I’ve had the good fortune of having parents who work for a ‘truly’ international corporation. My father works for a tire company that has needed his expertise in nations that reside in continents other than North America. What has that meant for me? I’ve had multiple opportunities to visit other countries with tour guides that speak English, don’t charge me for room or board, and are in most cases happy to foot the bill to fly me to their location. My parents relocated to Romania for four years, and currently call Mexico home. Most often, whenever I was asked, “where do your parents live?” my response would leave shock on most faces. You might think the follow up question was, “are your parents missionaries?” My standard response: “No they are Mercenaries.” I would then explain that they were not fighting wars or selling weapons, but that they are clearly capitalists, and were for sale to work in countries that were willing to take advantage of low wages and poor working conditions for financial gain (obviously all the while improving the local economy). I always replied with a smile, because secretly I knew that my parents were really there because they were up for the adventure, not unlike myself; they wanted to party with new friends in cool foreign locations. Oh, perhaps there was career advancement in there somewhere for my father…perhaps.
During my first visit to Romania I found a number of things to be true: Vampires were born within the borders of the country, and Romanian is a romantic language that sounds quite French (though I bet you thought it sounded more Russian). The countryside is both stunning and rustic (the concept of peasantry is still very much alive). The capital city, Bucharest, is full of history, both before the Roman Empire and within my own cognisant memory. The city is in a constant state of growth from dawn to dusk, and at some point during the eighties an American animal activist won over city officials with the idea that instead of ‘putting-down’ the overwhelming amount of stray dogs in the city, those dogs should be free to run wild, forming packs packs along the way. The aforementioned factors make Bucharest both noisy and difficult to navigate from time to time.
I have issues with repetitive sounds. AT the top of my list: tapping, whistling, babies crying, hammering, beeping and ringing tones all reach different levels of paralytic sensations within my psyche. I’ve had outbursts in meetings, as well as completely ceasing to complete my point waiting for the tapping pen to rest quietly out of reach of the little drummer boy in control. The construction workers across the street from my parents’ flat quickly became my Kryptonite. How long is the standard work day in Romania? From my experience it is from sun up to sun down. Is there another way to insert a nail like object into planks of wood that doesn’t make a ton of noise? Are these men trying to hammer at different rhythms on purpose, or does it just say something about who he is? The off-beat sounds were accompanied by barking dogs hoping to snatch up food either dropped or dished out near the work area or by wealthy neighbors. Without question this reinforced my drive to see the city sites, have coffee at local cafes, and go for walks in the huge park within the city center. The walks especially have a place in my heart just as do the construction men.
One fine afternoon my mom and I headed out for a peaceful jaunt to the lake in order to enjoy the tranquility so close to the city’s ‘white noise symphony.’ While out we stopped for a beer at a restaurant with a patio that overlooked the lake. We chatted about all the things moms and daughters hash out; particularly when the two live on different continents. The sun was unrelenting that afternoon as we made our way back to the house. We worked on sorting out what delicious goods we were going to make for dinner, all the while making our way down a side street back to the house. A pack of large, mangy, homeless dogs were circling around the driveway of a neighbor who quite regularly, to the dislike of his entire neighborhood, fed these feral animals. Perhaps our lack of fear was from the beer, fatigue from our walk, our wanting not to be late, or even the estranged thought process that, as humans, we are at the top of the intelligence/food chain. Whatever the cause for our actions, the result was the same. We continued down our path, and as we closed in on the dogs my mom drew closer to me and began to provide two very clear instructions: 1. Do not make eye contact. 2. Do not run. Locked arm in arm we marched toward our enemy. With four dogs visible we were confident we could pass through with little trouble. But much like a flank attack, so often used in older tactics of warfare, dogs were continuously coming out from behind a wall. Five, six, seven, eight they circled us and barked to let us know we had been had, and quite aggressively I might add! Ambushed! Following the instructions given, I tried to keep mom moving slowly forward, but she lost her cool at K9 seven. Her index finger came out like that of any good mom when disciplining small children. She began to parcel out orders to each of the victors, not aware that her rank on the chain had just dropped, or that we were clearly out numbered. Her voice went from firm to scared and then to shouting, but the finger was out there to be chomped. Did I mention that she was also trying to stare down each of these dog (each of whom would never make it to Madison Square Garden’s best in show)? We could hardly take a step forward. My heart was racing and I joined in the shrieking for help. In the kindest of gestures, finally my mom instructed me to run and save myself. I didn’t want to leave her behind. We’ve already addressed my selfishness, but leave my mom behind? I don’t think so. The fiasco we were creating, both the four legged and two legged, grabbed the attention of even the noisy construction workers I had hours earlier damned.
The energy built to the point of breaking. Mom pushed me forward and with that shove came a final wish, “SAVE YOURSELF!” I was off at a dead sprint toward the construction men. With me followed a good three dogs, but I slowed and turned because I couldn’t believe what I had done. My flight reaction had kicked in. However, we were not the only ones who noticed the climax of the standoff. The construction workers also recognized that the moment was about to turn nasty. The men came running toward us; their yelling and the smashing of shovels on the street causing enough distraction for me to reposition my arms around my mom and pull her out of the circle with me. The men continued to run after the dogs until we were safely on the steps of our building. We stood there arm in arm for a minute or two before finding the composure to enter. My heart was jumping out of my chest for the next hour it seemed, and when recounting the story for my father I’m certain my blood pressure raised a few points. The three of us do laugh about the story now, but at the time it was traumatic, so much that my father walked a case of beer down the construction men as a thank you for saving the women of his family.
Hammer away boys, hammer away. You’re okay in my book…provided I am surrounded by mangy dogs (so close).