The Art of Tuning Out.

Happy Labor Day, kittens! Did you know Labor Day was created in 1882 to celebrate the working class? That means you and me, I’m pretty sure. Thanks, federal government and the Labor Movement, for giving us another chance to get our drunk camping/floating/marauding done before summer ends. I hope you all took advantage of the long weekend. I mean, I hope you got a long weekend. I worked Saturday, so my weekend was normal-sized. Also I spent 75% of it sleeping. Remember how last week it was finally summer? I think we've officially slipped into fall.

I’ve entered an intense isolation phase. I’m attributing my recent anti-social inclinations to a handful of sources. First of all, my job is fucking socially exhausting. When we’re busy, I socialize with clients. The ol’ smile-and-nod gets wearing by the ninth hour of the business day. [Note: pet owners are particularly candid about sharing their stories and experiences. I would be much wealthier if I got a dollar every time I heard a detailed recounting of a dog’s bowel movements.]

On the other hand, when we’re not busy I have my co-workers to contend with. You guys. I work with some serious talkers. Perfunctory nodding and ambiguous grunting only gets you so far with them. They’re relentless. For example, most mornings I eat breakfast and read in the breakroom before my shift. Apparently a mouthful of oatmeal plus an open book in my hand screams “Talk to me about your recent colonoscopy, please”… Who knew?

So there’s that, being over-socialized 45 hours a week. I’ve started sitting in my car during lunch for an hour of quiet. Reason number two for my hermitage: my recent bout with death. Ok, that’s an exaggeration. But I don’t think I’ve fully recovered from last Sunday. I’m just tired lately. Sore eyes, heavy limbs, achy body tired. My nose keeps threatening to be stuffy without fully committing, my appetite has been shaky and I can’t seem to stay awake more than three hours at a time. I recently joked about being struck down by some horrendous disease as retribution for turning down my company’s insurance. Apparently that’s not something you joke about.

Regardless of the reasons, I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time alone in my bedroom. Therefore, the highlight of my Labor Day weekend: the Romanian Fall Festival. Tuesday, after Dance Moms, Friend mentioned this potentially momentous occasion. There were rumors of an entire roast pig, homemade alcohols and general merriment. Obviously all things I’m deeply invested in. Friend, Lil’ Friend and I decided to attend Sunday afternoon. I spent the rest of the week imagining a heaping plateful of roasted meat.

We opted to miss the singing of the Romanian national anthem, and rolled up to the church on 135^th and Stark around 4pm. Cue music. 

Me: Is that Celine Dion playing?

Friend: I think so. Is she Romanian?

Me: Worse. Canadian.

First of all, Portland has a huge Romanian population. There was no parking in a three block radius. Second, I realized right away I have no concept of this “Romania”, or what exactly the culture entails. Additionally, the “whole roast pig” was a bit of an exaggeration.

Expectation

Reality

Apparently polenta (AKA reconstituted corn meal) is a thing, and Romanian people eat it. Since there was no roast pig, and the available meats were expensive, I opted for the “Romanian stew”. I’m not entirely sure what was in said stew… definitely some sort of shredded animal and possibly mushrooms. They served it with mashed polenta and sour cream, and I chased it with a $5 glass of homemade pinot grigio. Friend and Lil’ Friend opted for the cabbage rolls, which took me right back to holidays at my grandparents’ house. Thanksgiving? Turkey, mashed potatoes and tabouleh salad. Christmas? Prime rib with stuffed grape leaves and kibbeh. You guys, holidays at the Johns' residence are a cultural smorgasbord.

After watching the traditional Romanian two-step and some intense violin, we splurged on a mixed pastry plate. Cramming onto a deceptively large looking bench, we sampled desserts. The favorite was a little cake composed of phyllo dough, cream cheese and apricot jelly.

All in all, this was definitely an experience. The sense of community and cultural pride was amazing. Kids were running around in tunics and hand-stitched dresses. Everybody knew the songs and the dances. What’s more important, it seemed like everybody knew each other. Seriously you guys, I’m a little jealous. I don’t expect Portland to host an Ambiguously Caucasian Fall Festival any time soon. I’m intrigued by this idea of shared culture. Parents dragging their kids into the circle dance the way their parents probably dragged them into the circle dance the way people have been dragged into circle dancing since the beginning of dances. It's all a little mind-boggling if you think about it. 

Anyways, I suppose that’s enough babbling for one night. Only four work days until my grand adventure begins! Are you excited? I’m excited.

I love you all dearly.

-b