Last Saturday, my friend Oana invited me over to meet with a soothsayer. I
quickly jumped at the chance in order to expand my cross-cultural
experiences. I had visions of sparkly scarves, big rings, and thick plumes
of smoke from burning incense billowing overhead. Instead, what I found was
a modern apartment with a line of early 80s type women in suits waiting for
a chance to speak with the woman who holds the keys to the future. No smell
of exotic jasmine, rather the air was pungent with the scent of extremely
strong-brewed coffee. Apparently, the soothsayer needs caffeine to stay
connected to the other world.

I was amazed that all the women in the line were Oana’s coworkers from the
law firm. I suppose they are intelligent women who just happen to believe
in the supernatural…spooky! They were all chatting in Romanian, so I was
only able to catch about 40% of what they were saying. Nevertheless, I
continued eavesdropping on their conversations. After all, I am not being
nosey; I am just documenting the cultural similarities and differences,
which is one of my Peace Corps objectives. The women seemed concerned about
the same things that also boggle most twenty/thirty-something women in the
States: Will I get married? Is my boyfriend the right guy? Will I meet a
nice guy? Blah blah blah . . . This chatter was sometimes punctuated with
flip of the hair or a flutter of the paw. Let me clarify. None of the
women I know and love back in the States would talk about such trite things
(hee hee).

These women were obviously at the upper end of the pay scale. They all
looked like they had just stepped out of the old Nancy Reagan catalogue to
which most women in the 80s subscribed. You know, the hair was pulled back
in one of those clips with a big bow (not to be confused with the 90s
headband), they all had on tailored suits with gold buttons and/or piping,
light-colored opaque stockings, and simple black pumps. Their nails were
neatly manicured. Although they were quite polished and well cared for, I
couldn’t help but wonder how many of them flossed. Here, the women will
spend hours primping and making up, but from the condition of the teeth, no
one spends any bani on toothbrushes or floss, and most people have awful
breath. That is if they are not constantly chomping on gum.

When it was finally my turn, I entered the room. My heart sank. At first
glance, the soothsayer just looked like any other fat old charwoman.
Unimpressed, I slowly made my way to a seat beside her. But as I got a
little closer, I started noticing the glorious details. First of all, she
was built like a sturdy rhinoceros, and it didn’t hurt that she was wearing
a knobby, charcoal grey skirt and vest. When she stood up to stretch and
ask for more coffee, her chubby, bluish stumps were bulging over a pair of
high-top sneakers. Her hair was pinned on the top of her head in a thick,
brown and grey semicircular loop. Now the mouth . . . her lips were painted
with bubblegum-pink lipstick and on the bottom, I couldn’t tell what was
going on with the top, she had two decaying teeth remaining that were sort
of angling into each other. Together they formed one small, triangular
greyish tusk. But the piece de resistance, I have saved for last. She had
in the middle of her forehead between her bushy brows a third and fourth
eye. I think some people might call them moles, but these I assure you were
not. One was perched on top of the other like two marble-sized scoops of
ice cream. The top one was a pinkish/purpley color while the lower one was
a milky blue. I am sure they serve as portals to the other side.

To begin, she sat on one of the cards for a few seconds and then added it to
the rest. I am not sure what magical powers lie between her cheeks, but it
seemed important to her. After she removed the card from beneath her rather
large bottom, she placed it in the middle of the deck, and gave them to me
to cut. I divided the cards, and she started flipping wildly. Oana, of
course, was thrilled to translate. I guess she thought she was going to get
the goods on me. They kept asking if I had any questions, but I really
didn’t. I was only there for the ride. After a few shrugs, I managed to
come out with, “Will I stay here for the two years?” This seemed to cause
too much concern from both of them so I quickly switched it to, “Will I be
happy?” That seemed to suit them fine. Sadly, having everything translated
kind of took the zing out of the experience.

The reading was the same type stuff that you’d hear on any psychic friends’
network. I had a long relationship in the past with a dark-haired man.
Given that I am a black woman, the chances are high that I dated a black guy
(and they usually come with dark hair) at some point in time…not a hard
one to foresee. Also, I will get married when I am in my 40s to someone
outside of Romania. Again, that one just shows she too has gotten a gander
(or shall I say whiff) of the trolls strolling through the streets here.
She told me my bed has been empty since I got here and that I had better
have sex soon or I will have hormone problems. AND if I see a twenty-six
year-old with dark hair, I should jump on it because the sex will be great.
I suppose that’s as good a way as any to clear my sinuses. The strangest
was when she said I would spit out a kid. I assure you a small, precocious
bill goat will never come forth from my loins, but we are in Romania and it
is assumed that every woman wants a bundle of screaming/shitting joy. Oh
yeah, someone is going to die in my family next year. But the most curious
is that I will buy a house on an island near the water next year. I better
book my seat now on the next fight to Croatia! I am supposed to buy it with
my sister and parents . . . . So Veta and Mom…get out the old checkbook.
Oh yes, Oana and I will work together here on some legal thing that will be
very successful and require a lot of paperwork…yawn…that’s about it…or
at least all that I see in my crystal ball.

Perhaps if I had gotten to lay my hands upon the portals and turn one
clockwise and the other counter, I could have witnessed the end of the world
or at least an episode of the Sopranos.

Vicki