Nana’s House: Cheese Puffs, Seashells, and the Art of Conversation

A crammed house is a house with history, with nooks to be explored, and artefacts to invent stories upon.

“The Dinner Party” by Sir Henry Cole

This is the first essay in my new series: The Homes of My Life.

Nana’s flat was probably the most enchanting house of my childhood. Although I snooped through quite a few of its nooks and crannies during the many visits we took there, there was always something more to discover, and never enough time.

Nana, and the masculine term Nanu, is how we call our godmother and godfather in Romanian. My godparents were both doctors; Nana, a pediatrician, and Nanu, an epidemiologist. As a kid, I thought Nana was too elegant to be a doctor. She always had a perfectly coiffed, Platinum-blond bob with the ends flipped in an outward curl, clip earrings and wide, brown, playful eyes when she looked at 7-year-old me. Nanu always wore a three-piece suit when he received us at their home.

With my parents, we visited them for the typical occasions, like birthdays, a pre-Christmas dinner, or the random Sunday lunch. We always took care in getting ready for a visit to the godparents’ home; there was nothing casual about the affair. My father would go buy a large bouquet of the flowers that were in season, and we’d proceed to make the 20-minute walk to their flat in our Sunday best.

As soon as we stepped into the enchanted house, something felt different than at home. First of all, nobody would take their shoes off, even on the carpets. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my Nana wearing slippers. Let the adventure begin!

The walls of all rooms were adorned with large classical art paintings with ornate frames, and various medical diplomas of the two doctors. A grand black piano occupied a good chunk of the already small living room, like a sleeping panther in a corner. The piano gave a somber air to the room. It was another testament to a life dominated by culture and arts. It made you sit up a little straighter at the table and maybe hold your fork and knife a little more elegantly.

We’d gather around the oval, black-lacquered dining table, under a green crystal chandelier, made of Murano glass. I’d gaze into those sparkly crystals for so long that my eyes are probably greener thanks to it. We’d start with Nana’s famous appetizer, homemade cheese puff pastries, served on the delicate china she used. I never found anywhere else that buttery, melty texture of the pastry, not even in French bakeries, years later.

The wall opposite the table was covered by this 17th-century Dutch-style painting, showing a group of peasants eating around a dinner table. The man in the foreground wore a pair of heavy brown boots with bulging, rounded toes and had two dogs lying at his feet, ready to snap leftovers dropped from the table. It was a symbol of communion, of sharing a meal, of sharing a life — both humans and pets together. And we, sitting around Nana’s dinner table, seemed to recreate exactly the painting scene, including a dog, as my godparents had a Great Dane named Cora.

. . .

The gatherings at Nana’s place were adult encounters, with adult conversations of which I got bored pretty fast, whether I was 6 or 10 or 17 when we visited. I’d excuse myself and go snoop around by the bookcase in the hallway.

Nana’s flat was crammed with furniture, and their floor-to-ceiling bookcase only fit in the hallway. On her trips to the kitchen to bring out more food, Nana would stop, tilt her head and smile at me like a sheepish cat, and ask me if I’d listened to the waves of the sea already, pointing at the big seashell propped on top of a row of books. That was our little secret. Her magical seashell that would allow me to hear the sea if I placed the hollow bit on top of my ear, although the sea was over 200km away.

My passion for books, ignited at home, expanded thanks to my godparents’ bookcase too. I was often too young to understand what most books were about, but I loved to read their titles. Loved to watch the designs and colors on the book spines, and when I’d return to Nana’s flat, I’d go back and check “my books”, some random favorites based on the feel of the cover or some intricate design. Browsing books became synonymous with entertaining myself in a foreign space, an activity that I still gravitate towards every time I enter a friend’s home or a bookshop in a foreign city.

There was rarely another kid around during those house visits. I was mostly a passive listener during those soirées, except for the occasional question I might get about my school studies, or a compliment on my dress. Nana’s son, around 15 years older than me, would always comment on my chubby cheeks, making me self-conscious.

But mostly, I listened to the adults’ conversations, either eavesdropping from the hallway, with a book in hand, or right there in the living room. They would go from one topic to the next, and even if I didn’t understand or remember each of them, I remember the thirst for conversation they all had. The thirst for debating the politics of the time, when the news was not available 24/7, and was usually read once a day in a printed newspaper. Also, the nostalgia in their voice when telling stories about Nana’s sister, exiled in Germany during communist Romania. Thanks to them, I became a person who associates having interesting conversations with having fun at a dinner party, with connection, with being surrounded by your kind of people.

When I was about 17, a decade after communism had fallen and Romania was a democracy, Nanu brought to a dinner party, in a grand, revelatory gesture, the first Playboy magazine published in the country. Everyone around the table took turns browsing through the magazine. Nana talked about being open-minded, commented on the art of taking pictures, about how athletic the centerfold Romanian celebrity looked. I was part embarrassed, part curious, and still remember the lack of vulgarity, the lack of objectifying laughter (or maybe it’s my wishful thinking memory). I remember it as simply an adult conversation, a little too intellectual, maybe, given the magazine’s theme. When I crave lively debates and interesting chats with friends rather than mundane chatter, I might be craving another evening at Nana’s house.

. . .

If I’d get stiff from sitting too long at the dinner table, or too sleepy on the low, velvet couch with Cora the dog lounging next to me, I’d stretch my legs and make it to the godparents’ bedroom. Above their bed, two sepia portraits were hung, one for each of the housemasters. They showed the younger, cheekier version of my godparents. I always found it curious that they were not painted together in one painting, but individually, although clearly done at once, by the same artist. My tour through the quiet bedroom was like stepping into a private chamber of a museum. I could spend minutes on end studying the paintings, while adult voices and clinking china could be heard through the halfway open bedroom door.

A crammed house is a house with history, with nooks to be explored, artefacts to invent stories upon. Big pieces of furniture, such as a grand piano, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase or large paintings, are not in the way; they are the way. The way to a life of appreciating the arts and having good conversations.

As luck would have it, I get to call this house one of the homes of my childhood. A small flat, on the second floor of a communist grey building, filled with inspiring people and art objects. I got the chance to be around lively discussions, to witness ceremonial dinners and elegant people, to fall asleep on a couch with arms made of sculpted wood, waiting for my parents, who couldn’t get enough of the Salon ambiance in my Nana and Nanu’s home.

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I’m Monica, and I navigate life as a multi-country expat, surrounded by books and writing. My mind is modeled by the 5 languages I speak (almost) daily.

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