Boundaries Elena Croitoru (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution A countryside flâneuse in search of her deceased grandfather contemplates anchoring, wandering, and the small marks we leave on the world. How does one get to know a person who passed away? I thought about that while I flew from London to Bacau, a city close to where my now-retired parents lived for most of the summer. All I had left of my grandfather—the person I wanted to know more about—were a few monochrome photographs with scalloped edges displayed in a family album. My mother's descriptions of him were sparse because the paths to her memories closed up over the years. She called him good-natured and said he'd loved the land he'd owned and that he'd spent a lot of his life riding horses or walking—something that resonated with my childhood self. When I was three he passed away, and later his letters and notes were destroyed in a flood. ________ AFTER THE PLANE landed, a cab drove me away from Bacau's constellation of concrete tower blocks and from the bitter fumes of groaning buses, and into the land of vineyards, corn, and wheat crops. It was hot and the city was grinding itself up into dust and getting into our lungs. Once [End Page 8] we reached the quilted countryside, it seemed as though I was going back in time, to the years when my life wasn't as defined as it is now. I spent my long childhood summers doing one of two things: either reading in the cool front room of my grandparents' house, on top of a pile of itchy wool rugs hand-woven by my grandmother, or walking for kilometers on end and trying to get to the spectral blue peaks I saw in the distance. I didn't know at the time that my wish was quixotic because the Tarcau Mountains were too far away. My grandmother's friends saw me as a wild girl because I took long trips on my own. I didn't know at the time that I'd probably inherited this desire to walk from my grandfather. ________ FOR THE FIRST time in more than five years, I arrived in Măgirești, a village shaped like a fish spine with a bent tail. Time had shrunk its square, its restored medieval stone well, and its bodega, which still smelled of strong tuica, but it had not dulled the green of its hills. Located at the foot of the forested Oriental Carpathians, it is built on an intricate terrain on which God seems to have spent a lot of time. It's made up of verdant hillocks abundant in shrubs and medicinal herbs, streams that swallow paths after the springtime thaws, meadows, velvety hills studded with grazing sheep, stratified and shimmering escarpments, golden inselbergs and bottle-green ponds on which pieces of wood float like miniature boats. It's a chamomile- and hay-scented symphony of textures and colors, a facsimile of the Shangri-La and a liminal space neighboring the malachite-green mountainscapes topped with a blue sawblade horizon. The village adopts borderland characteristics. Fruit trees aren't confined to orchards, so one can find an assortment of sour cherry, green plum, Mirabelle plum, cornelian cherry, walnut, and Jonathan apple trees (bearing sharp and aromatic fruits) living together on the same hill, communicating underground through their roots, sometimes overseeing muscat grapevines. When I heard that there are more trees on earth than there are stars in the Milky Way, I thought that the count could have started in this village. ________ MY GRANDPARENTS HAD never moved away from this area. For people like them, who had experienced two world wars, living in the countryside must have seemed like a good life because they'd witnessed the destruction and bombings that people sometimes brought to one another and to their environment. My grandfather loved the land and understood that independence came from it. He strived for self-sufficiency; hence he became a merchant and accumulated hundreds of acres that included pastures, arable land, and forests. All this...