The Shame Factor

In September 2009, I attended a workforce program for immigrants. It was a fun and useful experience, especially that I had never been in such a diverse milieu before. There were, I think, seven different nationalities present: Iranian, Japanese, Brazilian, Arab, Filipino, South Korean, and Romanian – there were two other Romanian girls, both my age.

Most of us were new to Canada, but a few had been here for over a year, some almost two years. The newer ones, like me, were noticeably more optimistic: after all, we hadn’t had the chance to deal with too many job rejections, and our savings were still at a reassuring level. The “veterans” were a lot less enthusiastic, having spent most of their money, and still not having found a job after such a long time.
Knowing that there was no way I could coast for a year or two on the money I had brought with me, I was curious to talk to them, and find out how they had managed to stay afloat, both financially and psychologically.

Merry Christmas!

A little late on that, but I want to wish everybody a wonderful Christmas (it’s supposed to last three days, anyway)!

I was lucky enough to spend a beautiful Christmas in a Canadian family, and also visit the friends I made here. Santa was good, he brought me my first Canadian job (seasonal, but still, it’s great that I got it), and many other lovely gifts. I still miss home, but maybe next year I manage to visit my family in Romania.
I was asked yesterday what Romanians do for Christmas, and how it differs from the Canadian celebration, so I thought I’d write a post on that topic.

The preparations for Christmas start forty days before, with the beginning of Christmas Lent. This is a period of moral and dietary cleansing, when people have to pray, follow a vegan diet, avoid anger, extravagant celebrations, alcohol, cursing, smoking… and other, umm, earthly joys. Needless to say, not many manage to follow it by the book, but we still try. Towards the end of Lent, it is recommended that people go to confession and take the Holy Communion.

Happy St. Nicholas!

Today is St. Nicholas, a favorite holiday for all Romanian children, both Orthodox, and Catholic. On the eve of December 6th, St. Nicholas fills children’s boots with gifts and candy. The boots have to be well-shined and lined up neatly at the door, or the window, so St. Nick knows that it is a house with good, hard-working children. Naughty kids wake up to find a rod in their boots; I found it once, when I was 7, and cried my eyes out. And I’ve never been naughty since. At least, not in December.

Born in the 3rd century B.C., in Lycia (part of modern-day Turkey), Saint Nicholas was a wealthy bishop who enjoyed doing anonymous acts of charity. This is why it is said that, unlike Santa, he can never be seen by the recipients of his gifts. He is the patron saint of sailors, merchants, pawnbrokers, and children.

For all the children (and grown-ups) who waited for him last night, I hope you found your boots filled with beautiful gifts, and that you managed to avoid the rod. Also, today we celebrate those whose names derive from Nicholas. Happy holidays, everyone!

Happy Birthday, Romania!

Since today is Romania’s National Day (91 years), I want to wish all the best to all Romanians, at home and abroad. Those of you who have the chance to vote on Sunday, please do.

Honeymoon Postponed

I fell madly in love with Vancouver long before coming here. The hundreds of beautiful photos I gathered from the Internet, the press articles that praised it as having the highest living standard in the world, the alluring rumors, they all painted an irresistible portrait. It was the “tall, dark and handsome” of cities, and we were meant to be.

I was proud to tell people that I would be moving here soon, taking any chance to drop it into the conversation, and patronizing those who hadn’t been as lucky, like a fiancee flashing her shiny engagement ring. If my announcement was met with anything else than awe and utmost admiration, I would take it as a personal insult, or a sign of envy. In other words, I became obnoxious to everybody, but I didn’t care.

Abroad (in Vancouver)

For a big part of my communist childhood, I thought that “abroad” was a country. Everything good seemed to come from Abroad: chocolate, coffee, soap, lipstick, you name it. What is strange is that I read a lot, and I had been exposed to names of different countries, but I didn’t connect them to the magical Abroad that had real consequences in my life.

In time, I realized that our Abroad was called Germany, and that many families had an Abroad of their own, depending on where they had relatives that could send them stuff. We had an uncle in East Germany who grew to mythical proportions in my eyes, on par with Santa, because he had the power to make any day a holiday.

Playground dominance was very connected to how resourceful your Abroad was. Of course, you had to have something to show for it: chewing-gum, candy, kids’ magazines, sneakers, soda caps, or, the ultimate, a battery-operated robot/car/doll. Rarity was the key-word. It surprised me to see how obsessed American children are with fitting in and having what the others have. The monotony in our homes, our closets, our toy baskets, dictated that you had to stand out, to have something unique. If anyone else had it, it was no longer special, you were no longer special.