A glass of words

Bucharest

In my current travels in Eastern Europe, I continue to learn the value of taking the trouble to learn a little of languages few outsiders can speak. This is respectful to the country where you are traveling, and when you make it your game to pick up odd and unusual terms you would never find in a tourist phrase book, the results can be very entertaining.
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A case in point. Over dinner on my first day in Bucharest, my host described how he makes wine on his own land in the eastern part of the country. He explained that at this time of year, the crushed grapes are on their way to becoming wine, but are not there yet. In this in-between state, the somewhat alcoholic brew is sweet and "murky". He struggled for the right English word. I asked him for the Romanian. Tulburel, he told me. The near-wine is called tulburel. I found the word interesting and jotted it down.

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Then over lunch at an outdoor restaurant with other new friends on Friday, a pleasant waitress also started talking about Romanian wine. She explained that this is the season when fermentation is going on and the wine is nearly but not quite ready. "I don't know the word in English."
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"Tulburel?" I offered.
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Her eyes widened. "How you know this word?"
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"A friend who makes wine." I shrugged. "I like funny words."
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"How long you been here?"

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I glanced at my watch. "Twenty-two hours."
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"You are MAGICIAN!" she cried.
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She vanished but promptly reappeared, bearing a huge glass of pinkish liquid. Tulburel. "A gift for the magician of funny words." Too sweet for my palate, but drinkable with the chicken in spicy sauce.

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On Saturday, the first day of my weekend workshop here, my language lessons continued, as we traded dreams and stories and experiences from group journeys powered by shamanic drumming. We played my Coincidence Card Game, in which everyone writes part of a story or a quote or reflection on one side of an index card, which is then offered to the group as a one-time divination deck, from which each player will pull a card with the understanding that what is written on it will be a response to a request for guidance they have formulated.

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The first player picked by a random twirl of the drumstick to read a card had asked for guidance on improving relationships. She found this message on the card she pulled from the deck (written, as it happened, by our host): Nu accept rolumni in dramele altora. "Don't accept a role in other people's soap operas." Sometimes oracles are mysterious and ambiguous; that's how oracles stay in business long term. This message was wonderfully clear, as the woman who drew it acknowledged, through her laughter.

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Life rhymes. Inspired by a vision of the White Wolf known in these parts, I wrote this simple message on a card: "Let the White Wolf guide you." Camelia, the woman who drew this message, was seeking the way to fulfill her soul's longing, its dor, and liked the suggested guide. When I turned over my card, I found the message Camelia had written, which advised me to look for a "white star" i in my future relations with Romania. When we discussed the meaning of these messages during the break (pausa) Camelia told me she had been unable to attend my evening program on Friday because she had drunk quite a lot of tulburel and it hadn't agreed with her.

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Most people smoke here. It's startling to anyone arriving from a typical Western city, with its prohibitions on smoking in public places - let alone for someone accustomed to teaching in holistic centers. In my hotel, the restaurant is nefumatori only until 11:00 am; smoking after. The waiter appears shocked when I refuse the offer of an ashtray. "No smoke?" he grimaces. During breaks at my workshop, hillocks of butts and ash rise from the ashtrays on the garden tables, spilling in small avalanches. It's a throwback to the heyday of cancer sticks in the world of "Mad Men". When I comment on the intake of the most prodigious smoker in this crowd, I pick up another handy Romanian phrase: fumeaza ca un sarpe. "He smokes like a snake."

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In the garden, after a delicious and copious barbecue, Joana, a young woman from Transylvania, sings a doina. The doina is a lyrical song that typically speaks of love and longing. This one is achingly beautiful. It reminds me of nights of fado in Portugal, and the bittersweet mood of saudade that wells up when fado is sung. The Transylvanian singer explains that a doina often has a companion song, something frisky and funny that moves people on from the tears. When she belts out something happy and slightly risque, I am reminded of how ladino singers (from the Sephardic Jewish tradition of Iberia) also shift back and forth between tragedy to comedy.

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I need to hear the original doina again and Joana oblges me. Her wonderful singing comes from the heart. It carries me back into a dream I hold deep in my heart's memory, a dream I titled "The Birth-Funeral." In my dream I have made a choice; I am leaving those I love in my home world to go on a mission to another world where I must oppose dark forces that are stealing the light. The high voices of the mourners are keening, almost unbearably sad and beautiful, as I walk a path of blue lotus petals, towards the place where I will drop my old body and put on a different one.