Part one can be read here.

There are many ways to guarantee one wakes up on the right side of the bed. The smell of roasting lamb smothered in rosemary and butter is at the top of that list. 

Along with eggs dyed red, it’s tradition to eat lamb on Pascha. Andrei’s wife is Catholic, so they eat lamb twice a year. 

Orthodox Pascha falls on a different date than the rest of Christianity because we follow the Julian calendar, established by Julius Caesar in 46 BC. Most other denominations follow the Gregorian calendar, established by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582. 

This is a very simplified explanation which only holds part of the truth, but the rest is found in moon cycles and the spring equinox which I don’t know enough about to write on. 

Back to the lamb. I can write about that.

They butchered it the day before I arrived. The family divided it equally and then set it to marinate in salt, olive oil, rosemary, and a few healthy pinches of pepper for nearly three full days. After resting it at room temperature, it is slid into the oven for four hours.

Andrei looks at me, “You like juice on your meat?”

“As much as you can spare.”

There were no knives on the table. Even if there were, the only use for them would be to pin the hand that tries to steal from your plate to the table.

The salty fat melts over your tongue. A feeling of sheer ecstasy rolls from your head down to your toes. You think about washing it down with a swig of red wine, but then you think better, and wash it down with an even more succulent chunk that fell off the bone into a deep pool of rich, steaming broth.

Meals like these make one loathe the vegan mind. 

We speak of tradition. Or rather, where the tradition has gone. Andrei says his sons don’t know how to butcher a chicken, let alone a lamb. He’s the youngest one in the family that still knows how to do it.

“As a boy, we used to swim in the river that runs through town. Now, the river is too polluted to swim in. As soon as the farmers started spraying their fields with chemicals, all the water sources went bad.”

“What do you boys do for fun now?”

“Video games. They stay in their room all day and play video games.”

I keep silent.

“It’s boring. But when I tell them that, they look at me like I’m crazy and say, ‘Dad, what you did was boring. You had nothing to do!’”

True boredom, the absence of stimulation, is the gateway to imagination

When I used to wait tables, I’d sometimes see tired mother’s pacifying their infants with screens. Now, I’m not a mother (I’m simply not cut out for the job), but I couldn’t help but feel that was terribly wrong. What will that child do at five, or ten, or 50 if there isn’t instant stimulation present to pacify them? 

The answer is: anything.

Like an addict on the street, they will do whatever it takes to get their fix; a cheap and dirty hit of dopamine. That’s a fragile mind. An easily manipulated mind.

“COVID didn’t help. My boys were forced to be online. Even with me. I had a cousin who I would go see every week and if I didn’t go to him, he’d come to me. It was always on Sunday. That went away during COVID. It still hasn’t come back.”

I skewer another chunk of lamb. 

“Dating too. My boys are both in their teens and don’t go on dates! I don’t get it. My wife and I were married by 22.”

“Times are changing.” I mumble as my tongue tries to pry out a hunk lodged uncomfortably somewhere between my molars. “I have friends my age that still haven’t been on more than a handful of dates.”

Andrei shakes his head. “Porn. It’s the porn.”

His wife and boys had left the room at this point so we spoke freely. He’s standing at the open window in the kitchen smoking a slim Winston. 

“Another thing. When I was young, every boy in this town only wore one of two pairs of shoes. There were no other options. Today, my boys always stop me and point out a pair of stranger’s shoes that they like. We never did that. Not with anything.”

Communism never works in the long-run, but this is an advantage that if haves over capitalism. Free markets have more options, and with more options comes more comparisons. As Theodore Roosevelt said:

“Comparison is the thief of joy.” 

“It’s the same with dating.” I say between bites of white bread soaked in the lamb broth. “We can see more attractive women in a day than a king 500 years ago could see in his entire lifetime. Who knows. Maybe my son’s first girlfriend will be an AI chick.”

It was a joke but he’s looking at me with solemn eyes. Sad even. That’s where the morning conversation ended. 

I take a walk and look for a bench in the shade. The babushkas already exercised their right of passage to the best of the benches, so I am left with an uneven concrete slab with no back. 

The conversation with Andrei is not a novel conversation. I’ve had the same one over kitchen tables across the world. Older generations always seem to hold pessimistic views of younger generations. 

It’s strange because I find myself straddling the middle. I grew up in nature, without a phone. I know what it’s like to make a day out of a stick and mound of dirt. I also know what it’s like to spend an entire day on my phone. 

The world seems to be getting harder for parents and children alike. There’s a middle-school by my block in Budapest and I’m often shocked by the expressions the kids carry with them through the streets. Brows should rarely be pinched at that age. I’ve also taken a hard look in the mirror recently and noticed my first signs of wrinkles. Is this normal?

I stretch across the hot block of cement like a lizard. 

So many of these great big problems can’t be solved in one day. They are too overwhelming to solve alone. I have to refocus on what is in my sphere of control: how I act, how I respond, and what I chose to focus on. 

Lately, I haven’t been too convinced I can change anyone. Not that I want to now, but I’ve tried in the past. It never worked. Not well, at least. 

It’s a better use of time to focus on sculpting yourself into the friend, partner, or parent you’d like to have. The best process for that I’ve found is creating with purpose. Creating something aligned with your childhood curiosities. The true ones. Not the ones programmed into you later on. 

“Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?” 

–Charles Bukowski

I think if I can do better, things around me will do better. That seems to make sense. 

The hard part is defining ‘better’. I tried to do that rather unsuccessfully for years prior to accepting Christianity as my doctrine. 

Unsuccessfully isn’t exactly the right word there. Incompletely would be more precise. My definition ‘better’ included bits of the truth, but never submitted to it fully. Like an amateur high-diver seeing just how far down the water is, I was afraid of committing completely. 

Maybe rightly so. The task is not easy.

Mathew 5:48 lays out the Christian ideal of ‘better’: 

“Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.”

So there it is. The definition of ‘better’ that I aim at. Utter humility, integrity, honesty, love, obedience, patience, forgiveness, and a bunch of other things I keep falling terribly short on.

Your definition of ‘better’ could be different. All definitions should be the opposite of anything that promises easy solutions and quick rewards. 

***

My my, I find more and more hints of religion seeping into my writing quite unintentionally. This was supposed to be an essay about a side-quest into Transylvania, a little something to bottle up my memories before they vanish into the abyss, not a piece on ethics and virtue. 

Let’s return to the little town of Aiud. 

***

The cement slab had grown too hot to lay on. I walked back to Andrei’s place and stopped at a rusty pull-up bar. I wanted to see just how much strength was gained after eating lamb for breakfast. Turns out, a lot. 

A babushka stops her walk to watch me. She says something to me but I only catch the word ‘atletism’ which I guess means ‘athletics’'. I pump out a couple more reps to show grandma just how much atletism an American boy juiced on roasted lamb can have. 

Back at the apartment, Andrei is teaching his sons how to play backgammon. 

I must have looked surprised because he laughed.

“Oh, I got tired of talking only about problems this morning! I thought tableh could be a solution that would help decrease screen time while keeping some tradition alive. It will also be a connection the boys can have with their grandpa.”

It’s impossible not to like this family, but I’m finding myself liking them even more. This is a man who won’t submit to the oppressive mob. 

“Speaking of their grandpa, are we going to see him today?”

Andrei smirks. “He’s counting on it…”

When we arrived at the house smaller than the garden, the old man with the rounded belly welcomed us in with a: “Hristos a înviat!” (Christ is risen) and we returned the customary “într-adevăr a înviat” (Indeed He is risen).

With the formalities aside, we once again draw our seats up to the war table. After he fills my tumbler to the rim with white wine, we toast and begin. 

We both roll fives. Roll again. We both roll ones: snake eyes. Again. Six and two. His wins the first play.

Like yesterday, his hands dance across the board like Chopins across the piano keys. But today isn’t yesterday. The rust on my sword is gone. I slice my way through the board and win game one. 

The game is played best out of five. 

30 minutes later we were tied, 2-2. His family stands quietly at the sides of the battlefield, every move with keen eyes. They were surprised at my play.

I never divulged to them how many weeks I spent in Persian cafes honing in this craft. It’s part of my strategy: Lean on the fact that I’m an American and Americans don’t play backgammon.

"All warfare is based on deception."

–Sun Tzu, Art of War

The grandmaster is becoming uneasy. It’s hardly noticeable to the untrained eye, but he’s moving a fraction of a second slower. I push harder.

But the game is still too fast to give it any real consideration. Besides, he would probably hate that. The gates of Valhalla only open to those who die a warrior’s death. 

In a lucky roll of double sixes, I sweep my last pieces off the table. 

We shake hands and drink another glass of wine. There’s not a shred of pity across his weathered face. In fact, when I look close, I notice some of his wrinkles have disappeared. He’s younger now.

Before leaving, he dives into his cobwebbed cellar and comes back up with two big plastic bottles. One full of the golden goodness that I recognize as his wine, the other full of a thicker, purple substance.

He hands them to me. Andrei is translating.

“He says these are your winnings. Two liters of his homemade vin (wine) and one of his plum pálinka (brandy).”

I know better than to refuse mythical elixirs.

“Oh, and he said be careful with the pálinka. That batch was especially strong. Well over 100 proof.”

I don’t know what ‘well over 100 proof’ really means. All I know is good vodka usually stands around 80.

He walks us to the car and looks on from his driveway. I’m a little drunk now and feel sad to leave Anton, my old friend with a rounded belly.

I roll down the window and ask Andrei once more to translate.

“Tell him that we are only tied at this point. He won yesterday, I won today. The next game decides the victor.”

Andrei does as I ask and Anton nods. 

He knows just as well as I that we will never play again. 

***

Even if it’s a Soviet train, trains are better than flying. Sure, there isn’t A/C on these musty boxes of steel, but there also isn’t a seatbelt sign or attendant telling me what I can or can not do. 

The conductor, a middle-aged man with a small rounded head that sits on his wide shoulders like a grape sits on a plate, hardly looks at me or my ticket. The closest we got to interacting was when he sat a couple seats away from me to eat his lunch. He took off the hat that every train conductor wears, looked briefly in my direction, and proceeded to pull egg after egg out of his leather satchel and eat them in single bites. Hard boiled eggs. I counted four, but he could’ve slipped a fifth past me at the rate he was eating. By the way we peeled his eggs while his eyes were trained on the Romanian hills gradually flattening into great Hungarian plains, I could tell this was the lunch he eats every day.

Instead of a girl with braided hair and a book in hand, there are two teenage boys speaking in Hungarian. One monologues for minutes on end while the other tosses in an occasional "mhm" or "yes", much like your mother would add a pinch of salt or pepper into a soup that’s already done.

Andrei and his wife sent me off at the station this morning. She was tearing up as I climbed aboard. As the train started scooting away, I turned and waved just like I always saw in the movies. 

Ten long hours stand between me and my next stop. I finished The Quiet American and a handful of Fitzgerald’s short stories long ago.

I twist and turn trying to find a comfortable angle in the seat. No luck. My phone is out of data too. No music.

I guess the only option now is to be bored. Maybe that would create enough space for my imagination to step in and show me a way to write about this weekend.

That’d be pretty cool.