Walks of Life: International exchange of heart

"If you smile at me I will understand because that's something everybody everywhere does in the same language." -Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young So there we were: seven soggy teenage vagabonds all but frost-bitten and tromping through feet of snow in Transylvania, a little sleep deprived, somewhat rank, and a bit, well, stranded. Nay, no one took into consideration that it might be blizzarding in October when we booked ourselves some tents. But, as the man behind the counter at the campsite told us, it was very odd for this time of year. He was sorry, but he didn't have any igloos for rent. Rather, he picked up his phone and started speaking rapid Romanian. Down the receiver went and out the door we shuffled as he lead us down the lonely street for a mile or so. Coming upon a lovely home, he spoke quickly with the woman at the door as she greeted us warmly and ushered us out of the chill. Try as we did hacking away at that Romanian dictionary, no one could quite crack the code - but the tenderness in the woman's face and warm beds she gave us all conveyed what was lost in translation. Multumesc, multumesc, multumesc - thank you, thank you, thank you! Downstairs we were welcomed into a birthday party, nodding and smiling broadly to the gathering of friends and family. In that moment, regardless of the language barrier, we knew that's exactly what we were.

Tucked into bed that night, Soph and I chatted about what an incredible trip it had been so far. It was all concocted a month previously as we stared at our laptops, clicking buttons, booking tickets, and hoping for the best. With an extended fall break on our hands, the name of our game was an attempt trod a bit off the beaten path.

This is precisely how we found ourselves in Bucharest, the capital city. With map-reading Ryan leading the way, we walked duckling-style in tow en-route to our hostel until he subsequently fell down a manhole (side note: avoid obstructing your vision in foreign places). We recalled how we laughed (note #2: always do so with, not at) as we hoisted him up by the arms and pack, ego bruised but dignity intact. Wheeling around, we spotted a tiny old woman shouting and quickly hobbling from behind us. She had witnessed the entire episode. Reaching into her bag, she took a crusty loaf of bread and handed it to our friend, motioning for us to share amongst ourselves. She waved, smiled, and was gone. We looked at one another in astonishment. We were so grateful.

Still reminiscing under the dim moon glow through our window that night, Soph and I further recalled another act of benevolence that had left us speechless. Pattering around Revolution Square in the heart of the city a few days previously, we had passed a lone elderly woman who had taken up residence on a bench near the sprawling memorial. I caught her eye, nodded, and smiled. Stooped and wrinkled in the face, she got up and took my hand in hers as she implored of her "familie," touching the names on the granite, and then her heart, and then to her eyes to wipe away the tears. In a flurry of hand motions and pointing at the inscribed names, it became clear of all the family members she had lost during the violent uprising. Life had been cruel. She clutched my hand to her heart. In a moment her visage softened as she took a step back, smiled up at me, and began to dig through her tattered purse: some tiny green gumdrops, a snack cake, some crackers and finally a dainty embroidered handkerchief all appeared one by one and were placed into my tie-dye mittens. I was taken aback and attempted to thank her in my broken translation. Lighting up with a gapped tooth grin, she once again took my hands in hers and kissed my cheeks before backing away. Over her shoulder she waved, leaving us all trying to comprehend what had just taken place. From two different worlds, we were able to comprehend each other regardless of language barriers or years or miles that separated us. There was no translation needed. Exchanges of heart are universally understood.

Silence slowly blanketed Sophie and I as we lay drifting into a deep slumber. What I began to identify as the true makings of our adventure began to swirl through my consciousness. It was more than just a combination of trains, planes, automobiles, and a bunch of passport stamps - it was the human element that made these cold cities come to life. The kindness of strangers is something hailed as heroic on the nightly news here at home - how is it that we were so fortunate to have encountered so many wonderful people already? And better yet, why were we so astonished when these souls so readily welcomed a group of scraggly looking kids with open arms? Was there something off-kilter in the fact that we were so surprised? Did that give testament to our own culture and society in which we were raised? Or was it that we truly encountered something special? Perhaps it was combination of all of the above. In a country so plentiful as ours, it seems that sometimes we are barely able give one another the time of day. These people gave from their homes, their pockets, and their hearts. They gave so freely of themselves. They were examples of humanity at its most beautiful, intrinsic level.

That night we fell asleep so warm, so thankful, and instead of counting sheep, we were counting our lucky stars.