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.