A scantily clothed man sprints along the shore, fire blazing from the stick in his hand. As he pauses to light each of dozens of torches, the sound of ukuleles wafts from a hotel patio, and the flickering fires cast a shimmering golden glow across the lapping waves.
My father once made a trip overseas. The year was 1955, Europe was struggling to rebuild itself from postwar trauma, and my dad shipped out for Lausanne, Switzerland, to spend a year at conservatory. When his studies were finished, he went to Paris for a week to tour the Louvre. Then he came home, satisfied that he had seen Europe.
“Well I'm gonna go then! And I don't need any of this. I don't need this stuff, and I don't need you. I don't need anything. Except this… Just this ashtray...And this paddle game. The ashtray and the paddle game and that's all I need... And this remote control. - The ashtray, the paddle game, and the remote control, and that's all I need... And these matches.
It is already snowing in Romania’s Transylvania, and winter there is a fairy tale. It is situated deep in the cold heart of Europe, where freezing temperatures arrive in September, and a chill descends over the Carpathian mountains until May.
Hilary Larson |
Special To The Jewish Week |
The stately brick buildings with their white-mantled entryways, elegant blocks of Tudor houses and tidy tree-lined sidewalks of Forest Hills connote solid American values. They speak of community, continuity, middle-class stability.