Iasi, by gosh

The title only makes sense if you know that Iasi is pronounced "yosh". And now that you do know, read it again and be delighted with the little rhyme.

I did visit the now defunct prison and the area of the ghetto in Warsaw, but it merits more commentary than I can dedicate at this instant.

Forgive the many typos and so on that I expect to accompany this missive as I am typing on another odd style keyboard whilst pestered by gypsy children, trying to filter out what little oxygen is actually left in this nicotine saturated basement Internet café, and thinking, quite frankly, about finding some lunch.

Back in Poland, Iwona and I went to a restaurant at about 4:00PM. We had not eaten since the morning, and had walked a good deal. We were seated and ordered. I was brought a small bowl of soup (so they claimed) that turned out to be a liquid fire. In theory it was called Arab Soup, or something like that, but the only thing it was really good for was removing stubborn lead paint or, as it happened, clearing my congestion. We drank a dark juice and waited for our salmon.

And waited and waited. Others were served. An hour elapsed. Finally, the server brought one salmon plate. He had forgotten the other one. We sent him back and asked him to bring them both at once. Thirty more minutes passed. He brought one more. Only. He had forgotten about the first one this time. We decided to leave. He wanted us to pay for both plates. Not only for what we had drunk up until that point, but pay for plates of food that we had not received.

This, Gentle Reader, is when I discovered, to my chagrin, that Poland is not as liberal or progressive as I had thought. My background and basis for my opinion of Polish men and women is based on having taught Polish women at the university for several years. Most of them are earnest hard working women who are no-nonsense kind of ladies. The men from Poland are, in general, nice and hardowrking guys who at least by appearances respect their wives and mothers. I could not imagine the women putting up with the sort of chauvanistic manner in which servers and even managers speak down to them. Here I was with an MD, who happened to be a woman, and who, also as it happened, wanted her dinner in less than ninety minutes. I mean, other people arrived after us, were served, ate at a leisurely European pace, left, the table filled again, and there we were, munching brick hard rolls and me wiping my nose with the sort of minute non-absorbent psuedo napkins only found in this part of the world.

I did not understand the discussion and when Iwona finally explained it to me, she also added that "they would not speak to a man this way".

Click. So I figured, even if they could not understand me exactly, I might be able to, in my own subdued style, elicit a more reasonable response. And within a few moments, after a nice chat with the boss, we were marching out of the restaurant with apologies and no bill for what we had consumed. I had to remind Iwona that I am always right (as if one needs reminding).

We ate somewhere else and the service was wonderful but the portions so small that I left hungry. I thought about the huge plate of salmon, salad, french fries, and extras on the hubcap sized plates from the previous restaurant and longed for just three minutes alone with that plate of food, no cuttlery required.

So what to do at 5:30PM on a cold dark night in Warsaw? To the mall. So, brave Iwona allowed me to drive her car, and we went to the mall, and to see a movie. The new James Bond film. It was heavenly to escape from all of the normalcy of my humdrum life and watch the action flick. Two thumbs up for silliness and fun.

The next morning I left. Iwona let me drive to the airport, we had tea and waited for my flight. Iwona was off to visit her son in her homwtown (that I can say but cannot spell, though it begins with a B and ends with a ...stock), Her son, Konrad, is fourteen and is a pimp. She tells me that he has two girls and that he worries that, one day, while on a walk with one, the other will appear. Konrad the player.

And her brother is still looking for E.T.

And Iwona asked me not to write about Konrad, so, hopefully she will forgive me. I think it is cute that he is already creating a stable, so they say.

The plane ride to Romania:

The ride was uneventful. I was comfy and seated next to a very tall man who was an interpreter. He spoke Polish, Romanian, Russian, Bulgarian, Czech, and a good amount of English (I could not test him on the others but took him at his word). He spoke with me a lot and, like a lot of people who have few chances to practice a tongue, felt the need to point out the bleeding obvious, just to use the language, I expect. My ears echoed with phrases like "There are many white clouds"; "The woman is bringing the drinks";"The wings are silver"; and my favorite, "We are now on the ground" (we were, in fact). But he was a good egg and he helped kill the time on the flight, though I also had a book to devour. Also, I had been thinking about how smoothly this trip has been going, and how everything has just been falling right into place. As I gazed down at the Carpathian Mountains and thought about the restaurant I would take my dinner when I arrived to Iasi after my connection. As we moved along, more often, my companion, Mihail, would say "More clouds. Yes. White clouds. Like coton."

Too many, as it turned out, and they gave me plenty of time to think about what I could have for dinner. I arrived at the airport in Bucharest to be informed that the connecting flight, a 45 minute hop, was cancelled as the airport in Iasi was closed due to fog. I was a bit anxious as I did not really have time to spare, and according to the (sarcasm alert) attentive and helpful staff at the airline, they would not provide alternative transport, nor meals, nor hotel, nor, in fact, a damn thing other than two to three word forced responses between drags on cigarettes liberally complimented with looks of distain for the very idea that I could imagine they bore any responsibility or obligation (including, I should add, a refund of the ticket price. They told me that I could use it the next time I am in Bucharest, as if I make it a habit to frequent the place).

But fortune sometimes smiles at me, and I met a group of four locals who were in the same tight spot. We all drove (two couples and me) in their car (windows up, heat on, no matter how stuffy it got, in true local fasion) the 45 or so minutes to the train station to board a six hour train to Iasi, due to arrive 23:45.

I had been to this station three years ago, and it was familiar. We had two or three hours before the train, so we all sat in a cafe and ordered what were (in name only) pizza. I watched as one woman covered here pizza in a mountain of sweet ketchup, and thanked goodness that I had ordered a sandwich. I paid for the food as I felt it was well worth the drive. I was surprised but not disappointed that the men did not protest. We gulped that all down and had more.

The train ride was uneventful and the time passed. I read, nodded off, snored I am sure, and when the train arrived, I chose to save the $1.50 cab fare and walk in the cold fresh night air the fifteen or so minutes to the hotel. I checked in, watched a National Geographic episode that explained how sperm meets egg and makes baby, and with that imagery in my mind, drifted of to sleep.

I woke to a cold shower and a busy scene from beneath my balcony. The emptiness of a Sunday at midnight exploded into a vibrant, bustling street scene below. I went out to explore a bit.

One of the things I like best about Romania in the winter time is the amazing hats that the men, mostly the old men, wear. Made in amazing shapes and from an array of furs, they never fail to amaze and amuse. I will try to document some of them for you.

And that is the rather long and not too exciting entry I have for you for now. I am going to find some food and oxygen.

Note: poor nutritional habits have invaded Romania, which is slated to join the European Union in January 2007. There are some very chubby Gypsy kids in this place. When even the beggar children are obsese, a society really has to examine where they have gone wrong.