Machol Romania Day 2: Shabbat Sha-*hic*

The first part of Friday passed in a manner remarkably similar to Thursday. I learned several new dances whose names I can’t pronounce (and whose steps I can’t remember), overheated at least five times, and confused my right and left legs at least three (they look the same, okay?!). On Friday, however, the latter nearly proved fatal. We were learning a dance that translates to something like ‘Balkan Bells,’ which might explain the subsequent ringing in my ears. That, or the 3 days without sleep. Anyhowl’smovingcastle, I’m pretty sure we were learning this dance illegally because there’s no way one can be allowed to dance it without training and a license. For starters, it involves jumping. And turning. AT THE SAME TIME. For those of you who are not yet dancers, let me elaborate: Dancers are nuts. Give us a floor or, hell, reasonably solid dirt and we will turn it into a dance hall. Size is no constraint. I have danced in spaces a sardine would describe as “rather cramped” (building 34 anyone?). Ergo, teaching a bunch of compulsive dancers something involving a jump turn with the full knowledge that they will try it regardless of the amount of available space is tantamount to inciting involuntary manslaughter. The first time we tried the dance with music, I jump-turned smack into a Turk, nearly setting off an international incident. Fortunately, we could not come up with a suitably impressive name for said incident (The Near-Defenestration of Graber? Operation Giggle-Like-Idiots?), so we let it all diffuse.

I was sort of expecting a quiet Friday night, as it was Shabbat. As it turns out, I was sort of an idiot. For one thing, Jews really like to sing. And if they can’t sing, they really like to shout in some semblance of rhythm, occasionally with a hint of tune. This is not just during Kabbalat. In fact, fewer people sang during Kabbalat than during dinner, possibly because those of us with limited Hebrew were relying on the transliterations in the siddur. Which were in Romanian. Did I mention that Romanian has words like “fiii?” We’re not talking about a language phonetically friendly to idiotas like myself. It reminded me of nothing so much as the time I was watching a Japanese cartoon with friends and, despite the subtitles, could not figure out what was going on. Many years later, I realized it was because the subtitles were in Chinese. Thus, those who felt they were denied full use of their vocal (in)capabilities during Kabbalat made up for it by being at least 6 times as loud during dinner. Actually, “those who felt they were denied…” is really just a PC term for “Bulgarians.” Oh my God, Bulgarians. I came to MR fully expecting to be the obnoxious American, but I did not have a prayer. Even at my most loud and annoying, I did not stand a chance against the forces of Bulgaria. While we were waiting for dinner (and we waited a loooong time, Oren suggested they hadn’t caught the chicken yet), they went through every song they had ever known, or sort of known, or once heard someone humming at an airport, or made up on the spot. Lovely Temporary Roommate Anna and I were praying dinner would shut them up, but Bulgarians are either anorexic or have another mouth hidden somewhere, because they kept going straight through, with nary a stop to swallow.

As a side note, most of the songs they sang were apparently from a camp called Szarvas in Hungary that it seems Jewish Eastern-Europeans are required by law to attend. Certainly everyone at MR had been. One or two tunes were eerily close to old Girl Scout songs, so for a moment I definitely thought I was back at Camp Potomac Woods except I looked around and there were a lot of guys there so I was creeped out until I remembered that I was not in fact at Girl Scout camp so it was okay and I didn’t need to run screaming to Piglet (GS camp counselors all have nicknames. I did not actually go to camp with the real Piglet, probably because he’s male).

I was lucky to be buffered from the Bulgarians, sitting as I was with the Hungarian delegation. Thus, when the singing got old (which it did. Fast.), I could turn instead to my local Hungarians for amusement. Calling forth the old convention of ‘It’s Not Racist If They Agree,’ I hereby state that Hungarians drink. A lot. Whatever they can find. At any time. These were the people who pregamed lunch the previous day. Mama-duck Mazsi said that if everyone was there to share their culture, Hungary could certainly share the alcoholism. And lord did they do an instructive cultural demonstration. We toasted in Hebrew, Hungarian, English, etc. until Nori was completely toasted, with Anna not far behind. I did my best to hide the fact that I toasted with pretty much the same glass of wine every time, but Nori is one sharp drunk and sternly made sure that I finished at least two. I did! I was impressed with me too. Especially because the red wine was pretty awful. I also tried a bit of brandy, which was not my brightest idea because even Anna agreed it tasted like aftershave (so she only drank 2.5 glasses). As a side note, I now know that the Hungarian word for “aftershave” is, in fact, “aftershave” (though I suppose it could be a false cognate). Though the bottle of brandy was ostensibly for everyone, Erwin cleverly left it at the Hungarian table, figuring (correctly) that we (I was an honorary Hungarian for the weekend :)) would save him the trouble of leftovers. A water bottle of chocolate liquor also mysteriously appeared, and less mysteriously shrank in volume quite quickly. After I went upstairs, I learned later, the party continued with the sacred Shabbat traditions of vodka and tequila. That explained why at 1 or 2 am, I overheard the Turkish girls outside my apartment arguing over whether one of them could actually walk. They eventually agreed on ‘no,’ but it took them a while.

As a final note to the holiness and traditional nature of this Shabbat, the annoying camera man WHO NEVER EVER WENT AWAY filmed the whole thing. How do you say ‘blackmail’ in Hebrew?