Thanks, Christ

A year ago, I celebrated Easter with Sorinescu at a Romanian church in LA. Well, celebrated isn't really the right word--I think I complained most of the time about being cold. But back then, I learned this little exchange you're supposed to have on Easter (which I think I am spelling and/or translating incorrectly-Sorinescu please correct if so):

-Hristos a inviat! (Christ has risen!)--(Thanks for correction, S.)
to which you respond:
-Adevarat, a inviat! (True, he has risen!)

I am not so sure it's true at all--the Christ being alive part--but I'm willing to humor Romanians on their special day. However, I hadn't had the chance to say it for a whole year, so when a neighbor in my apartment building greeted me with "Hristos a inviat!" it took me by surprise and all I managed to say was "Multumesc!" (Thanks!)

I assume she heard my accent and realized I was just an idiot foreigner--an amusing anecdote to recount during the family's Easter meal.

Later that day, Nikki and I took a very nice stroll through Herestrau Park, where Nikki took pictures of the spring flowers and the red plastic egg-balloons that were hung throughout the park. The red eggs are an important part of the Romanian Orthodox Easter celebration; they symbolize the blood-soaked eggs supposedly lain under the cross when Christ was dying. They've got the chocolate bunnies too, but Easter here is a serious affair, more about religion and ritual than in the US, where the capitalist enterprise has made it mostly about marshmallow Peeps and plastic grass.

Documentarian as Neurotic Sociopath

Nikki can't stop laughing at me. She laughed so hard tonight she almost peed in her pajamas. I'm just glad she has a sense of humor, because others might have more readily wrung my neck.

The people who know me well, and tolerate me anyway, know that I can be a wee bit dramatic. I am given to periodic fits of despair and self-deprecation, during which those around me feel compelled to offer consolation and encouragement, which I vigorously refute in my determination to convince them that things are every bit as awful as I think they are. I can't say I am proud of this little routine; frankly, I think it's acceptable to act that way when you're 13, but ideally you grow out of it. Some of us are late bloomers, I guess.

Anyway, the precipitating event for my crisis today was a phone call I made to Denisa, the director of the school where I'm shooting. I truly dislike making these phone calls, as it is even harder for me to speak and understand Romanian over the phone than it is in person. When Sorinescu was here, I made him do the dirty work, but now I am on my own with the phone. So I called the school, and Denisa came running breathlessly to the phone, and I asked her what was up. She said that none of the kids were back from Easter vacation yet. I asked her if Anton (one of my main film subjects) had stayed in the institution over the break, since he doesn't have a foster family. She said no, that he had gone home over the break for the first time with his biological parents. I said, "No way!" (or some approximation thereof in Romanian) and she said "Yes! It was time to simply insist," and I said, "I can't believe this development happened when I wasn't there!" and she said, "Yes, it's a very big development!" She said that he would be back to the school tomorrow, but he would not be going back to the family again for a while.

I got off the phone, totally flabbergasted. Anton reunited with his biological parents? I had just planned out my shoot for this week, which was to highlight the contrast between Anton's life at the institution and lack of a family with the home life of some of the kids in foster care. Friday is his birthday, and I was going to shoot the monthly party they have at the school for all the kids born that month. Then I was going to follow Anton to the farm where he works on weekends, with a rural family who feed him and let him stay for a few days in exchange for milking the cows and shoveling manure. I was already disappointed that I had missed something important a few weeks ago--when Anton located the biological brother that even the social worker didn't believe existed, and brought him to the school asking if they could let him stay there because the brother is homeless. I began to be angry with myself for not calling Denisa before Easter break; for avoiding that task because it stressed me out. I played out the scene in my mind that I had missed: Anton being told that his biological mother had been located; being taken there by a social worker, meeting her for the first time. In his interviews with me, Anton said that he had never met his mother, and just wanted to know what she looked like. I imagined the other siblings looking curiously at him as he appeared at the house, reaction shots of curious neighbors, the awkward first moments. Having a meal with his real family. I plugged myself and my camera right into this missed fantasy scenario, as though I would've automatically been granted permission to film the whole thing (which actually, I probably would have--since people in Romania are generally pretty camera-friendly.)

Then, lying in despair on my bed, hot tears of frustration welling up as I berated myself for not living in the tiny grim town of Beclean where I could be capturing these moments; for not raising more money to hire a production manager to plan things for me, for not calling before Easter, for not being able to control the universe and script out real people's lives in a way that was convenient for my production schedule, I told Nikki very convincingly just how awful it all was. She listened patiently and compassionately, trying to tell me that I was being too hard on myself, that it was very challenging to be doing this on my own with such a small budget, and that no one had mentioned any possibility of Anton being reunited with his mother. She then realized that she needed to go buy a plane ticket before the agency closed, so she had to leave. When she was gone, there was no one left to convince that things were irreparably, horrendously, terribly awful, so I got up and ate some chocolate. Then I decided that I would call Denisa one more time to see how long Anton would be with his biological family. Maybe I could still get something on tape.

The social worker Emishe answered rather than Denisa, and I told her I was surprised that Anton was in the family. She said yes, he'd be back from Rebrisoara tomorrow. "Rebrisoara?" I said. "Yes, he's at the farm," she said. "I thought he was with his biological family!" I replied. Apparently Denisa was listening in, because just then her voice came on the line too. "Amy? I said Anca went to her biological family for the weekend. Anca Nicoletta." "Not Anton?" I said, relief making me go weak and tingly. Indeed, Denisa had misheard my earlier question, though I can't imagine why she would think I was asking about Anca. I don't even know who Anca Nicoletta is.

So once it had been clearly established that Anton was still legally abandoned, and therefore still conforming to the story structure I had laid out for the film, my anxiety lifted and I began looking forward to the shoot again. Perhaps other documentary filmmakers would read this and understand and not think I am a terrible heartless beast, but other human beings would have to wonder. Of course I hate to see Anton longing for a reunion with his mother while shoveling manure in BFE, and of course I want him to realize his dreams. Only I would prefer that if this happens, I am there with a blank tape and a charged battery and my release forms, so that it can all make it into the final cut.

The Kids

Nikki finally got her pictures back from one of our last trips to Bistrita. Here are some of the kids I've been stalking this year:

This is Anton (center) with a couple of friends.


And Mihaela:


And a few of the little ones at the school:

Blooms

I had never fully appreciated springtime until this year. Growing up, the Springtime Tallahassee Parade was a big annual event, where much ado was made about blooming azaleas and whether the figurehead of Andrew Jackson should be allowed to lead the procession since he was a racist and a slaughterer of Indians (www.springtimetallahassee.org). I don't know whether the parade was fun to watch because I always had to be in it, doing back flips, twirling a baton, or playing a saxophone--in my progression from Tumbling Tot to band nerd. Spring in Florida means that summer is about a week away, which means that the backs of your legs are going to be sticking to the car seat for the next four months. What's fun about that?

Since spring in Florida was so short as to be almost undetectable, I just didn't know how great it could be until I spent the winter in Romania. It's kind of wimpy of me to say this, because Romania's winter is pretty similar to Pennsylvania's. But with the gray concrete buildings and the drizzly fog, it just feels longer and colder. People slog around Bucharest in rubber boots with their faces all scrunched up, looking mean and grouchy. And then, during the five days I was in Italy, a miracle occurred. The sun came out, the snow melted, the leaves sprouted from the tree branches, and the dog turds thawed on the sidewalk. I have been watching this reawakening with fascination and relief. The flower shops seem to have doubled in number. Dandelions have sprouted along the roads. Kiosks for books, sunglasses, and Easter kitsch have emerged in front of the KFC in Piata Romana, and the slogging and scrunching has eased into a stroll. The beggars are returning to the streets; homeless gypsy mothers and babies and children, old women in headscarves, alcoholics and amputees.

One of the most impressive things of all is the transformation of Herestrau Park.

At some point during the thaw, the city must've sent out an army of Pansy Elves to do a massive landscaping job around all the fountains and gazebos. Bucharest can't get its shit together to fill a pothole, but they sure know how to plant their flowers. Herestrau+springtime+outdoor cafe+vanilla frappe=happiness.

Right Before He Escaped

I just found all the photos that Sorinescu downloaded from his camera while he was here. Since this blog has been pretty colorless since the digital camera went back to the US with S, I thought I'd insert them here and there. Right after this photo was taken, the puppy wriggled loose and stepped in the freshly poured cement that was to be a new sidewalk, then I stepped in it myself as I was trying to keep the mother dog from getting out of her pen. She bolted too and it took the owners of the hotel 15 minutes to track her down. She had had enough of nursing 8 hungry puppies and just wanted to visit the neighbors.

Dear Readers

I don't have any, do I? :)

I just got a spam comment to a recent post. Not sure how that happens, but I have no idea who the guy is! I got kind of excited for a minute, though--I thought maybe someone had actually looked at my blog!

Pisica si Pianul

This evening Nikki and I went with Adina to a free concert at Palatul Sutu, near Piata Universitate. The two piano players performed a sonata written by Mozart at the age of 9, while the resident tabby cat sat in front of the piano carefully cleaning between each of her toes.

Healers

I finally went to the doctor to get rid of my lingering scourge. It had simply been too many days of feeling exhausted and feverish. I went to a fancy new clinic in Primaveri this time, and paid $10 for a consultation with a very pleasant Romanian doctor who took my blood pressure, listened to my lungs, and prescribed me antibiotics, which cost $30 at the pharmacy. I don't know if it's because I was a foreigner, but there was no paperwork, no waiting in the waiting room, no filling out of medical histories, no questions about allergies. The no waiting part probably had to do with my being able to pay the full price of the visit, which for many Romanians is very expensive. But I'm still not very clear on the workings (or lack thereof) of the Romanian health care system.

The first time I went to the doctor in Romania, I went to the first place on the list given to us by Halfbright at our orientation. It turned out to be in Ghencea, a Bucharest suburb full of muddy puddles, gray cement high-rises, skinny stray dogs, and building supply stores (a pretty typical Bucharest neighborhood, actually). The doctor there was a newly arrived missionary from Texas, about my age, whose wife had long "had Eastern Europe on her heart." So he, his wife, and their three children had moved to Ghencea so that he could minister to street children at this clinic. He was particularly concerned about the abortion rate in Romania, which is currently equal to the birth rate. Alarming indeed, but so was this poster in his office (which I can't seem to insert right-side up):



The first panel reads, "God, why haven't you sent us people to cure cancer and AIDS, to solve the problem of world hunger and all our social problems?" God replies from above, "I sent them!"

In the second panel, the man asks, "Well, then where are they?" and God responds: "They were aborted!"

This is a good, clear, realistic message to send to the people of Romania, don't you think? Your unborn child is the next Jonas Salk. Therefore, if you abort, you're effectively killing thousands of the disease-afflicted at the same time, not to mention pissing off God.

Anyway, I genuinely appreciate the fact that the doctor loves the Lord enough to live in Ghencea and provide low-cost medical care to Romanians. I would have a very difficult time making that kind of sacrifice. I also agree that abortion should not be used as a form of birth control, and that reducing its very high rate here is an admirable goal--through ACCESSIBLE FAMILY PLANNING SERVICES. Not through bullshit religious propaganda that only serves to lay a guilt trip on an exceedingly poor and already God-fearing population. Stating that an unborn human life has potential is one thing; naming abortion as the cause of cancer and AIDS is another, and putting such a poster in the waiting room of a doctor's office is medically irresponsible. Needless to say, I did not go back to see Dr. Texas.

Fortunately, Alexander Fleming (who discovered penicillin) wasn't aborted, so at least my bronchitis is cured.

A Little Sickly

I have some sort of flu thing for the first time since I arrived in Romania. It's most unpleasant--headache, upset stomach, fever, extreme fatigue. It wouldn't be so much of a problem if I could just sleep for a few days, but the problem is, I've scheduled a trip to Bistrita with Nora, a Romanian cinematographer who is ever so difficult to pin down because she is talented and in much demand. I've coordinated meetings there and a place to stay. I am supposed to leave on the night train tonight, which is a nausea-inducing experience even when one is perfectly healthy. I feel like I can't cancel! So wish me luck, dear reading public, in making it through the next few days...

Sweating with Celebrities

I resisted it for a long, long time. I said I was just going to run in the park; I wasn't going to worry about being bitten by stray dogs or stared at by adolescent boys. I would just walk a lot, and run up and down my building's 10 flights of stairs. But walking wasn't bringing my stress level down enough, and running in Herestrau Park was not only getting boring, it was hurting my knees. The elderly neighbors in my building were confounded by my repeated jogging past their doors, and their little dogs kept yipping at me. I tried to find another place that was cheaper, but I knew I would not feel like walking 30 minutes to hang out in a sweaty basement to use an old stairmaster when I could just run up and down my stinky stairs.

So after much deliberation, I am now officially a 3-month member of the World Class Fitness Center Bucharest, possibly the most expensive gym on the face of the planet. And despite my guilt about spending per month what amounts to many Romanians' monthly salaries, and despite the fact that I desperately need that money for production, I LOVE IT.

In Bucharest, people just don't go out running or riding bikes--they're afraid of being bitten by the 50,000 stray dogs that live in the city. (Despite the fact that most of them are friendly, a Japanese businessman was killed on January 29 by a stray, and about 50-60 people are treated in hospitals every day for dog bites.) I love dogs, but it is nervewracking when they bark viciously or come running after you because they think you have food. But the dogs aren't really the reason I joined the gym. I joined it because I needed yoga classes (the only ones in the city) and a place to work up a sweat (the spinning classes are the best I've taken anywhere) and a place that's right on the bus line, so it's easy to get to from my apartment.

But I do struggle with some guilt feelings. Aside from the astronomical expense, it bothers me that a Bucharest establishment uses English as its official language, and that if one English speaker shows up in a class of 30 Romanians, the instructor will amiably switch to English. (The company is not locally owned; the manager is Swedish). The clientele, they say, is 50% expat. The other 50% are Romanians who can afford the membership, and judging from the looks of them, they appear to be mostly members of the local mafia or swimsuit models. I don't know how the latter maintained their incredible figures before the existence of the World Class Fitness Center, but I'm pretty sure that no matter how often I go to the gym, I will never look like that. I think I'm also going to pass on the tanning beds. But my new exercise regime among Bucharest's elite has brought my stress level down considerably, and I've reduced my chances of getting rabies by at least 85%. So in the end, I think it will have been worth it.