I really have turned into a Californian--I actually had bean sprouts on my sandwich today, and I *liked* it. Ugh! Even worse, the bread was sourdough, and I allowed them to slather it with mustard and mayo, rather than avoiding mustard like the plague I used to think it was. There were also avocadoes (what else would you expect from a sandwich named 'California Dreamin'?), but I added avocadoes to my diet long ago, so this wasn't such a shock. I'm still not completely Californian--I can't see myself buying bean sprouts to keep at home, so maybe this was just an aberration. But, I need to buy a steak ASAP, or else I may be perilously close to forgetting my roots altogether.
The sandwich was procured at the deli in the complex where my laundromat and favorite cafe are located; I ate half the sandwich when I finally made it out of the apartment for lunch at two p.m., and the other half for dinner several hours later. If no one hears from me for a few days, assume that I succumbed to food poisoning in the night, since I didn't refrigerate the sandwich in the interim--I think I have a rather blase approach to food storage because I figure that if I didn't die after drinking that hideously-dirty iced tea in Mumbai, anything that the American bacteria population can throw at me will be like a walk in the park by comparison. Granted, if I run into any newly-immigrated bacteria, I could be in for some problems; immigrants always work harder and for less reward, so I'm sure a population of bacteria recently arrived on some produce from a third-world country could be my undoing, but I'm hoping for the best.
I successfully washed five loads of clothing, bedding, and towels, and I equally successfully hung or folded all five loads, so I felt v. accomplished by the end of the day. I also remade my bed and cleaned my desk. Doing anything else in the apartment was beyond my current level of domestic ambition, so I did all of the reading for my short-story class and tried to write some more of that short story that I turned in last week. I wrote a couple of pages but thought it was crap, so browsed around Amazon for awhile and ordered a couple of books about Moldova. You may be surprised to know that there are very few books about Moldova in English; I ended up ordering the Lonely Planet for Moldova and Romania because a) it was the best way to get pictures of Moldova and b) I really want to go there sometime in the not-so-distant future. I also got a book of 19th-century British women's clothing designs, so that I can dress up the heroine of my romance novel in all manner of frocks, day gowns, riding habits, negligees, etc. (for those of you who think romance novels are just porn--the women do wear clothing most of the time, and half the fun in reading those books is imagining yourself in all the gorgeous outfits).
In addition to browsing Amazon, I read up on Moldova on Wikipedia. The best part of it was finding this poem that is apparently the major folk tale of Moldova; the first two verses are supposedly inscribed on Moldovan currency. You may think that 'E pluribus unum' is lame, but at least our currency isn't covered with what I think may be one of the most depressing poems ever. The basic gist is that an enchanted ewe tells her Moldovan owner that his Transylvanian and Vrancean neighbors are going to kill him that night--and rather than do anything about it, he just tells the ewe to lie to everyone after he's been murdered and say that he went off to marry a princess. Maybe something was lost in the translation, but it seems apt, given that most Eastern European folktales are perfectly hopeless. I have reproduced the poem in all its lamely-translated glory for you below; now it's time for me to go to bed!
'Mioritza'
Near a low foothill
At Heaven’s doorsill,
Where the trail’s descending
To the plain and ending,
Here three shepherds keep
Their three flocks of sheep,
One, Moldavian,
One, Transylvanian
And one, Vrancean.
Now, the Vrancean
And the Transylvanian
In their thoughts, conniving,
Have laid plans, contriving
At the close of day
To ambush and slay
The Moldavian;
He, the wealthier one,
Had more flocks to keep,
Handsome, long-horned sheep,
Horses, trained and sound,
And the fiercest hounds.
One small ewe-lamb, though,
Dappled gray as tow,
While three full days passed
Bleated loud and fast;
Would not touch the grass.
”Ewe-lamb, dapple-gray,
Muzzled black and gray,
While three full days passed
You bleat loud and fast;
Don’t you like this grass?
Are you too sick to eat,
Little lamb so sweet?”
”Oh my master dear,
Drive the flock out near
That field, dark to view,
Where the grass grows new,
Where there’s shade for you.
”Master, master dear,
Call a large hound near,
A fierce one and fearless,
Strong, loyal and peerless.
The Transylvanian
And the Vrancean
When the daylight’s through
Mean to murder you.”
”Lamb, my little ewe,
If this omen’s true,
If I’m doomed to death
On this tract of heath,
Tell the Vrancean
And Transylvanian
To let my bones lie
Somewhere here close by,
By the sheepfold here
So my flocks are near,
Back of my hut’s grounds
So I’ll hear my hounds.
Tell them what I say:
There, beside me lay
One small pipe of beech
Whith its soft, sweet speech,
One small pipe of bone
Whit its loving tone,
One of elderwood,
Fiery-tongued and good.
Then the winds that blow
Would play on them so
All my listening sheep
Would draw near and weep
Tears, no blood so deep.
How I met my death,
Tell them not a breath;
Say I could not tarry,
I have gone to marry
A princess – my bride
Is the whole world’s pride.
At my wedding, tell
How a bright star fell,
Sun and moon came down
To hold my bridal crown,
Firs and maple trees
Were my guests; my priests
Were the mountains high;
Fiddlers, birds that fly,
All birds of the sky;
Torchlights, stars on high.
But if you see there,
Should you meet somewhere,
My old mother, little,
With her white wool girdle,
Eyes with their tears flowing,
Over the plains going,
Asking one and all,
Saying to them all,
’Who has ever known,
Who has seen my own
Shepherd fine to see,
Slim as a willow tree,
With his dear face, bright
As the milk-foam, white,
His small moustache, right
As the young wheat’s ear,
With his hair so dear,
Like plumes of the crow
Little eyes that glow
Like the ripe black sloe?’
Ewe-lamb, small and pretty,
For her sake have pity,
Let it just be said
I have gone to wed
A princess most noble
There on Heaven’s doorsill.
To that mother, old,
Let it not be told
That a star fell, bright,
For my bridal night;
Firs and maple trees
Were my guests, priests
Were the mountains high;
Fiddlers, birds that fly,
All birds of the sky;
Torchlights, stars on high.”
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