Bet you didn’t know that Yente is actually Romanian.

It’s time for Tales on Tuesday!

I realized I haven’t said much of anything about my travels to Romania, so before I start today’s Îmi place România (“I like Romania”) special, here’s a little background:

I’ve been to Romania three times in the last four years, all with groups from college. I loved the country before I ever set foot there, and the moment I stepped off the plane the first time, that love was only intensified. The people are incredibly beautiful, humble, and vibrant. The food is to die for. The scenery is stunning and diverse. And the language is musical. (No, seriously, the first bit of Romanian I learned was from songs because we were going on a choir tour.) I’ll probably say more about my experiences in Romania as time goes on, but I just wanted to introduce the topic a little before I tell today’s funny story. So here it goes!

It was my second trip to Romania, which was the summer of 2007. I had just graduated from college, and I was dating Burt (previously mentioned in last week’s TMI). During the last two weeks, everyone from our team had flown home except me and another girl, Raeshell. We were having a blast exploring the town on our own, helping our Hungarian host family with cooking and prison correspondence, and reading out loud to each other (total nerds, right?). One morning while we were at our host family’s church, this little old lady walked up to me and began chattering excitedly to me — in Romanian. She was grabbing my arm, touching my face, and I could pick out words like beautiful, my son, and doctor. Yeah…she was definitely telling me that I was her son’s future wife. All I could do was smile and say thank you when she called me beautiful, and try to convey the fact that I was NOT on the market. Unfortunately, “on the market” was not a phrase I had learned to say in Romanian, nor was “boyfriend.” Suddenly I heard this woman say something about breakfast and coming over to her house.

Ohhh, crap. Crap crap crap!

Wait… She doesn’t even know where I’m staying! I thought.

Nope, she definitely knew. And she definitely sent her husband to our little dormitory the following morning at like, SEVEN a.m., and he pretty much dragged Raeshell and me out of there, into a taxi, and to his home.

On the plus side? We got a really tasty breakfast. But let’s just talk about how awkward this whole attempted “setup” was.

As we walked in the front door, this woman came in squealing with excitement, grabbed me by the arm and took me into another room, where she proceeded to show me picture after picture of her son. He had to be at least 35 years old, and probably no taller than 5’2″. He was studying to become a doctor, and she was very obviously concerned about his lack of wife. She would periodically pause her chipper chatter, frown and mutter something that conveyed the message that her “poor son was almost too old to give her grandchildren.”

AWWWWK. WARRRD.

After humoring her for a good fifteen minutes of picture-viewing, touring her home, and having her touch my face and repeatedly say, “Thank you, Lord,” as if I were a miracle from heaven, we finally rejoined Raeshell in the dining room. And Raeshell, being the genius she is, reminded me that I had a picture of Burt in my purse, and that it was time to let this sweet woman down easy.

I tried to say, in Romanian, something along the lines of, “I’m flattered, but I have a boyfriend,” and I pulled out the photo as I said this. She looked at it, visibly winced a little, then looked up at me, and back at the photo. Up at me. Back at the photo. She held the photo up to my face, as if to examine how we looked together. She looked closely at the photo of Burt — his goofy smile, bald head, and larger frame. She was clearly disappointed, and also noticeably unimpressed by Burt’s appearance. But she finally conceded, and said something like, “Okay, my son will miss you.” (Mind you, her son had never even seen me.) But of course, she didn’t let us leave without giving me her son’s address AND phone number.

And making sure Raeshell and I ate plenty of eggs and deeeeelicious Romanian cheese.

All in all, a great way to spend a morning in Romania, despite the awkwardness of the blatant attempted setup.

Oh, and the next time I went to Romania? I was smart. Since I was now dating Joe, the love of my life and my now-fiance, I wanted to avoid any more unnecessary let-downs for the lovely old ladies of Romania…so I wore one of my plain silver rings on my left ring finger. And it totally worked! These mothers of eligible sons are on the lookout, but they always check the ring finger before wasting any effort on “taken” ladies.