Vacations from Hell
Page 60
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“Next year. That’s what they say. That’s why all of us made sure to come home for the festival this year. Next year this might all be gone.” Mariana looked around sadly for a moment, then seemed to shake off the gloom. “Okay. Now that you’ve seen the worst of us, come see the best. The lamb stew at the tavern is amazing. The wine’s even better. And you don’t have to be twenty-one.”
“Now you’re talking,” John said.
When we got to the tavern, there were signs of life. People who did not need AARP cards were arriving. Mariana greeted them like cousins—a lot of them were cousins—and explained they’d returned from their jobs in the cities or schools to participate in the festival. There were younger kids too. They were kicking a makeshift soccer ball around and laughing, which made me a little homesick. A dark-haired guy in a leather jacket kissed Mariana on both cheeks and introduced himself to us. His name was Vasul, and he had a scholarship to the London School of Economics. He was twenty, like Mariana, and looked like a Russian prince. They treated us like old friends. The wine flowed freely. We stayed up until the wee hours of the morning debating life, politics, traditions, modernization. These were the kinds of conversations I figured we’d be having in college, a preview of coming attractions, and I felt like I’d finally arrived. Like I wasn’t a kid anymore.
“Watch Uncle Radu. He’s getting out the accordion.” Vasul snickered.
Mariana buried her face in his shoulder, stifling a laugh.
“What is it?” John asked.
“Just wait,” they both said at the same time, snorting.
Uncle Radu, who was about one hundred and two if he was a day, started playing then. I use the word playing lightly. It was more like he was skinning the accordion, because the sound it made was the sound of an instrument in pain. Mariana and Vasul lost it, hands over their mouths, their eyes watering. Mariana’s mother flashed her a disgusted look. But Uncle Radu kept playing. Another man picked up his violin, and one of the women started singing. The tavern keeper walked around the tables clapping his hands, but the kids joined only half-heartedly, and when that song was over and the next one started, they lost interest and went back to drinking, playing quarters, and having arguments about alternative bands and indie films.
“I’ll hear about this later,” Mariana whined.
“When my grandmother saw my clothes, she clucked her tongue and walked away,” one of the girls at the end of the table said.
The guy next to her stubbed out his cigarette. “There are moments when my parents stare like they don’t know what to make of me. Like they’re a little disgusted, a little afraid.”
Mariana cut in. “Every generation fears the one that comes after. Our music, our clothes, our aspirations. Our youth. It’s like they know we will do what they can’t anymore.”
“Sometimes my aunties will speak in Creole when they don’t want us to know what they’re talking about. It’s like they’re messing with us on purpose,” Isabel said. “Makes me mad crazy.”
Vasul laughed. “Mad crazy,” he imitated, and Isabel broke into her most smitten grin. John knotted his fingers with hers and gave them a kiss to make his claim clear.
“I’ve been home just a few hours and already my parents are asking when I’m going to settle down and give them grandchildren,” a girl named Dovka complained. “I’m twenty-one! I have a DJ gig at a club in Bucharest!” She turned to John. “Don’t you hate it when they do that?”
“My parents don’t really give a shit as long as my grades are good and I don’t get arrested. They just give me money so I’ll go away and stop interfering with their golf games and Pilates sessions,” John said with a bitter laugh, and I felt kind of bad for him. It was like his parents woke up one day totally surprised to discover they had kids, so they just hired a fleet of people to take care of them.
“What about you, Poe?” Mariana asked.
I shrugged. “My parents are okay. Annoying but good-hearted. I don’t think they’re afraid of me. The state of my room, maybe,” I joked. “Mom’s from Wisconsin. She talks funny and loves the Green Bay Packers. My dad’s a professor, plays too much Tetris when he should be grading papers, collects vintage Stax LPs. My grandmother still holds on to the old ways some.”
When I was little, my grandmother used to tell me about being in the internment camps during World War II. And when it was too much for her to talk about, she’d just end the conversation with, “Fear leads to foolishness.” Then she’d teach me Japanese calligraphy, guiding my brush gracefully over the paper. Later we’d go to McDonald’s. She loved their fries.
“Now you’re talking,” John said.
When we got to the tavern, there were signs of life. People who did not need AARP cards were arriving. Mariana greeted them like cousins—a lot of them were cousins—and explained they’d returned from their jobs in the cities or schools to participate in the festival. There were younger kids too. They were kicking a makeshift soccer ball around and laughing, which made me a little homesick. A dark-haired guy in a leather jacket kissed Mariana on both cheeks and introduced himself to us. His name was Vasul, and he had a scholarship to the London School of Economics. He was twenty, like Mariana, and looked like a Russian prince. They treated us like old friends. The wine flowed freely. We stayed up until the wee hours of the morning debating life, politics, traditions, modernization. These were the kinds of conversations I figured we’d be having in college, a preview of coming attractions, and I felt like I’d finally arrived. Like I wasn’t a kid anymore.
“Watch Uncle Radu. He’s getting out the accordion.” Vasul snickered.
Mariana buried her face in his shoulder, stifling a laugh.
“What is it?” John asked.
“Just wait,” they both said at the same time, snorting.
Uncle Radu, who was about one hundred and two if he was a day, started playing then. I use the word playing lightly. It was more like he was skinning the accordion, because the sound it made was the sound of an instrument in pain. Mariana and Vasul lost it, hands over their mouths, their eyes watering. Mariana’s mother flashed her a disgusted look. But Uncle Radu kept playing. Another man picked up his violin, and one of the women started singing. The tavern keeper walked around the tables clapping his hands, but the kids joined only half-heartedly, and when that song was over and the next one started, they lost interest and went back to drinking, playing quarters, and having arguments about alternative bands and indie films.
“I’ll hear about this later,” Mariana whined.
“When my grandmother saw my clothes, she clucked her tongue and walked away,” one of the girls at the end of the table said.
The guy next to her stubbed out his cigarette. “There are moments when my parents stare like they don’t know what to make of me. Like they’re a little disgusted, a little afraid.”
Mariana cut in. “Every generation fears the one that comes after. Our music, our clothes, our aspirations. Our youth. It’s like they know we will do what they can’t anymore.”
“Sometimes my aunties will speak in Creole when they don’t want us to know what they’re talking about. It’s like they’re messing with us on purpose,” Isabel said. “Makes me mad crazy.”
Vasul laughed. “Mad crazy,” he imitated, and Isabel broke into her most smitten grin. John knotted his fingers with hers and gave them a kiss to make his claim clear.
“I’ve been home just a few hours and already my parents are asking when I’m going to settle down and give them grandchildren,” a girl named Dovka complained. “I’m twenty-one! I have a DJ gig at a club in Bucharest!” She turned to John. “Don’t you hate it when they do that?”
“My parents don’t really give a shit as long as my grades are good and I don’t get arrested. They just give me money so I’ll go away and stop interfering with their golf games and Pilates sessions,” John said with a bitter laugh, and I felt kind of bad for him. It was like his parents woke up one day totally surprised to discover they had kids, so they just hired a fleet of people to take care of them.
“What about you, Poe?” Mariana asked.
I shrugged. “My parents are okay. Annoying but good-hearted. I don’t think they’re afraid of me. The state of my room, maybe,” I joked. “Mom’s from Wisconsin. She talks funny and loves the Green Bay Packers. My dad’s a professor, plays too much Tetris when he should be grading papers, collects vintage Stax LPs. My grandmother still holds on to the old ways some.”
When I was little, my grandmother used to tell me about being in the internment camps during World War II. And when it was too much for her to talk about, she’d just end the conversation with, “Fear leads to foolishness.” Then she’d teach me Japanese calligraphy, guiding my brush gracefully over the paper. Later we’d go to McDonald’s. She loved their fries.
