We’ll call this the week of disconcerting run-ins with the Romanian powers that be. Generally, we Bakkens like to keep a low profile—though this is often difficult as Sophia skips down the street singing “Yankee Doodle” and Alexander tears up the playground with great American bravado. But a few days ago, our Soviet-era toilet pretty much fell apart. The “guts” rusted out and so the odd pulley flusher system went kerplonk. Christopher admirably scoured all the local plumping stores for replacement parts, thinking to save our equally ancient landlady the hassle of repairs. But each dour store clerk shrugged and laughed at us. “No, no,” they each said. “No more.” By this we think they meant: Are you crazy? This rusted out contraption is 30 years old!
So we finally called Lady Tenescu over for a plumbing inspection. Now, she is sweet, but—and we have this on the authority of our wonderful Romanian babysitter Andreea-- Lady Tenescu is at least a little bit “crazy.” (So, too, our cleaning lady, who insists on showing me each room as she cleans, pointing to the dirty rags and gleaming floors. I’ve assumed she’s been asking me, “Good job? Does it look good?” To which I’ve been answering, “Bravo! Multemesc!” But Andreea corrected me: “Oh no,” she said. “She’s saying, ‘Look at how good a job I’ve done for you! It was so dirty and I am the best cleaner there is in all of Bucharest!’”)
But back to Lady Tenescu. When she realized that the toilet wasn’t a simple repair, she called in her plumber who laughed, too, at her and apparently told her the same story: the toilet is outdated, the parts impossible to find. It would require a complete overhaul. He spent the good part of 3 hours camped in our bathroom chipping away at some strange calcified stalactites that were inside the tank—then trudged off to the plumbing store for an entirely new system. What we got: a weird push button system that only works half the time, and now, as the tank refills with water, it sounds as if an industrial sprayer is inside the tank itself. 10 minutes of this racket. But, okay. The toilet flushes again.
When Lady Tenescu came for the rest of the rent money, she insisted that we would have to pay the 100 Euro plumbing repair job since it was under our supervision that it stopped working (“you must have pulled too hard on the flusher,” she insisted, through our babysitter’s expert translations). Apparently this is the custom. Renters pay for everything that stops working—even when it is a 30 year old toilet. Christopher balked. She chattered angrily at him then disappeared into the bathroom. She called him in, fingering the new shower curtain we’d purchased from Ikea to replace the disgusting, mold covered, dirt encrusted curtain that was left-over from the previous occupant. What could Lady Tenescu want? The old curtain back up? Alas, that was long ago tossed in the garbage. So—we don’t know what to expect when we try to get our security deposit back—100 Euros taken for the plumbing? Another 50 for the curtain? Andreea explained, “These old people cling to their things. Even the plastic bags are precious.”
Which brings me to plastic bags. Today, I walked Alexander over to Rainbow Supermarket—for the 56 and 57th bottle of milk for the week, for my own twentieth 2 Liter bottle of Diet Coke (somehow I’m addicted to it here), for Sophia’s “cow pudding,” and for sundry other heavy items. Since it’s a longish walk and I have to hang the plastic bags from the stroller handles, I usually double-bag, and usually without a problem. But today, as I was double-bagging the Diet Coke, a stern woman, backed up by a uniformed security guard, said, “Doamna! No!” They both the proceeded to de-double-bag my groceries to my great, public humiliation. So, it will be many days before I step foot in Rainbow—and now must return to the cramped aisles of the the ever-open, ever-shabby, “NonStop Nic” across the street.
So we finally called Lady Tenescu over for a plumbing inspection. Now, she is sweet, but—and we have this on the authority of our wonderful Romanian babysitter Andreea-- Lady Tenescu is at least a little bit “crazy.” (So, too, our cleaning lady, who insists on showing me each room as she cleans, pointing to the dirty rags and gleaming floors. I’ve assumed she’s been asking me, “Good job? Does it look good?” To which I’ve been answering, “Bravo! Multemesc!” But Andreea corrected me: “Oh no,” she said. “She’s saying, ‘Look at how good a job I’ve done for you! It was so dirty and I am the best cleaner there is in all of Bucharest!’”)
But back to Lady Tenescu. When she realized that the toilet wasn’t a simple repair, she called in her plumber who laughed, too, at her and apparently told her the same story: the toilet is outdated, the parts impossible to find. It would require a complete overhaul. He spent the good part of 3 hours camped in our bathroom chipping away at some strange calcified stalactites that were inside the tank—then trudged off to the plumbing store for an entirely new system. What we got: a weird push button system that only works half the time, and now, as the tank refills with water, it sounds as if an industrial sprayer is inside the tank itself. 10 minutes of this racket. But, okay. The toilet flushes again.
When Lady Tenescu came for the rest of the rent money, she insisted that we would have to pay the 100 Euro plumbing repair job since it was under our supervision that it stopped working (“you must have pulled too hard on the flusher,” she insisted, through our babysitter’s expert translations). Apparently this is the custom. Renters pay for everything that stops working—even when it is a 30 year old toilet. Christopher balked. She chattered angrily at him then disappeared into the bathroom. She called him in, fingering the new shower curtain we’d purchased from Ikea to replace the disgusting, mold covered, dirt encrusted curtain that was left-over from the previous occupant. What could Lady Tenescu want? The old curtain back up? Alas, that was long ago tossed in the garbage. So—we don’t know what to expect when we try to get our security deposit back—100 Euros taken for the plumbing? Another 50 for the curtain? Andreea explained, “These old people cling to their things. Even the plastic bags are precious.”
Which brings me to plastic bags. Today, I walked Alexander over to Rainbow Supermarket—for the 56 and 57th bottle of milk for the week, for my own twentieth 2 Liter bottle of Diet Coke (somehow I’m addicted to it here), for Sophia’s “cow pudding,” and for sundry other heavy items. Since it’s a longish walk and I have to hang the plastic bags from the stroller handles, I usually double-bag, and usually without a problem. But today, as I was double-bagging the Diet Coke, a stern woman, backed up by a uniformed security guard, said, “Doamna! No!” They both the proceeded to de-double-bag my groceries to my great, public humiliation. So, it will be many days before I step foot in Rainbow—and now must return to the cramped aisles of the the ever-open, ever-shabby, “NonStop Nic” across the street.
Oh, and now the light in the bathroom refuses to work. As you can imagine, we look forward to the arrival of an electrician with great dread. No wonder it was here in Romania that Eugene Ionescu, great innovator in the Theatre of the Absurd, was born. No wonder he fled to Paris, where everyone knows they have excellent baguettes...and, um, beautiful toilets.
Kerry
1 comment:
I think it's a requirement that all Eastern European landladies are at least half-crazy. When I was apartment hunting, the realtors described Vera, my landlady-to-be as "a real pip," which I now understand means "she can and will evict someone by force every week."
So far, I've been lucky: she offered me an assortment Ukrainian lunchmeats when I signed my lease ("I go to Manhattan once a month to get these"), and continues to proffer random gifts at unexpected times (most recently: an extra oven rack). It also helps that I don't have any pets. As she explained to me in a very fill-in-the-blanks kind of way, "There was a girl, she not have cat. Then there was cat. No cats."
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