Since we were observing a traditional Shabbat (see yesterday's post on vodka, videotaping, and Visigoths*), there were no dance workshops on Saturday. Instead, we left the hotel (!!) and took to Brasov (population: pigeons). We were given about 45 minutes to walk around and explore the main square, so naturally we took straight to a café to sit down and get some coffee (or an epically sweet...something fruity, in my case).
I was a bit on edge at the café, and not just because of the pigeons (oh my god so many pigeons). The organizers had said they had a surprise for us and, last time they had made such a promise, we were treated to a full view of an octogenarian in a fake diaper. So I was mildly concerned. Luckily, no such spectacle awaited us. Instead, we got to make a spectacle of ourselves by holding an impromptu dance session in the middle of the town square, much to the amusement and confusion of the local Romanians (the foreign Romanians were not affected). Despite my hypersensitive awkward dial, I could not feel too embarrassed because a. there were a zillion of us and b. our dancing was interrupted by the changing of the guard (which always follows the naptime of the guard). The changing of the guard had the unique ability to make us seem almost normal, as the uniform of the guards comprised a floppy velvet hat, an itchy-looking vest, RED AND WHITE STRIPED BLOOMERS, and tights. Even Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada would have to smile and such a fashion-forward display. I couldn’t be embarrassed after that, even if I was giving complete strangers a complete demonstration of my inability to tell right from left and having my arm nearly dislocated by Eran, who was determined to keep the circle holding hands at all costs.
After making joyous fools of ourselves in the town square and visiting the local synagogue (of course!), we went…okay, I have no idea where we went, but we went there to have lunch, so it didn’t matter. We ate outside, which was lovely except for the part where I STILL failed to get a tan because apparently, if I am more than two shades beyond eggshell-white, the apocalypse happens. I suppose it’s good that I avoided the End of Days, because then I would not have gotten to try the most excellent climbing tree I’ve encountered in Europe. Now, notice that I called this an excellent climbing tree and not an excellent descending tree. Only after I ascended to my desired branch did I realize I had NO CLUE how I was going to get down. Were it not for some truly skilled shimmying and a willingness to be in all sorts of compromising positions with the trunk, I would probably still be up there being laughed at by the Turkish girls. While I survived the encounter mostly unscathed, my shoes were not so lucky and are now in critical condition, possibly awaiting a duct-tape-orectomy.
After my brush with dumb, we hopped back on the bus for a trip to the town of Bran, home of delicious and healthy breakfast cereals. Okay, not actually, but it is home to Vlad the Impaler’s castle, which is much cooler (though not as high in fiber). As expected, the place was pretty tourist-y but then again, I was a tourist, so I didn’t mind too much. I spent much of my time marveling at low ceilings (apparently designed for midgets), random sitting nooks (apparently designed for squirrels), and narrow winding staircases (apparently designed for people with no hips, 360-degree rotating ankles, and not much to live for). That time not spent marveling was spent laughing at the information posters on the wall. I realized I’m incredibly privileged to expect to receive information in my own language halfway across the world, I’m an entitled American, etc. but dear God those translations were bad. I’m pretty sure the translator had learned English grammar from elementary school book reports. Either that, or s/he didn’t speak Romanian and was making it up as s/he went along.
Once outside the castle, I went on a hunt for blood, er…Diet Coke, which turned out to be much more difficult than expected. All I had was my credit card, universally not accepted. I found success (sort of) at a nearby convenience store, though I had to use my debit card because the cashier kept asking for a pin and no amount of handwaving was enough to explain that I wanted to use my credit card. Apparently I can only handwave in Hungarian. For the record, I have absolutely no idea how much that Diet Coke cost in real money. I’ve gotten pretty good at converting dollars to forint, but to convert dollars to forint to euros to lei you have to multiply by the speed of light, subtract the price of cheese in China, and divide by who let that cow in here? Converting back, you just do the whole thing backwards on one foot. Happily caffeinated, I rejoined the group and discovered that everyone who had not matured past the age of 5 (read: all the guys plus one of the Bulgarian girls) had bought a joke lighter that shocked whoever used it and were merrily abusing the others. I myself got shocked after Eran handed his to me. It kind of hurt, but I felt much better once I kicked him.
We got back to the hotel just in time for Havdalah, which was held outside around a roaring bonfire (did I mention the hotel is almost entirely made of wood?). Then it was time for the Yom Hatzma’ut party, where we got to teach and learn dances from our respective countries (actually, Dana had been telling us we would be doing so for the previous 3 nights, so it was about time). If I recall correctly, which I probably don’t, the Hungarians went first and led a dance specifically designed to confuse the hell out of the rest of us. The Bulgarians also went, teaching a dance that consisted of doing the same pattern approximately 800 billion times. Apparently it was a New Year’s dance, so it’s probably much more exciting when one is drunk. The Turks led some belly dancing, which was beautiful to watch on the girls, and absolutely hilarious on the guy (I think there was only one Turkish guy there, and he was not a small man). Robin was from England, so he led the Hokey Pokey, which made me happier than I can possibly explain. Then it was my turn. I had desperately wanted to teach Soulja Boy (100ish Eastern European Jews dancing Crank That Soulja Boy…can you imagine?!), but didn’t know what I would do for the verses since the only interesting part is the chorus. I settled instead for a country western dance that I may or may not have found on YouTube the night before. When I took the microphone, it became apparent that among Jews, I was very much the fast-talking American, which is ironic because among Americans, I’m always the fast-talking Jew. I defended myself, as always, by pointing out that my father is from New York. People seemed to enjoy the dance, and I even got a ‘Brava’ from an older Romanian woman, so I deemed myself a success.
Once the international dancing had subsided (the Romanian one was kind of bizarre, but I got to Polka during it so I’m not complaining), we returned to Israeli dancing, that being ostensibly the reason we were all there. At this point, it was probably around 10 or 11 pm, but we still had plenty of time because the dancing continued until 6:30 am. Staying awake was not too hard; the screaming from every part of my body prevented me from falling asleep. See, I am pathologically incapable of sitting down when I hear a song I like, or hear a song I don’t really like but to which I know the dance, or hear someone tapping a beat that sort of reminds me of a song I used to know, etc.. At one point, we took another break from Israeli for them to play what they called ‘Paso Doble,’ even though it was more a collection of random songs and dances approximating…swing, maybe? One of the random songs was the Paso Doble song though, so that made me happy. Also, after that, they played a little bit of swing and salsa AND THEN AN ABBA MIX. Oh yes. Not only did they play an ABBA mix, they did the electric slide to said ABBA mix. It was like heaven with a strong hint of spandex. ABBA can only take you so far (so very far) though, so we returned to Israeli and continued for the rest of the night/morning. At one point I had a sip of Bulgarian…something, which was pretty good except it made me feel like I was on fire since I was already overheated. Fact: alcohol plus dancing sounds really fun, but bring a fan. And a glacier. Heatstroke aside, I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the marathon and am happy to have broken my previous record for staying out (5 am, prom night). There is a picture of all of us at 6:30 in the morning somewhere out there in space, a picture I hope never sees the light of Facebook because I’m sure I looked like Death’s less robust little sister. WHICH MAY BE WHY I USE SO MANY CAPS.
*made you look!
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