Roosters Don’t Only Crow at Sunrise

by Michael Faiella (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Romania

2:47am. The unsettling feeling of being jarred awake by an unknown source was met with relief that my phone had granted me permission to close my eyes again when reality abruptly came into focus. I was miles from anywhere, in an unlit bedroom brimming with humidity, pain gnawing through my foggy head, and – was there seriously a rooster outside my window? Setting aside the almost laughable exacerbation of my hangover, I wondered whether this was even possible. I mean don’t roosters crow at sunrise? This premature wake-up call was apt; the night before had been commensurately staggering. Though I’d anticipated some difficulty relating to a strange family with no common language, I wasn’t primed for the opposite. No sooner had I walked through the front gate and said an awkward hello than I was given a glass of tuică, a folksy yellowish spirit with an inexact proof. Home distilling is a tradition in Romania (despite the EU’s legislative ban), but entirely new for me. I’d taken an interest in buying local, but never had the opportunity to sample true “moonshine” with the artisans that produced it. After doing so, I was brought inside, where an ancient wooden ladder led through the floor into the basement. There sat a venerable, patinaed still, that birthed the drink I consumed so casually. It had been hammered from sheets of copper by Roma people where it stood nearly 50 years prior. Whisked to the backyard, I was presented with a dazzling grove of plum trees, planted before anyone could remember, whose mash fed the operation. The cavalier nature of this “table to farm” presentation belied its significance: it was an epic welcome. I was struck not only by the exponential toil and care that had gone into my aperitif, but also by the tangible connection in the air to all those - past, present, and future - that were fortunate enough to taste it. As extraordinary as this felt, a pattern recurred throughout the evening. For example, on my outside tour, I had been shown a cage with six rabbits. A seventh, raised since birth, had been slain for a meal in my honour. Served with it were a variety of crimson and pastel green peppers. These had been pickled in house, grown in the garden from plants first cultivated generations prior. Even the family’s modest home had been built by the patriarch, only after tearing down the house built by his father in the same spot. I was eating, drinking, and living with the spirit of this family, and the presence was palpable. The irony of the moment was lost on me then, swept up in the wondrous excitement of travel, but has since become clear. I was blessed with this rare experience, a product of incalculable good fortune, but what made it special had also always been there, and, god willing, always would be. Before heading off to bed (and an untimely start), our countries’ flags were brought around the dinner table. Surrounded by 3 generations of family, along with a dozen new friends, we took pictures holding the condensed symbols of our identity. I would have rolled my eyes if I had seen this on someone else’s social media. In that reality, though, clichés had been absolved of their triteness. There, embracing complete strangers, the moment required recognition. It’s difficult to remember expectations that have long been taped over, but I’ve since learned to restrict them as much as possible. I was not prepared to feel the impressive power of connections made in the absence of time and language. I could never have imagined that I would be accepting these loving people into my home years later; that I would be given the honour of treating them to the same delights I had so gratefully been treated to years earlier. I could never have imagined that we would come to support each other through new additions, and, unfortunately, subtractions. I could never have known that a lifelong bond would be formed. Now, when I reminisce about all the memories we’ve made, I inevitably find myself back at one idea: roosters don’t only crow at sunrise.