I realized it as soon as the green sedan pulled up to the curb: this was the last time we’d meet a World Race contact and jump into ministry. Ever.
Cristi was “young and cool!” and spoke perfect English, which is refreshing anywhere. We stopped at the church and ran a few errands before he took us to our hostel. As he drove, he talked.
He described the church’s model for outreach. “They won’t come to us, so we go to them.” And where they’re going is where we live this month: the gypsy ghetto.
This part of Pitesti is characterized by huge apartment blocks along broken sidewalks full of kids in second-hand clothes. You could call it “the other side of the tracks,” I guess. It’s lively, but it’s not a safe neighborhood. We knew that right away.
downtown Pitesti. a few bus stops away from our rented room.
The gypsy community has a bad reputation everywhere they pop up, from Hungary to Ireland. I’m still not completely clear on what distinguishes them from the other nationals of the countries where they reside. I’ve gathered that they are a distinct ethnic group, though I couldn’t pick them out of a crowd if you asked me. Cristi tried to explain, but even he found it difficult.
The most concrete thing anyone (and almost everyone) has been able to say is, “Their parents make a living by trickery and stealing. No one trusts them.”
And with that single bit of information, we went to visit biggest apartment block. Cristi hadn’t even turned off his car before 3 or 4 young boys ran toward us from across the parking lot. “Cristi! Tche fatch?!” He greeted them like a teacher in a classroom: contained excitement, and gentle authority. The boys immediately ran ahead of us into the building. Kids multiplied in the stairwell as we came inside, each one of them lighting up at the sight of their friend.
We visited a few of the small apartments, smiling and nodding at the rapid Romanian flying around us. Each time we came back to the hallway, the kids were waiting. They were energetic and affectionate, following us up and down the building, trying to memorize our names and faces. They knew we’d be around for a while. I lost count of how many hugs and cheek-kisses I received from those kids that day.
Their affection for us only grew with each dance class, and they’ve already shed tears over the thought of us leaving this weekend. They’re so hungry to be loved, and not enough people are around to be Love to them. They need more than the temporary friends that we have been.
How could she care so much about six random white girls who only visited her three times? I suppose anything that brings you joy, then says “I’m not coming back” would be kind of heartbreaking.
