I was home, in Cluj, at the beginning of August. “Home” is a strange word. Cluj hasn’t been home for 26 years, and yet, somehow, it still is. But perhaps that’s a story for another time.

As usual, I was looking for “new” books, and perhaps some “new” Romanian authors to bring back in my suitcase to Seattle. The books, not the authors. “New,” of course, is a relative term. Cărtărescu still feels new to me, even though I’ve been reading him for more than 25 years.

A comment on Facebook reminded me of Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu. Often called “Romania’s Agatha Christie,” she wrote dozens of mystery novels and created characters that have stayed in the memories of generations of Romanian readers. I hadn’t thought about her in a long time, and I hadn’t read any of her books in years, but, God, how I loved them! I remember the excitement of discovering one I hadn’t read yet, and those Sundays in my teenage years when I would shut myself in my room and read all day.

The truth is, I’ve always had a weakness for detective stories and mysteries, and Agatha Christie was, of course, my favorite. I always loved Miss Marple more than Hercule Poirot. I enjoyed the Poirot stories too, but if I’d had to choose, I would have picked Miss Marple every time.

And then I discovered Melania Lupu.

It was magic.

Back then, I thought she was an absolutely impossible and utterly charming little old lady. I still find her just as charming. It’s just that, somewhere along the way, I’ve developed some issues with the definition of “old.”

Melania, like Miss Marple, is a sweet little old lady, with an extraordinary mind and a talent for seeing what no one else sees.

But unlike Miss Marple, Melania lives somewhere in a gray area between the good character and the bad one (although, let’s be honest, it is almost impossible to truly see her as the bad guy). Even poor Major Cristescu comes to admire her, to like her and, sometimes, almost to enjoy their ongoing duel.

In Agatha Christie’s novels (and, in fact, in much of classic detective fiction) the lines are clearer. There is the detective, whether a police officer, a private investigator, or simply a very curious little old lady from an English village; there are the suspects; and somewhere among them, there is the culprit. By the end, the lines fall neatly into place and everyone ends up on their proper side.

Melania ruins all that order.

She can be the detective, the suspect, and the culprit, all at once. She can solve the mystery while simultaneously being the person you probably should have been wary of from the very beginning. She is admirable and formidable as an adversary, while somehow remaining very, very sweet.

And this is where I wonder whether this is precisely what makes her so Romanian. That refusal to fit neatly into a category. Is Melania an expression of a Romanian spirit that doesn’t quite believe in dividing people simply into “good” and “bad,” that has a soft spot for the trickster when the trickery comes with enough charm and intelligence, and that can forgive a character almost anything if we like them enough? Or is it simply Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu and her extraordinary talent for creating a character whom, by all the rules, we really shouldn’t love quite this much?

In any case, Melania Lupu remains one of my favorite characters of all time, but, of course, Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu’s world doesn’t end with her.

I had already rummaged through my mother’s library and found a few of the old editions from the 1970s, the very books I had read as a teenager. So you can imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered, in the bookstores of Cluj, that Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu’s novels had been republished and that, suddenly, all those stories I had loved were there again, on the shelves, within reach.

Obviously, I started buying.

I didn’t manage to bring them all back to Seattle. Unfortunately, suitcases have limits that my literary enthusiasm refuses to acknowledge.

But a few of Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu’s books made the journey with me. Among them, of course, Melania. And so, having gone to Cluj in search of “new” Romanian authors, I came back to Seattle with one of my oldest.

I’ll be going back. :)

Romanian, original

Am fost acasă, la Cluj, la începutul lui august. „Acasă” e un termen ciudat. Clujul nu a mai fost acasă de 26 de ani și, totuși, încă e acasă. Dar despre asta poate altădată.

Căutam, ca de obicei, cărți „noi” și poate niște autori români „noi” pe care să-i aduc în valiză la Seattle. Cărțile, nu autorii. „Nou” e, desigur, un termen relativ. Cărtărescu e încă nou pentru mine, deși îl citesc de mai bine de 25 de ani.

Un comentariu pe Facebook mi-a reamintit de Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu. Numită adesea „Agatha Christie a României”, a scris zeci de romane polițiste și a creat personaje care au rămas în memoria generațiilor de cititori români. Nu mă mai gândisem de mult la ea și nici nu mai citisem nimic de-al ei de ani buni, dar, Doamne, cât de mult mi-au plăcut cărțile ei! Îmi amintesc bucuria cu care descopeream câte una pe care nu o citisem încă și duminicile din adolescență în care stăteam toată ziua închisă în camera mea, citind.

Adevărul este că am avut mereu o slăbiciune pentru romanele polițiste, pentru mistere, iar Agatha Christie a fost, bineînțeles, favorita mea. Pe Miss Marple am iubit-o întotdeauna mai mult decât pe Hercule Poirot. Citeam și poveștile cu Poirot cu mare plăcere, dar, dacă ar fi trebuit să aleg, aș fi ales-o oricând pe Miss Marple.

Și apoi am descoperit-o pe Melania Lupu.

A fost magic.

Mi se părea atunci o bătrânică absolut imposibilă și fermecătoare. Si acum mi se pare la fel de fermecătoare. Doar că între timp am niște probleme cu definiția cuvântului „bătrână”.

Melania, ca si Miss Marple, este a sweet little old lady, cu o minte extraordinară și cu talentul de a vedea ceea ce nimeni altcineva nu vedea.

Dar, spre deosebire de Miss Marple, Melania se află undeva într-o zonă gri, între personajul pozitiv și cel negativ (deși, să fim sinceri, este aproape imposibil să o vezi cu adevărat ca pe un personaj negativ). Până și bietul maior Cristescu ajunge să o admire, să o placă și, uneori, aproape să se bucure de duelul lor.

În romanele Agathei Christie și, de fapt, în mare parte din literatura polițistă clasică, lucrurile sunt mai clare. Există detectivul, fie el polițist, particular sau doar o bătrânică foarte curioasă dintr-un sat englezesc, există suspecții și, undeva printre ei, există vinovatul. La sfârșit, liniile se așază frumos și fiecare ajunge de partea lui.

Melania strică toată această ordine.

Ea poate fi și detectiv, și suspect, și vinovat. Poate să rezolve misterul și, în același timp, să fie persoana de care ar fi trebuit probabil să te ferești de la bun început. Este admirabilă și de temut ca adversar, în timp ce rămâne, cumva, foarte, foarte sweet.

Și aici mă întreb dacă nu cumva tocmai asta o face atât de românească. Refuzul acela de a încăpea frumos într-o categorie. Este Melania expresia unui spirit românesc care nu prea crede în împărțirea simplă a oamenilor în „buni” și „răi”, care simpatizează cu șmecherul dacă șmecheria are suficient farmec și inteligență și care poate ierta aproape orice unui personaj dacă îl place destul? Sau este pur și simplu Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu și talentul ei extraordinar de a crea un personaj pe care, conform tuturor regulilor, n-ar trebui să-l iubești chiar atât de mult?

În orice caz, Melania Lupu rămâne unul dintre personajele mele preferate din toate timpurile, dar, bineînțeles, lumea Rodicăi Ojog-Brașoveanu nu se oprește la ea.

Scotocisem deja prin biblioteca mamei și găsisem câteva dintre volumele vechi, din anii ’70, pe care le citisem în adolescență. Dar vă puteți imagina surpriza și bucuria mea când am descoperit, în librăriile din Cluj, că romanele Rodicăi Ojog-Brașoveanu au fost republicate și că, dintr-odată, toate poveștile acelea pe care le iubisem erau din nou acolo, pe rafturi, la îndemână.

Evident, am început să cumpăr.

Nu am reușit să le aduc pe toate în Seattle. Valiza are, din păcate, limite pe care entuziasmul meu literar refuză să le accepte.

Dar câteva dintre cărțile Rodicăi Ojog-Brașoveanu au făcut călătoria cu mine. Printre ele, bineînțeles, și Melania. Și uite așa, plecată la Cluj să caut autori români „noi”, m-am întors la Seattle cu unul dintre cei mai vechi.

Mai merg. :)

Robotics can look intimidating: mechanical design, wiring electronics, programming. CAD, Java and more. Where does a beginner even start?

For our latest ARCS Youth feature, we’re turning the Journal over to Theo Balan, a high school student from the Seattle area who is sharing something he knows well: how to find your way into robotics.

We’re especially excited to feature a project created by a young member of our community that combines curiosity, technical knowledge, and the desire to make what he has learned accessible to others.

Through the series, Theo takes viewers behind the scenes of FTC: how robots are designed and built, what happens at competitions, and which skills are useful for someone just getting started. Along the way, he introduces everything from CAD and Java to the fundamentals of robot building, from the perspective of a student who has already been through that learning process himself.

And because we especially love seeing young people connect their interests with their Romanian heritage, FTC Explained is available with both English and Romanian subtitles.

Episode 1

In the first episode, Theo introduces FTC and begins answering a deceptively simple question: What does it actually take to get started in competitive robotics?

Youtube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/@EngineeringinMind
English captions:

Romanian captions:

This is only the beginning. More episodes of FTC Explained are coming to ARCS Journal as Theo continues exploring the world of robotics, one beginner-friendly step at a time.

About FTC Explained

FTC Explained is a beginner‑friendly mini-series created by Theo Balan, a high school student in the Seattle area with a strong interest in robotics and experience in both FTC and FRC. The series is designed for students interested in robotics, engineering, coding, and FIRST Tech Challenge. Episodes introduce how FTC works, how teams build their robots, and what competitions look like behind the scenes. Theo wants his peers to feel comfortable stepping into robotics and he highlights the beginner skills worth learning, from CAD and Java to simple robot building. The videos are available with English and Romanian subtitles.

Clic… o poză în Maramureșul copilăriei mele.

Haida, hai la Maramu’, no hai amu’…

Așa cum spun poeții români, am simțit și eu că eternitatea s-a născut la țară, într-o seară liniștită de vară, pe unul din dealurile micuțului sat Drăghia, din județul Maramureș. Eram adolescentă și îmi însoțisem bunica la datul oilor în strungă. Priveam apusul înroșit și simțeam pe obraji prospețimea aerului, în timp ce glasul sătenilor și talăngile oilor mă țineau oarecum ancorată în realitate. Bunicii mei, lelea Elvira și badea Victor a lui Ariton, erau mulțumiți când nepoata de la Cluj participa la astfel de activități. Îmi plăcea mult să calc „fârcituri” ca să pot coborî pe „furcoi” la sfârșit, și în general să ajut la întorsul și strânsul fânului înmiresmat. Dar cel mai mult îmi plăcea să merg cu „ojina” la bunicu’ la coasă, căci așa, toată ziua, străbăteam fără griji dealurile Drăghiei împreună cu verișoarele mele.

Într-adevăr, păstrez în suflet amintiri dragi despre locuri și oameni din Drăghia. Mă văd aievea pe „drumul țării”, adică drumul asfaltat ce trecea prin sat, legându-l de alte sate, unde ne plimbam duminica cu fetele și verișoarele de seama mea; pe „pietrișul” de la intrarea în sat, unde iarna ne dădeam cu săniuța; pe ulițele întortocheate ale satului; și la „căminul cultural”, unde jucam la nunți și baluri. Acordurile ceterii îmi răsună și acum în inimă, peste mări și țări unde nu visam să ajung vreodată, darmite să joc ca în Maramu’... Colindele de Crăciun pe care le cânt și acum le știu din Drăghia, de pe vremea când umblam după colaci din casă în casă, unde întâlneam oameni blânzi și primitori. Desigur, căsuța bunicilor, unde număram puii aurii, poamele și ciupercile înșirate pe ață și lemnele de foc, este un refugiu în sufletul meu.

Biserica, în curtea căreia este înmormântat străbunicul meu și pentru care bunica a făcut multe șterguri, și chiar și biserica veche de lemn sunt folosite și îngrijite de generațiile satului și e uimitor să le văd astăzi pe internet.

Mă simt binecuvântată și privilegiată că am avut bunici țărani, că am copilărit în Maramureș, că am cunoscut un mod de viață ce dispare cu încetul – viața în ritmul naturii, cu grijă pentru oameni și suflet.

English version

Click… and a picture from the Maramureș of my childhood

Come to Maramu’, come now.

As Romanian poets say, I too felt that eternity was born in the countryside, on a quiet summer evening, on one of the hills of the small village of Drăghia, in Maramureș County. I was a teenager and I had accompanied my grandmother to bring the sheep into the pen. I would watch the red sunset and feel the freshness of the air on my cheeks while the voices of the villagers and the bleating of the sheep kept me somewhat anchored in reality. My grandparents, lelea Elvira and badea Victor, were pleased when their granddaughter from Cluj participated in such activities.

I really liked to help build the huge haystacks so that I could slide down on the “furcoi” at the end, and, in general, to play with the fragrant hay. But most of all, I liked to bring food to my grandfather in the fields, because that way I would cross the hills of Drăghia without a worry all day long with my cousins.

Indeed, I keep fond memories of places and people from Maramureș in my heart. I can still see myself on the “country road,” that is, the paved road that passed through the village, connecting it to other villages, where we would walk on Sundays with my cousins and other girls; at the entrance to the village, where we would go sledding in winter; along the winding paths of the village; and at the cultural center, where we would folk dance at weddings and parties village dances.

The sounds of the violin still resonate in my heart, across oceans and countries that I never dreamed of ever reaching, let alone folk dancing like in Maramu’... The Christmas carols that I still sing I learned in Drăghia, when we would go caroling from house to house, where we would meet kind and welcoming people.

Of course, my grandparents’ cottage, where we would count the golden chicks, the apples and mushrooms strung on a thread, and the firewood, is a refuge in my soul. The church, in the courtyard of which my great-grandfather is buried, and for which my grandmother made many embroideries, and even the old wooden church, are used and cared for by generations of the village, and it is amazing to see them on the internet.

I feel blessed and privileged to have had peasant grandparents, to have grown up in Maramureș, and to have known a way of life that is slowly disappearing – life in the rhythm of nature, with care for people and the soul.

Într-o zi frumoasă, Viorel se uita cum prietenii lui se jucau cu o minge. Mingea s-a spart și a început să se rostogolească spre el. Din greșeală, Viorel a căzut în ea. Când a încercat să iasă, și-a dat seama că țepii lui s-au prins în minge și nu o mai putea desprinde.

La început s-a speriat, dar prietenii lui au început să râdă și au descoperit că acum se puteau juca și cu Viorel fără să se înțepe. Au alergat, au râs și s-au distrat împreună, iar Viorel a fost fericit că, în sfârșit, putea participa la joacă fără ca țepii lui să îi înțepe.

Note: Illustrations created for ARCS Journal with AI-assisted tools.

Founded by Claudia Banu and Mariana Bodea approximately five years ago, Pizzeria La Rocca is a Romanian-owned pizzeria located in the Seattle metropolitan area. Acclaimed for their artisan pizzas and award-winning wines, the pizzeria transcends cultural boundaries, blending classic Italian cooking with rich Romanian heritage.

Pizza, in more ways than one, is like an original piece of artwork. They both take time to create, patience to perfect, and dedication to grow. But most importantly, much like a painting evokes emotion through color and design, a pizza can seamlessly translate the essence of taste into meaningful love and community. At Pizzeria La Rocca, a pizza is crafted the same way: like a work of art that brings people together. Around five years ago, passionate owners Mariana Bodea and Claudia Banu started Pizzeria La Rocca with a clear mission: to seamlessly blend their traditional Romanian hospitality and share their love for cooking and baking. “We are really proud that we were able to create a business and that people get to come to try our food and feel connected”, Mariana Bodea proudly shared. Combining Italian cooking with years of Romanian background, Pizzeria La Rocca offers a wide variety of handmade rustic pizzas, mouthwatering pastas, acclaimed wines, and much more.

To Bodea and Banu, Pizzeria La Rocca is more than just a pizzeria; it is a place where “forming relationships and [maintaining] connections” with customers and each other becomes the “biggest thing.” At the pizzeria, everyone is treated like family, where community and teamwork form a welcoming environment: “We are all like family: we laugh a lot, there is a good vibe in the kitchen, and in the restaurant as well”, Bodea suggested fondly.

Q: What inspired you to become the owner of Pizzeria La Rocca?

Bodea reflected on the time when the pizzeria was just a dream: “I was delighted to start something like the pizzeria,” she stated, “We always wanted to have a restaurant.”

Inspired by family and friends who owned restaurants in Romania, Bodea and Banu decided to open the Italian pizzeria in the Seattle Metropolitan area, where they could share their love for cooking and culture with loved ones and customers.

To Bodea, food’s ability to bring people together is one of the many things she loves most about what she does.

“I like that we have customers that come regularly and we know them and their kids on a personal level; we always learn more about who they are and what they enjoy doing. We greet them, and we share a lot between us.”

Those who enter Pizzeria La Rocca are never strangers, but friends, welcomed by the genuine hospitality of the owners and hardworking staff.

“We have the courage to say anything, and we always laugh a lot between all of us”, Bodea shared. At the pizzeria, laughter and conversations are shared daily, brought together by the spirit of teamwork and warm hospitality. Pizzeria La Rocca is not an ordinary pizzeria located on the corner of a street- it is a hidden gem that magically fosters a sense of family and cultural bonding over authentic Italian food.

Q: What were some of the challenges you faced in the beginning?

“The COVID-19 pandemic”, Bodea recalled with gravity. “It was hard during the first few weeks, primarily due to the outbreak.”

When Bodea reflected on the pizzeria’s greatest difficulties during the pandemic, lack of ingredients and staffing shortages were the biggest concerns: “Our flour was imported from Italy and [the pizzeria] had insufficient access. We also struggled to find people to staff on most days.” Overcoming the obstacles the pandemic threw in the pizzeria’s path, Pizzeria La Rocca has achieved phenomenal recognition since it was founded during the global COVID-19 outbreak. Given the pizzeria’s several milestones of success, such as winning gold recognition for Best Pizza and Best Italian Restaurant, as well as the People’s Choice Award in the Pacific Northwest by The Seattle Times, Bodea attributed some of this success to hard work and hospitality–two characteristics that she believes are shared among the Romanian people.

“I think that the most important thing about running our business is hospitality,” Bodea remarked. “I would say that we are very hospitable, very keen to welcome people, and I think this definitely comes from our Romanian background.”

Without hospitality and strong customer connections, Bodea believes that the pizzeria “wouldn’t have such a nice atmosphere, and it would be something that shows in the food.” The food Pizzeria La Rocca offers, after all, is what truly breaks cultural barriers.

“I am very involved with everything regarding Pizzeria La Rocca,” explained Bodea enthusiastically with a smile. With dreams to expand the pizzeria and continue sharing warm laughs and friendly relationships across the Pacific Northwest, Bodea and Banu emphasize the importance of teamwork, organization, and accountability as the core pillars of their work ethic: “Teamwork and accountability are very important, [but] organization is the biggest thing.”

Similar to how soil, water, and sun are essential components for a flower to grow, Bodea described each of the qualities as necessary to achieve success and lead a restaurant effectively.

“I think that being very organized in a business, especially as a restaurant, is very important,” the business owner shared. “You need to have control from the start and make sure that you are organized for the department that comes every six months to inspect the produce and quality of the restaurant.”

According to Bodea, successfully running a business requires much more than strategic planning and tidiness alone; it also needs building trust within the community of customers and staff, which is a priority of building an atmosphere like that of Pizzeria La Rocca’s.
“You need accountability; make sure that your products and appliances come in on time, and that you can come up with solutions as they arise.”

There are lots of tasks and responsibilities that come with being an entrepreneur. As a dedicated business owner, Bodea rarely gets to spend her time out of the kitchen: “I can get extremely busy.”

When not busy working at the pizzeria and scaling the business, Bodea enjoys spending most of her time with her family or pursuing outdoor hobbies.

Q: What do you enjoy doing outside of being a business owner of Pizzeria La Rocca?

Bodea stated fondly, “Hiking is one of my favorites. I really enjoy going outside and being with my family.”

She typically finds herself spending time with her two sons or cooking, something she says“inspired me to start Pizzeria La Rocca.”

Bodea also reflected on her family’s shared love of going to different restaurants and trying new things whenever they can.

Bodea remarked, “We frequently go to restaurants around the area and try new things”, commenting that their favorite thing is getting to “connect with new people and explore different areas.”

When asked what advice Bodea would share with the younger generation of aspiring entrepreneurs, Bodea’s words were expressed with confidence: “It’s a lot of work, but definitely worth it.” Reflecting on the differences of having a job versus being a business owner, Bodea shared that when showing up for a regular job, “it can be easy to just stick to work hours”, but that “when you are showing up for yourself, these hours vary greatly because you need to ensure that everything is going perfectly. And because you want everything to go perfectly, you end up loving the process as well.”

Mariana Bodea and Claudia Banu founded Pizzeria La Rocca with a shared mission to blend traditional Italian cooking with the Romanian hospitality they grew up with. Now, the pizzeria is a place where individuals can indulge in authentic cuisine, build lasting relationships, and create precious memories that last a lifetime.

About the Series

Romanian Entrepreneurs of the Pacific Northwest is an ARCS Journal series featuring Romanian-owned businesses in the Pacific Northwest. Through meaningful conversations with local entrepreneurs and business leaders, the series explores the unique stories behind their companies, the challenges they’ve overcome, and the experiences that have shaped their success.

About the Authors

Ariana and Catarina Pirvu are students attending Woodinville High School with a strong passion for business and their Romanian culture. The two created this series in hopes of learning from and sharing the special experiences of local Romanian entrepreneurs with the Romanian community.

“Hmm,” the little right hand points to a spot marked with the least disturbance, save for a couple of shells and a feather sticking out of the sand. I smooth out the ground a little more, sweeping my foot across a broad area before throwing the larger towel into the wind and letting it settle evenly.

Beyond a brief slope, the loose sand becomes dense and compact from the tide; then black, red, brown, and white rocks peek above the sand as the tide breathes. A thin filament of salty foam brushes the crevasses between our toes before fast, cool waves playfully embrace our ankles or calves (or thighs if you’re only 3 feet tall on a good day), then pull you toward them like you’re a dear friend not seen in too long.

I take out a few of the toys – a little green turtle mold, a shovel, a rake, and a yellow bucket – for when he decides to come back and play, but for now, he’s curious about the little treasures revealed by the green seafoam.

My little one is standing on the cool dense sand, observing the way his toes don’t sink deep here like they did above the slope. He’s looking beyond with a sense of wonder and awe I can’t quite comprehend anymore.

“Big wawa!” he yells over the wind and sounds of elements colliding into something magnificent. “Woooow!” His little voice intertwining with the wind, dancing along with it, then carried up and away.

Here they were, these little moments, sharing stories, talking over each other like a band of aunties over a meal. Little rounded rocks of muted earthy tones with the occasional flash of bleached white, bits of sea shells black, grey, and beige – each one another sunny day taken for granted, all of my awkward moments that no one noticed (or remembered) except me, a kind word spoken by a stranger that meant the world at that moment, a genuine laugh at a joke someone should have been arrested for, a sudden release of pressure from the chest after realizing I was indeed going to survive this.

When I was young, this was a place where everything was carried off by the water or torn away by the wind – sometimes where the rain became a quiet absolution that numbed the sting of deep wounds, then purified the cuts so I could keep going.

It’s astounding that a trivial place can do such a thing – allow you to slip through a fine filament to a different world for a little while where time stands still just for you, but keeps going for others, and the voices of the outside world, with all its expectations, are put on hold so you have a moment just to catch your breath. To remind you that your thoughts have a safe place to live and run wild, another little stone, a pattern of pelicans flying overhead, or a distant lifeguard tower serving as totems of this sacred space.

Every moment here lives stratified just beneath the fresh grains of the present one, layered like sediment and appearing as the tide exhales and pulls away.

He’s gathering little fragments, holding them up for me to see, carrying them around for a minute, sorting them into piles, then returning them to the water. Little pieces of my own history written across it were noticed, honored, then released into the world to find peace by these little hands.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, kneel down to get the perfect angle of him looking out towards the water, snap a photo. I’ll probably only go back to look at the photo a handful of times, but this moment has etched itself on a little stone somewhere in the sand.

Recently, I met up with my sister in Lombardy. The first photograph we took together- we had, of course, to send our mother proof that we had found each other - happened to be in front of a roadside shrine.

We expected her usual response, something along the lines of, “I’m happy you found each other!”

Instead, the message that came almost immediately had nothing to do with us.

Mom looked at the shrine.

“It looks like the roadside shrines back home.”

For my mother, “home” meant the villages of Muntenia, her parents’ house in Vulcana Pandele, and her aunt’s house in Brănești.

I asked her what she remembered about those shrines.

They were built by well-to-do people. Sometimes by one family, sometimes several villagers would join together and build one in memory of their parents and ancestors. Or to ask for the Virgin Mary’s goodwill and protection. Or to show their gratitude for what life had given them, or what God, in His great mercy, had given them.

Some of the shrines, however, also carried memories of tragedy. During the strong summer storms, it happened more than once that people who took shelter from the rain inside the shrines were struck by lightning. The community saw these events as punishments from God for things the people who were struck had done, or even for things their ancestors had done.

And how did people know what sin the person was being punished for?

Well, that’s when the discussions about the family’s history would begin. People talked during the three days and three nights of the wake. The discussions usually ended with the funeral.

But what do you remember about these shrines?

Mostly I remember the strong summer storms. Sometimes they caught me on the road between Vulcana and Brănești, between our house and my aunt’s house.

This road comes up again and again in my mother’s stories, for all sorts of strange reasons.

And why did you make that trip so often?

Well, you see, my mother would wake up in the morning and decide she was going to make soap. It annoyed me my entire childhood that she couldn’t prepare for it the day before. She was always missing something, and I had to run off and get it. Usually she was missing salt. Salt was very important. If you didn’t add it at the right moment, the soap would separate.

And then there was the lovage.

We had an enormous lovage plant by the gate. But my mother would pick the whole thing at once instead of leaving some for next time. It would dry up, and once again we had no lovage. So then it was, “Go get some lovage from Auntie Fina.” “Go get some parsley from Auntie Fina.”

And the storms would catch you on these trips?

Yes. Most of the time I would sit down by the side of the road and wait for the storm to calm down a little, so I wouldn’t be a moving target for the lightning. It would never even have crossed my mind to take shelter inside a shrine. The old people said you shouldn’t shelter in a shrine during a storm; tradition said it was a sin. And by then I had also learned some physics, around sixth grade. The old people’s advice and the laws of nature agreed on this one: you don’t hide in a shrine when there’s lightning.

But according to tradition, were the people who took shelter there struck by lightning only if they had sinned?

There is no such thing as a person without sin.

For example, you said you were going to pick parsley from the garden, but instead you went off to play. That’s a sin.

In the world of her childhood, it seems the distance between sin, parsley, and divine punishment could be surprisingly short.

Were you afraid of sin when you were little?

I was afraid of lightning and thunder.

And just like that, from a photograph in a beautiful place, a memory for the future and a thought sent home to our mother, we found ourselves on the road between Brănești and Vulcana Pandele, among roadside shrines, summer storms, stories about the sins of our ancestors, soap that would separate if you didn’t add the salt at the right moment, and the eternal shortage of lovage in a household that, paradoxically, had an enormous lovage plant by the gate.

We sent home a photograph from Lombardy.

Mom sent us back a piece of the Muntenia of her childhood.

*************************************************************************

Romanian, original

Din Lombradia la Brănești

De curând m-am întâlnit în Lombardia cu sora mea. Prima fotografie împreună - trebuia, bineînțeles, să-i trimitem mamei dovada că ne-am găsit - s-a întâmplat să fie în fața unei troițe.

Ne așteptam la răspunsul ei obișnuit, ceva de genul „Mă bucur că v-ați întâlnit și ce frumos vă stă împreună!”

În schimb, mesajul care a venit aproape imediat nu avea nimic de-a face cu noi.

Mama s-a uitat la troita.

“Seamănă foarte mult cu troițele de acasă.”

Pentru mama, „acasă” însemna satele din Muntenia, casa părinților in Vulcana Pandele și casa mătușii din Branesti.

Am întrebat-o ce își amintește despre troițele acelea.

Erau făcute de oameni înstăriți. Uneori de câte o familie, alteori se asociau mai mulți săteni și ridicau o troiță în memoria moșilor și strămoșilor. Sau ca să atragă bunăvoința și ocrotirea Maicii Domnului. Sau ca să-și arate recunoștința pentru ceea ce le oferise viața ori Dumnezeu, în marea Lui milostenie.

Unele troițe păstrau însă și amintirea unor tragedii.

În timpul furtunilor puternice de vară s-a întâmplat de mai multe ori ca oameni care se adăposteau de ploaie în troițe să fie trăsniți. Comunitatea considera asemenea întâmplări pedepse ale lui Dumnezeu pentru fapte săvârșite de cei trăsniți sau chiar pentru fapte săvârșite de strămoșii lor.

Și de unde se știa pentru ce păcat fusese pedepsit omul?

Păi începeau discuțiile despre istoria familiei lui. Se vorbea în cele trei zile și trei nopți de priveghi. Discuțiile se încheiau, de obicei, odată cu înmormântarea.

Dar tu ce-ți amintești despre troițele astea?

Îmi amintesc mai ales furtunile puternice de vară. Mă prindeau uneori pe drumul dintre Vulcana si Branesti, între casa noastră și casa mătușii mele.

Drumul acesta apare de mai multe ori în poveștile mamei, pornind de la cauze care mai de care mai ciudate.

Si de ce făceai atât de des drumul ăsta?

Pai uite, mama se trezea dimineața și se hotăra că face săpun. M-a enervat toată copilăria că nu se pregătea și ea cu o zi înainte. Întotdeauna îi lipsea ceva și eu trebuia să plec fuga-fuga să aduc. De obicei îi lipsea sarea. Sarea era foarte importantă. Dacă nu o puneai la momentul potrivit, se tăia săpunul.

Mai era și leușteanul.

Aveam la poartă o tufă de leuștean cât toate zilele. Numai că mama îl culegea pe tot odată, în loc să mai lase și pentru data viitoare. Se usca și noi iar nu aveam leuștean. Și atunci: „Du-te după leuștean la tanti Fina.” „Du-te după pătrunjel la tanti Fina.”

Și te prindeau furtunile pe drumurile astea?

”Da. De cele mai multe ori ma asezam pe marginea drumului si asteptam sa se mai potoleasca furtuna, să nu fiu o țintă în mers pentru fulgere. Nici prin minte nu mi-ar fi trecut să mă adăpostesc într-o troiță. Bătrânii spuneau că nu trebuie să te adăpostești într-o troiță pe vreme de furtună, tradiția spunea că ar fi păcat. Si mai si învățasem fizică, prin clasa a șasea. Motivația din spatele sfaturilor bătrânilor si legile naturii erau de acord - nu te ascunzi in troita cind fulgera.”

Dar ce spunea traditia, oamenii care se adăposteau acolo erau trăsniți numai dacă aveau păcate?

“Nu există om fără păcat.”

“De examplu, ai mințit că te-ai dus să culegi pătrunjel din grădină, dar tu, de fapt, te-ai dus și te-ai jucat. E pacat”

În lumea copilăriei ei, se pare că distanța dintre păcat, pătrunjel și pedeapsa divină putea fi surprinzător de mică.

Ție îți era frică de păcat când erai mică?

“Îmi era frică de trăsnet și de tunet.”

Si uite asa, dintr-o fotografie intr-un loc frumos, o amintire pentru viitor si un gand pentru mama, am ajuns la drumul dintre Brănești și Vulcana Pandele, troițe, furtuni de vară, poveștile despre păcatele strămoșilor, săpunul care se tăia dacă nu puneai sarea la timp și eterna lipsă de leuștean dintr-o gospodărie care avea, paradoxal, o tufă cât toate zilele.

Noi am trimis acasă o fotografie din Lombardia.

Mama ne-a trimis înapoi o bucată din Muntenia copilăriei ei.

At the end of June, we invited writers to send us flash stories inspired by Liliana Sâmbotin’s Gate of Blossoms. What emerged was a collection of poems and flash stories.

Every writer took the original work of art in a different direction, discovering a world that could only have emerged from that particular meeting between the artwork and the writer. The art piece became several new works of fiction, each independent of the original and yet impossible without it.

That is what art does. While we meet in our appreciation of its beauty, it speaks differently to all of us, allowing us to complete it with everything we have lived, and to feel it in our own special way.

The Gate of Blossoms became a search for truth, a longing for memory, one encounter with loss and unexpected kindness, a meditation on the invitations we choose to refuse, and the ones we choose to follow.

Each writer approached the same blue door carrying different memories and different fears, different questions. The painting remained the same. The worlds they discovered did not.

The challenge may be ending, but the gate is waiting for the next person who pauses long enough to wonder what lies beyond a blue door beneath purple blossoms.

The Truth, by Ariana Pîrvu

Nostalgia, by Catarina Pîrvu

Feeling Blue, by Barbara Fuller

Gate of Blossoms, by Liliana Sâmbotin

Wild Enough, by Diana Sâmbotin

The Vandalist, by Erin Steele

The Door in the Wall Shall Remain Closed, by Ileana Marin

The Stories Behind the Door, by Sanda Berar

Thoughts, Haiku by Camelia Clinciu

The Blue Door, by Zoe Leetch

As soon as I saw Catarina’s striking photograph of the eye close-up, it made me think of Man Ray’s famous image, “Tears”.

An upturned female gaze with the typical overplucked eyebrows of that time (1932), mascara meticulously brushed on eyelashes and a sprinkling of clear glass tears.

The iconic photograph is believed to have been made after Man Ray’s breakup with Lee Miller, his muse and lover. In her own right, she was a model turned war photojournalist. Whatever the actual circumstances of their breakup, the glass tears seem to imply that there was some emotional artifice.

Fun fact: “Tears” is very likely the reference for one of the shots in Quentin Tarantino’s film Pulp Fiction.

Another fun fact: Man Ray was one of the leading figures in the surrealist and Dada movements. Romanian artist and poet Tristan Tzara is remembered as the father of the anti-establishment Dadaism - dada translates to “yeah, yeah” in Romanian.

It’s like playing six degrees of separation with visual references. Fun, right?

Another image that comes to mind is “Țărancă voioasă” (Cheerful Peasant Woman), an 1894 oil painting by Nicolae Grigorescu. There’s something about that similar quality of light and slight tilt of the head that seems to echo Catarina’s image. Grigorescu is another legacy artist, regarded as one of the founders of modern Romanian art.

There’s also this black-and-white portrait by Japanese photographer Daido Moriyama from his Memory series. Here the connecting thread is marked by the dramatic shadows on the woman’s face. But unlike Catarina’s expressive photograph, the high contrast in Moriyama’s image presents an unexpected feeling of ambiguity created by the virtual abyss in the woman’s eyes.

If I take a step back from the shadows and focus more on the light source and expression, I could also include this portrait by photographer Bruce Gilden, who is known for using a bright flash on his unsuspecting targets. It’s really one of his kinder portraits.

Last one - I know, it’s a bit of a stretch.

Now, while Catarina’s image sparked a game Telephone with visual references, I was delighted by the variety of composition techniques the group used on their photo walk.

Ariana’s landscape of the Juanita Bay boldly raised the horizon, which draws the viewer’s gaze to the foreground. The tilt of the camera also emphasises the vastness and proximity to the body of water. Does this perspective give you a slight unease, as if the water is barely contained in the frame?

I first thought of Andrew Wyeth’s painting, “Cristina’s World” (1948), but there are, of course, many examples of this technique in Romanian art. “Despărțirea din urmă” (The Final Parting) by George Ștefănescu-Râmnic (1982).

Stretching that thread again… the silhouettes in the above painting also remind me of this glass sculpture I saw at the Seattle Art Fair a few years ago. This is blown and hot sculpted glass by Jenny Pohlman and Sabrina Knowles.

Sabina and Sorana both used the concept of frame within a frame, as a visual element to create a border inside the image and guide the viewer’s eye.

In his photograph, Henri Cartier-Bresson uses the hole in the wall to focus the viewer’s gaze on the children playing. It also adds some context to the scene, highlighting the contrast of the children adapting to the consequences of political turmoil. It acts as a punctum—what Barthes describes as the detail that pierces the viewer.

In Sabina’s photo, the great blue heron stands out as the clear subject. This is achieved by the use of negative space. Without any other distracting elements in the frame, as the eye goes directly to the subject.

This is Lucio Fontana’s “Spatial Concept, Waiting” (1960). A clean, white canvas dissected by sharp cut lines. It’s simple, powerful and complete.

There are plenty of rules to follow, but ultimately how an image is created comes down to a personal formula of artistic control, instinct, and intent. Do you want to be subtle, create tension, or inspire a feeling of whimsy?

At the edge of a sleepy village stood a brittle old blue door, set into a crumbling stone wall covered slightly by a breathtaking purple wisteria tree.

The origin of the blue door was a complete mystery to the people of this village. No one knew who had built it. There was no house behind it, only the deteriorating wall, the purple wisteria, and the blue door that had been locked for as long as anyone could remember. Everyone except young Mara had given up on trying to open the door. She had always felt a strong, unexplainable pull towards it.

One hot summer afternoon, on her way home from school, Mara noticed something she’d never noticed before scratched into the wall beside the door. Three tiny drawings stared up at her: a dragon, a crown, and a ship.

Suddenly, Mara felt a pull so powerful she instantly reached for the rusted handle.

To Mara’s surprise, the door opened. Beyond it was not another room, but an endless silver forest beneath two moons. Gorgeous blue fireflies drifted between the sparkling silver trees, and rivers flowed upward into the stars. In the distance stood a castle made of the most beautiful crystals Mara had ever seen, its towers glowing like lanterns.

A small fox wearing a red cloak stepped into view from the cover of the shadows.

“You are late,” it said.

Mara blinked in confusion.

“Late for what?” she asked the fox.

“The choosing”, the fox responded, and with a quick flick of its head, three paths materialised in front of her.

The first led toward the castle. The image of a golden crown placed upon a plush red cushion that sat almost patiently on a throne entered her mind. The image quickly disappeared almost as fast as it came.

She turned her head and looked over at the second path, which disappeared into a disturbingly dark forest, where something formidable lurked between the trees. Mara could feel the hot breath of the monster wrap around her body.

Mara swiftly averted her gaze and turned her head once more to see where the third and final path wound its way towards a glistening, shining blue sea, where the largest ship she had ever seen floated calmly against the swaying waves. Its pearlescent white sails flapped briskly against the wind. The ship was so enormous that Mara had to strain her neck backwards to get the full view of the stunning ship.

“Which one is the right path?” Mara asked the little fox.

The fox tilted its head to the side and gazed up at her in slight wonder.

“There is no right path. Only the one you are brave enough to take.”

Mara looked back at the open blue door.

Home was behind her. But her sheer curiosity soon won the battle in her head as she stepped forward towards this new world. As Mara slowly closed the door behind her, the purple wisteria began to glow. Mara marched on towards this new, enchanting realm filled with determination and didn’t once look back towards that blue door behind her, because honestly? What did she really have to lose.

~ a story by Zoe Leetch, age 14.

There was a door in Ada’s grandparents’ village that no longer belonged to any house.

The house had disappeared long before Ada was born. First the roof collapsed, then one wall, then the other, and after a few years nobody was entirely sure where the yard had ended and the road had begun.

Only the door remained.

Every spring it disappeared beneath purple blossoms.

The tree was one of those trees that seem to take flowering personally, covering itself with so many blooms that within a few days you could no longer see the trunk or the branches, only a violet explosion that appeared to have landed accidentally in the middle of the world.

The door was always closed and that, more than anything else, bothered Ada.

Not because there was anything remarkable on the other side. If she stood a few steps to the left, she could see perfectly well what was behind it: a field, some grass, a path leading toward the creek and, farther away, the first houses at the edge of the village.

And yet the door remained closed.

Every day during the summer she passed it several times. On the way to the well. On the way back from the store when her grandmother sent her to buy bread, yeast, or the small sour candies she pretended not to like. On the way to Tanti Tanta’s house carrying apples, eggs, jars, messages, and occasionally information that seemed far too complicated to trust to a child but was entrusted to her anyway.

Every time she passed the door she wondered what would happen if she opened it.

Not what was behind it, that was clear and visible, but what would happen. These seemed to Ada like two entirely different questions.

That summer she was reading Narnia, and the situation became considerably more complicated.

The fact that she could see a field behind the door no longer proved anything. Books had already established that wardrobes were unreliable, mirrors were suspicious, and ordinary-looking objects frequently concealed entire worlds. There was no reason a blue door in a village in Muntenia should behave more honestly than a wardrobe in England.

For several weeks she became convinced that the field was merely a disguise and the real world would reveal itself only after the door opened.

The difficulty was deciding which world she wanted to uncover.

She considered Narnia itself, it seemed like a promising outcome.

On the other hand, if she opened the door and found herself in the story of the Three Little Pigs, she would be deeply disappointed. The entire story irritated her. Everyone made poor decisions and the ending felt undeserved.

Some fairy tales suffered from similar problems. The handsome prince was rarely the most interesting person in the story and even Ileana Cosânzeana, despite possessing exceptionally beautiful hair, appeared to spend too much time waiting for other people to solve her problems.

Winnetou was more attractive. A Journey Around the World in Eighty Days also had potential. Narnia remained a strong candidate.

The summer passed. Then another one. Then another one. The door remained closed.

Ada continued thinking. She got more and more convinced that choosing the wrong story could have serious consequences. If the door opened into a world she did not like, she might be forced to stay there. Books were strangely vague on this subject.

She decided to wait until she was sure.

Years later she realized that she had never opened the door.

The door, meanwhile, appeared perfectly willing to wait.

Later she wrote down the explanation.

EVERY DOOR LEADS SOMEWHERE.

TECHNICALLY CORRECT.

THE DIFFICULT PART IS DECIDING WHICH STORY YOU ARE ENTERING.

My son and I traveled to Chicago together.

For a few days, we walked the same streets, looked up at the same buildings, ate at the same tables, and collected the same small stories.

Then, at the end of the trip, we went to the airport.

He flew home to Helsinki.

I flew home to Seattle.

There was nothing unusual about it. At least, not for us. Families like ours become fluent in airports. We measure distance in flight times rather than miles. We know how to calculate time differences without looking them up and how to plan visits months ahead. We learn to say, "I'll call you when I land," as naturally as "See you tomorrow."

And yet, somewhere between the airport security line and the two flights carrying us in opposite directions, I found myself thinking about the geography of families.

For a long time, the story of migration seemed to have a fairly simple map. You left one country and made a home in another. The old country remained behind, the new country grew around you, and somewhere between the two, you tried to preserve the language, traditions, and values you hoped your children would carry forward.

But what happens when the family no longer has one place it simply calls home?

Children grow up and build lives in countries their parents eventually leave. Brothers and sisters settle on different continents. Grandparents remain in Romania. Cousins speak to each other from time zones eight or ten hours apart. We gather in Cluj, Helsinki, Seattle, Edinburgh, or sometimes in a city like Chicago that belongs to none of us. Then we return home, except home is no longer the same place for everyone.

The map keeps changing.

Maps tell us where a family is.

They don’t tell us how a family is.

What deserves our attention isn’t where our families live, but what still makes them feel like family.

Part of the answer is easy to see. We share a language, memories and traditions. We make a conscious effort to keep those alive because they help us remember where we come from.

But the things that make us a family are often more subtle.

They live in the way we tease one another, in the silences that don't need filling, in what we consider rude or polite, or how long we linger at a table after the meal is over. They are there in the flavors we search for in unfamiliar cities, in stories that grow richer with every retelling, and in laughter that begins before the punchline because everyone already knows what's coming. Sometimes they might even appear in that stubborn instinct to send someone away with food, regardless of how many restaurants, grocery stores, or airports stand between here and their next meal.

Our children may carry these things into lives very different from ours. They may speak several languages, build families whose maps are even more complicated, and be shaped by every place they call home. Romania will be one of those places, even if it is no longer the only one. They may never know where one influence ends and another begins.

Perhaps they don’t need to.

Perhaps this is another place where culture lives.

Not only in the things we deliberately preserve, but in the rhythms of family, in habits that no one remembers teaching, in ways of welcoming, worrying, laughing, celebrating, and saying goodbye.

Romania is present in those rhythms, even when our homes are scattered across the world.

At the airport in Chicago, my son and I went home in different directions.

But for families scattered across countries, home is no longer where we meet. Home is who recognizes us when we arrive.

Living Edge is an interior design and home staging company based in Bellevue, founded by Romanian entrepreneur and CEO Larisa Kocsis.

There is a common saying that goes, “a house is different from a home.” A house is a structure that provides shelter, privacy, and a place to reside. On the other hand, a home is a timeless sanctuary of comfort that fills the emptiness, brings people together, and complements their way of life. At first, the house is empty- nothing but polished wooden floors and freshly painted walls with windows. With staging, the house is transformed into a home. This job doesn’t just happen on its own- it is made possible by a team of talented designers and staging professionals who foster collaboration. “Collaboration will always be key,” says founder and CEO Larisa Kocsis. Living Edge was established to help homeowners and real estate agents transform properties into welcoming, market-ready homes by combining “intentional, impactful design” with smart staging strategies to create spaces that are personalized, beautiful, and functional.

With over 20 years of hard work, Kocsis describes founding Living Edge as pursuing “an industry that was a whole new career” from what she was used to. Kocsis had initially worked in architecture, where she gained valuable experience in staging and design, yet she found the job limiting and unfulfilling for her ambitions. Thus, Kocsis established Living Edge with a clear purpose: to “let go and start an inspiration” in which she would “get back to something creative.”

What do you enjoy most about being the business owner of Living Edge? Kocsis replied with a smile, “The creativity.”

On a typical day at Living Edge, that’s what leads most decisions: it is pivotal to finalizing furniture selections and staging the interior of houses. However, when working with her team or clients, Kocsis described loyalty as the foundation of her business.

“I would call that number one,” she explained, “You get to build some very strong relationships, and that is extremely valuable.”

For Kocsis, success is measured not only by beautiful interiors but by satisfied clients and lasting relationships.

“I cannot measure my success if it is not expressed in terms of my clients”

Together with the strong team ethic at Living Edge, this philosophy drives the company to deliver high-quality staging and design consulting.

How has your Romanian background influenced your career decisions?

Kocsis proudly stated, “Being a hard worker is something I can trace to my Romanian background.”

Rather than viewing challenges as setbacks, Kocsis also approaches them as opportunities and a chance to grow- a mindset that can be traced back to her Romanian roots. Kocsis also credits much of her motivation to her upbringing, expressing profound gratitude to her mother, who instilled in her the values of perseverance, resilience, and dedication from a young age. These principles continue to guide Kocsis throughout her career development, work ethic, and leadership style. Additionally, Romanian culture is something the Living Edge founder and CEO embraces in the work environment and lifestyle;

“Being part of the Romanian community opens up relationships for resources, but it also opens up the possibility of connecting with like-minded people who provide inspiration,” she explained with a smile.

Beyond professional networking, the Romanian community has provided friendships, inspiration, and a sense of belonging that continue to strengthen Living Edge’s collaborative culture.

Kocsis lives by a simple philosophy: “Be obsessed or be average.”

After exploring interior design and the staging industry, she discovered her passion for it and turned it into her reality.

“Without working hard and working my best, this wouldn’t be possible,” stated Kocsis. “I value my clients very much, and I want things to always end up good enough to meet or exceed their expectations.”

Kocsis’ passion for interior design extends far beyond an established career, leading the dedicated founder to spend much of her time transforming houses into homes. While the founder spends most of her time and energy improving Living Edge, Kocsis additionally enjoys “dancing, running, or spending a long summer on the lake with [her] family.”

Whether spending time with her family, staying active, or tackling a unique project with her team, Kocsis approaches each aspect of her life with the same dedication and enthusiasm that have contributed to her undeniable success.

“My vision for Living Edge is to be recognized as the #1 design-led staging company in the Greater Seattle Area,” Kocsis proudly stated when asked about her aspirations for Living Edge.

To Kocsis, Living Edge isn’t just a business: it’s an opportunity to create “a smarter way to stage.” In Kocsis’ words, the next steps Living Edge seeks to implement are to prove its motto through supporting feedback, reviews, and project metrics.

The Living Edge team combines strategic thinking with strong design expertise. As Kocsis explains, "things are very fast paced," and the industry requires continuous education in design principles and changing consumer preferences.

“It never gets boring,” Kocsis said with a smile. For Living Edge, this is only the beginning. She is determined to grow her interior design business into the leading design-led staging company in the region.

Deeply woven in Romanian culture, the common saying “nu lăsa pe mâine ce poți face azi” highlights the value of hard work and emphasizes pursuing initiative in the present.

What advice would you give to your younger self and young, aspiring entrepreneurs?

Kocsis’ advice was immediate: “Become comfortable with the discomfort.”

Growing up surrounded by resilient traditions and passionate culture, Kocsis learned to “do it scared,” embracing uncertainty and learning from setbacks. She believes that “taking risks becomes something that you get to enjoy and becomes very fulfilling,” ardently expressing that “it gives you confidence and gives you the ability to do things that you haven’t imagined.”

Living Edge began as the dream of a young Romanian girl who used her imagination to guide her creativity and her curiosity to build her initiative; today, it has become a reality that shapes Kocsis’ mindset and guides her very definition of “home.”

About the Series

Romanian Entrepreneurs of the Pacific Northwest is an ARCS Journal series featuring Romanian-owned businesses in the Pacific Northwest. Through meaningful conversations with local entrepreneurs and business leaders, the series explores the unique stories behind their companies, the challenges they’ve overcome, and the experiences that have shaped their success.

About the Authors

Ariana and Catarina Pirvu are students attending Woodinville High School with a strong passion for business and their Romanian culture. The two created this series in hopes of learning from and sharing the special experiences of local Romanian entrepreneurs with the Romanian community.

The blue heron is getting ready for dinner. Partially covered by the vibrant green cattail leaves, it patiently preened its feathers, seemingly oblivious to the lens focused on it. Nearby, a group of ducks drifted slowly, rippling the calm water. Suddenly, a chorus of bird calls echoed through the marsh, prompting everyone to look up. The observers turn their heads, exchanging excited looks with every step.

These quiet, focused observers were the talented ARCS teen photographers from our community, gathered for their second photo walk of the summer.

The excursion followed a highly successful first outing at the local botanical garden. During that lovely stroll, the teens focused their lenses on the vibrant world of flora, capturing flowers of every imaginable color, texture, and shape.

Now, they traded flower petals for feathers as they set out to discover the rich fauna of Juanita Bay Park in Kirkland.

Known for its thriving wetlands and accessible boardwalks, Juanita Bay Park proved to be the perfect classroom for budding wildlife photographers. Unlike the stationary subjects of a botanical garden, the park’s residents required a whole new set of skills: patience, precision, and observation.

But look a little closer, and you’ll realize this walk was about much more than just photography.

The patience required for wildlife photography naturally created space for connection. While waiting for the perfect frame or for a hidden bird to reveal itself, the camera lenses lowered, and conversations began.

During these moments of stillness, the teens shared their personal and academic successes from the past school year. Even more exciting, they exchanged ideas for future endeavors. You can practically see the seeds of creativity being sown in the marshlands; don’t be surprised if you see some incredible collaborative group projects growing from these planted ideas in the months to come.

The patience required for wildlife photography naturally creates space for connection.

Stay tuned for the stunning wildlife gallery these creative teens captured from the bay!

We are deeply grateful to every teenager who joined us for this Photo Walk, and to the parents who encouraged them to come. We cannot wait to see where the next Photo Walk takes us!

So whenever I face a door, I wait. I let someone else go in or out, then study their features, their clothes—though I know the proverb about clothes revealing nothing—and even the spring in their walk. Most of the time, I decide to stay on my side. No risk of betrayal is a risk well taken: no risk, no betrayal; no risk, no challenge; no risk… who cares.

But this door is different. It’s guarded by a crawling ivy of violet glass shards. The blue door itself is fragile, breakable, whispering a different kind of invitation: break me. Be the villain for once. I feel stronger than whatever lies behind a glass door. The glass ivy is spreading fast; soon it will cover the whole wall. I will be the only one who knows that there was ever a door in the wall. I will walk alone down the street, pass the hidden entrance, and feel confident that I made the right choice:
I did not open the door; I did not need to! What I should do now is mark
Liliana’s glass door with graffiti and finish Magritte’s Unexpected Answer with a shard from hers.

Rene Magritte’s Unexpected Answer, 1933

The shock of turquoise attacked her eyes when she turned the same corner she took every day on the way to work. She was used to the peeling plaster, the little weeds that lined the creases between the building and the dusty ground – hell, even the brick that shamelessly exposed itself and the stubborn weed that she promised herself six months ago that she would spray next weekend became commonplace. But this… this was atrocious.

The door was always white. Well, recently it was white with streaks of brown where paint had flaked and yellow where it hung on for dear life and weathered. She would paint it white again next weekend but she loved those little nooks and crannies that formed from afar. But this… it was painted over inconsistently in a suspicious tone of blue and green.

Down the street, splashes of turquoise, blues and greens dotted bits of the old street’s fondest memories – windowpanes, benches, clay roof tiles, storm drains, planters. It’s Friday and as wandering travelers from near and far trickled into the town’s bed and breakfasts, someone who believed they were more creatively talented than others thought it would be best to “elevate the aesthetic” of the quiet town without notice. No one who lived here actually knew who that person was, but they sure as hell wanted to find out now. And this… This was vandalism.

Her cheeks warmed and reddened. The door was always open, with the orchestra of tools at work by the hands of the very first man who loved her and whom she loved back with everything.

Her mind swam in a flood of memories of endless summers playing on the floor of the little workshop with her toys strewn about, the humming of old tunes, her father’s hands working quickly on delicate things like clocks, locks, and jewelry. Sometimes he would tell her stories about families who grew old in the town, sometimes stories about those who left one day to never return. But one day, a dragon snuck into their home and into her father’s body. It injected venomous pain into his legs so he could barely make it up the tall step. Then it took his eyesight and focus. Later, it twisted its claws around his body and dragged him into bed, holding him there until he was too tired to fight any longer. Then one day, holding her hand in his, he left town too.

But not her. She would stay here and flake and weather and peel apart until there was nothing left.

“Because there is nothing left,” she said quietly.

The turquoise, blue, green, whatever it was, had started to settle behind her eyes like a slowly pulsing promise. Glints of purple caught her eye – someone manicured and shaped the weed, now elegantly stretching upward and over, framing the door and adding a touch of mystery. For the tourists, of course.

She took two cautious steps forward as it beckoned to her again. “Look,” the door said. “Someone else came and made me beautiful.”

A deep inhale that caused her sternum to pop. Then another step forward until her toe almost grazed the tall step, greeting it like an old friend.

Somewhere behind the door, she was sure she had left a few building blocks and a beloved plush giraffe to watch over the orders her father had to finish.

She placed trembling fingers on the small knobs. It was probably time to take them home.

July has arrived, and with it comes that familiar feeling that life slows down just enough for us to notice the things we usually rush past.

Some of us will travel. Some will return to Romania for a few weeks. Some will spend their days listening to the waves of an ocean or a sea, others will hike mountain trails, wander through museums, explore unfamiliar streets, enjoy evenings on a porch with family, or simply find a quiet afternoon with a good book.

Summer has a way of collecting moments we don’t expect to keep.

A handwritten menu tucked inside a book. An old church bell at noon. A tiny museum no one told you about. The smell of pine after rain. A conversation on a train. A bakery you wish existed back home.

If you find one of those moments this summer, don’t let it disappear.

Share the street you couldn't stop photographing. Tell us about the book you couldn't put down. Introduce us to the café you'll remember long after you've forgotten its name, or the place that made you pause, smile, or feel unexpectedly at home.

We can’t wait to see what this summer brings back with you.

Happy summer from all of us at ARCS!

May it be filled with good books, unexpected conversations, beautiful discoveries, and moments you’ll want to remember long after the season has passed!

Send your story to: sanda.berar@arcsproject.org. We’ll select a number of submissions to publish in the ARCS Journal throughout the fall.

June began with a bang for ARCS and our community: a book club meeting on Zoom with novelist Doina Ruști. More than thirty people joined us on a bright, sunny Saturday morning in Seattle. I mention the weather because, as many of you know, cultural institutions here plan their programs only after consulting the forecast: if it’s sunny and playful, the Symphony plays Rachmaninov—Rachmaninov, like Tchaikovsky and Beethoven, sells tickets; if it’s rainy and gloomy, they play anything else.

So the fact that it was a sunny Saturday, a day when most Seattleites head straight for the mountains, made the turnout even more remarkable. Instead of hiking, people gathered to talk about Ferenike.

The lively, intense, and friendly exchange of ideas led to something none of us expected: emails, WhatsApp messages, and Instagram notes asking when the next book club would be and whether we had a summer reading list. How could we resist such an enthusiastic crowd? We put a list together—and uploaded it.

The next challenge was answering the practical questions that followed: “How can we get the books?” “Is anyone traveling to Romania to buy them?” and “Why can’t we order them on Amazon?” The first two are easy: ARCS members who travel to Romania will bring copies back to Seattle and add them to our online library so you can borrow them.

The third question has a less satisfying answer: major Romanian publishers do not collaborate with Amazon. It has something to do with legislation, but mostly with bureaucratic headaches—ones that a few overworked clerks would rather avoid.

Almost at the same time, Bookfest opened in Bucharest, where dozens of Romanian authors presented their newest books to the public. If 455 events and 158 publishers under one roof sound impressive, just wait for the Frankfurt Book Fair 2028—where Romania will be the featured country there. Back to Bucharest: the Guest of Honor at Bookfest 2026 was Georgi Gospodinov, whose powerful novels have been translated into more than twenty-five languages.

His most recent novel, Time Shelter, first published in 2020 and translated into English two years later, received the prestigious International Booker Prize in 2023. I should add that this novel is already on my students’ reading list for next spring quarter.

After a thirteen year gap, Frankfurter Buchmesse returned to Bucharest, noting in its statement—posted on Facebook—that “international book fairs remain essential spaces for turning ideas into future collaboration, because strong international partnerships are built through continuity, shared passion, and mutual commitment.” The Buchmesse also announced that Romania is “on its path toward becoming Guest of Honour at Frankfurter Buchmesse 2028: the journey begins with listening, exchange, and relationship building, and has the greatest impact when it is understood as a multiyear collaboration rather than a single event.” Wonderful news for anyone who loves Romanian literature, whether in the original or in translation.

June also marks the moment when American publishers launch their new titles. On June 1, The New York Times listed twenty-eight books that will soon be on bookstore shelves.

Amid the noise of the big book fairs, Sanda Berar’s black-and-white illustrated volume feels like a breath of fresh air. It is not quite fiction, nor poetry, nor drama; it is a woman’s transcript of the words she never utters. Structured in five texts followed by a final “chapter” of illustrations, the book becomes an installation of magic mirrors—reflecting not the characters’ appearances but their inner selves.

The Quiet of Breaking also works as a divination device for readers: from the first page, we are invited to choose the section that matches our momentary state of mind. Sanda gently tricks us into a nonlinear, nontrivial reading experience— as Espen Aarseth calls the act of reading that is not sequential. I resisted the invitation and read it straight through, from chapter one to five. Each of the five chapters—Blindness, Rupture, Endurance, Aftermath, Stillness—records fragments, or shards to echo the title’s metaphor, from a woman’s life from infatuation to divorce, from the fears of motherhood to the painful acceptance of aging, from the comfortable routine of marriage to the instinctive sense of another’s intentions before they are spoken. Recovering the most honest words—the ones a woman never discloses, the ones meant only for herself—Sanda Berar writes about true feelings, ordinary relationships, and readings and misreadings of people, gestures, whispers, and silences.

I have not identified with a character so strongly in a long time. Here, I saw parts of myself in every woman portrayed. Most strikingly, the book made me wonder whether I, too, have begun “living inside a photo.” I hope not—but I urge you to see whether this might be true for you as well.

Add this book to your summer list!

No one planted them.

That’s the thing people forget, or maybe never knew. They simply appeared one spring, the way certain things do - without permission, without explanation. A tendril at first, cautious and thin. Then two. Then the whole cascading rush of purple reaching across the stone, unhurried and certain.

The door came later. Or perhaps the door was always there and the blossoms simply decided, in their own time, to find it.

They grew through drought and through rain, through summers that bleached the wall to pale gold and winters that should have finished them. They didn’t ask about any of that. They moved the way water moves. Not toward anything in particular, just forward, just because forward was available.

People have tried to explain them over the years. A seed carried by a bird. A root no one thought to trace. But the blossoms were never interested in being explained. They just kept going, quiet and unhurried, the way things go when no one is expecting anything of them.

They don’t belong to anyone. They don’t mourn anyone. They grow because growing is what they do, reaching toward the turquoise the way any living thing reaches toward something bright. Not out of longing. Just out of habit, or instinct, or something that has no name yet.

The wall crumbles a little more each year, old brick showing through in patches like the building is slowly remembering what it was made of. The blossoms don’t notice. They were here before the door. They will be here after.