, a horrible nightmare for others but pack out is an obligatory task we all commit to in the Foreign Service and the stories we tell each other are heard around the world. Thankfully, most of them are boring and uneventful, some make us cringe  while other stories force us to sigh in resignation. Hopefully this ridiculous pack out story will make you laugh... 

This week our family hunkered down for our turn to load up and pack out our apartment. We sifted, sorted, sold and donated what we could, never once referring back to the half filled out lists I attempted to create for sake of organization. As I sectioned off each room for accompanying baggage, versus air freight, versus house hold effects by colored sticky notes, I dared to feel confident. The movers actually understood my directed requests and diligently started to take our lives off the shelves and placing them into tidy boxes labeled "Mr. Schlink."

By the end of the first day (3.5 hours to be exact) our apartment was nearly finished. They returned at 9am sharp the following morning to complete the move, just as I dashed out the door to take Margo to her checkup. Less than one hour later I returned to unmoved towers of boxes crowding the foyer, with six men huddled around the table discussing a plan of action. Apparently they were not permitted to use the elevator due to previous moving shenanigans with our landlord and thus were faced with hefting the boxes down sixty six steps. 

They took it all in literal stride, and one by one the boxes disappeared. By 12:30pm, we signed the papers, shook hands and watched the truck disappear down the street. Overall it was an uneventful mundane pack out. I felt victorious with my vibrant sticky notes stuck to the wall. With the children and dog accounted for, we planned to celebrate over lunch. I walked back to our bedroom and noticed they somehow forgot to pack four beach towels and a binder stuffed with odd end medical literature and a basket full of lip balms, mugs and wires. Finding it somewhat funny, I laughed as I reached for my dresser drawer to pull out a clean shirt. 

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing.

Confused? Here's a helpful tip on what to do during a packout: when you tell the movers not to touch anything in the bathroom where you keep your packed bags safely out of sight, keep them there until you see the moving truck head down the street. Here's a helpful tip on what NOT to do during a packout: when you "think" the movers can read minds, assume they cannot. Clearly out of my own mind, I unpacked my own bag earlier to help me feel more at home amidst the white walled cardboard city around me. I failed to communicate any of this to people  who might have stopped this dumb move and so it was- my clothes were gone. All I had was the dirty shirt (which could no longer change out of), the jeans on my body, a cardigan and jacket, and an extra pair of forgotten underwear that was stuck to the inside of the dryer.

My husband stared at me as I confessed my mistake. Then he dashed to his drawers to make sure I didn't do the same thing to him.  Relieved to find his clothes were still here, he gave me a hug and laughed. Shaking off my shock and embarrassment, I too eventually started to laugh so hard tears ran down my face. It was decided right then and there I would create a how-to guide on wearing the same thing for seven days. Here you go: 

Day #1: Discovery Day

 Day #2: Kris Kross Day
(though admittedly I was unable to button my pants)

Day #3:
My-ankles-are-soaked-but-my-knees-are-bone-dry Day.

Day #4: Soccer Mom Day.

Day #5: Sue Ellen Mischke Day

Day #6: Sweater Slashie Scarf Day

Day #7: Laundry Day

Culture Shock

I had an interesting experience at the grocery store today. Wandering up an aisle, I overheard a married couple with their two boys discussing pasta options: package A versus package B, versus packages C-Z. They seemed plagued with indecision over the multiple choices, hissing to each other "I can't read what that says, it's in Romanian" Thinking they might be new expats to the country and remembering the first day I attempted to grocery shop while overstimulated and totally jet lagged, I offered to help.

Me: Hi there, are you guys new to the country?

Couple: No no, we've been here a while. We are originally from the U.S. (as he points to his FSU jersey.) We live here as missionaries but we don't speak Romanian.

Me: Oh okay well, can I help you pick something out?

Couple: Nope. I think we're good.  We are just trying to pick out gluten free pasta and send them to our friend in Thailand. But we are just going to tell her the pasta is gluten free since we don't actually know. Ya know, make it really easy on everyone.

[Waving me off]
Me: Ooookay then. Good luck to you!

Couple: God bless! Take care now!

This left me dumbfounded for several reasons:

1. Do they think their friend is stupid?
2. If their friend really is stupid and has a serious gluten allergy, are they aware of potential health consequences?
3. What kind of person would choose lying to a friend over finding a simple solution? 
4. Were they aware the packages they picked out were labeled in English, German, Italian AND Romanian?
5. Why would you be a missionary and not bother to learn the language? Why would you live anywhere and not learn the language? Even if it's just a few grocery items?
6. What kind of example are they setting for their children? 
7. Isn't this slightly if not outright hypocritical and pretty indecent to do to anyone? 

Wow. Just wow.

How's your day been?

Peace Corps Romania

As if we needed another reason to celebrate all the unique qualities the Schlink name carries, Mark's name now sits with one thousand two hundred five other volunteers from as young as 19 and old as 82 on a commemorative Peace Corps Romania display at the Embassy. Herding out the last of the volunteers last month, Peace Corps' time in Romania comes to a close this month and they celebrated in style with champagne, fruit and fancy cheese.

Thoughtfully and creatively designed by
a genius graphic designing mastermind.  DI. NA!

I'm so glad they spelled it correctly.

The volunteers did some innovative stuff here since 1991, the year when Bryan Adam’s “Everything I Do, I Do It For You” topped Billboard’s Year-End Hot Singles. That year the Gulf War ended and fashionable parachute pants for men began. Peace Corps Romania also hit the scene and would remain there for the next twenty two years in over 230 communities around the country. 

Volunteers spearheaded a ton of cool projects, such as bringing Model U.N. to Iasi, Romania. They worked with Romania's Environmental Protection Agency creating educational eco-related databases to spur recycling and green initiatives. They taught English, built houses, and worked to bring communities together.  Volunteers also inspired world-wide leadership movements particularly among young women with a project called Girls Leading Our World (GLOW), that encouraged girls to address sensitive subjects head on: self-esteem and body image, gender and health issues. The popularity and success of GLOW took off and today, over sixty Peace Corps postings run around the world. 

Enjoying this momentous occasion, Mark wasted no time re-telling stories of yore: the countless times he hitch hiked all over the map (often getting into hijinks with his buddy John Vivalo); the time his apartment ran out of water requiring him to rinse with a cold bottle of sparkling water; the time he arrived to his assigned town and realizing they town spoke Hungarian, not Romanian. It was quite literally one of his greatest experiences in life, besides meeting me of course.

Congratulations Babe!

What's on Tap?

Romania doesn't have urban hipster microbreweries like my home state does, nor do they have the variety of flavors and styles that would rival Applejack's or Argonaut Liquors. Generally, I'd say the beer here is fairly run of the mill, mass produced and cheap. Every once in a while Mark and I splurge on imported Belgians like Orval or Rodenbach Grand Cru, but just like anywhere else, summertime heat and humidity in Bucharest always calls for icy cold local beer.

At our home, Ciuc Premium is our staple of cold brew.  Ciuc originated in 1974 from a city in Transylvania called Miercurea Ciuc, aka: the North Pole of Romania. Locals often joke about cold weather with the caveat that "no matter how cold their place may be, it's still better than Ciuc." That's not to say the city is a terrible place, quite the contrary. Ciuc in fact, is one of the prettiest areas in Romania with eye burning evergreen trees that coat the mountainside and is a hot location for pristine mineral springs.

At any rate, the beer rates a 70 according to beeradvocate.com meaning it's okay and worth trying but probably not worth coming back for. However, we love it for its classy updated pop-top green bottle and flavors that capture the bottled from the source taste of Harghita's mineral springs. That, and well, it's cheap.  Served cold, its drinkability quenches the thirst of a sticky, mid-walk through Herastrau Park on a glorious day of listening to bands and people watching. And that, is what's on tap for the Schlinks in summer time Romania.

Bere dupa bere eo placere: beer after beer brings pleasure.

Shiva, I've Got This

The fact that our eight month old daughter woke up every other hour last night to talk to herself didn't help my task to roll out of bed for a 5:00am yoga class. Ignoring the nauseating early morning fuzz and bleariness at 4:29am, slumped into the car and headed to a studio across town. Even at 4:43am, Bucharest was up with folks walking into traffic, taxis flying down the street, delivery trucks cutting me off.

I somehow convinced myself I should celebrate the longest day of the year by joining a hoard or early morning risers and do 108 Sun Salutations, something yogis routinely do at least quarterly with the changing seasons. They do it to represent a spiritual offering of sorts and the number 108 comes with assorted symbolisms:

-Take in some light reading: the number of Upanishads, philosophical Vedic texts comes to 108.

-Hey Shiva! Destroying something? Well great because you have 107 aliases to cover your trail.

-Don't like the name Buddha? That's cool because he also has 107 other aliases.

-Catholic and Tibetan rosaries/prayer beads ring in at 108, a healthy length of solace and comfort.

-Get in line boys because 108 men coveted the gorgeous Penelope, the wife of Odysseus. Besides, she wasn't interested anyway.

-Giro d'Italia knows how to show respect: they retired racing number 108 to honor Wouter Weylandt who fatally crashed his bike in 2011.

My not-so-discreet picture of class. But I was SO excited!

At any rate class started with a bang. The sweat, heat, and vibration took over that room.  I fantasized about espresso and a big ol' breakfast burrito, while hammering out my 108, somehow managing to fall into a rhythm between that and my breath. It was a major victory blocking out my usual distractions: picking a wedgie, fixing my hair, day dreaming about to-do lists. We finished in just over an hour leaving plenty of time to lay on the floor. Not a terrible way to start my summer.

I am not sure if 108 means anything to me after this, but I certainly will keep my eyes open. Well, starting after I take a nap if I can get one.

108. Done.

Dillon Trip #3-B: Prahova Valley

We woke up to cool breeze, clear skies, and ripe cherry trees but I had zero interest in subjecting Margo to another bike ride. I saw the family scoot off on their ride and met them via car to visit Bellu Manor, a 19th century building once owned by who else? The Bellu Family who hailed from Pellus, the same place as Alexander the Great but found their way to Romania in 1780. They made a fortune as merchants and collectors in the region, selling and trading exquisite pieces of art and goods from all over the world. 

The manor inside was filled with gorgeous furniture, porcelain, paintings and silverware collected throughout the years. Some even dated back to the second and third century. Ironically, while the director granted us to take some pictures inside the museum, Deets had none of it. Extricating our toddler outside to smell the flowers, I waited for the others to finish.

Bellu Manor

They know their flora.

Uncle Gabe

Such a trooper.

Departing ways for nap time, they continued exploring the countryside instead. At some point they climbed 10-12% grades, enjoyed basement wine and ate ice cream as the clouds began to gather. Mark rode ahead with Deets after convincing him to get into the trailer one more time. But not before his spot-on civil disobedience; no tears, no whining. He just laid his head on the cool pavement and waited.  Luckily they finished just in time. Gabe and Nettie flirted with wind, downpour and hail before arriving wet but happy. One more home cooked meal at the Children's Settlement and it was time to go home to Bucharest.

3 Stitches in Time

After finishing my morning workout, my phone indicated I missed 6 phone calls, 2 text messages, and 3 emails from Deets' school. I knew immediately I would probably be spending some time seeing a doctor. My first guess: Deets needed stitches.

He split open his forehead when he fell on the ground. On carpeted ground. Peeling back the bandage on his head with my suspicions confirmed, I drove him to the Med Unit for a referral. They found us a plastic surgeon at the pediatric hospital and the Embassy's doctor would accompany us, a fortuitous opportunity for some medical hand-holding. I must admit the perks of the Foreign Service really shine through in situations like this. 

Even though we speak Romanian, maneuvering the hospitals isn't always easy; there's not always an admitting desk directing patients where to go and there's not necessarily a single building either. In our case, we entered through a back alley into a hallway with a graphic poster about advances made regarding burn victims. They asked for only his name and birth date before moving into the procedure room where they stitched him up. Afterwards they guided us to Radiology for some skull X-rays and moved again to read the results.

Getting in line for his X-rays.

A hospital with modern equipment and THIS is their sign. I love it.

Ready to go home.

Three stitches, a giant head wrap, two X-rays, and one discharge sheet about head injuries later we went home with strict instructions to lay off on  chocolate, Coca-Coca and alcohol. All this, for the prime cost of zero dollars. No one asked for insurance cards, no one asked for money, thanks to socialized healthcare. (Although admittedly, bribes and blackmail are still hot topics in this country. I've seen it myself:  money exchanged between employees and families in turn for medicine, supplies or a bed to sleep in. That is another discussion for another day).

 

The day after: drinking his pretend coffee at the park.

Striking Up Conversation

You might have had a bit too much to drink when...

The lady you chat with from across the table asks three times how you met your husband. Answers? Well I will tell you. At first Mark retold the tale of two unlikely gym-rat posers hitting the universal upright row machine at the same time. Small talk and calf compliments ensued, resulting in an awkward request to grab drinks followed by pizza after an intense session of chest presses. 

On her second request, the story morphed into this: Mark saw me sprinting towards a gang plank to catch a departing cruise ship in Baltimore. He was an aspiring bartender. I, a free spirited and wealthy yoga teacher apparently late for my vacation.

Last but not least, drunk lady asked a third time to which Mark responded I delivered his friend's sister's baby in Calcutta while volunteering at the local orphanage, daring to care as registered nurses are known for doing. 

Don't worry, drunk lady had a taxi ride waiting for her and friends to keep her safe. I hope the pink wine she drank doesn't hurt her tomorrow. 

This completed an already wonderful evening of dinner and drinks at a local restaurant and bar for a random date night. As Mark is prone to doing, he also scored free tickets to Bucharest's Good Wine Expo as well as a Dinamo futbol hat. Just for being Mark.

Tale of the Drowned Martyrs

Walking through the grocery store this week, I couldn't help but to notice huge piles of packaged teeny infinity shaped cookies along with vanilla- sugar, walnuts, rum extract and cinnamon. Since Romania sailed through the early days of Martisor and International Women's Day, I asked a Romanian colleague what menagerie of ingredients were for.

Conjoined Cheerios about to get boiled.

March 9 is reserved for a day of remembrance and celebration of Christian martyrs who died for their faith. According to the story, forty Roman soldiers in Sebaste (ancient southern Turkey) were captured and coerced to give up Christianity. Forced into a frozen lake for refusing, the soldiers prayed for Gods' intervention and drowning along the way. Apparently forty flowered garlands floated to the surface instead.

Forty. Go ahead and count 'em.

Wiki's inside source said the soldiers were forced upon a frozen lake stark naked to freeze to death. One guy repented and ran, and a watchful guard decided to take his place. Unfortunately by daybreak, the bodies still alive by God's grace, were burned to ashes and cast into a river anyway.

The soldiers became martyrs, and Christians created a dessert called mucenici to coincide with their day of remembrance. Translated literally as "martyr" the dessert either cooks as a soup, or a cake if the dough is made from scratch. I ended up making the cavity-causing soup version. 

Ironically, the mucenici pieces get drowned in a sugary syrup concoction before they get tossed with ground walnuts, cinnamon and honey. I'd show a picture of the end product I made but it ended up looking like pale Hamburger Helper.  So here is a professional shot of both:

What my soup should've looked like.

Sweetness to infinity and beyond.

And thankfully I completed this task after the children went to sleep because I managed to burn the roasting walnuts, scorch the syrupy sugar, and drop an entire container of cinnamon on the ground. Then I got lemon  juice in my eye while zesting a lemon. All in a day's work!

Painting the Town Red and White

Ah, Mărțișor. One of the Romanian holidays where strange men can give women gifts without it seeming creepy. With March a time for spring and renewal Romanians and Moldavians alike take this time to observe Mărțișor for hopes for a rich and prosperous springtime.

As new birth and life often correlate with women and fertility, the holiday focuses on offering women trinkets symbolizing the continuity of life.  The trinkets, or mărțișor, usually red and white twisted threads of wool, are given to women to show respect and admiration. 

 The intertwining of red and white may represent the combination between woman and man, passion and purity. It may also mean vitality and victory, since March used to kick start the war campaign season back in ancient Rome. Whatever the symbolism between red and white, most would agree the combination should bring strength and health for the upcoming year.

Worn pinned to shirts or wrapped around the wrist, women wear the trinket for a number of days: sometimes twelve, sometimes until the end of March, others until the first blossom sighting before tying the strings to a tree for promises of wealth and prosperity. The red and white trimmed mărțișor may also come with coins, jewels and beads a modern twist to old folklore. They love Swarovski crystal around here. I wore my trinket that our doorman Lucien gave me up until Margo spit up on it.

The mărțișor threads weren’t always colored red and white. Instead they used to consist of black and white sheep’s wool. According to one version of Romanian mythology, the black and white threads were spun by Baba Dochia, a crazy-assed witch associated with spring's predictably fickle return.  She spun black and white threads called the Year’s Rope, or Funia Anului where 365 days hung by a thread. They represented the  idea of opposite forces such as light versus dark, good versus evil, the black and white colors intermingle, much like yin and yang, creating an inescapable unity.

Here's the Maury Povich version of the story: Intent to trick her hussy daughter-in-law, Baba Dochia set out to punish her by sending her into the forest to pick berries. God intervened, helping the daughter-in-law's success in finding berries which in turn caused Baba Dochia to think springtime had returned. She left for the mountains with her son and goats in tow, wearing twelve lambskins but then the rain began to fall soaking them through. One by one she shed the skins, when suddenly the frost returned leading her to freeze to death.  That's karma for you.


Whatever the intended meaning of the mixed colors, Mărțișor is a fun and lighthearted holiday meant to remember the important women in your life and the inspiration of new beginnings. Any day that focuses on that is okay in my book.

Rominia: Vintage Style

1968 and 1961

Today I procured two travel guides for Republica Socialista Romania detailing the must see-ums of this grand country complete with foldout maps! One of the guides touches on helpful subjects to make the weary traveler in Communist Romania at ease: from its history to cultural attributes (opera is HUGE here and still is) to popular sports (duh, futbol),  government leaders to economic stability.

1938: 2 radio stations. 1960: Nineteen. 

In 1938 Romania produced 8,234
medical doctors. In 1960: 23,000

I would be interested to know how accurate a Communist produced travel book tells its tale to lure in tourists. But considering my limited language skills of market shopping and polite banter, I guess I will just rely on their upcoming translated edition.

1968 asking price: about $2.40
2013 price paid: $4.50

Jim's World

Many people were interested in Jim's whereabouts while I was back in the U.S. for three months, so I asked him to write a special, one time only guest post detailing his dog-centric ventures in Bucharest. All I can say is I am glad he didn't decide to trade me in for a newer model...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Boy did I get around while you were out having that baby. Not only did I live it up taking two sometimes three leisurely walks, eat my weight in treats and sleep the day away, I had my own personal attendant named Deborah to make it all happen. She was awesome, staying at our giant apartment taking care of me; all the while you were sleeping four Schlinks in a teeny hotel room. Suckers.

That's not to say I didn't have my own share of roommates. I had my lady pal Bea when I took a few weekend trips to the Chordi rez. She likes to hump her stuffed horse and manipulate her owners into eating homemade dog food. Made from REAL meat! I loved having her over for Christmas, Chordi #1 kept sneaking us scraps when Mark wasn't looking.

Did I tell you I roomed with Buddy the ambassador's 900 year old yellow lab? Not THAT dog lives the lap of luxury: multiple servants, a huge house and an equally huge yard, big enough to host over two thousand guests. I ran, sniffed, and marked as many trees as I could like a kid in a candy store. It's tough being a diplomat's dog sometimes.

But the roommate who took the cake was this homeless fellow who was rescued by some of Deborah's friends. A couple of ladies walking around the lake spotted a dog that seemed intent on committing suicide. He kept frantically running into the icy lake over and over again before getting stuck in the muddy rocks exhausted with effort.  Coming to the rescue, one of the ladies whipped out the tie-string of her Costco sweatpants to create a makeshift leash. After bumping into her stroller a few times,  she realized the dog was blind in addition to injured, traumatized and abandoned.

Getting him to the local vet for assessment, the half crazed chap arrived just in time for a bone shaking seizure at the door necessitating an MRI order at the vet's insistence. 600 RON worth of MRI brain scans later, the vet determined the pooch wouldn't need euthanasia, just daily medications to treat his epileptic fits. "Oh, and by the way, the blind dog also needs a new home," he said with simplicity.

Finding homes for healthy, stray dogs in Bucharest is a daunting task let alone a special needs dog. Too many of them run a amok in the streets multiplying like crazy since Ceaușescu's day. With few rescue shelters,  most dogs take to the streets. They even blend in with the bi-pedals, crossing the streets at cross walks and blocking the bike lanes at the park. For a species that routinely licks itself, their learned behaviors are quite impressive.

Wait for the walk

Fat homeless dog. Not many are this lucky.

Despite our pal's shortcomings, Deborah was undeterred with his rehab and found him a home after a few weeks. While he was an alright roommate, I was elated to reunite with you and Deets. The littlest one is pretty okay too even though she can't scratch my belly yet. But I can wait.

Shameless begging

Hai Romania!

Since coming down the mountain from my parent's house en route to Bucharest, my ears remain clogged, inhibiting my ability to pretty much hear anything other than the sound of gnashing as I eat my pasta and my own internal dialogue that sounds nothing like Daniel Stern. Can you imagine my disappointment? On top of that, Joe Cocker isn't helping me out either. Instead, it's Thomas the Train theme song stuck on repeat.

Aside from this congested deafness, the trip home went so well, I might even dare do it again. Mom-in-Law (aka Mil) arrived at the airport with great timing, just as I stood in line to check bags. After getting away 100 bucks richer, when Lufthansa didn't charge me with extra baggage fees, we clomped on down to security. All of us ladies verklempt, a cascade of tears as I said my goodbyes to my own sweet beautiful mom. I underestimated how much I'd instantly miss her.

At least I had plenty of distraction: busting out the electronics and 3 oz. containers of k-rap, dismantling the two car seats, slipping off shoes and herding Deets, Margo, and Mil through the metal detector was enough activity to cause a back-up in security. TSA was quite patient with us, they even acted kindly which I appreciated. 

Hauling approx 105 pounds worth
of equipment/goods/people. No sweat.

We timed ourselves well, providing 45 minutes of pre-plane prep time before boarded onto the vintage 747. No back-seat TV screens or self-serve galleys, but the hospitality was great. I enjoyed one attendant who looked like Amelia Pond, another who was perplexed by Deet's love of ice. But in particular I enjoyed an interesting gent who claimed to be one of Mitt's best friends and another man in emo skinny jeans and leather who watched copious amounts of Daria on his '98 MAC.  He also routinely rifled through his Tory Burch handbag, pulling out oddities like this mask:

Oh, he also had several
Where's Waldo books.

Nine hours of flying went by quickly with the tag-team help of Nancy, and I couldn't have asked for better behaved children. With one flight down another to go, I was prepared for the vastness of Frankfurt's airport and requested (twice confirmed too) for golf-cart assistance since we had only one hour between connections. Of course, no one knew nothin' so Mil and I were left to hustle our asses (and car seats, and carry ons, and children) from terminal Z to terminal B which included security screening. I had to privilege of getting felt up not once, but twice. Deets too! Poor kid didn't know what to think.  Glad the Germans are so thorough with their screening, but next time dinner and a drink would be nice.

From FRA to OTP we arrived to a happy Mark. We gathered our bags, smashed into our car for an exhilarating ride home, as is the usual for Bucharest traffic. Back at the apartment Deets promptly exploded his toys all over the living room, reacquainted himself with Jim and aside from jet lag, seems quite happy to have his whole family again. I feel the same too. Now if I can just get a hold of one of these, I'd be set...

Eh?

Go Michael Jackson Go!

Bucharest loves them some MJ, and what better way to celebrate his legacy and birthday than a flash mob tribute? I waddled my butt up to Herastrau Park tonight to enjoy their mini dance show, complete with Annie and about fifty original portraits of the King of Pop.

The vigil runs 24/6 but today it was
especially fragrant and waxy.

They're bad. You know it. Uh huh.  

MJMJMJMJMJMJMJ....

My particular favorite.

Things Will Be Great When You're Downtown!

Home sweet home. Again. Recently the Schlink clan moved from Bucharest 'burbs and landed a new roost downtown. We traded a large 4 bedroom house for a 2.5 bedroom apartment and already feeling the love of the city after two insanely busy weeks. While I miss my insanely awesome neighbors, that is literally the only thing I miss about our last home. Apparently we eclipsed the sightings of Sharon Stone who is temporarily shacked up in our old neighborhood while filming here in Bucharest. Darn. But you know what? We got to see Messi!!! I consider that monumentally FAR more exciting.

Yum. Like a walking tequila sunrise.

We have so much to look at in our neighborhood, with two huge parks on either side, and a fantastic green belt that has provided a good source of people watching: cyclists, commuters, and crazy folks who like to throw sticks at you while watering the dog. That happened to me earlier this week, but she failed to take into account wind trajectory and missed. Regardless, our new home is a pretty good fit. So hurry up and come visit!

Here are a few snapshots of what we've seen so far...

Ballsy (in more ways than one) Chihuahua
letting us have it from his perch.

Dudes doin' the butterfly stretch oh so well.

A dog and his boy.

Billets, billets everywhere so let's go
have a drink. At the plentiful neighborly bars!

The FAMOUS Bucharest City Tour Bus hits all the
haute spots: check out the stupendous
Schlink household on your left!