The Romanian Departure

4:30am. The sound of the doorbell rang, jarring Mark and me into a fury of flying bed sheets, flying appendages, and flying curse words. We slept through the 3:45am alarm that was geniusly set to silent. Thankfully the embassy drivers assigned to haul our butts to the airport were kind enough to ring the doorbell and check on us. Ignoring our daughter's protests from her crib, Margo watched us race back and forth through the house throwing last minute items into a bag, waking up my other child (Deets) all the while trying to remain calm.  Luckily Mark had the foresight to load our 6 bags, Jim-dog's kennel, and the stroller into the garage the night before and we managed to get everyone dressed, out the door in 20 minutes and into the van for the airport.

We practically skidded into the airport terminal throwing bags, stroller, and kids to a halt just inside the sliding glass doors. Neither of us had the wherewithal to move out of the chill of the morning, so while Mark took charge of getting Jim squared away, I stood in the airport surrounded by our pile-o-Schlink  pretending that I meant to match the fuzz of unbrushed teeth with my unbrushed hair and ignoring the sideways glances of my family's disheveled state. 55 minutes later Mark re-surfaced from the depths of the check in lines mentioning Jim's kennel might not fit onto the plane. This would mean he and Deets would take a different route, while Margo and I would continue on, but we would not find out until our arrival at the gate.

However, one step at a time. We received our boarding passes and bee lined to security where we had to wait for a couple to drag two sweater-clad pups out of their kennels by the scruffs of their necks where they were undressed and redressed with the leisure of a Sunday afternoon. I glanced at my imaginary watch nervously (no time this morning for such luxuries). Not that our sh*t-show was any better: we needed to break down the stroller, unload the electronics, unload Jim, and unstrap Margo only to walk through the metal detector and put ourselves back together again. We made it through border control and sprinted to the gate. Ignoring the stink-eye of our fellow passengers we boarded successfully after confirmation Jim could come with us after all. Off to Frankfurt...

...and two hours later we touched down for a 4.5 hour layover, hopefully enough time to drink a beer and wear down the children on the airport playground. Up to this point Margo and Deets held their own, though the former certainly had her beasty moments. I can't say I blame her; uprooting her reality didn't exactly help. The minutes ticked by to boarding time and we were off again. Thank goodness Deets is such a great traveler, we because this time Margo unleashed her inner beast. I'd say 7 out of the ten hours of flying time she hysterically fought sleep forcing Mark and I to take turns dealing with her. She walked up and down the aisles until Margo determined she needed to drink from stranger's cups, and grab at the crotches of unsuspecting passengers to say hello. Then we carried her up and down the aisles until her banshee sleep deprived shrieks reached a fever point. Only then did we put her in the car seat and waited for her to pass out.  I wonder if we will ever "break" her resistance to travel. Considering she's MY daughter, probably not. Karma's a mean one.

Freshly arrived sans deodorant and shower.
They took us home anyway.

The crew practically applauded us off the plane as we sleeplessly landed in Denver. I dared to feel relief when we flashed the Dip Passports, bypassing the throbbing line of exhausted travelers at Customs.  We collected our bags and dog and everything else that came with us and walked straight into the arms of our family who clearly didn't care about our bedraggled state of existence or the mysterious smells that we always seem to acquire during travel. We were home.

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

Ames and Jo in the Ro: Lake Balea

We left Sibiu in a bit of a daze and ready to get back to Bucharest but we needed to make one last stop. I took the ladies up the Transfagaras Highway.  With blue sky stretching over both sides of the mountain I ignored my whiny stomach that protested every curve of the road by rolling the windows down in the refreshing 45 degree air. I mean really, who gets car sick when they drive themselves? It's just ridiculous.

Below Lake Balea: Transfagaras Highway.

At any rate, we parked at Lake Balea and my wimpy, lethargic self wanted no part in this thing called "exercise" especially at a mind blowing 6,670 feet. However following Jo's initiative, she singlehandedly whipped my attitude into shape. Before I knew it, all three of us were hauling ass up the trail and we didn't even need a stinkin' key-chain flashlight to do it.

Above Lake Balea from the top-ish part of our hike,
right after a marmot screeched at our intrusion.

Baures bringing it ON.
Forget bear watching...

Spunem cascaval! 

True to random Romanian fashion, there was a blue bendy-bus from Germany creeping along the two lane mountain road on the way home. We got stuck behind it for several looooong painful miles before I felt ballsy enough to pass. Where did this thing come from?! 

We cracked ourselves up pretending to be the driver of that bus, making multiple 90 degree turns all along Lake Vidraru with his three foot steering wheel and air suspension chair. Ok maybe you had to be there, but Google Map that freakin' lake and see what we went through...

It maxed out at 10mph had to make complete stops around the curves. 

Ames and Jo in the Ro: Sibiu

Continuing our Romanian tour the girls and I loaded up the car after a gut stuffing breakfast at the Zarnesti pensuine and said our goodbyes to the bunica who told us all about her four grown children, her bad hip, and the recipe for making high quality clatites (pancakes.) All in Romanian of course but I was thrilled understand her stories and act as interpreter for my friends.

I drove them to visit Bran Castle where we joined the masses touring one of Romania's most popular pieces of history. A local tourist perked up immediately when she heard them speak and insisted we detour to Suceava, only a mere 350km away to see the painted monasteries. In theory I agreed with her, but we would head to  Sibiu, a town known for its Saxon heritage.

Life of Bran began in 1211. Check out their fantastic website
to hear all the details and drama. Seriously.

We would stay with some acquaintances Mark met via embassy business. The husband: a professional photographer, teacher, and local government board member who never sleeps. The wife: an engineer for a clothing company that manufactures high-end work-related wearables, and festival organizer extraordinaire and enthusiastic Rotary club member.  Oh, and two kids. Greeting us like old friends, Amy and Jo were treated to a personal tour of Sibiu. We met a local orthodox priest, stared at beautiful iconography and learned about architectural directional drilling to reinforce miscalculated church walls.

The big one. 

Ironically, directional drilling is a subject of extreme interest for my best friend because of her husband's career in energy procurement. And since our local Sibiu friend is a genius of many random subjects, they lit up the night talking at length about the subject.

After visiting a few churches, the famous fortified city walls and loitering in the piatas, we spent several more hours at the kitchen table engaged in some of the more interesting conversations we've had in a while. On the first night alone we learned about homeopathy, a man named Bill McCallister, the sacredness of milk chocolate versus dark due to restrictions during communism, and sewing machine inventory processes just to name a few.

The next day the husband took us to an 800 year old fortified church that overlooks the beautiful quiet town named Cisnadoara. Back in the villagers defended themselves against intruders by chucking giant rocks over the walls. Those same rocks were like badges of honor for the manly men who manned up and carried them from the river bed and up into the citadel to prove their manliness in order to marry the glorious women of the town. 

Jo Jo thinking
that hard, original wood.

After admiring the scenery and history the four of us hopped back into our vehicles for a tour of Sibiu's Astra Village Museum where we walked through hundreds of years of houses, churches and mills. At one point our loquacious guide mentioned he'd need to slip out for a civil wedding in the afternoon, but our company proved too good and he opted for beers and YouTube videos on the patio instead. 

He hadn't heard about the Asiana Airline's plane crash debacle with the names, so we felt it necessary to inform him. He was laughing so hard he insisted we share it with his wife later on that day. So that was how our evening ended, after an entertaining visit to the Brukenthal Art Museum where the room monitors chased us around the room with their death stares. To me, art is always worth seeing once. I saw their collection twice and certainly had my fill of darkly painted canvases and sad looking faces.

Yet again time passed too quickly and we found ourselves on the road again for one last stop: the famous Lake Balea and the Transfagaras Highway...

Hiking 101: What NOT To Do.

Last week I went on a hiking trip with a couple of girlfriends visiting from the States. Nature lovers and hiking enthusiasts from Buffalo, Wyoming (which sits at the foothills of the Big Horn Mountain Range), we signed up to go bear watching in the Piatra Craiului National Forest. Not having high expectations to see an actual bear, we were mostly excited to leave the Bucharest cityscape and get some much wanted exercise.

 Farmers, sheep herders, mountain guides think nothing
of tackling this terrain. Hard core.

 
The day had been cold and rainy, but bits of sunshine poked through the late afternoon clouds as the company owner arrived to pick us up. She began the conversation with,  "well I didn't bring release forms, so please don't do anything stupid" which was followed by obvious disapproval of our attire and the question, "have you ever even been in the great outdoors before?"

Subtle. I know it sounds like we showed up in flip flops and tank tops but we really did prep for our trip, guided by her emailed recommendations based on light hiking necessities like a bottle of water and comfortable shoes.


Undeterred we met our expert guide and hopped into the 4x4 with plans to return by 8:30pm for dinner. We bounced around the rough road, flew around unguarded curves and enjoyed the scenery. Romanian mountains are visionary: with farms and thick leafy trees plotted along the rising gradients the unending green sprawl inspires all sorts of suppressed emotion. With hearts lifted, our guide led us to the winding trail and took off practically skipping up the mountain.

New York City this way, Shanghai that way.

After a solid hour of uphill pursuit we settled into a field of new tree growth with clear instructions to keep our eyes open and mouths closed. The silence was deafening, broken only by bleating goats, barking deer and the ringing of cowbells. For about 60 seconds of titillating suspense, at one point the guide thought he spotted a bear 200 yards away. Turns out the ass of a bear looks similarly like the ass of a cow.


Peaceful yes, but while scanning the land for further signs of movement I drifted off, feeling my head drop and snap to attention.  Water will freshen me up, I thought. So I reached for my bag which conveniently held the suggested items in addition to extra layers of long underwear for the evening.

Caught nodding off on a tree stump. How zen.

Earlier that day I sent Deets to school with my old backpack so I packed up my messenger bag instead, but with its industrial strength Velcro, I failed to discreetly open it. It was worse than opening a Wurther's Original Caramel wrapper during church vespers. Upon opening the bag, I was almost knocked flat from the waft of spilled red wine on my jacket from earlier on. Bemused, the girls watched on as I tried to air dry the crinkly rain jacket and then getting my head stuck in the extra layers of wool long underwear I tried to pull on.

Then it happened. I was stifling a laugh and started to cough uncontrollably. Likely scaring off any dim hopes of animal sightings I mouthed my apologies to my friends who were also snickering at my idiocracy.  I finally caught my breath and settled down to take a drink of water. I just happened to bring my son's water-bottle that he filled with old carbonated water, a flavor just gross enough to make me spit it all over myself.

Hard at work. Ready for them bears.

Finally accepting that our evening would likely end without a best to grace our presence and shivering from the dropping temps, I requested to start moving. And so, hiking down the mountain in the dimming light, we thought we'd be heading for the car but of course our guide had different plans: make us stumble down highly technical terrain and take a detour for an extra 60 minutes. In the dark. Obviously our guide thought nothing of it, as he mentioned this was his childhood stomping grounds and pranced down the trail only occasionally using a teeny keychain flashlight to make sure bears weren't loitering ahead.

My high tech binoculars.

Yeah, so we blindly followed him back bit not without difficulty. Thank goodness for my girlfriend's cell phone had enough juice to light our way to the car. After insisting our guide to slow down a bit as the trail gave way to God-knows-what, he asked me "why I didn't like hiking in the dark" and it took all my patience to keep me from punching him in the mouth.

As all great things come to an end, we did arrive back to the car two hours late with only mild irritation, muddy shoes, a few bruises and absolute hunger. The good news was we'd have cold beer, and a bunica (Romanian grandmother) waiting to stuff us with sarmale, ciorba de fasole and clatite back at the pensuine.
One "adventure" down and more to come...

Good friends who tolerate all my awkward shenanigans are hard to find.

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.

Dillon Trip #3-A Prahova Valley

Since my last visit to Prahova Valley back in August,  I pined for a return trip. I missed the wildflowers, hilly vineyards and welcoming locals so I couldn't wait to drag my brother and sister-in-law to a local part of Romania that so many people don't even know exists. Recruiting Mircea with Cycling Romania for extra bikes and expertise, we all spent the weekend touring what continues to be one of my favorite places. 

Snack break with "Fetitza Mica" aka Margo

We started off at our hotel Casa Colinelor en route to the Monastery Jercălăi known for its 300 year old mobile Transylvanian church that was built and rebuilt in several different locations before sinking its roots in the village of Urlati. We wandered their vineyard and drank natural spring water before continuing onto Monastery Vărbila, a newer one down the road.

Monastery Jercălăi

Nothing quenches thirst like wine. Except maybe beer, but we couldn't deny the fact this was grape country so we continued onto Crama Urlateanu, a British owned, Romanian run winery. The Sommelier enthusiastically shared her favorite stock and after tenuous dealings with a very vociferous 7 month old who didn't like the bike trailer. At all. Not one bit. Ir didn't take much before all the adults were feeling no pain.

Empty bellies started talking and luckily the trip ended at the Valea Crângului Children's Settlement for dinner and a long anticipated reunion with my friends at the foundation! I last saw them in August 2012, and they were thriving: the house, the garden, the children. The little girls took one look at Margo and snatched her away. Deets ran off to stare at the three chicken varieties: the Tony Blairs, the Bellasconis, and the Singhs. Mark, Gabe, Nettie, Mircea and I sat and relaxed under the vine covered awning. 

Just one of the girls.

Dillon Trip #1: Balaban

Train done Mark style: Always with Ciuc

Post-meat walk from Keller's Steakhouse.

Giving them no time to even contemplate feeling tired, Mark and I rounded up my brother and sister-in-law to the Inn on Balaban to launch their Romanian trip. After a meandering train ride and hired ride, they arrived to the mountaintop in great spirits. The usual greeting of palinka and fruit bowl was accompanied by a band shooting their music video, syncing the sway of their saxophones, trumpets and stringed instruments to the prerecorded Romanian music playing overhead.

The fruit there is irresistible.

 Like before, we enjoyed hiking with Deets leading the way up the two track road, smelling flowers and hanging with the locals. We watched Jim and Deets roll in the dirt, throw sticks and took in the fresh air before dinner where we virtually licked our plates clean. The evening stretched into night with drinks and great conversation, and their night ended almost instantly when their heads hit the linen sheets. I couldn't say the same for our room, but that's the joy of kids, right? Hmphf.

Who's a good boy?

Who's also a good boy?

Early morning view. Because of course Margo woke up at 5:00am

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.