Ever since my host family returned from their trip to Italy, we have been in a bedtime routine that goes like this: We eat dinner; usually around 8-9:30 PM. Mirela rarely eats with us (in fact I don’t think she eats at all – I never see her, anyway.), so this is my bonding time with “dad” (Or big-brother, more aptly). More on this below. I then wash the dishes, while Iancu puts food in the fridge and wipes off the table and Mirela showers. We all then head for our respective rooms, where they turn on the TV or a movie or just chat and I work on homework, read or type blog-posts in preparation for future encounters with the internet. It has recently been the case, though, that I hit the hay before Iancu goes through his nightly routine. His routine involves tromping in big, noisy slippers to the bathroom for tooth-brushing and the like and then a trip around the house locking doors, turning off radios and the lights.
What makes this so lovely is the fact that my bedroom door has frosted windows in it, so the glow of the living room light acts as a nightlight while I’m curling into bed. I do whatever reading I have the concentration for and then turn off my room light and climb from my slippers into bed and bundle the blankets around me like a nest. Between my blanket nest and the glow from the room windows, I feel perfectly, completely secure, cozy and content. It is the feeling of home; the feeling of safety; the feeling of family and warmth and love. And I have missed that wonderful part of living in a family, for the past few years. It is nice to find it again. =)
Bonding time with Dad.
2 nights ago, Mirela made pizza. I use the term pizza very loosely here, since her pizza crust consisted of a pan filled with bread slices and her toppings somehow involved a layer of milk… not entirely sure how that part worked. It was not good. Now, Mirela had warned me that it wasn’t good before feeding it to me, but I guess I just wasn’t prepared! I bought her an English-Romanian/Romanian-English dictionary a couple weeks ago, and in it she looked up the words “burnt” and “soft”. Apt descriptions, indeed!
The top of the pizza was moist and gooshy (I attribute this to the milk), not pleasant to bite through. The bottom of the pizza was burnt…nearly impossible to bite through! I honestly thought I had boken a tooth, after the first bite.
Well, like any good guest, I assured Mirela “Este Foarte Buna!” (this is very good!) and contradicted her “pizza rau” (bad pizza) comments with a boldfaced “nu, pizza buna!” (No, good pizza!) lie. I’m not sure quite what got into me… It turned out to be a bad plan, that compliment business, since she then dished me up a second serving and filled a plate for Iancu before leaving the kitchen to shower. So, there sit Iancu and I gnawing on “Pizza rau” and sneaking peaks at one another’s progress now and again. “iți place?” (do you like?) he asked me with a snarky little twinkle in his eye. “Imi place!” (I like!) I responded, defiantly. “Si tu?” (and you?). “Mmmm Mmmm,” he replied. When he finished his plate, he headed to the stove to try & hack another slab off the pizza and without thinking I announced “yeah, good luck!” …and he burst out laughing! Apparently Iancu knows a few English phrases, although he doesn’t let on.
The dance of the slippers.
Mom, you would be happy to know how much a part of life in Romania slippers are. Here’s how they work in my host home: I take my shoes off outside the door and store them in a shoe rack where they will be most easily accessible to “Câine Mic”, the little puppy who enjoys chewing on them. I trade them out with my flip flops (house shoes), before entering the house. I am then able to walk all over the house…with the exception of bedrooms. When entering a bedroom, house shoes are taken off and replaced with slippers.
I happen to be atrocious at the slipper-dance, having two left feet and a lot of forgetfulness working against me. But every time I notice that I have slipped up, my reaction is panic. The slipper dance is so carefully adhered to by my hosts that if I ever catch myself I my bedroom still wearing flip flops, I tend to yelp and dive for the door, tossing them out into the main living space. And if I find that I have stomped into the living room without exchanging my slippers for flip flops, I wait until I am sure no one is looking before making a dash back to my bedroom. Should I, in the middle of the night, make a trip to the bathroom and discover that I neither stepped into my slippers directly from bed nor traded them out at my doorway (2 feet from the bed) for flip flops, I am overwhelmed by a wave of guilt…I even caught myself listening at the bathroom door before dashing the 4 feet back to my room…just in case the slipper police might be waiting on the other side, ready to look concerned for my health.
You’d love it, mom! =)
And here is a random tour of my host-home via me turning around slowly with a camera from the center of the room....
No comments:
Post a Comment