When we reached Bucharest, his family was waiting outside his sister's house to greet us. After lengthy hugging, kissing, and crying, his family also embraced me, the American wife with two young children.
They had great interest in me. Few Americans visited Romania at that time, and most Romanians had little chance to travel.
I had brought an English/Romanian dictionary with me and managed to communicate, albeit without verbs. My Romanian improved, and the family's stock of English words increased, but mostly I spoke in broken, Brooklyn -accented Romanian.
The sisters loved their gifts of pantyhose and purses, the brothers loved the radios, and the children loved the candy. We made side trips to the Black Sea and the Carpathian Mountains. Dining at outdoor cafes to the sound of gypsy violins was exotic, but nothing was as distinctive as dinners en famille.
Romania didn't have many dry cleaners. Most homes had old-fashioned washing machines but no dryers, and it was a hot summer. My husband's relatives didn't want to risk staining their clothes. Their solution was as simple as it was startling: The women dined in their bras and slips. The men were shirtless. They all had jobs, so time was precious. Disrobing for dinner was a small inconvenience compared with the effort of doing laundry – at least in their household, and perhaps all across Romania.
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