…and I can’t wait to see you! Please update me with your contact info so we can meet up before I move on to my next adventure.
p.s. I’ll be on vacation in New Jersey for roughly a week. If I haven’t been in touch yet, I will be after I return!
Some of us are so fortunate to be enriched by the presence and guidance of others in our lives. I would like to take a minute to talk about one such person, who is now retiring from the position through which our connection was made.
In the 6th grade, I began school in a new town. As a 12 year old boy, having just left behind my childhood friends, I felt like a fish out of water in that new place. One day after school, I decided to head down to the pool for intramural swimming. I recall that this option was never a very popular one… it seemed that basketball and wrestling got the lion’s share of participants. Some weeks it was just me, other weeks there were some others, but all in all it was pretty unstructured. There I met the assistant coach of the high school swim team. Little did I know at that time, but this assistant coach, we’ll call him “valz,†was serving as a spy for the team. Come 8th grade, he encouraged me to join the swim team the following year.
So, the following year, having roped in two friends to join me, I headed over to the pool to see just what the deal was with this swim team. What I ended up a part of was perhaps the single most important thing to take place during my high school years, and to date one of the most important in my life. I can’t recall what the first day was like, but I do remember that I found myself a tad intimidated, surrounded by many swimmers who I felt were far better than me. I hadn’t touched any sort of weights before then, and I was really just your run of the mill scrawny 15 year old.
But I soon realized that I was somewhere special, and for this I have Pete Foley to thank. Foley, at that time, was already a legend in the town. He was not only the swim team coach, but also the athletic director responsible for the oversight of all teams. I recall his office as being filled with trophies, team photos, candids and loads of paperwork; the faces on the walls and desks spoke volumes. During that first year with the team I worked as hard as I had ever in my life.
It’s always difficult to say right off the bat how some people are able to inspire others. With Foley, part of his genius was that although he was always present, in fact a force, he never micromanaged. That is, he was able to channel his efforts so that group cohesion would grow upon itself. And so I went from being a relative loner to a member of this great extended family which was the team. Now don’t get me wrong, there were days when the last thing we wanted to do was even dip a toe in that pool, but somehow “The Folz†kept us going.
My first moment with the Folz was born out of less than fortuitous circumstances. I had completed the backstroke leg of a 200 yd medley relay (order = back, breast, fly, free.) We had done well, a respectable third place. However, after the final member of the medley clocked in, I though it would be in order to hop back in a swim a warm-down lap, after all, this was the standard practice after a sprint. What I failed to realize was that in the case of relays, only the last swimmer was entitled to this lap, and if a member from a previous leg touched the water again then the group was disqualified.
I recall vividly that as I was in the air between the lip of the pool and the surface of the water, I turned to see the Folz looking at me in horror. Of course what followed was an ignominious whistle by the referee (a grumpy one,) followed by the notice that I had just disqualified the relay. But it was what happened next that was really the main event. Foley came over and explained what I had done. He was upset, of course, but he was not vituperative and he did not embarrass me any further than I already was. I knew I had screwed up bad, but I never once felt defensive. Later that evening on the bus ride back to town the team captain came up to me with some encouraging words; again the entire team was “on message.â€
Thankfully, not all Folz moments were born out of such circumstances. There was, for instance, the training trip in Maine. While at a restaurant, he was approached and asked for his autograph. Although Folz was well known and respected, high school swimming coaches are not usually afforded such a request. We soon realized that his would be admirer had mistaken him for John McCain, who at that point was driving his Straight Talk Express around New England… At the end of the school year I wrote into the McCain campaign and requested a poster (can you believe that?) which arrived promptly. After those of us who were present at the original signing signed it ourselves, we presented it to him. He was, of course, quite flattered…
My senior year I was elected one of the team’s captains. Of course, these four years were full of other stories, events and mishaps. Let it suffice to say, though, that the transition from a scrawny 15 year old kid to a confident and trusted team leader was due to the leadership of the Folz. But even more important than my story is the fact that there are a few hundred people out there, from 18 – 50 years old now, who have a similar one thanks to this man. Pete Foley was both a kick in the ass and the inspiration that drove us to be champions. As he enters his long deserved retirement, he can rest assured that his contribution to the team, the town, and hundreds if not thousands of young men and women will never be forgotten.
Thanks Folz,
The first major event I’d like to write about is my parents’ visit to Romania! Upon joining the Peace Corps, I left with the expectation that I would not see them until returning over two years later. Well, given that things in Uzbekistan didn’t work out and I found myself in Romania, the possibility for a visit increased significantly. Luckily they were able to find time to jet all the way over here for a week! All in all, the visit was a success, though not without a few snags; but as far as things go here in the far east of Europe, there were no major disasters. I decided to put my parents up at the Hotel Concordia, the snazzy hotel in town.
Although the service was friendly (by Romanian standards,) and the rooms spacious and clean, there was one particularly odd thing about the hotel, its artwork. You see, someone had gotten the bright idea that they would hire two models, one male and the other female, and take a bunch of shots of the two posing in and around the hotel. The result was a somewhat disturbing mixture of thinly veiled references to sexual acts, sexual organs and physical abuse. This image appeared on the wall behind the bed in the room. As you can see, the Romanian male (fly unzipped and shirtless) is lording over his female as she lays splayed across the spiral staircase….
After this rather awkward discovery, though, we explored the hotel’s sauna which was quite nice. The following day we visited my school, and my folks sat in on a few classes. Looking back, I think this was one of the true highlights of the trip, as my parents finally got to see what it is I actually do here! Luckily on that day I had a class with my 12th graders, my favorite class. Since I worked with them extensively last year and continue to do so this year, we have developed a close relationship. Add to that the fact that they are all very bright and (most of the time) hard working, and the result is a very fun and intellectually stimulating class. We talked that day about Edgar Allan Poe’s Tell Tale Heart, unreliable narrators, and the meaning of madness.
For the rest of that day and the next we spent time enjoying the city of Targu Mures. Unfortunately the weather was rather lousy, but we were able to make the best of it. Some highlights included visiting the local synagogue and speaking with the man there who is in charge of the small and aged Jewish community that remains in the area. He was a gracious host, giving us a small tour of the old building and some materials in English. During the entire time he tried to speak with my parents in multiple languages (German, French, Russian, Hebrew, etc.) but in the end I had to serve a translator – a job for which I was entirely unsuited. Nonetheless it was a sobering and touching moment.
I can not, however, say the same for the local museums. When we entered the first, our local museum of natural history, the handyman had to turn on all of the lights for us. After the lady sold us our tickets, she followed us around the entire place as we looked at the dated exhibits. She exhibited a typical (and highly irritating) Romanian behavior which is to follow one around at a short distance without offering any sort of chit-chat. This behavior can be witnessed in stores and other areas; while following you at a distance of about two meters, the clerk eyes you as if you are going to steal or break something any minute. After we finished our look about, one member of our party had to use the facilities to which she replied that none were available to guests. I had to bite my tongue and give here a sincere “va rog” (the formal form of please,) and she graciously relented… that’s Romanian hospitality for you.
Additionally, during their time here in town, they were able to meet a few local personalities, friends of mine from work and the Peace Corps. I won’t say more other than that this was another of the highlights of the trip. As a tourist, one doesn’t really interact with the locals at a certain level, but as a PCV, I have a certain privileged level of access, and I was glad to share that.
Since my life in my little bloc apartment is far from pretty (it’s not bad, but apartment life doesn’t compare to one and a half wooded acres,) I decided that we should pay a visit to my original host family from the town of Rasnov. So we headed down to Brasov by train. Now, getting from Brasov to Rasnov (which is about 15 minutes outside of the city,) was something that I did multiple times during our training. We would go by one of three means, a local train, a bus, or hitchhiking. Since I was familiar with all of these methods, I figured that surely we would be able to catch either the train or bus. However, upon examination of the train schedule, it appeared that service had been curtailed, and the next train was not for another few hours. We then stood at what used to be the bus station for about a half hour, only to watch 3 busses headed in our direction whiz by with nary a sign of slowing down anywhere in the vicinity.
This led me to the conclusion that the bus station had been moved – again, a familiar occurrence in Romania. This left us with two choices, either taking a taxi and paying through the nose, or doing it like the locals did and hitchin’ a ride. Luckily for us, after about 10 minutes of arm waving a new car pulled over and offered to take us to our destination. Needless to say, my parents were a little shocked (they admitted that they hadn’t hitchhiked since the 60’s) but the ride was uneventful. I was only sorry that were weren’t picked up in an old Dacia, the Communist-era Romanian rust bucket.
Our welcome in Rasnov, was, however, redemptive of any museum experiences. Immediately offered a starter plate of cheeses, meats and tuica (plum brandy,) we dug into a simple yet hearty meal. During this time my parents were able to meet the lady who affectionately called herself my adoptive Romanian mother!
Unfortunately, my adoptive mom’s daughter (I guess that would make her my sister,) was still at work, so we decided to forgo the trek to the ruins of a walled city atop the town hill. This, however, was a grave disappointment to my adoptive Romanian mother, so some phone calls were made, and soon she was home from work early. Now at this point, I have to explain that the road up to the fortress is not in great shape, in fact it is pocked and steep. It is just the kind of road that our Jeep Cherokee never saw for its 6+ year lifespan. However, my adoptive Romanian sister seemed to have no qualms taking her Daewoo Matiz straight to the top. After some absolutely stunning views from the fortress, we were taken to a secluded remote area where bungee jumping is offered in warmer months. On top of that we given a ride all the way back to Brasov! It was a really brilliant example of hospitality.
The following day was to consist of a simple sequence of events. We were to travel from Brasov to the Medieval German town of Sighisoara, sightsee for a few hours, and then catch the minibus back to Targu Mures. Then, with a few hours to spare, we were to head out to the local airport, and catch a quick flight to Budapest where we were to spend the weekend. However, this was not to be. On the road from Sighisoara to Targu Mures there was a horrible accident which backed up traffic for miles. Two trucks had somehow collided (Romanian roads are one way in each direction and thus lots of high speed passing occurs,) and completely blocked the roadway.
Sadly, the driver of the smaller truck had been killed, and I as walked up to the scene of the accident to investigate, saw him lying on the ground. Although this was a great tragedy, people had places to go, and the accident ought to have been cleared within an hour. However, as this is Romania, nothing gets done quite as quickly as one would like. Therefore, it was three hours later that the badly damaged truck was winched out of the way and the road was re-opened. We, of course, missed our flight, and as a result of this and the three hour wait in a cramped minibus, were not in the greatest of moods. This was the low point. But when we stopped to analyze our situation, that is, having missed a budget flight, we realized that it was minor compared to the awful misfortune that awaited the family of the deceased truck driver. Re-gaining our wits, we decided that the only option was to return to Sighisoara and take the overnight train into Budapest.
And we arrived! I believe it was my parents’ first time in a sleeping car. Was it the most comfortable night ever? No. But was it an adventure? Most definitely. Upon arrival in Budapest we taxied it to the Marriott, and I relinquished my role as guide and became a mere tourist! The hotel was fantastic, and our rooms overlooked the Danube and the Buda hills. For this and the next day we saw the sights, visited the Turkish baths, ate at fine restaurants (sushi included!!) and did a little shopping. It was relaxing, if too short lived.
After our final goodbyes Sunday night, my parents returned to the good ole US of A on Monday morning, and I, dear reader, boarded a train headed to Romania. And so the story continues…
Here I sit among the ghosts of livelihoods long lost. In this apartment building, ordinary, everywhere, anywhere, mothers, best friends, bitter ex-lovers. The edifice not far from here is a testament to past; built to last, it stands unused, shrouded in the fog of future’s night. Lonely tugs travel below it, bringing sleeping giants to new grounds. And though the streets thereby are dotted sporadically by festive reminders of the season, the plywood windows and metal shutters tell the true tale. 1880 the building reads, a placard on the side stubbornly states Redevelopment! Rejuvenation! but below that, For Lease. That which once vibrated life into the weathered walls of this and other workshops has left to far reaches of this world with obscure and outlandish names. Obsolete. And so to are gone the residents who once looked out from behind the plywood down to the street below. The street is still there, sure, but only furtive eyes ensconced in locked and alarmed automobiles see it and pray for green lights. And those who do not see the beauty that once was walk it, from the dollar store to the days spot where the cops won’t be. The sad sirens of forlorn firetrucks fill the air… and the fog rolls in.
Tomorrow I am off to a New Years Party at Chris’. If you are reading this and want to come, baring that we know each other, give me a call. That’s gonna kick off a small circuit of travel including family in NJ and friends in CT.
I’m looking forward to the trip specificaly because I just received my new Creative Zen Touch MP3 player… its something I’ve wanted for a while, and with me going away I think something that might just bring me some sanity in a strange place.
That said, I’ve been speaking a little with a recent returned volunteer from Uzbekistan, getting various tips about my own trip. So if anyone wants to donate an old laptop to poor future peace corps volunteer me (or sell me one cheap) please be in touch.
Here is a question: What is a 13 sided polygon called?