Word: trippingly
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...wasn’t just the glamour—I wanted to go to Romania to see where my parents grew up. But the reality of the trip didn’t hit me until I found myself aboard the good ship Delta, noshing on the absurd amount of snacks that my obscenely over-prepared mother had brought...
...imagined the trip as having two purposes: to finally see my parents’ hometowns and to be so appalled at the terrible conditions that I’d thank my lucky American stars for my nice suburban existence...
...knew that my parents, as Jews and citizens under the Communist government, had a difficult time in Romania, and I knew I couldn’t compare their childhood to my trip. Yet I couldn’t help enjoying myself. Perhaps I had underestimated Romania...
...only one factor in my blindness to the country’s problems. The real reason I misunderstood everything was that I visited Romania as a privileged outsider. Everything seemed nice from my hotel room, from the superficial pleasantries. I took a sterilized and artificial trip—a trip best captured by Brasov, a tiny city filled with outdoor restaurants, sparkling lights and strangely, an upcoming Michael Bolton concert. Atop the scenic dark hills loomed a sign that said “Brasov” in the same white lettering as the “Hollywood” sign...
...kept this mentality throughout the whole trip, even when I was actually surrounded by poverty. I only saw what I wanted to see, satisfying my inner carnivore while ignoring the fact that the person serving the food was wearing tattered clothing. And I wish I could say that this was exclusive to my vacation, but this was something much bigger than Romania. It’s something reflexive, something I do when I listen to my iPod as a homeless person asks for money on the subway...