The youth of America has an uncanny knack for leaving behind it, as each generation goes by, a major cultural mark. Its imprints can be seen the world over, sometimes showing up immediately, and sometimes taking decades to take hold and foment change in the minds and clothing of the youth of the world. From the carefree flappers, to the flower children of the sixties, to the self-obsessed disco queens of the seventies and greedy traders of the eighties – each generation created an archetype and their lives evinced a new way of looking at the world.
My generation is no different. We – the slightly amorphous group caught between the late Gen-X and early Gen-Y – too have left an imprint on the cultural and political life of the United States and, to a lesser extent, the rest of the world. Yet, it is a mark that contributed very little to the development of said culture and has rightfully marked us the most self-involved, cynical and, let”s face it, useless generation yet. I refer, of course, to irony. Irony (which, as a major cultural symbol, deserves capitalisation) is certainly not a new concept, but since the early nineties it has taken unshakeable hold on American culture. Irony drips out of our films, songs and books; it permeates our very thoughts, relationships and has even usurped our T-shirts.
At first it was all in good fun: a disillusioned generation with nothing left to fight for and saddled with decades of cultural baggage, bored hordes of latchkey kids reared with a television as a parent-substitute, trying to make sense of it all by declaring loudly that none of it matters. We, with ironically cocked brow, declared crappy old B-movies cool and created Trucker Chic. We had endless discussions about Irony”s true meaning and derided Alanis Morisette for writing an un-ironic song about Irony.
It worked for a while, but lately Irony has gotten out of hand. Nowadays, being earnest is seen as a social disease. Just like our counterparts in the late sixties, we have no faith in a government fighting an unjust war, but instead of protesting or finding escape in the haze of hallucinogens, we find solace in cartoons, slogan T”s and the recycling of bad eighties fashions.
I too have fallen prey to Irony”s clutches and it has gone a long way to curdle my soul with cynicism, but I have been blessed, for I have found my antidote – Romania. This country is, perhaps, one of the very last places remaining in the world (at least the world that doesn”t require massive vaccination to explore) that is, at least in part, completely and blissfully un-ironic.
Oh, of course there is plenty about Romania that inspires unadulterated irony. There is the neon, manele-filled (i.e. a genre of Oriental-flavoured music popular in Romania) gaudiness of Mamaia; the cloyingly sincere hippies of Vama Veche, waxing rhapsodic about the heavenly joys of nudist beaches and outdoor toilets; and then there is the Bucharest Mall on a Sunday evening – the outfits alone are enough to fill me with the evil glee of a cynic sensing fresh prey. Yet there is much about this country and its people that is pure, beautiful or heartrending enough to melt even the most jaded of hearts.
There is, for example, Maramures, with its peaceful villages, where the people are wholesome and kind and the air is filled with the sweetness of freshly cut grass and ripening fruit. In Maramures time seems to stop, as a harried city dweller strolls through the green fields or admires the Zen garden-like perfection of the flowerbeds surrounding the open air wooden churches.
Maramures is home to the Merry Cemetery – probably the most earnest place I have ever seen. It is filled with brightly painted wooden crosses on which simple verses tell the story of the people lying under them in just a few folksy lines. At first it all seems funny and odd, but then a tourist might come across a cross that tells a tale of a young girl who died under a car and suddenly, despite the crude drawings and simple verses, the modest cross conveys far deeper sadness than any grand marble angel with downcast eyes.
There is a train in Maramures that looks like something right out of an old fairytale. It”s small and open, its metal cars painted in bright reds and yellows. It carries local shepherds and assorted workers up the mountain and back. It is a slow and beautiful journey and after a lunch of hardboiled eggs and fresh, sweet tomatoes, one cannot help but feel completely at peace (and at the journey”s end one”s bum cannot help but feel sore, so do bring a pillow).
Other parts of Romania are just as beautiful and pure and, for most part, as yet unspoiled by tourism. Travelling around it allows the kind of genuine, childlike and un-ironic enjoyment that has long since become impossible to find in most of Europe.
Romania is a country of not only exhilarating beauty, but also unfathomable pain. Irony and sarcasm suddenly seem crass when one looks into the eyes of the old women begging for change outside supermarkets – a painful reminder of the many Romanians struggling to keep their heads above water, to make ends meet, to survive.
Thankfully, there are people here who are earnestly trying to make a difference. People like my friend Leslie Hawke, whose work with the Roma families of Bacau is a reminder to us all that a single person can, indeed, change the world, if only a little bit, through sheer determination and strength of character.
I know that one day I will leave Romania. I will bring with me many cherished memories of people and events and I will have been changed forever. I learned many things in Romania, but it taught me what may be the most precious lesson of all: the importance of being earnest.
* Lola Gusman is an U.S. attorney working for the Marco Group in Bucharest. She has lived in Romania for three years.