A Different Kind of Heaven

A day before I left Craiova, I was sitting at my desk, working on grades, when someone buzzed up from downstairs. I answered, and a voice mumbled something in Romanian. I thought maybe it was the older woman who worked for the apartment building and would sometimes ring up and then sort of snoop around, looking at leaking pipes, peeling paint, the broken sofa or whatever, and so, because I hadn't seen her in awhile, I buzzed her in. Then came a knock on my door. When I opened it, there stood 8 of my 12 acting students, the English majors who had come to me in February and asked if I would be willing to teach them off campus two evenings a week. They nearly knocked me over with their boisterous, “Surprise!”

And what a surprise it was! Some of them had brought cameras to class during the last week, and we had all gone out for dinner after the last class, and now here they were with a scrapbook they’d made for me, and beneath each image, personal notes expressing deep gratitude and friendship. Thank you, my dear friends. I will keep this notebook and the memories with me forever.

I’m now in Mamaia, on the Black Sea coast, just north of Constanta. After I left Craiova I traveled through Turkey for two weeks: Istanbul (where I got a new tattoo), Cappadocia, Izmir, Selcuk, Ephesus, Pammaluke, Bodrum, Oren, and again to Istanbul. I was amazed at the history and hospitality, delighted by the food, soothed by the Turkish civility. Someday, I would love to go back and spend a much longer time there.

But this is a blog about Romania, and so after leaving Istanbul I flew back to Bucharest, and went out in the evening with my ex-students from the National Theatre. Back in April, Mihaela Sirbu, who teaches at the National University of Theatre and Film in Bucharest, asked if I was interested in teaching a three-day rasaboxes workshop. I did, and it was a phenomenal success. The very best of the best attended: courageous, imaginative, and emotionally available, the actors and actresses gave their all, and, because of the demanding nature of the work, we quickly became a family. Mihaela asked if I would be willing to come back in May and teach a longer Practical Aesthetics workshop, and so I did, an exhausting four day, 5-hour-a-day intensive. And so seeing everybody again after coming back from Turkey, it felt a bit like coming home.

From Bucharest, I rode a bus to the Danube Delta, the area in northeast Romania that borders the Ukraine, where the Danube River empties into the Black Sea. I spent the night in the riverfront town of Tulcea, and then hopped a boat and rode four and a half hours, past forests, hills, and finally sawgrass that looked very much like The Everglades, to the village of Sfantu Gheorghe (St. George). I checked into a little pension whose gardens overflowed with roses, then hiked a mile east of town, past brightly colored reed and mud houses, to the beach. The water, brown and brackish, was warmer than I'd expected, and I swam out far away from the buzzing horseflies that had swarmed me on my walk. Later that night, I dined on locally caught fish, then strolled the dirt roads, listening to a symphony of frogs, detouring around wandering cows, all beneath a canopy of stars.

Now as my last days here wind down, I not only become more homesick, but I already begin to miss everything I am about to leave. This morning, walking along the beach, I found myself thinking of the places and people I love in America; of road trips through rural Florida, snacking on boiled peanuts, the smell of orange blossoms, and of summer rains that seem like they’ll go on forever. I thought of friends and family in places like Tampa, San Francisco, Austin, New York, Atlanta, of memories that hold us together, and of adventures we’ve yet to have. And I thought of what I’m leaving here, a different kind of heaven, one that continues to unfold with every passing day.

Last semester, I ended the American Corner Film night in Craiova by showing Into the Wild, a movie beautifully directed by Sean Penn that retells the journey of young Christopher McCandless, who discovered too late that life is best when shared with others. And as I think now of the new friendships I’ve made here, I know that some, like Florida rain, will go on what seems like forever; and that others, begun like lightning strikes, will leave only smoldering scars.

I head back to Bucharest tomorrow, and will say my goodbyes to my friends at the Fulbright office on Monday. I will also see my dear friends Petru and Ana, who launched me on this amazing voyage when I first arrived in Romania. And then on Tuesday, I leave, arriving back in Tampa at midnight, staying with my brother Horst or my great friend Steve Powell for three days, sushi and boba and Bayshore, then flying to San Francisco where I’ll eat crab legs with Marcy, drink tea with Mr. Lee, watch movies, stuff myself with popcorn, and shop for a new tattoo to even out the old TULSA one and the unbalance left by the very large new Turkish moon and star. Then it’s back to Tampa to try and find a car and new apartment, and then upstate New York, where I’ll be acting in a play at Chenango River Theatre, run by my old friend Bill Lelbach.

A few years ago, my mother asked me if I believed in heaven, and I told her that it really doesn’t matter, that for me everything here is enough. After New York, on August 10th, I’ll return to Tampa and to USF, reconnecting with friends, sharing what I’ve learned, and building new unimagined bridges. And though the roller coaster life sometimes brings with it lows as well as highs, if there is a luckier man alive, I have not met him. I thank you all, my dear friends in the states, and new friends in Romania, for being part of this amazing journey.

Opening and Closing

I was talking with my student Georgiana Popa after one of the acting classes in Craiova, and she asked if I’d ever been to a Romanian monastery. I told her that I had not, but that I would love to go. The next day, she emailed me and asked if I would like to meet some friends of hers, Marcel Radut-Seliste and his wife Diana. Marcel teaches theology at the University of Craiova, and is about to become a priest. In the Orthodox church, priests are allowed to be married. Nuns marry Jesus, and that’s the way it is.

Georgiana and I rode a tram to Marcel’s apartment. Marcel and Diana were gracious hosts, serving drinks and desserts, and for nearly three hours, Marcel and I talked about God in all its various guises. I told Marcel about my life, explained my beliefs, and he seemed not to have a problem with our differences. Marcel told me more about Tismana monastery, a five hour drive north of Craiova. He said that maybe we could drive up and spend a weekend there. I told him that sounded great.

A few days later, Marcel emailed and asked if I would ride to the monastery with him, Diana, and a priest from their parish. He also asked if I would speak to 100 teenagers about spreading Christ’s message through acts of volunteering. I replied that I’m really not much of an expert on Christ’s message, and reminded him that I do not believe that religion is necessary to know God. He replied that his beliefs and mine are not so dissimilar, it’s just that he has embraced a clearly marked path that works best for him.

A recent report stated that 50% of all Americans change their religion at least once. One of my students asked why that is, and it wasn’t until a debate in my speaking class over Religion in Schools that I understood why. According to the 2002 census, 86.7 percent of Romanians identify themselves as Orthodox. My students explained that their Religion classes, in public schools and at many universities, are taught by Orthodox priests, who inculcate students in the ways of Orthodoxy. My experience with schools in the US has been a bit more varied: there, courses in religion typically offer an overview of many faiths. And though lack of options might lead to a more homogenous society, might it not also offer a sense of community and shared experience?

Dressed in a black cassock, his blue eyes peering out from his soft brown beard, Father Claudiu Porneala ate salsa chips and blasted the Dacia’s horn. We sped past startled drivers and livestock, and listened to modern pop songs on the radio. Claudiu’s wife Ramona sat in the back with Marcel and Diana. I sat up front and drank a coke to try and settle my stomach. The topic of the day, church business, heated up the car and enhanced the wild ride. We’d loaded up on junk food, and I felt like my teeth were crumbling.

Tismana monastery is the oldest in Romania, dating back to 1375. The surrounding forested hills reminded me of West Virginia. We arrived in the late afternoon, and checked into a hotel owned by the monastery. Two busloads of polite, somewhat shy teenagers crowded the front entrance. I was given a simple, tidy 3rd floor room, no phone or TV, which opened out to a peaceful balcony. An intense priest named Gabriel asked if I wanted to go for a walk, and we headed for a narrow wooded road that led up from the valley’s stream.

The conversation soon turned to God. Gabriel looks a bit like Michael Keaton. He plays it tough, but beneath the stern demeanor is a little boy wanting to play. Filling me in on church history, Gabriel referred to “Lord Tepes” (Dracula), and lauded his iron fist rule. I questioned how he was able to praise a warring, mass murderer, wondering about Jesus’ commandment to love. “Sometimes,” said Gabriel, “we must make sacrifices for the common good.” I couldn’t be sure, but it did not seem that he was joking.

Walking back to the hotel, Gabriel asked if I wished to be baptized into the Orthodox church. I said that I’d think about it. He told me that my christened name would be Cristi, and that I was welcome to join them. It was Friday, and the next day was the big one, a day of workshops and speeches. Before dinner, a bishop arrived with an old blind monk. I was instructed to remove my hat and bow before the bishop, and to kiss his hand if he offered it. Caught up in the in the moment, but feeling a bit disingenuous, I did as I was told, and when I stood and looked at him, I was taken aback by the warmth, love and goodness that seemed to radiate from the bishop's eyes.

A communal dinner, a restful sleep, a meaty-cheesy breakfast, a morning of workshops, and after lunch I found myself sitting at a table, listening to an Italian guest speak into a microphone, translated into Romanian, about the importance of volunteering. I looked at the notes I’d made while sitting on my balcony, an outline of my life’s trajectory: the selfish, destructive 20s, being stabbed to death at 31, waking from a coma with only one vocal chord, and sincerely praying for guidance and offering my life to God. When it came time, I offered the mic to my translator, Georgiana, and stepped out from behind the table and spoke to the teenagers directly.

Referring to my journey and my prayers, I told them about volunteering in San Francisco, and, because of a lawsuit surrounding the stabbing, being in a position to help my friends and family financially. I talked about Big Brothers/Big Sisters in Austin, Texas, and about how writer’s block led me back to acting classes which led me to a couple of film roles which led back to teaching at USF. And how a chance meeting with Daniel Akau in Tampa led me to Africa which led to the founding, with Mason Wiley, of birasudan, and how teaching at the University of South Florida led me to apply for a Fulbright which led me to Craiova which led me to Tismana and to Marcel, and to this very present moment.

In closing, I told them that for me, there was no burning bush, no sea parting, no flaming chariot or giant finger pointing down from the sky, but that in retrospect, I have learned that with a clear mind, a ready body, and a sincere heart, one can be guided to do the work one is here for, even if it’s an unplanned, unsettling, startling surprise.

Afterwards, one of the teenagers came to me in tears. She’d been hit by a bus a few years before, and had died on the operating table. She said that she hadn’t met anyone else who had died and come back, and begged me to tell her what I remembered. I told her some of what I could recall, and held back some of the more personal bits. She had been instructed by her family and her priest not to share what she remembered, for fear of being thought a liar. Clearly, it upset her, and was a relief to finally find someone that she could talk with.

At the end of the weekend, after much talk of God and church doctrine, I declined Gabriel’s offer of baptism, stating that, though I long for a sense of community, I am not ready to change my beliefs or values in order to achieve that. The priests all seemed to understand. The ride home was much slower and relaxed. We stopped and ate ice cream at a sidewalk café. I didn’t talk a whole lot. I felt like I had nothing left to say.

Here

Spring is here, and all over Europe, the sun is shining and every living thing rejoices. I finished writing the first draft of the new screenplay, Snow Blossoms, and have now come to The Premio Europa Theatre Festival in Wroclaw, Poland, an awards festival with some of the top directors in Europe presenting their work. This year, there's a focus on Polish director Jerzy Grotowski; it's the centennial of his birth. Last night was an eight hour production from Polish director Krystian Lupa, based on Andy Warhol's factory people called Factory 2. I wanted so much to enjoy it, but it was a beautiful afternoon/evening and I lasted only two and a half hours and split during the first intermission. Maybe I missed something, but for some reason Lupa's "Factory People" din't ever seem to actually do any work, but merely sat around posturing, zonked out of their minds, self-absorbed, seemingly breaking boundaries for the sake of looking "different." What about methamphetamine? Perhaps it's time this production gives Sister Ray another listen.

The previous night, the Romanian gang, nine of us, arrived late and the two scheduled shows were sold out, so they got us into a local production of Macbeth, performed by Song Of The Goat Theatre. Held in a space that resembled a church alb, often lit by candles, seven actors from Poland, England, Finland, Scotland and Wales, wearing aikido hakimas and weilding wooden bokken swords, took their places in darkness and remained onstage during the entire 80 minute show. A mix of Michael Chekov, Grotowski, Aikido and Viewpoints, it was, in short, phenomenal. I am a guest of the festival, along with gazillions of international journalists, directors, actors and writers. I'll be writing a piece for a Romanian online magazine, www.artact.ro. My friend in Bucharest, the hard-working and brilliant Ioana Moldovan, put me in touch with the festival organizers a couple of months back, and I've been put up in a swell hotel and given a pass to the week's events.

It's so very strange being in Wroclaw. My father was born and raised here, before the war when it was still called Breslau, Germany. Leaving the Warhol show, I walked across town, standing and gawking at churches whose photographs hung on my family's walls when I was a kid. And today, I found the Glamsch apartment building. My father was jujitsu champion of Selesia, had an underground Louie Armstrong collection, and so, in order to escape having to join the SS when he turned 18, he enlisted with the German Navy and was in the process of having his ship bombed when the Russians invaded Breslau. My grandparents hid their valuables in a windowsill, grabbed my 13 year old Aunt Rita, and ran out into the street with their neighbors as Russian planes flew overhead, bombing and strafing.

Tonight, two shows: Killing to Eat by Rodrigo Garcia, and The Presidents, by Werner Schab. Last night, on the outskirts of the city center, I wandered into a fair's midway. Tumultuous rides evoked screams of joy and terror, and celebrants wandered past games of chance eating cotton candy; they used bumper cars to smash into each other, and tested their strength by punching things. I was hoping for strange hybrid creatures along the lines of Spidora or the Gorilla Girl. When my brother Horst and I were kids, we went to a little carnival down the block one night and there was a freak show. One of the freaks was called Bobo The Rubber Man, and there was a painting on the outside of the tent of a man tied up with his own limbs like a pretzel. Though we were never allowed to see the freak show as kids, I'm certain that it would have been miles away more freaky than last night's Warhol show, where actresses played transvestites and a testosterone-fueled actor playing Ondine at one point tossed furniture around like a drunken Polish boxer. "A Warhol fantasy?" Maybe. But my Factory fantasy involves breakable flowers and whips.

"Oh someday I know someone will look into my eyes and say, Hello-- you're my very special one. But if you close the door, I'll never have to see the day again."
--Lou Reed, 1969

With the Lights Out It's Less Dangerous, Here We Are Now Entertain Us

I have a photo of Mt. Kilimanjaro as my screen saver. Red and black caviar waits in my fridge. On my chest is the imprint of a man’s fist from the hardest punch I’ve ever taken and remembered. This morning, after four cups of coffee, I wrote dialog for the new screenplay that made me weep. Later, while sitting outside the National Theatre of Craiova, I watched an old Gypsy man with a wide-brimmed hat lumber across the stone plaza, trailed by a seven or eight year-old boy, who watched the teenage rollerbladers as if they were Death Angels from Another Planet. Days, I listen to Leonard Cohen; his music makes sense to me now. Tonight, on my way home from dinner, I gave a bite of leftover chicken to one of my neighborhood street dogs, a red one I call Rosii (Roshee) who licks my hand but will not let me pet her. Chitsu (Keetsu), the doggie in the window, was the neighborhood alpha dog whose trust I earned with pocketfuls of snacks. He used to guard Rosii, but seems now to have disappeared. Late tonight, I read about a new electric car that goes 300 miles on one charge. In Indonesia, a mini-tidal wave drowns at least 58 people. And an online Yahoo headline reads: "Judges' strange flirting; Ryan asks Simon and Paula why they can't keep their hands off each other during the show." Spring flirts with old and new wounds. Winds blow, birds chirp. The scars itch, ready for change.

What’s Wrong With This Picture?

I’ve been dreaming of dead people. People I’ve loved and lost. My father, a friend who drowned, another who died too young in a car wreck, a punk rock enchantress who one day developed throat cancer, dear ol’ Bill Sugrue…

Last night, I went to see the Filarmonica “Oltenia” Craiova perform five songs by the rock band Queen. Ms. Otilia B knows the third bassist of the symphony, and he met us outside during intermission and escorted us in. We found a couple of unoccupied seats while the symphony tuned up, and then the lights dimmed, the chorus emerged, and the guest conductor, Horst-Hans Backer, stepped onto his perch and eased the assembled into One Vision, The Show Must Go On, and a rapturous Who Wants to Live Forever. And though the music was heavenly during Bohemian Rhapsody, the chorus seemed hesitant, like they were afraid they might blow it. We Are the Champions, however, brought the house down; one of the women of the chorus belted it out so proudly it was like she was at high-octane political rally. The crowd rose to its feet, the conductor came back for an encore, and they launched into Champions again.

Some of my students, all English majors, have asked me to teach an acting class. And so Friday afternoon, ten courageous souls met me upstairs in the English Lectorate. It was mostly a How Do You Do session, but we’ve decided to meet twice a week, Monday and Wednesday evenings. One of the students is a volleyball champ and she is going to see if she can find us a gym for our classes. And this afternoon, I met Adriana Teodorescu, a local puppet theatre artist, and she is also going to try and find us a place. Almost none of the students have any theatre experience, but they all seem like the adventurous type, and I think it’s going to be great.

In fact, all of my students this semester seem especially enthusiastic. Maybe it’s because they’re undergraduates and have not yet been made cynical by overworked teachers who no longer seem to care. Maybe it’s because spring is approaching. Or maybe it’s just that they like the classes. Some students asked me to teach yoga a couple of nights a week, and others have shown interest in a nascent Wing Chun Kung Fu class that Tibi Neacsu started this afternoon. I, and Tibi’s brother Marius, are his first students. Tonight my forearms feel like some sort of undersea creatures.

Thursday night at the American Corner Film Night was the best turnout yet. About 35 people showed up to watch Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. Film Night is held in the brick basement of the Tradem Cultural Center, and the movies are projected onto a portable screen. The room was packed, and as the movie played, black and white and still a bit grainy even though it’s on DVD, it felt like we were hiding out in a bomb shelter somewhere, trying to take our minds off the war outside.

But there is, of course, no war outside. It’s only inside, where no one can see it. Thanks to great students, rocking symphonies, martial arts and movies and yoga and theatre and snarling dogs, new music, endless coffee and the promise of spring, I’m able to enjoy a new found peace, even when ghosts come rattling their chains, even then, I sink deep into my soft red flannel sheets (thanks, Marse!) and smile at these miracles, these wonders, this beautiful dream.

PS: What is wrong with this picture? The clock is one of 7 Wonders of Caracal, a nowhere little town about 35 miles east of Craiova. Check out 4pm.

View From My Kitchen Window

Last night, I went to see La Traviata at our local opera house. This was only my second opera, and seemed very similar to the production of Aida which I saw at the Prague Opera House in 2000. Both were classical productions, set during the 18th century, with flowery sets (this one having cupids and angels painted onto an upstage scrim) and lavish costumes. And both achieved the same effect: I felt like I was watching a story unfold behind a wall of glass, in which a book opens and cutout characters float above the pages for awhile, gesturing, singing, and then the book closes, and the curtain drops.
Outside, walking home through a heavy wintry mix, an avalanche of snow fell from atop a four-storied building, booming onto the sidewalk ahead of me. Walking into my apartment courtyard, I stopped and listened to the quiet. Tree branches, their undersides like ink lines drawn against the gray sky, were slathered atop with snow. Even the laundry lines were thickly coated. The once-green benches looked like soft white cushions, circled round the lamppost, and the light from the lamp somehow burned more brightly than ever, like a lighthouse overpowering nasty weather, singing out its rescue to anyone lost enough to need it.
The street dogs were quiet all night, gone to wherever they go during such weather. I slept long and hard, and dreamed of a scene from the screenplay I'm writing: late at night, a teenage girl lies on her back in the middle of an ice rink. Trapped by circumstances beyond her control, she describes by telephone to her distant boyfriend what it's like to skate on a cloudless sunny day, that feeling you get as you glide and spin, and the sky seems to go on forever...

Back in the Saddle

I've just returned from a week in Florida visiting family and friends, and five days on the Nicaraguan Pacific coast with the preeminent Lee Warren, bodysurfing, eating seafood, hammock reading, and windy beach strolling. On my return trip to Craiova, I flew from Tampa to Washington, D.C. to Munich, and Munich to Bucharest. It was snowing in Bucharest on Monday, and I caught a taxi to the train station and bought a ticket for the three hour ride to Craiova. I had not slept in 24 hours; riding the train I kept nodding off, but the seats were designed such that each time I fell asleep my head dropped forward and I awakened to curious stares. My fellow passengers must've thought I was a junkie or a narcoleptic. As I departed, I shook the hand of the man sitting across from me. It was one of those moments where you just want to embrace everybody. I think I missed Romania.

I'd given my final exam January 20th. Grades here are not A thru F, but rather 10 thur 1, 10 being highest, everything under 5 failing. It seems the university here stresses faculty independence: I never received a class roster all semester, and still have not received an academic calendar. And so I really did not know exactly how many students I had until the end of the semester when it came time to fill out a grade sheet. Of the 36 students registered, I only met 30. Of those, 28 passed the class, most with good grades.

I met my new students Tuesday. Or at least some of them. I'd not heard from anyone at the university about when my classes were to be held, and finally Monday night one of my colleagues responded and asked if I could meet her in the faculty office Tuesday at 11am. Seems that it's the teacher's responsibility to look through a notebook there and figure out when and where classes will be held. I met with Mihaela in the office, looked through the notebook, and discovered that I am teaching four classes this semester, two Speaking and two Writing classes for English undergrad majors, about 40 students per class. The way it's been described to me, the Speaking classes are just that: urging the students to converse in English about any subject, speaking in English to them, and correcting faulty grammar. I'm all like, "Was up, y'all?" Not really. It should be fun. I'll bring in poetry, short stories, plays and newspaper clippings for discussion. The Writing class is also free-style, and I've decided to go with Screenwriting, since that's what I'm now focusing on outside of the university. My classes are jammed together Mondays and Tuesdays, starting at 8am, which means I will have long weekends to travel. I plan on giving acting workshops in Bucharest, and may do a reading of Mercury Fur or another play there. It also means, since I did not find out about my classes until Tuesday at 11am, that I'd missed three of my four classes. However, the class I did teach was great. Most of the students showed up, and they seem really excited.

The picture above is the Craiova plaza ice skating rink which was taken down just before I left. Everyone told me that the worst of winter was over, and I packed a bunch of winter clothes back to Florida intending to leave them there, but checked the weather before returning, and evidently, winter has come back with a vengence. It's snowing outside, and is supposed to continue all week. The street dogs woke me up around 4am, I tried to get back to sleep but figured maybe they woke me so I could start writing. It's good to be back.

La Multi Ani!

For New Year's Eve, I joined Oana, Aida, and five of their friends at the Estate bar. We each paid 125 lei (around $40), for which we received a couple of reserved tables, trays of snacks, bottles of whiskey, vodka and mixers, and champagne at midnight. Like most clubs/bars in Romania, Estate is located down a steep staircase and has thick brick walls and low arched ceilings. Pop music, mostly Romanian, played. Everyone was in fine spirit, dancing, singing, laughing. The camaraderie here is palpable: never have I sensed the sort of competitiveness or animosity among men that you get in The States. At midnight, we flowed upstairs and out into the street, where some guys were setting off firecrackers and fountains. Overhead, the big show started, explosions that rattled windows. We toasted "La Multi Ani!" and then everyone smashed their champagne glasses.
I need to correct myself on something I wrote in an earlier post: there are definitely people here who know of independent/underground music. Like anywhere else, the majority listen to the worst stuff available, but dig deeper and you find fans of really good music, the stuff that's not made by corporations strictly for money. Recently, I've discovered Maria Tanase, a Romanian folk singer who recorded mostly in the 1940s. She pours her soul into it, a Romanian Billie Holiday. Her voice digs into my bones, and I cannot shake it loose. Outside, big flakes are coming down, goose down, dreaming its way to earth. La multi ani.