The Best Invitaion Ever

The rest of the invitation reads: CNN live coverage, Live performances by the US Air Force Band, and up-to-the minute vote coverage. It's to be held at the Grand Ballroom of the Howard Johnson Hotel in downtown Bucharest, a three hour train ride from Craiova.
I am leaving for Bucharest Saturday morning, November 1st, a guest of the 12-day National Theatre Festival. They've offered me a free pass to all the plays, and a free hotel stay. Since I teach Tuesday evenings, 5-7pm, I will take a train to Craiova Tuesday morning, and then return to Bucharest at midnight and take a taxi straight to Ho-Jos.
Of the 12 Fulbrighters I met, it seems as though all but 1 of them are Obama supporters. Even the folks at the embassy seem to be rooting for him, as are all of my students and everyone I've met here. It's funny, for the past seven years when I've traveled overseas I always get the same question: "Every American we meet tells us they did not vote for Bush. Tell me, who did?" I try and explain that Bush voters usually never travel outside of The States, and if they do they don't talk to strangers. A taxi driver in Cluj asked, "Can I be honest with you?" "Of course," I answered. "If McCain is elected," he said, "America is fucked." He sounded out his curse as though he had sucked up some awful tasting phlegm and didn't know where to spit it.
My aunt Rita, one of few Republicans I know, sent out an anti-Obama email this morning, a tirade based on fear and misinformation (she listens to talk radio; go figure). One very telling part of the email was this sentence: "If you don't agree, please, don't tell me. You have nothing to gain."
And there, my friends, is the problem that America faces, and which has been exacerbated in recent years. Americans, like all people, are basically good. Unfortunately, the majority, like everyone else, are also basically lazy. What was once the "United" States, has been brought low by talk radio hosts and politicians, bought corporate mouthpieces posing as friends of the common people, who learned their skills from people like Herman Goering, President of the Nazi Party, who said, "...it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. ... Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the peacemakers for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country.”
The U.S. is a nation divided, and our common enemy is fear, the progenitor of darkness. Like it or not, we now live in a global market, our futures interdependent with every other country. My hope, and the hope of most of the planet, especially the younger generation, is that we are courageous enough to shine a light on darkness, and actively communicate with those with opposing views, so that we might learn to embrace love, not fear. This coming Tuesday, November 4th, 2008, will be a deciding factor in America's, and the world's, history.
"In this
moment
as smooth
as a board,
and fresh,
this hour,
this day
as clean
as an untouched glass
--not a single
spiderweb
from the past--
we touch
the moment
with our fingers,
we cut it
to size,
we direct
its blooming..."
--from Ode to the Present
By Pablo Neruda

International Experimental Theatre Festival

I am now in Cluj, a beautiful college town in Transylvania. The organizers of the fest, Cristian Nedea and Ramona Dumitrean, were kind enough to give me a week-long pass to all the plays and two square meals a day. Here's a link to the site: http://maninfest.uv.ro/festival.html. It's a little hard to navigate, but if you click on the right side flag that says "archive," and click "4th edition," you should be able to see a schedule of shows.
I'm staying with a fellow Fulbrighter, Rachel Renz, an American who's been living in Tuebingen, Germany for the past year, and has been kind enough to let me sleep on her air mattress. She's here researching the preservation of German minority culture in Transylvania. Last night, we saw a 45-minute long play called Hats and Stars and Chicken Pox, presented by the Czech Continuo Theatre, a group that incorporates dance, live music, puppets and text to create a truly remarkable experience. I have never seen anything in The States, other than perhaps some early Richard Foreman plays, that compares. Maybe it's because the performers are all so young and talented and sincere that I felt my heart-door open, and, inspired and filled with hope, wandered out into the night, past the gothic churches, the psychedelic fountains, the smoky coffee houses, feeling connected to everyone and everything, knowing that it's all unfolding perfectly.
PART II: Saw an amazing piece last night called Dancing vs. Rat Experiment by a NYC-based group called WITNESS RELOCATION. The show was done at the National Theatre of Cluj, a fat lady opera house whose make-up covers all her faded beauty, and whose insides are a haunted, broken down penny arcade. Here's a link to the Witness Relocation site: http://www.witnessrelocation.org.

Bela Lugosi's Dead

So I taught my first class at The University of Craiova on Tuesday. Contemporary American and British Theatre. Out of the 37 students signed up, only 8 attended. It’s a continuing problem at Romanian universities, and this year new rules were implemented that require students to attend at least 75% of their classes. I handed out the syllabus, and the students seemed shocked that I will be giving 8 pop quizzes with no chance for make-ups. They told me that students must work outside jobs, and one girl told me that she is also signed up for a math class at the same time our class meets!
In addition the Theatre class, I'll be holding active office hours for students and faculty who want to practice their English, re-sorting and shelving the English/American library, and in the process of developing a discussion forum/movie night at the American Corner; our first meeting is in four days. My Romanian language classes start Monday. I'm waiting to meet the head of the Theatre department here; I've offered to give acting workshops and teach a weekly yoga class (one grad student blushed recently when I mentioned yoga. She said it was “exotic”). And, besides agreeing to teach workshops in Timisoara and Bucharest, I've been asked to give a speech at a "Language, Literature and Cultural Policies" forum here in November.
So last night, I was cooking up these not-so-fine Betty Ice Bonanza frozen green beans with a side of rice, listening to Bauhaus on my laptop, hot water slowly trickling into the humongous, square, 3-foot deep bathtub that takes an hour to fill, and it finally hit me: I'm in Romania! For nine months! And I feel fine...

An amazing nine days

Perfect. That is how I would describe the nine days spent in Timisoara. I am now on a five-hour train back to Craiova, clack-a-clacking through mountains ablaze in fall foliage. And my thoughts drift back to the final show at the National Romanian Playwriting Festival, an almost holy production of Chekov’s Three Sisters, performed by the the National Theatre of Timisoara. Staged at the main Hall of the National Theatre, an ornate proscenium space with red upholstery, gilded box seats, small balconies, and a hand-painted interior dome that reminded me of the Prague Opera House, the temporary stage had been built out over the orchestra seats, so that most of the audience sat on the stage, surrounding the action. The set was simple: Oriental carpets jigsawed the floor, and dozens of tall candles helped illumine a heavy wooden table in the center. The acting and directing were both stunning, and more than once I caught myself holding my breath. It was like the movie Wings of Desire, and we were the ever-watchful angels witnessing the human parade of joy and sorrow, love and loss. In all, I saw 14 plays in Timisoara, and though it was sometimes hard to follow a lot of the action because of my (slowly changing) inability to understand Romanian, the better plays were so visually arresting with such dynamic performances, that the language wasn’t too much of a problem. Quite often, surrealist sets, the use of films (and occasional fireworks), the costumes and sound design overwhelmed the story. And even though some plays were overtly political, dealing with the legacy of communism and the aftermath of the 1989 revolution, more than one Romanian playwright shared with me that this country too often shies away from social or cultural issues. Three nights ago, I had dinner with the director Radul Apostle and the playwright Mihaela Michailov. Mihaela told me that fewer and fewer young people are coming to see live theatre, and I told her that we have the same problem in The States. Here, however, they encourage their youth by allowing free seating to any student showing up for a play, as long as there is space available.
HERE IS A LINK TO THE FESTIVAL'S MEDIA PAGE. COPY AND PASTE IT, AND ONCE YOU ARE ON THE FESTIVAL'S SITE, ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE SCREEN YOU WILL SEE THE NAMES OF SOME OF THE PLAYS. CLICK ON THE TITLE, AND YOU CAN WATCH A BRIEF VIDEO OF THE PLAY: http://www.tntimisoara.com/media.html
Once again, the generosity of the Romanian people cannot be overstated. It seems as though years of limited resources taught Romanian theatre artists how to create using whatever was available. This has also produced a tightly knit, hospitable artistic community. While at the festival, I met actors, directors and playwrights, not only from Romania, but also from France, Germany, Turkey, the Czech Republic, and the U.S. My meals and hotel were paid for, as was my train ride back to Craiova. I have been asked to teach acting workshops at the university in Timisoara, and a screenwriting workshop in Bucharest next spring, and I have been invited to the Experimental Theatre Festival in Cluj (northern Transylvania) October 19-26, and to the National Theatre Festival in Bucharest November 1-12. It all continues unfolding perfectly.

Hello Timisoara!

And so once again, Petru Marginanu worked his magic, made some calls, and set me up with a ten day pass to the Romanian Playwriting Festival in Timisoara, northwestern Romania. Because my classes have not "officially" started in Craiova, and because both the university and the Fulbright commission recognized this as a great opportunity, they gave their blessings and on Saturday morning Petru and his wife Ana picked me up in Craiova and we drove seven hours to Timisoara. As we drove north, the day became cold and dark and wet. The highway was under all sorts of construction, and my hosts chain smoked the whole way, one window always cracked. Outside, the autumn hills looked a lot like West Virginia, and for awhile we drove parallel to the Danube. Across the river, the tall brown hills of Serbia. Along the way, Petru and Ana taught me words and some phrases in Romanian. My favorite curse, and supposedly the most popular here, is "Du-te-n pizda ma-tu," or, "Go back inside your mother!"
We arrived late in Timosara, but even in the dark I could make out the changes. No more communist-era gray bloc buildings, Timosoara is a university city filled with parks, a beautiful river, Gothic churches, a wide open plaza, and progressive, vibrant people. It's fall here, the leaves are yellow and they carpet the sidewalks. The festival has put me up in in a clean hotel, provided me with the ten day pass to all plays and workshops, two meals a day, plus my train ride back to Craiova. Petru's sister Ana, a playwright who splits her time between NYC and Bucharest, has a play premiering this evening. Tomorrow, my new friends will drive back to Bucharest; I will remain here for another week.
Last night, we saw two plays. The first, Hans' Wife or What Would An Angel Look for In This City, was presented at the National Theatre, a beautifully ornate proscenium space. The set, costumes, and staging were bright, surrealist, and imaginative. Because it was performed in Romanian, I could understand very little, but from what I could discern, it was about a guy on his deathbed, traveling back over his life, exploring what he missed the first time around. A two-act play with a cast of 20, it was the only play I've ever seen with a live chicken wandering around onstage. I was given a great seat, right beside Christina Mordreanu, the artistic director for the Romanian National Theatre Festival in Bucharest that takes place November 1-10. So far, everyone in Romania has treated me like royalty; they are all so very kind and gracious. Christina invited me to come to Bucharest as her guest to the festival there, and I am going to try my best to do so. At lunch today, I met a Greek fellow getting his PhD in Cluj, northeast of here in the mountains. He told me about an experimental theatre fest happening there mid-October, and has offered to introduce me to the organizers tonight. And best of all so far, the event here, which would not have been possible without the help of Petru, and the event's organizer, Ciprian Marinescu. The second play we saw last night, Chat, took place on a boat on the river. A long narrow space so filled with cigarette smoke that it seemed like a ritualistic immersion, we sat at tables, separated by an aisle that the three actors used in addition to the end of the space where there was a tiny stage set up. It was a comedy from the town of Iasi, in the far northeastern corner of Romania. Simple props, great physical humor. Afterwards, we all moved to a late night banquet at a club on the river.
Occasionally, if I think about my future, about being so rootless, I get a slight panic, a shortness of breath, and I find myself grasping at anything that resembles permanence. This is my journey, to learn to let go, to trust that the river of life will always continue to flow, and though the scenery and water changes, the river itself will always remain. Sometimes, I am so elated that I want to sing out in the middle of a crowded park. Sometimes, it's all I can do not to put my arm around the shoulder of a stranger sitting beside me. And though I am occasionally so blue that my eyes ache with tears, I have never, ever ceased to be amazed by the exceptional beauty of life, and the indomitable human spirit. I am reborn; everything is new.

Saying Prayers the Old School Way

This morning, while walking across my apartment’s courtyard, I saw a live duck wrapped in a blue plastic bag. She was a pretty duck, soft brown, her head and neck exposed, and she made fearful cooing sounds. Someone had placed the duck in the grass at the foot of a bench. Three feet away, a scrawny black cat with a twisted-bone tail, slunk toward the duck. A weathered old woman with three craggy teeth, a kerchief, a grey dress, swollen feet and broken shoes, stood nearby with a butcher knife. She gestured to us as we passed, Mihai replied briefly, and we walked on. Later, Mihai said that the woman was waiting for someone to come along that had the heart to saw the duck's head off. When I came back from the American Corner of the library, the duck and the woman were gone.

Every day, a new adventure, and every day, something more. Yesterday morning, the buzzer buzzed, I opened the door and in trooped two men and four women in dusty work clothes. The men went to knocking a hole in my wall and installing new wiring so the clothes washer could be plugged in. The women began carting out broken chairs, victims of the hot-headed Italian former Fulbrighter. During the chaos, I excused myself to go to the opening ceremony marking the University’s new school year. As I made to leave, one of the women gestured me over and then launched into elaborate operating instructions, pushing buttons on the washer, opening the soap dish, closing it, making spin gestures with her finger, and so on until finally one of the men stopped her and gestured quite simply: open the door, throw your clothes in, fill the soap container, and push this button.

The ceremony was a somber affair, a mix of Orthodox religion and officials inculcated by communist function. It was held in the Agrinomia, a large building fifteen minutes from here. The men wore black suits, a couple of limos waited outside. Inside, dark wooden panels, red carpet and curtains. Mihai and I sat in the middle of a 300-seat auditorium. The wood panels seemed askew somehow, like wrong puzzle pieces shoved into place by impatient and clumsy hands. My red chair was broken, and I kept sliding toards the floor. We moved down two seats. Mihai explained that often in Romania, the most talented people leave the country for Italy or France or Germany where they can make better wages. “And so only the most patriotic stay?” I asked. Mihai smiled. “Yes,” he replied. “This theatre, and that chair you just left, they were built by the patriots.”

And then yesterday afternoon…Nirvana! I discovered the open air market: carrots, radishes, olives, honey, and fresh leaf lettuce! On my way home, I stopped at the supermarket for feta and balsamic vinegar. Bit by bit, I am digging deeper, and Craiova is giving up her treasures. I’ve been doing yoga in the afternoons on my living room floor, my fat and greasy sofa squatting jealously beside me. I've asked around for a gym or a fitness center; yesterday, one of my colleagues explained that there are a few, but it is mostly women who go there. “And the men?” He shrugged and answered, “We die early.” After an hour of yoga, I ventured out into the main plaza. Surrounded by fountains and rosebushes and hundreds of Craiovians: kids on roller skates, teen lovers smooching on benches, older women walking arm-in-arm, men with black berets standing in groups smiling and nodding...I sat in an outdoor café as the sun set and a beautiful girl with deep set eyes came and I asked for a Romanian beer and she brought a pint bottle called Bergenbier, with Germanic old-world writing, and a speeding, bucking ATV (all terrain vehicle) on its yellow label. Here’s a youtube ad for Bergenbier: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FGodQAS7Urk. One was enough, and I strolled home slowly in cap and jacket, the cool night covering all of us under a blanket of ink and stars.