Event Aftermath

Though I saw two other cameras at the French/English Swap event, every student who has my Skype has been hounding me to send them the photos I took.

I took a total of 201 photos.

They take the ones just of themselves. Nevertheless, my Skype has been hot for three days.

Today's Directorial Efforts

The play for which I made the evolution display and English Speaking World map:

In Class

Prof: Hello

Sergiu: Hi

Elena: Hi

Prof: How are you today?

S: good

E: fine

P: Did you do the homework?

S: No

E: No

P: Why?

S: Because I don't like, andf I don't see the importance in my life

E: Certainly it is in vain

P: In case you don't know English is the most used language in the world.

E: I don't agree with you.

P: Speech with map and evolution.

Enter Justin Bieber

Bieber: Hello my fans!

S: Oh my god! It's Justin Bieber!

E: It really is!

B: Do you speak English? Do you like it? Can you understand me?

P: They don't understand.

B: It's clear. But why?

E: Because I don't like it.

P: Why do you think you're so successful?

B: Because I learned so well at school.

P: What was your favorite subject at school?

B: English! Pupils – learn English! You will need it!

E: What did you discuss?

P: Something very important of English in his career.

E + S: From now on we will learn English!

English / French Swap Day 1

Tomorrow is a new day in Balatina's language learning heart: the French students must make a presentation in English; the English students must make a presentation in French.

In short we are all frantic this week to prove our linguistic genius. Which, in an already bi- or tri- lingual community is quite proficient.

It was recently brought to my attention that babies up to the age of 8 months learn all they will of native level of whatever language. Up to this point they don't just hear the words, and the complex differences between dipthongs and accent, but also the facial movements the words demand of the muscles of lips, tongue and cheeks. Thus, you have to be talking to your baby face to face for highest quality language learning.

Babies in Moldova definitely have all that for both Romanian and Russian, which is why babas will often try to convince me that clearly Russian is just as easy to learn as Romanian!

The real hook though, in this, is that not only will your infant now know these two or three or however many languages, but the part of the brain that processes language and acquires language will be far more fit for picking up new languages in the future. The synapse patterns there be more complex etc.

Which is why for the three 12th grade students to whom I've been devoting the majority of this week's time, are pronouncing English words far better than my Romanian after a year and a half. Their pronunciation is clearer, the accent is more fluent, and they memorize the vocabulary easily 4 times faster.

This can also be attributed to the rigorous demands of Moldovan culture to memorize things. Almost no students I have respond to Socratic method until I've been doing it with them for 6 months. No, no matter how small the steps you lead them down. Neither will they think to experiment with something. If the square peg ain't fitting, they won't look for a square hole, they'll just put the block down.

Since we are working on memorizing poems (My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose and The Wonderful Sting) they have solid methodolgies all set up to memorize stuff. And they go for it whole hog.

I work with them line by line, stanza by stanza, etc. It's not too rough. They seem to enjoy it. And I do too. These are three students I've never had reason or chance of working with before. They can't speak English at all, so when they talk to me it's in pure Romanian. They caught on pretty quick that Russian and Moldovaneasca is a no go, and they stick to the vocabulary I know. They like my sense of humor, and are continuously surprised by statements I make, or avenues I urge them to explore in regards to dramatic presentation.

By the end of the day I was in full Director Mode. I was explaining not only what moods (Sting, in particular is a diverse little bundle of emotions) they were needing to emote when, but also giving them background motivation and blocking. It was exhilarating.

And fun.

I hope it goes well tomorrow. I'll have to be extra frumos. Pictures will be taken. Especially of the sweet English Speaking World map I made (complete with free-hand drawn piecharts).

To Emphasize....

As though summoned by the gods of coincidence:

Laurentiu stumbled home today (a religious holiday to celebrate 40 different saints all at once) and has been snoring so convincingly I didn't mind singing really loudly.

Then Maria was cooking dinner, and a strange scrape/knocking happened on my window. Note that my window is the foot of an L and the Kitchen/back entrance is the spine. I get up, walk through the hallway, through the kitchen with Maria cooking, into the back entrance way and open the 4th door in 30 seconds and a very drunk, very dirty man is there trying to light a cigarette.

He asks if my dad is home. Maria asks what's going on.

This man is so different from the world Maria and I exist in that I answer her instinctively in English.

My brain did that thing where you are simultaneously translating.

She came out and yelled at the man.

I love Maria.

An Update on Men

While Grigory and Roma continue to be lovely, and only challenge my sensibilities by stating things like “the moon will be 200 km away on Saturday” and “flossing is bad for your gums,” and Laurentiu is being rather less drunk and more hardworking than usual of late (I thank Spring) the rest of the men in my village continue reinforcing the stereotype I snap-judged summer 2009.

That is, at any time of day, you can take a stroll and dollars to donuts you'll find multiple drunk men on the street in various states of falling down. Off bikes, off feet, into trees, ditches, bushes, horses, walls.

My particular favorites are the two or three school employees who are predictably drunk in school. The male gym teacher. The head grounds man, and one or two of the other groundsmen. Other male teachers, the Romanian teacher, the Shop teacher, the Physics teacher, the Chemistry teacher... Are all honestly respectable men who I don't mind spending time with or talking to. These two though, swagger around and get in people's face and do/don't do their jobs at their leisure.

The groundsman is a friend of Laurentiu's and can be found driving to my house a couple times a week. He has almost too good of posture—puffs out chest—and perfectly coiffed hair. He lives in a bright yellow house with multi-colored fencing. He is the man around whom we had to work to get a door and priza and lights, and a window and clean stuff and paint.

When he first listened to our requests for help (it being his job description to help us) he refused to make eye contact, kept fiddling with bits of wire unconnected to anything, and nodded. The second time (a month later without anything having been done, me getting antsy, Ren wanting just to calm me, and finding that “patience” is something with an end in my brain and habits) he said some things like “well, it's hard to get that done!” without looking at us or stopping his fiddling. NB. I've never seen this man do work, just fiddle with things in his hands.

Eventually, Ren and I started asking the wiry little man who does not smell of vodka and refused to look at us out of real shyness. He came with us directly with a box of tools and did the thing. When I asked technical questions about installing the plug into the wall, he answered. A bit confused at first, but there was communication.

At least the drunk leader of the groundsmen doesn't touch people a lot. The gym teacher is a real toucher.

He grabs female teachers by the arm and waist all the time. Most of them allow this, and even smile at it. Even more when he changes the arm grab to a small-of-back turn around maneuvar that normally only gets used by professional dancers. Renata and Natalia not only accept this, but indulge it, even encourage it by their seeming genuine enjoyment of such treatment. The one time he tried it on me, back in the day, I responded with such natural vehemence that he now forcibly ignores me in the presence of others. I like to think it's his last resort of power.

A little larval version of this man is Vlad, who I have mentioned before. I mention him often because he is the smartest version of the Drunk Man To Be. Usually, the obviously intelligent boys fall into an in between category of child. They tend to be quiet in class, even if they don't do their work. They're the kids Renata encourages to translate words in lists if they so flatly refuse to participate in the real work. They have shit potential, but don't use it.

The problem with Vlad, is that he finds these boys and actually whips them into a skirting frenzy of his own rebellions. It gets to a point where, literally, every lesson with him is impossible. Every teacher except the drunk one agrees with this.

Today was special. In regard to drunk men. First, the gym teacher invaded my office while I was working. Three times. Didn't say anything, just opened the door, walked in smiled real big at me, looked around and closed the door. It isn't like he went away and thought about it, then came back to check that yes, The Americanka does have a Stefan Cel Mare poster! But in quick succession. Almost exactly as Vlad and his buddies do. In the words of Data: Intriguing.

Today we also started preparing for a special presentation/party thing. The language departments are all swapping languages and children. Ren, Nat and I have to train six eleventh graders who have only studied French up to this point in English poem recitation, English song singing, and a short skit in English.

I'm in charge of posters (of course) and poems (of course). Renata is director of the whole thing – from what they are doing to what they are wearing. I'm not too clear on what Natalia's doing, but I'm sure it's something. Luckily our singer already knows an English song by heart: Because of You by someone in America.

So, we were in Ren's diriginte classroom organizing all this, while her class (Vlad & co.) sat around or cleaned plants and swept the floor. My poet, Renat, at one point decided to help with the discipline. That is he picked up one of the boys by the shirt collar, slammed him back down on top of a desk and asked if he would, now, listen to Doamna Renata.

He did.

A couple minutes later, one of the boys in the skit took Vlad in a half nelson and told him to stop. Are you ready to stop? Vlad, being made of stiffer stuff than the average dickhead, didn't say anything until he'd been slapped and set on his feet, at which point he shouted some stuff in Russian, cried, and stormed out of the room. I was so surprised I burst out laughing.

I know this is only encouraging further violence from the younger boys, and that is the tragic circle of some conglomeration of poverty,existent violence, and a cultural identity of being conquered by every empire to ever make the history books. Seriously. Name one. I mean, the Ptolemies and Aztecs never raped and pillaged Moldovan soil, but all the others did.

It's not an excuse, but that sort of mindset is hard to get through, and I am so thankful for Roma, Grigory, Sasha, and several other young men here who are genuinely upstanding. I just hope they have as much an influence as the hitters.

Countdowns

Many volunteers have countdowns going to the end of their service. Some started these our first week of service, some halfway through this second dreary winter. Some people keep them in their heads, some post them on blogs, or computer desktops, or maybe even Facebook.

Recently I made three consecutive comments to our Vice President. One of them was an accurate count of the number of months since I flew away from the USA to be a Peace Corps Volunteer. He replied with a loaded “Really?! Sounds like somebody's counting!” showing me immediately to be one of these counters. Friends, readers, this is my greatest deterrent from ever entering politics. I said something I know naturally—for reasons unknown—and was quantifiably and verifiably true and it was taken to show a wealth of motivation and conotation I had no desire to associate with myself in front of a power-wielding man and all of my colleagues, many of whom I rail against making such statements.

That is, I said something utterly hypocritical. I regret it. I hate countdowns, and if Joe has the ability to remember me (doubtful) he thinks of me as a down-counter.

For things anticipated, we naturally look forward to them to deliver us from a perceived down feeling or time. I get it. I am looking forward to a visit from my mom and sisters. I'm looking forward to eating my first really Mexican food made by real Mexicans. I'm looking forward to having a job that pays me more than $100 a month.

But if you spend seconds and minutes a day physically looking at a calender and crossing every day you survive without these experiences, aren't you missing the seconds and minutes and days you are currently living?

Worse, aren't you cheapening the anticipated event? By building up expectations and day dreaming, you are fencing in the idea of the texture of the beans, the milkiness of the fake cheese, the smooth drop of margarita from tongue to tummy. Now we will trespass into La Belle Dame Sans Merci and Platonic Cave theory, but seriously, no America, or party or family reunion can be as cool as your 119 days till experiencing the experience can possibly be.

Unless you have a poorly imagination, and that's just sad.

Something to Smile About

Some rutiera rides are pleasanter than others. Obvious may it be, applicable as it is to all situations in life, such distnictions become exponentially more important when you are forced to think of nothing else in a prostrate pose for between 2 and 4 hours of day light.

Most of them I do not remember. Last winter's low points where I cried from cold and was rewarded with ice on my cheeks. Being all but fucked while standing by various sweaty others on the way home to Costesti. Bringing a jet lagged Billy to Balatina the first time when I wanted so badly to hug him and tell him how happy I was he had somehow formed beside me in my moving pill of hell. But, of course I could not.

This one, home from an outrageously successful week of socilalizing and seminar facilitating and Vice President meeting, was the perfect capstone to such a week. After being kicked out of my customary three seats back in a single-seat row by a mustaschioed square intent on showing me his superiority by brandishing his whiskeyed smile (smothered) and seat numbered ticket (see the last entry on buying and using bust tickets), I squeezed into a corner right at the back of the little rutiera. I started reading, hoping someone would not take my seat and demand me to swap.

I was just getting entrenched in some Darcy speech when a stately matron asked me to hold a punga while she situated herself. Fair enough. I can do that and not stop reading. Two minutes later, I was being asked if I spoke English. Goal 2: Commence!

But she ended up speaking English and wanting to use it with a natural speaker. She told me of the projects she tried floating through her school and community. She told me about her exemplary sons. She told me of the problems of her country. She asked me about my family, why I was here... etc.

Then she said, no, you don't smile too much! English is a language that makes you smile all the time!

Because it's so funny to speak?

Haha! No!

Because English speaking countries are filled with optimists?

No, but I have heard that about Americans.

I believe it, is it because you have such pleasure in speaking English?

No, it is because your vowels make your mouth stretch open. Every thing!

Our dipthongs?

Yes, I love your dipthongs.

Yep. That's how that went. Thus we swapped, my Darcy sequel for her bouquet of flowers. I wrote my name in it, she said she would find me on Facebook. I warned her this book was full of too much romance, and was in strange English usage.

I read Pride and Prejudice!

Ok! Here you go!

Her compatriot, a biology teacher complimented my aspect and Romanian and grinned to herself for the next two hours. They were going home to re-teach their school how to lay out long term and daily lesson plans, and I got to be their highlight...

I was so fresh and happy at school on Monday, and I was greeted with a fuming Ren over the leaving of Nat to go to that seminar I missed because I was teaching another seminar, but managed to discuss with returning other participants...

It's like the whole country is a small town.

Thus, the first week of spring's crises have to do with inspections and seminars. Coming home from mine I am confronted with Natalia having attended the same one as the woman I met on yesterday's ride home. Yep. Nat made herself go to Chisinau for her career. Renata is rather upset by this. She's more defensive and conniving than usual. She smiles more than usual. The more she plots, it seems, the pleasanter her aspect.

And... I had to go back to Chis to open a school bank account for our own project this week. And I have to go back on a working day, after 5 working days to pick up the ATM card...

But! The school has pulled together more than I had dared anticipated and collected their own 1400 lei for my project.

Biden (this is too long)

Joe Biden Uses Moldova

Somehow in between discovering Roma broke up with his girlfriend, discussing how Japanese assembly line cars are better than American assembly line cars, and the price of living in various American cities, I got really angry on behalf of all sorts of things at Roma and Grigore.

First it was a repetition of why we ought not continually kick gypsies. But then it grew into Russia. By which time G and R were looking at me with expressions common on other teen faces, but never thiers. That is I had clearly gone over their heads.

This is not the first time G has managed to poke me into being angry about the treatment of the Roma people (gypsies) in Europe. “Why do you do this? Do you like to see me so angry?”

“So much passion? Yes. It is interesting.”

“Do you at all see why I am so angry?”

“You cannot be right all the time.”

Which is where I steamed off after Russia. They just think it's funny when I rant about Russian politics. This steered them to ask: “Did you meet Joe Biden?” Which I think funny for a couple reasons: I haven't heard him referred to as the vice president except on the Moldovan news. It's not someone I ever thought I'd meet. My home base is his work locus, and I had to fly to Moldova, to live, for two years, to have a chance to see him in the flesh, let alone to chat.

“Yes.” They nod, this is what they expect. You're American, he's American, all Americans are magic. “Well, sort of. He doesn't know my name, and certainly does not remember who I am. I did make him laugh though!”

And then I repeated my lame joke, which needs demand I repeat here too. However, it should be known, I actually said three things to him. The joke was just the climax. And a climax was needed. There was so much anticipation and and awe stored up in our collective Volunteer chests I got a natural chuckle from every person in ear shot. Weird. Almost as weird as it is to listen to a consumate politician talk. I guess only the best become presidents.

There was a stiltedness in both Joe and Doctor Biden's speeches, and awkward wording whenever they clearly were substituting in some information specific to our embassy. Also, it was clear he had chosen an Embassy-Specific speech, and that PC was kind of a bonus deal for shmoozing. That is there "smooth speech, smooth speech, smooth speech, uh... organizing stuff with schools – good! - uh... smooth speech..." etc.

Honestly, visiting this place must have just been a wet dream for his publicists. Country who loves him. Talking to Foreign Service Officers and Peace Corps Volunteers. Not a single person who is going to demand anything more difficult than a plea for not cutting our budget. Even as verbosely professional as that guy's wording was, it was just plain begging: Don't Take Our Money! (though really, we don't use too much and do way more good for foreign relations than many another governmental program I can think of).

So, Joe asked how long we'd been there, a year? “no” said a volunteer. Oh, ho no! We are not letting him think we are all wet around the ears. “19 months” I declare.

“Really?” he asked, mock incredulous.

“Yea,” I look down at Melissa, the most competent person in view and ear shot, “19 months, right?”

“Right.” Thank you Mel!

“Sounds like someone is counting!” Joe exclaims.

“Well, we're proud!”

And without nodding at that, he's off to talks about daughters and growing up, and yes, even the budget. He mentions a couple names of senators who are with us, and one or two who are against us; he says a nice thing about each. The man is slick, but I've seen others pull this sort of thing off so well I actually buy it.

Which brings me to a point. Biden was here to intimidate Russia. Russia's last visible hold out is of course in Transniestria, where we all know NOT to go. Biden very cleverly mentioned this in his big public speech. Something like: “We will protect Moldova's sovreignity, and preserve her natural borders, and let people know that Transniestria is Molodova” I'm not directly quoting, some of my buddies got the actual transcript of the speech used for / by the translators; even got Joe to sign them. I however am just remembering.

At some point I looked at R and G and ask, more seriously than I ever get with them, “you know why Moldova is important in the world right?”

They do. They nod. They tell me exactly the right answer. They are even a little proud. Yea, Russia's politics are those of a bully!

Anyway, Biden was out this way to chat with Russia, and we were scheduled aşa to display SUA can walk the walk and cement whatever Biden told Putin and co. . And once he got here, it was all gravy. Like a holiday of press receptions.

For us though, it was quite the opposite. We were told this is kind of our job, as little demi-ambassadors. Besides which, Americans and Moldovans alike are celebrity whores. We are so excited for and by celebrity that a chance comes along and we will move heaven and earth to get there and shake a hand. Thus it was that we came to stand on the main street of Chisinau for 12 hours.

Some of us brought food, some started the day with a real meal, or a cup of coffee from close by McDonalds (where we ironically and whimsically all converged before getting into the security lines). Some of us came away with actual sunburn. A couple were in charge of getting the rest of us out of the plebian ranks and up onto a stage behind where the vice president would make his speech. I guess we were a sure bet to cheer and wave our little flags, so the Volunteers and exchange students were herded up there, given little plastic flags on straws and bobbed around to the live Moldovan flavor of pop music.

Really, it was like being a little senseless creature in a tide. I got washed up behind one security line which denied me. This being the first one I was not about to let that fucking slide. I grabbed the hand of the Moldovanka Raisa I'd befriended and just pushed through. Realizing the futility of stopping me (I guess?) the guard pretended not to see us. After three hours in full mosh, the space of this holding bay was amazing. Raisa and I wandered around until we got yelled at to turn right. To our right were some makeshift metal detectors and, yes, American security officers. They had their hands full trying to get Moldovans to understand the concept of a line. However, it was pretty cut and dry. One guy with ray bans thanked me for having my shit together. Raisa, for her part was just a bit flustered.

We were pulled along a current of demetaled audience members to a new pocket of resistence. The VIP area was full. I had a VIP ticket. Raisa did not. I let us drift and wash up on a crowd control fence the height of my chest. Directly behind me were a couple dozen assorted Americans and Moldovans. They were, like me, in varying stages of wondering how to jump said fence. Eventually we were given apologies (the tickets meant nothing) and our little flags to wave.

I settled into a sadness at being confined to the street. I watched many an earlier or more shiesty friend get onto a big stage (shiesty because one of them hi jacked a name tag that brokered no security objection and one walked in with it, passed it over the fence, they got it, passed it over the fence etc.)

Then I grew some balls. I was in a storming mind set. I would get to that stage. Sorry, Raisa, I'm leaving. I want that. (I saw her the next day, she said she'd had fun and was thankful I'd gotten her in at all. She'd have given up two stages of security earlier.) As I walked a coordinator I'm friends with appeared. He asked “do you wanna get in?” I said “yes!” he looked behind me at the entourage I'd accrued, and counted: “These 4, 10, 12, These 12 are with me! I need them on the stage!”

And so we stood on the stage. In the back, unable to see any of the action. Except for the entry gangway! It was good times. Mia and I made friends with a Secret Serviceman. We waved at all the Moldovan members of parliament arriving. Randy got a kiss blown from the Prime Minister. Melissa coordinated a “Welcome to Moldova!” shout out for Doctor Biden.

Speech was good. Meeting was good. I made a lame fucking joke. I'm proud of a lame joke. I have to get to a place where my celebrity pandering is on an equal footing lameness. Where I can say, Dude, you really need that photo op? Ha. I don't!

ISTs

I am a self-loathing acronym user. Jargon is one of top things hated in the Erikavers.

That said, only something like 3 other people are super acquainted with the term Erikavers, maybe 6 other people know the acronym RTFM, and surely few people recognize / “get” dozens of the segue leaps and idioms that Kiddo throws out there in the Erikavers.

Yep. So why should I be hatin on PC for things like PDM, IST, PST, PCV, RPCV, Sustainability, Goal Two, Goal Three and dozens more I'm sure not coming immediately to mind?

Because I sound like a monologue in Good Morning Vietnam. I sound like my sister fresh from bootcamp. I sound like a smarmy [insert explicative].

At any rate, IST is a term used tons by nerdy PCVs in off PST season.

I = In

S = Service

T = Training

and those nerds are current volunteers eager to teach the newer generation how to do specific things.

P = Project

D = Design

M = Management

which is the title of March's IST for EE PCVs. That is, the sort I am, English Education.

Like all things to do, we all have our different motivations for giving up vacationing in balmy Istanbul for a week in favor of teaching 20 somethings how to write a grant proposal.

Mine are nefarious: Lack of money. Lack of CV glitter.

And so, I spent my spring break in a class room with two other stricken nerds (the honorable Erin and Monica) facilitating (not teaching) sessions (not lessons) for (not to) a dozen or so M25s and their Partners.

And I enjoyed it. 10 – 12 hours a day facilitating for 2 days, a 12 hour day waiting for Joe Biden to shake my hand, and a morning of barely moderated discussion of who's done what with their two year service (like the military term, I think. Which brings me to a nagging digression. Peace Corps Volunteers are classified as “skilled and trained man power” we are a good, given to a village to help the village provide a service for itself. It's confusing without living and teaching the conundrum for two years, but Joe's visit is really niggling me to question the intentions of everyone ever to have lived...).

It was fun, tiring, and utterly fulfilling, for no other reason than how physically exhausted I was after every day. Nothing else though. Why doesn't teaching give me a glow? I thought teaching was supposed to make you feel good for imparting knowledge and watching your chicklets flutter around full of new knowledge. Huh.

March Back Log

I was away and busy beyond anticipation for a week, and it's Tuesday and I have to keep going, and there is at least two more days before I can equalize, so these couple may be out of date and missing pieces.

I can't believe it's half way through March.

This Grant Business

Did you know that math is beautiful? I didn't. It's so graceful. It knows exactly what it wants. When you give it what it wants, it does what you want it to do. Math is the perfect mistress.

Writing this grant and bringing it to fruition has been one of the more frustrating things I've ever done, but damn. I didn't know I liked math. I've hated it. Hated it more than a year of eating nothing but red beet borsch.

Granted, all I'm doing is entering percentage formulae and currency exchange formulae, but I have not yet been proven wrong from my long hand calculations to Excel's affirmations. And now, holy of all holies, Excel will keep up with me every time I do something. Change the price of a chair: It subtracts I from one cell, adds it to three others, and divides it by two different things in two further cells, multiplies in one, and finally sticks the end product in an extra, more Budget Reader-friendly place at the top of the page! How amazing is that?

New found respect for past-hated things does not stop there. Totalitarian or authoritarian regimes are amazing at cutting through red tape. If you're on the right side of it, have the cryptonite scissors, you only have to cut it once. Things can happen so quickly.

In the meeting the over lord of the committee dolling out cash to the deserving, asked, “Are there other people in your school?”

Renata had been referring to her as “our manager” at which I'd wondered, and I of her as “our director” possibly making the one lady into two. In the tangle of other questions about security, schedules, and jealousy I referred to her simply as “Claudia.”

“Claudia?”

“Yes, our director, sorry, Doamna Claudia,” I hastened, sticking the polite Madam appendage on the front, like a glorious buttress of authority.

“Are there other people in your school? You seem to present this Claudia as a queen.”

“She would have you believe that is true!”

Renata rallied and addressed a different issue.

This presider of stuffs great and small decided the only thing we have to change is the percentage amount of money collected by the community. That is we have to up the amount by (let me consult my spreadsheet) .47%. Which comes out to the price of some verb and practice test books! Woo.

I must go to the supreme leaders of the school and ask them if the PTA might have some spare cash to cover the verb and test books. Because they want the windows and doors I'm offering, they agree. Done. No more consultations, no more haggling. Done. They know what they want, they know what they need to do to exact this, they do it. Totalitarians are mathematicians. Did you know this? I did not.

Lightbulbs

The first three times lights went out on me, with almost a poof of magnesium, I asked where the spare bulbs were kept. As soon as I did this, instead of telling me Maria or Laurentiu would sweep off to wherever they were hidden, return with one in hand, and sweep right past me again. They'd go into my room, hop up on my bed, have a time unscrewing the bust one, shake it in their ear, shake it at me: “yep! You're right, it is broken!” Indeed.

Then toss this broken one on my bed, take the new one out of their pocket, screw it in and say, See? Easy. I'll have to buy a new one at the piata. In a year, in the same room, where the light is on for a good 6 hours a day in December and 2 hours a day in June, this was the fourth bulb to explode on me. Emboldened by my earlier statement of “No, I can heat up my own leftover coltunasi.” I went in search of the spare bulbs. They had to be near. They never went to the betch for them. They were in the kitchen. In one of the drawers or cupboards. I found a bag full of used shampoo bottles. A ratty hairbrush. Halves of onions. Meat cleavers. Wires. Bags. Straight razors. Jar lids. Thermometers. Stuff, but no bulbs.

I looked in the hallway lights – we never use the hallway lights. They were taken already. I went to the spare room and took that one. Brought it back. Unscrewed the old one. The glass came out, but the spiral metal base stayed. Stuck my phone with its flashlight in my mouth, stuck my nail clippers (air ports confiscate only truly useful things like pliers with wire cutters in their crotch) on the rim of the cup of pressed metal, twisted, pulled, twisted, twisted. Got it out. Wires everywhere. Cool. Screwed in the new bulb. Flipped the switch. Nada. Damn.

And, went in search of Maria, defeated. She screwed it in just perfect. Nothing. “Maybe it's the switch,” she said. Not seeing how that was possible, I asked, “Really?”

“Yea, but if it is, it is complicated.”

“Clearly.”

She took the whole thing apart, shook some parts, cylinders of metal, and screwed them all back in like a concentric maze. Screwed in the bulb. I flipped the switch. It went on. I'd held my phone flashlight for her this whole time and she hadn't looked up once.

“There!” she said, “once I bought 9 bulbs at once, and put in one, and it burst. Put another in, immediately it burst. On the third one, it stayed.”

“That's not good quality.”

“No. Like our matches. You see what we have here to buy.”

“Have you seen the halogen bulbs? They're in a shape like this,” and I wave my finger in a whirlpool.

“Yes. They use less energy.”

“Therefore, have a much longer life.”

“If we were to use those, we'd have to change all the wires in the house.”

“How does that make sense?”

“You know, it's like the long fluorescent bulbs.” I didn't but this is where I've learned to stop talking. I take the busted bulb from her and look at the voltage.

“They have the same voltage as this.”

“That's not 220. It's just a stamp.”

“so what voltage is it?”

“Probably, 75.”

“Then, why's it say 220?”

Maria shrugs and repeats, “it's just a stamp.” She checked my fire, “it's red.” she said, and left. At 70 lei a pop, that's a quarter of my monthly pay check to put energy efficient bulbs in the whole house.