The beginning of the new millennium meant the

beginning of a new chapter in my life. My ambitions

of becoming a realtor were dissolved by my lack of

impetus and enthusiasm, and my plans to serve in

the military were swayed by the fear that America

would soon be going to war, and by my admitted

cowardice.

Ever mindful of my privilege of being a citizen in

the land of great opportunities, I decided to do some

soul-searching and discover my true destiny. Sure,

we all have dreams and aspirations, but the difficulty

is listening to our hearts, seeing beyond our horizons

and chasing those dreams.

One thing I knew definitely. I was not going

to allow myself to live a mediocre life. Something

within me needed to be revived and stimulated. I was

born to fly, to run free and to explore the world. It was

time to leave home, but my direction wasn’t clear.

I pondered the thought of following the path of my

eight older siblings: move to Texas, and enroll in this

“life-changing school” they enthusiastically talked

about. It sounded good, but I wasn’t sold on it yet.

I knew, however, that my time in Tennessee had

expired and that I was destined for something else,

for some greater purpose. Nearly ten years had flown

by, and I felt trapped in the same stale, sterile environment.

My life was losing color, and I was ready

to break free from the familiarity to which I’d grown

so accustomed. With high school behind me, it was

time to rekindle my passion for travel.

My First Journey
It all began when I was a toddler taking my first

steps, walking alone through the back yard, full

of corn stacks and hay bundles. Mom and Grandma

would look for me anxiously, fearing that I was in the

barn or the pig stall, or worse that I had fallen into the

fish pond or one of the wells Dad had recently dug.

It’s not that Mom was irresponsible or careless. She

just had too many other obligations and tasks that

kept her from constantly keeping her eyes on me.

The older boys were out in the pasture and the girls

were in the fields. Dad was working in the mines, and

Mom was left with Grandma to cook, wash diapers

and care for newborn Danny, Emmanuel and me,

both of us toddlers.

As I grew from a toddler to a young boy I was

dubbed “the curious wanderer” because of my

continued curiosity. Often Mom would call me in

for supper, but I wouldn’t hear her. I was off again,

this time discovering our village, which was about a

kilometer in length. Upon my return, she would say,

“Esurum, my son, where have you been?” Esurum is

a Romanian term used to describe one who constantly

beginning my first year in elementary school. It was

a cold, but beautiful early spring day in March, and

we took a small walking excursion to the mountains

surrounding our village to pick “ghiocei.” Ghiocei,

also known as snow drops, are beautiful, white,

spring flowers, with a delightful scent. They’re the

first flowers to bloom in the spring even before the

snow melts, indicating that at long last, winter is

over.

Every spring in Romania we celebrated two

holidays. The first one, “Martisor (Ladies Day)” is

celebrated the first of March and the other, “Mother’s

Day” the eight of March. It’s typical for boys to give

fresh flowers to their mothers, preferably ghiocei,

and to their girlfriends, martisoare, a talisman object

consisting of a jewel or small decoration like a flower,

an animal, or a heart, tied to a red and white string.

That special day we hiked to the edge of the

mountains where we knew we would find the beauGoodbye

tiful ghiocei. Altogether we were about ten kids, not

including the professor. We each spread out looking

for the beautiful flowers.

After collecting as many as my little tight fist

could hold, I decided to enter the forest and climb

up the mountain to see if I could see what was on

the other side. I always believed that once I reached

the summit there would either be a big black wall

or an endless sea, and I wanted to see it for myself.

So I climbed away, while the other students were

collecting their flowers and making snow balls out of

the slush that remained. I climbed and climbed, but

the top was far away… I was not thinking of the wild

boars, deer, bears, bobcats, or any of the other wild

animals who inhabited the Carpathian Mountains. I

would’ve kept climbing, but I got too tired and cold.

Upon my return, which was at the complete opposite

side of the village, I encountered a few shepherds

clothed in sheepskin and big rubber boots. They lived

in small tents on the outskirts of the village with their

dogs, and took care of the government flocks. One

of the shepherds led me to the schoolyard where the

other kids were running free and playing, while the

professor was still out searching for me. One of my

classmates told me that I was in trouble, but the rest

were too distracted to say anything. I wasn’t gone

for long, but it was certainly enough to enrage the

professor.

Within a short while he returned, but didn’t act

surprised to see me. It was as if he knew that I would

find my way back. With a wry smirk, he ordered me

to step in front of the class and tell everyone where I

had been. “Yay!” I figured, “This is my opportunity

to tell everyone that I saw the end of the forest.”

A few seconds passed and while I was still telling

my story he interrupted, “Can you hold your fingers

together for me?” “Turn them upwards,” he said as

he scanned the classroom with an expression that

cast an air of intimidation on all his students. He

asked that I continue to face the class as he walked

behind me, reached to his desk, and grabbed a long

wooden ruler. He took the ruler and with the sharp

edge began to batter my finger tips until they were

blue and swollen, my fragile nails denting by the

impact of the force. I slightly pulled back, my soft

cry erupting into a loud sob, but he continued. “The

more you pull back, the longer and harder I’m going

to hit,” he threatened.

He was a true communist, soulless and daunting,

and he wanted to make a public spectacle out of me.

He wanted to teach a lesson to the other students.

“I’m going to tell my Daddy,” I shouted as I ran for

the door. He didn’t bother chasing me.

I arrived home but received little consolation

from Mom, and from Dad chastisement for leaving

school. They didn’t want a spoiled child, but this

remember it all like it was yesterday.

Daily life was arduous and travel was not easy.

I always wanted to get away, to

guy had crossed the line. They feared him. We were

peasants, after all, and he was an educated professor

working for the communist government. At that time,

under that regime, anyone in a position of authority

was to be feared and esteemed.

How times have changed… But the wounds,

the trauma, and the oppression I still remember.

made our way to the unofficial bus stop, which was

just in front of the village discotheque. I was seven

years old and strongly dedicated to adventure, while

Danny was barely six, and Emanuel was going on

nine. Danny was the quiet, somber type who tagged

along and never really voiced his opinions. Emanuel

was more analytical and cautious, but he figured this

was a good opportunity to escape our village for the

day.

As soon as the bus arrived, we were there, ready

for our grand opportunity. In those days we had no

worries, nor thought about the potential dangers or

consequences of our travels.

To be gone from home for most of the day was

not at all unusual. Responsibility came at an early

age and everyone had a daily assignment. Oftentimes

the younger children would take the animals to the

pasture to be fed from dusk till dawn, while the older

children worked in the fields, tilling the soil and

harvesting the family or government-owned land. No

matter what the daily chores were, everyone in the

family had to participate.

In the summer we harvested the crops. In autumn

we had to prepare for the winter by chopping wood

in the forest. After spending all day in the woods with

an ax and a few knives, we’d return home, in single

file, beginning with the oldest, who was fifteen, to

the youngest, who was five, each of us carrying a

bundle of firewood proportionate to our size. In the

winter, we had big frozen pumpkins reserved for

feeding the swine. My brothers and I would have the

pleasure of splitting them and removing the seeds

until we could no longer feel our fingers, they were

so icy cold. The seeds were roasted and the pumpkins

were to be food for the swine all winter long.

Every year before Christmas we would identify the

largest hog and Dad would mercilessly slit its throat.

This was the moment I dreaded most. I would go into

the house and with a pillow over my head I would

sing and shout trying hard to drown out the squealing

and screeching that many times drove me to tears.

Even when Mom would cut the head of a duck or a

goose I sometimes cried. I always had a strong heart,

but sensitive nevertheless. My brothers, Danny and

Emmanuel, on the other hand enjoyed the slaughter

of our annual Christmas hog. In fact, Danny couldn’t

wait for the day when Dad would let him do the job.

Once it was over, Emanuel would call for me to help

cover the hog with hay, before Dad would torch

it. Then, the incision, it was gross… the smell and

the entrails made me ill. We weren’t allowed to be

fastidious, we had no choice, as the hog had to last

the entire winter and spring. Therefore, we utilized

everything. The hog’s tongue, ears, and tail, would

be used for making a gelatin dish that I never came

to enjoy. With the stomach, we made a famous tripe

soup, with the legs, a prosciutto, the cleaned intestines

and what remained would be used to make a

variety of sausages which Dad would later smoke

and cure in the attic. Occasionally I would get so

hungry that I would sneak up to the attic, take a bite

of the hanging sausages and blame it on the rats. The

lard of the hog was the most interesting… Some was

fried then frozen and used as bread spread, sprinkled

with paprika, which made for a quick, tasty, and very

unhealthy snack. The rest of the lard was used to make

soap which was used to wash clothing, since we had

no detergent. Village life was active and challenging,

but very dynamic. When there wasn’t anything to be

done at our house, a very infrequent occurrence, we

would help our neighbors. We were a small community.

Therefore, it was common for everyone to care

for one another.

Back to the story I was relating earlier… Danny,

Emanuel, and I left the house this particular day, like

any other day, assuming that Mom and Dad would

never notice. But this day was different. The city of

Ineu was about two hours away and the only other

trip I’d taken prior to this day that I could remember

covered the same route, but was a short few minutes

from our village. Still, my recollection did not quiet

my nerves and unease. I was somewhat scared of the

unknown, but I could not contain my curiosity and

excitement of going to the big city. We managed to

sneak onto the bus unnoticed by mingling in with

other passengers and off we went.

The old bus squeaked and grunted as we drove

away and the ride seemed much bumpier even than

on our horse and cart. We sat all the way in the back,

crammed in a corner trying to conceal our faces from

the angry-looking busman. He was a sloppy and

careless driver, hitting every pot hole on that dusty

dirt road. But nothing mattered more to us than going

to the city. The two hours felt like an eternity until

we arrived at our destination. I remember looking

around and seeing what appeared to be an entirely

different world. Communism did not offer a whole

lot. However, Ineu and its people were completely

different from what I knew. They spoke, dressed

and lived differently. The pace and the lifestyle were

completely different from ours. Businesses, cars,

and buildings more than one story tall were all too

much for me to fathom. People were everywhere,

and selling anything they could. I was overwhelmed

by the hordes of people at the bus station. Vendors

were selling various used wares, street snacks, vegetables

and fruits; one selling sunflower seeds and

another langosh (a fried Romanian pastry). People

were selling anything attainable in this third world

It was an incredible journey for a young boy

coming from a village of eighty people to arrive in

a city of more than 10,000. It was much more than I

could have ever visualized. We were young kids with

no money, no sense of direction, but full of courage,

and we felt ready for anything.

Assuming that everyone knew our sister, we asked

stranger after stranger for directions to her house. We

never expected to encounter so much commotion and

confusion. The only thing we actually knew was that

she ran a langosh and juice shop on the main street,

somewhere near the town square.

I remember being extremely cautious of the

“gypsies.” As we tirelessly walked, trying to navigate

our way toward the town square, we were careful to

keep a great distance from anyone who had even the

slightest appearance of a gypsy.

As I always had a good sense of direction, I led

the way, Emmanuel was next to me, looking out for

the gypsies, and Danny was right behind us muttering

random observations. “There’s one who keeps

looking at us,” Emmanuel pointed, as we approached

an area where old women, who looked like witches,

dressed in long black dresses and black head coverings

were selling sunflower seeds. We entered small

shops, crisscrossed the streets, and did everything

we could to avoid the gypsies that we thought were

following us.

In those days we heard many stories of gypsies

stealing young kids, abusing them, and using them

as beggars or even selling them for a profit. True or

untrue, we didn’t want to take chances.

After wandering for a few hours, we finally found

my sister’s house. Her husband welcomed us with

hot langosh and pineapple juice. I had never even

seen or tasted a pineapple before, but the exotic juice

was savory and refreshing on that scorching hot day.

Later my sister showed up carrying a brown

paper bag. “What a surprise! It’s so nice to see you

here. How did you find us?” she inquired, as she put

the bag down and gave us all hugs.

I wanted to know what was in the bag. Part of me

believed that she knew we were coming and went

out to buy us toys, but those were just the wishful

thoughts of a child. In the bag was a loaf of dark

stale bread and half a dozen eggs, for which she had

waited in line all morning long. It was obvious that

the city was much different than our village.

We told them stories of how we escaped Benesti

and how the gypsies in the city were watching us.

They just laughed and offered us more food. We

spent a few hours admiring their home and stuffing

ourselves with langosh and juice. It was seldom

we got to eat like this. Most times the food ran out

before our appetites were satisfied and we would go

to sleep hungry. This time, with plenty of langosh

before our eyes, we made sure to indulge in all that

they offered.

We asked many bizarre questions about everything

we observed. “Why do you have to wait all

day in line for potatoes? Where does the water go

when it’s flushed down the toilet? How does it get

there?” We were so intrigued by everything and

curious to know as much as we could about all that

we encountered.

Just as they thought they had answered all of

our questions, I asked, “Do you have a television,

does everyone?” I really wanted to see cartoons but I

would have to wait for another time.

Time quickly passed and before we knew it, it

was time to return and take the evening bus back to

the village. I asked my sister if we could take some

langosh and juice for Mom and Dad, so they’ll

forgive us for leaving without permission. It wasn’t

a problem. My sister’s husband accompanied us to

the station, which seemed so much closer than when

we arrived. This time we were able to get on the bus

without any worries.

On the way home we passed towns, communes,

and villages. My imagination soared with thoughts

of escaping to the city forever. As I sat on that bus

looking toward the red sky as the sun was setting,

I couldn’t help but wonder what an alternative life

would be like.

This was my first official trip to the city and little

did I know that this was but a small glimpse of what

would follow in my life. The same breathtaking

experience of arriving to a new city, a new country,

or even a new continent would be repeated over and

over throughout my life.