I have happy memories of trips to Europe, but my trip to Romania (罗马尼亚) was unique. When I was there as recalled, it was like being in a “James Bond” movie. My husband was born there, but his family sent him to study in Italy. Before he left, his mother told him, “As long as I write in pencil, don’t come back. When I write to you in pen, it’s safe to return.” But she never wrote in pen.
My husband lived a poor life in Italy. He applied to go to America, but there was a limit in number and he was rejected. He was accepted by Canada, though, and from Calgary he jumped onto a train to San Francisco. There he stayed —illegally. He became a US citizen when we got married. By then he was a charming European with a Romanian accent and the manners of a prince.
With seven years’ experience in America, a US passport, and two children later, he felt it was safe to visit Romania. He hadn’t seen his mother, two sisters, and two brothers since he was sixteen. We flew to Munich, Germany; picked up the German-made car we had purchased in the States; and drove to Romania via Austria and Hungary. When we reached Bucharest, the capital city of Romania, his family was waiting outside his sister’s house to greet us. After a long time of hugging, kissing, and crying, his family also hugged me, the American wife with two young children. They had great interest in me. Few Americans visited Romania at that time, and most Romanians had little chance to travel. I had brought an English-Romanian dictionary with me and managed to communicate, using only nouns, with no verbs. My Romanian improved, and the family’s stock of English words increased, but mostly I spoke in broken, New York-accented Romanian. The sisters loved their gifts of skirts and purses, the brothers loved the radios, and the children loved the candy. We made side trips to the Black Sea and enjoyed sightseeing in beautiful mountains. Dining at outdoor cafes to the music of violins was fantastic with fancy flavor, but nothing was as special as family dinners.
Romania didn’t have many dry cleaners. Most homes had old-fashioned washing machines but no dryers, and it was a hot summer. My husband’s relatives didn’t want to risk dirtying their clothes. Their solution was as simple as it was shocking: the women only wore their bras(胸罩) and slips (衬裙) at dinner table. The men were eating without shirts. They all had jobs, so time was precious. Having dinner without proper clothes was a small inconvenience compared with the effort of washing clothes —at least in my husband’s home, perhaps all across Romania. I, of course, having just met them, ate fully clothed. I washed my clothes by hand and hung them outdoors to dry.