Silence comes from many sources, as darkness comes in many shades. Silence from those whose lives were taken or voices silenced. Silence through technology that brings people together by keeping them apart. Silence from commercialism that values things more than people. Silence from fear that has sparked new life to nationalism all over the world. Our world becomes ever smaller and ever darker.
And so on the darkest day of the year, listening to the sounds of silence, let’s remember that when all the evils from Pandora’s box were released, all that remained was hope. People may be the cause of these problems, but people are also surely the solution.
The Sound Of Silence
by Paul Simon
(Click here for my new favorite version of this song by Disturbed.)
Hello darkness, my old friend,
I’ve come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
‘Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
“Fools,” said I, “You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, “The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
In honor of not cooking this Thanksgiving, here are some of my all-time favorite food and drink pictures from all over Europe over the last three years. Guten Appetit & Happy Thanksgiving!
Samloi galuska in Budapest
Coleslaw in Colmar
Green tortellini with white asparagus and shaved Parmesan: Piccolo Mondo in Wiesbaden
Gulash in Budapest
One of many Belgian chocolate/candy shops
Polish vodka & beer
Indian food in London
Giant cream puff swan
Quiche with white asparagus: Schlimmerwoche (similar to Restaurant Week) in Lorch
Pierogies in Gdansk
Shillingsbolle in Bergen, Norway
Seafood in Bergen fish market
Sushi in Olso
Pumpkin Flammkuchen (thin flatbread with soft cheese and toppings)
East vs. West Berlin Currywurst
Tapas near Barcelona
New Year’s marzipan in Mainz bakery
Fish & chips with mushy peas
Glühwein in Mainz
Coffee & cake in Cochem
German Christmas Market treats
Cheese shop in Amsterdam
Berliner in Berlin
Langos in Budapest
Lunch in Alsace
Table set for lunch
A fresh crêpe
Strawberry punch & beer
Charcuterie in Belgium
Market in Barcelona
Easter punch in Trier
Seafood at the market in Barcelona
Pumpkin soup from Mosch Mosch
Sweets stand in Mainz
Sausage sandwiches with cheese sauce and chili sauce
Traditional green sauce with eggs and potatoes
Note: I wasn’t too big on taking food pictures until recently. A few not pictured favorites include mussels in Belgium, Indonesian food in the Netherlands, Sacher torte (a kind of chocolate cake) in Austria, stuffed peppers in Romania, Scotch and shortbread in Scotland; Guinness in Ireland, fondue and Raclette in Switzerland, pasta-sauerkraut-cheese stir fry in the Czech Republic, smoked salmon in Sweden and Norway, and gelato, coffee, pizza, etc., etc. in Italy.
Language tells us what a culture values. While living and working in Romania in August, I continually heard words related to family, religion, formality, and good health. I discovered a way of life that is as simple in style as it is rich in relationships. Here are a few words that I consider keys to unlocking an understanding of Romanian culture.
This can mean table or meal, as both together are a central gathering place for families. Lunch is the main masă of the day, always consisting of a soup followed by a main course. Dinner is usually late – around 8 p.m. – so a late afternoon snack is typical. A short prayer is said while standing around the table before meals at home. When I worked at the school, the children also followed this custom as though they were at home while gathering around long lunch tables. We ate from clay bowls that had been formed on the pottery wheel and painted by the children during previous school years.
Amen. Religion is also a focal point in the lives of Romanian people, the majority of whom are Eastern Orthodox. Families and neighbors gather at churches for regular Sunday masses, visit churches on Saturdays to pray for departed loved ones, fast during numerous times of the year, and celebrate life events together. I was invited to attend part of a church service (regular Sunday services are around three hours in their entirety) and found it very interesting. During parts of the mass, the priest disappears behind a partition covering an area behind the altar. There are a few chairs lining the walls but the majority of the congregation stands for the entire mass. Dress is very modest and most women cover their heads with a scarf.
A while after I had found a spot to stand, off to the side and not too close to the front, a gentleman nudged me to move because I was standing in front of an area the priest was about to walk to. I moved over accordingly and then, as I looked around, realized that all of the other women were standing on the other side of the aisle and I had been standing the whole time on a side with only men. Not all Romanian churches are divided by gender, but it appeared to be an unspoken rule in this one. I sidled across the aisle when the priest was passing back up again.
Mrs. or Ma’am/Mr. or Sir. Titles are used regularly as a sign of respect, often with first names. I noticed even people who had known each other a long time tended to use titles and formal language, particularly those who worked together. Children always used titles with adults outside of their families. For the time that I taught English, I became known as Doamna Nina by children and adults alike. Sometimes the children referred to me in English as “Miss.” I felt a little like an old schoolmarm with these titles, fitting perfectly in my classroom filled with old-fashioned long wooden desks and benches.
Polenta (cooked cornmeal, if you’re not familiar with it) is a very typical side dish or dinner in Romania, where it is often flavored with butter or goat’s or sheep’s cheese. In general, Romanian food tends to be very simple and made from fresh ingredients: stewed meats, tomatoes, peppers, olives and lemons, honey, bread, etc. One of my favorite typical dishes was Ardei Umpluti: bell peppers stuffed with a mixture of rice, ground pork, onions and seasonings baked in the oven.
Cheers, good luck or good health. You can say it when you toast before having a drink, when someone sneezes, or just to wish someone well. Some time after explaining to someone that we say “bless you” in English after a sneeze, I clinked glasses with “Noroc!” and heard the same person proudly remember “Bless you!” I laughed and explained that we instead say “Cheers” as a toast. Noroc conveys good wishes in a variety of contexts, and for its multipurpose use, I consider it one of the most important Romanian words.
My time at the pottery wheel was a unique experience, though not so unlike my time teaching English in the classroom in Romania this summer. Here I was the student and, like my own students, faced with a language barrier that forced me to rely on context to understand something new and foreign to me.
The master potter was a wizened gentleman from the village who shuffled along to the school every morning to teach his craft to the children and, incidentally, interested adults during breaks in the day. Dressed in a light gray suit that would perpetually become dotted with the day’s clay, he traded his hat and cane for an artisan’s apron and situated himself on a chair before the motorized wheel in the main entry room of the home-turned-school.
He clapped the wet clay heavily from one hand to another as he directed me to dunk my hands in a utility bucket and coat them in the grayish water and slimy remnants of clay along the rim. As he worked the clay on the wheel, endless potential was revealed. From one second to the next it seemed a vase, a dish, a bowl, a cup. It could take any form you could give it. And no clay was wasted. Once, a forming vase broke and the clay that remained on the wheel was instead turned into a tiny pitcher. The scraps used on our hands were wiped off against the bucket to be used again.
The potter demonstrated various techniques for me to try or put his clay-masked hands over mine so I could understand the correct form. All the while speaking to me in Romanian so that I had to concentrate hard on what I could see and remember from previous sessions.
There were few tools besides the wheel and two hands. A metal tool like a razor blade was used to carefully smooth the outer surface as the piece turned, and a piece of string was pulled tautly across the bottom to separate the pottery from the wheel when it was finished. At this point I would be instructed to scrape the palms of my hands against the edge of the bucket before picking up what I had made, so that, as he indicated, the clay of the pottery wouldn’t stick to the clay on my hands.
It was no easy work, and I felt just as malleable as the clay I attempted to form on the wheel with a great deal of assistance. I wonder what the potter thought of teaching at the school or if he had, in fact, already told me. He was neither particularly friendly nor cold to anyone, simply there to teach a skill that he himself must have learned early on.
The only glimpse I got into his life came from a story an artist at the school told me. He had asked the potter once what he thought of the changes that had occurred in Romania since the revolution in the late 80s and whether he thought things were improving. “What do you mean?” the potter had asked. “My entire life has been exactly the same.” As he put his hat back on and took his cane to slowly make his way back home for lunch every day, I wondered how remarkable that self-reliant life must be.
We rode in a van through the Carpathian Mountains in what was once Transylvania, one of three former kingdoms that now comprise Romania. We had just passed through a gypsy village and more than once had seen a horse and cart on the road carrying logs or hay.
“Yes, usually in the mornings over the farmland,” our driver/tour guide answered. I don’t know why I was surprised. While we had waited for him to pick us up at our Home Away apartment a couple hours earlier, a black cat had loitered a short way ahead of us on the sidewalk. “First we’re going to Peleş Castle and at the end I want you to tell me which you think is better.”
I’ll let you decide for yourself about the castles, and the rest of the highlights of the trip as well. What follows is the rest of our long weekend of sightseeing.
Extravagant is the best way to describe the first castle we visited before the main event. It had been commissioned by King Carol I of Romania, who was originally born in Germany. The outer design particularly retains a lot of German style, while the inside is filled with carved wooden wall decorations, Italian marble, a Turkish smoking room, and so on and so on. I imagined this being built after a consultation that went something like, “I have virtually unlimited money and want to showcase my wealth. What can you do for me?” The result was truly gorgeous and awe-inspiring.
Bran Castle (“Dracula’s Castle”)
The four of us had prepared for this visit by taking turns reading aloud from the opening of Bram Stoker’s Dracula on our balcony in Bucharest on the evening we arrived. Bran Castle, having belonged to Queen Mary for much of its history, is built directly into a foundation of sheer rock. It stoically served as the gateway between the former kingdoms of Transylvania and Wallachia. Compared to Peleş Castle, its unornamented wooden rooms make it look like more of a practical living space.
The truth is that this castle is only loosely tied to the (anyway, fictitious) story of Dracula. It seems that Bram Stoker had at one point visited Bucharest, collected stories from Romanian history and folklore, and spun them into a tale whose tremendous popularity is to blame for a good deal of tourism in this area. The tyrannical Vlad the Impaler’s father was named Vlad Dracul, and the Impaler’s grandfather had owned Bran Castle for a few years after it was given to him as a gift. So the family name Dracul, the briefly owned Transylvanian castle, and Romanian folklore about “strigoi” (vampires that could be warded off with garlic, etc.) has since breathed a new and mysterious life into the scenically located but otherwise ordinary Bran Castle.
We visited many churches on this trip as well and learned a lot about religion in Romania. The vast majority of Romanians are Christian Orthodox, with some Catholics in Transylvania and a smaller percentage of other religions. The first thing we noticed in the Christian Orthodox churches was that there are very few seats and that these usually line the walls. That’s because church-goers stand for services. Note: A typical Sunday service is three hours long, while a holiday service can last closer to five hours. Smaller services take place twice a day. And Wednesdays are somewhat important church days too. And Fridays. And we even saw a roadside church where people can take their new cars to be blessed.
In a small town called Braşov we also saw a beautiful historic synagogue. Post-WWII Romania has a small Jewish population as well.
We spent the following day with the same guide on a trip to Veliko Tarnovo in Bulgaria. Bucharest is about an hour from the Bulgarian border and from here we traveled another two hours to this scenic city, crossing the Danube and winding our way through the Balkans. Although both countries are part of the EU, they each still use their own currency and have a toll booth-style customs office you have to pass through on the border. Once in Veliko Tarnovo an older gentleman behind a counter exchanged some Euros for Bulgarian lev (meaning “lion” like the Romanian lei) with a calculator and stacks of money. In the meantime, signs had switched over into the Cyrillic alphabet. Romania had once used this alphabet too but changed over to the Latin alphabet we use, with the addition of many types of accent marks.
Bulgaria has changed hands many times in its history: It was ruled by czars, it belonged to the Ottoman Empire, part of it belonged to Romania, it was under Communist rule, and is currently a democracy. Unlike Romania, it apparently achieved democracy without a revolution. As you can see, we saw a town-enclosing fortress that was rebuilt under Communist rule, a beautiful church hidden inside an ordinary-looking farmhouse, and a Turkish-style (Ottoman Empire period) house.
Impressions of fear, oppression, and poverty from the not-so-distant past still hang in the air of Romania’s fascinating capital even as it continues to rise into a more optimistic future. James and I traveled here with two of our friends for a long weekend and learned a great deal about Bucharest’s mysterious history from a free city tour guide. It was incredible to hear about the history from someone who was born not so long before the revolution and to see remnants of it up close.
Modern-day Bucharest was largely shaped by and in response to its last communist leader Nicolae Ceauşescu in the 1980s. He wanted to rebuild the city in larger-than-life proportions, ordering existing buildings to be torn down to make room for his vision: a boulevard a few centimeters wider and longer than the Champs-Élysées, new apartment buildings to hide churches from sight in the main squares, a grandiose palace nicknamed the iceberg for its maze of underground offices and secret tunnels, and so on. Ceauşescu never lived to inhabit the palace near Unity Square that he dubbed “The People’s House.” Michael Jackson was the first person to speak from its balcony after the revolution where he mistakenly referred to the city as Budapest (the capital of Hungary).
Many buildings in the city are being restored, but many still lie in ruins. Under Ceauşescu’s leadership, people were denied ownership of individual property and evacuated from their homes to live in assigned group housing. Over time squatters took over many abandoned properties, ripping up floorboards and lighting fires to keep warm during the winters.
During communist times, everything was also rationed. People waited in long lines for whatever food was available at a particular time and electricity was cut off in homes at 9 p.m. But our tour guide said the worst part was the lack of freedom. People weren’t allowed to express their ideas openly and were unable to trust anyone, including their families. It was even dangerous to express opposing views about the government in front of children because teachers were trained to ask questions to gain this type of information.
In 1989 rumblings of revolution brought Ceauşescu back from a trip to make a televised speech to show the strength of the government. He spoke from a low balcony (strategically filmed to appear much higher) to a crowd that turned on him. This area is now called Revolution Square and is filled with monuments commemorating the revolution. The military ended up joining the people, and Ceauşescu and his wife Elena were caught not long after, brought to trial, and executed by a firing squad.
In the five or so days leading up to Ceauşescu’s capture there were many casualties, but not nearly as many as in the week or so during his imprisonment. During that time, the military provided the people with guns and told them that there were terrorists in their midst. Paranoia reigned, and whether it was true or whether there was nothing to fear but fear itself, many people died including many foreign students (Ceauşescu had allies with leaders in countries such as Iran and Afghanistan). Strikingly, we saw a magazine photo of an Iranian student’s body with the word “Terrorist” written on it.
At the end of the tour, we tasted a bland crunchy snack called Pufuleti that our tour said her childhood had been full of. “I don’t know if we’re a real democracy yet,” she said. “I think we’re still in transition.” She gave the rest of the bag of Pufuleti to a man of the street, telling us that she had had enough.