Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

On a Saturday, at 12:30 p.m., we got invited to a parastas scheduled for 1 p.m. (a memorial service held in remembrance of the departed.) It was for a lady of only 50, taken far too early by cancer. That is all I will say because it is not my story to tell. Her closest friends had decided to gather, invite a few people, and honor her in the traditional Christian Orthodox way (in Orthodox tradition, the belief is that the soul wanders the earth for 40 days before its final judgment. Prayers and memorials during this period are meant to aid the soul’s journey.)

My father, the quintessential manly man, would have said, “No, I’m not coming. Who am I to be invited at the last minute?” But I am not my father, and, happily, Irina is not my father either, so naturally we said, “Of course we’re coming.” We knew her, we liked her, and we showed up in a hurry, with me redefining the meaning of casual dressing.

Along with others, we met up with two couples we were first introduced to 21 years ago when we arrived in Arizona from New York. Back then, there were four couples tight-knit. Now, with two of the men gone and few divorces along the way, only half remain. Fifty percent. Sobering.

We found ourselves around a table, five middle aged men discussing doctors, blood tests, ailments, medications, heart attacks…. We sounded like patients in a hospital ward, with our wives checking in periodically to make sure we were still alive.

The fifth guy, feeling left out of the medical symposium, changed the subject and told us about his trip to Tanzania and how he climbed Kilimanjaro. When he saw our jaws practically hit the floor, he took pity on us and confessed that the real drama was not on Kilimanjaro at all. It was a leg cramp on Mount Whitney, where, simply because it was there, he decided to climb all 14,505 feet of it. The leg cramp had actually hit on his way down….

I don’t know about my fellow sickies, but I felt a bit ashamed. Fortunately, another glass of rum and a full plate of Romanian style appetizers quickly routed the shame.

Just as we started talking loudly and reminiscing about departed friends, Irina and I had to leave for her nephew’s birthday party.

The birthday gathering had been planned well in advance, with a whole day’s notice. It was at a new Korean place in Scottsdale, Bao something, located in the Sprouts plaza, on 92nd. Pretty good food, family friendly atmosphere. We grabbed a few outdoor tables and shamelessly pushed them together, effectively blocking half the patio. Add the two toddlers running around, and the whole thing felt more like a backyard party than a restaurant shared with other people.

To prevent the get together from turning into a disaster, according only to me of course, I played with my nephews, ages two and five. Apparently, watching the old uncle make strange noises and jump in puddles was a highly educational experience. Their father was not entirely convinced about the “educational” part, although when he was their age, he enjoyed those same noises and antics just fine.

To ensure the restaurant staff would never forget us, we brought in a cake from “outside,” which was very much frowned upon [by the management]. Then my nephew received a thunderous Happy Birthday sung in Polish, after a whispered one in Romanian. All of this happened while the uncle, meaning me, ran around with the shrieking kids in a Sprouts shopping cart. For the record, every other child on that patio was openly jealous of my nephews’ fun.

After my infusion of youthful energy, we returned to the parastas, where, in the best Romanian and Christian tradition, everyone was semi wasted and talking loudly over one another. To my surprise, my wife found a bit more space in her stomach and stuffed in some mititei with fries. To balance the family diet, I ate a whole plate of cake. Stuffed like Thanksgiving turkeys, we left with plenty of food “to go”, on top of the customary pomana (the offering of food, drink, and dishes given to guests in remembrance of the departed.)

For thirty minutes we had a Romanian good bye, with countless and vociferous promises to call and see each other again. For real, not with the empty “let’s have a barbecue together sometime” that, as everybody knows, it means never.

By the time we got home, the day felt like a racecourse through every corner of life: mourning, birthdays, rum, toddlers, mititei, and a speedway runabout with a shopping cart. It was chaotic, exhausting, and strangely perfect. Some Saturdays remind you that you are very much alive, even if you’re short of breath after the marathon.

Source: https://iere.org/why-do-people-do-40-days-after-death/