Viata de rezistenta

Nu mai pot. Nu mai pot sa traiesc cu porcii astia. Stiu ca am 20 de ani. Dar eu nu adorm de obicei dupa ora 3, si nu ma trezesc la 13. Nu ma incanta sa aud tot ce povestesc vecinele numai pentru ca peretii sunt subtiri si natura le-a inzestrat cu niste corzi vocale insuportabile care ma tin treaza o buna parte din noapte. Nu mai suport sa vorbesc cu ei si sa-mi raspunda cu jumate de gura, si nici ca administratoarea sa fie imposibil de gasit chiar si cand trebuie sa ii dam bani. Stiu ca am conditii de vis la preturi mici. Dar pe mine ma omoara atmosfera asta. Nu ma intereseaza care din ele e mai grozava, si nici daca imi aproba sau nu viata personala. Eu macar am una. Cel mai mult ma enerveaza cand curat toata bucataria duminica dimineata si dupa jumate de ora e si mai rau, desi mai nimeni nu s-a trezit inca. Sunt apatica, depresiva, distanta, iritabila si dependenta. Inteleg de ce nu m-zm imprietenit cu toata lumea pe aici. Sunt apatica, depresiva si distanta pentru ca stau aici. Sunt dependenta pentru ca in alta parte cineva este familia mea si chiar daca nu inchide capacul la gelul de dus, se ofera sa spele vasele cand ii gatesc. Sunt dependenta pentru ca nu o sa mai am pe nimeni in curand si incep sa cred tot mai mult ca n-o sa mai am vreodata. Sunt iritabila din nastere si de aceea cred in dragoste cand imi merge bine si o injur cand imi merge rau. E cea mai grea chestie pe care am fost vreodata nevoita sa o invat ... a fi singura. Si la fel ca toate celelalte lucruri pe care le-am invatat, trebuie sa invat singura.

Print?

Well, next time Portuguese tell me they love football and food, I will believe it. Today I walked an hour to the Feira de Livros and was surprised to see how many cooking books can fit in such an event. Books about football, however, were less but I saw lots of men buying them. What can I say? The most empty stand was that of the religious publishing houses. I didn't find Murakami, but loved the drawing exhibition dedicated to Gutenberg. I couldn't understand why Osho is on the same table with self-help books (you have to know his work before you decide his speeches are one kind of literature or another), why 60 % of the books were for children and why everybody had to bring babies to a bookfest. I know they love their children, I saw them at 12 o'clock in the night on the street when Porto won the national championship, because obviously Portuguese take their children everywhere with them (I guess babysitting is not a popular job here). But what can a baby understand of anything that is going on in there? I would have approved that maybe exposure to books will help them grow smarter, but the things they had there were in a percentage of 90% not BOOKS, but wasted paper. Personally, my star title was "Why men lie and women cry". I didn't even want to see how they try to answer in those 2-3 hundred pages to this magnificent question.

Inertia, bat-o vina

Din afara lucrurile se vad mai bine. Adica... romanii NU sunt mai prosti ca altii, ci doar mai modesti. Poate prostii nostri sunt mai prosti decat ai altora (adica, stai, asta e sigur), dar asta e alta poveste. Romania NU e murdara, avem atata loc curat incat altii vor sa-si exporte gunoiul la noi (vezi Napoli). Romania NU e saraca, sau cel putin refuz sa o vad asa atata timp cat o mahala din Brazilia e de doua ori cat Clujul. Daca ne raportam la medii mondiale, suntem intre aia tari. In loc sa-i lingem in fund pe toti si sa ne aplecam capul in fata tarilor (bogate), am putea sa privim macar o data la ceea ce avem: avem premii la Cannes, fete frumoase pe podiumurile din Milano, avem prime-balerine la Viena si scriitori premiati in Suedia, un relief de-i facem pe spanioli sa planga si o fauna cu care bagam Germania in buzunar, avem profesori ca nimeni altii si doctori care fac operatii in premiera mondiala cu aparatura de pe vremea lu peste, avem atat de multe si totusi vedem atat de putin.
Cand am fost in Galicia am mers la biroul de informatii turistice. Cand am spus ca sunt romanca, functionara s-a uitat la mine de parca aveam o boala contagioasa si a facut tot posibilul sa termine cat mai repede cu mine. Am fost complimentata pentru cat de bine vorbesc spaniola, dar cand mi-am mentionat nationalitatea, barbati in toata firea s-au retras de parca urma sa scot un cutit. Persoana cu care am impartit si painea si sarea timp de patru luni inca are prejudecati legate de toti romanii, iar cea mai buna recenzie pe care am primit-o a fost "Romania? How exotic!". Ce sa zic. Si dupa ce am umblat eu cu privirea in pamant si lacrimi in ochi si mi-am tot muscat buzele in ciuda, mi-am dat seama ca singura mi-o fac. Pot sa se uite la mine cum vor. Eu stiu cine sunt si de unde vin si nu am nevoie ca un spaniol autosuficient si care nu prea are mare merit pentru propriul nivel de trai sa ma faca sa-mi fie rusine de asta. La urma urmei, cei care au ajuns sa ma cunoasca au inceput sa ma iubesca asa si odata cu mine, sa fie interesati si in Romania. Am facut lobby, am spus povesti frumoase, am aratat poze si m-am laudat mult de atunci cu tara mea.
Nu o sa mancam cacatul altora numai pentru ca saracii nostri fura prin alte tari. Asa cum fura la ei au furat si la noi. Nici macar nu o sa-i stergem cu nasul la fund pentru ca le dau imigrantilor de lucru, la urma urmei au interesele lor s-o faca. Eu una nu le-as vinde nici hartie igienica, ca s-asa ei recicleaza la greu pentru ca nu mai au cu ce sa produca hartie. Romanul se descurca si in tufis, asa ca, dupa toate probabilitatile si legile evolutioniste, tot noi o sa populam Europa si peste cateva secole, pentru ca asa saraci, prosti si murdari, stim sa ne scoatem singuri din cacat.

Back home

Well, the trip to Galicia was a dream. A good one. We stayed in the flat of four Brazilian girls, very warm and nice. The weather however was not as warm. It rained a little and every day pull-overs were a must. Santiago de Compostela catches your breath. I mean the curches, the narrow streets and the parks are something you will want to see. We also had the opportunity to eat "de graça", which means tasting sweets and liquours in shops without having to buy. So we tried the Capricios de Santiago, some cookies made of almonds, Tarta de Santiago, from the same ingredients, Piedras de Santiago, milk chocolate without sugar,which is not quite dark and liquors of coffee herbs and some other stuff.
Monday we went to Finisterre, a cape that used to be considered the end of the world. Tuesday, A Coruña. We had maps and all, so we tried to be as tourists as possible. The truth is I loved the port and the castle, but the parks and the old city were just a couple of streets with a nice name. Anyway, Torre de Hercules impressed me not because of the building, which was actually a normal lighthouse, but the fields of energy around there. They say there is a Celtic park around, well, we didn't find it, but I could feel why they would put megaliths there.
Wednesday, on the way back to Porto, we stopped in a village close to Viana do Castelo, with a wonderful beach. Viana do Castelo didn't have any castle, but we visited an impressive church on top of a mountain.
Now that I'm back home, I realise in a way my home went on this trip with me and it was on my left most of the time. My heart knows its way home.

Burning down the city

One of the worst (or best, I will see) things that can happen in Porto is exams in the week of Queima das Fitas. That's because this is a students' celebration of the end of the year and in Porto it's really special. A lot of people spend money on special clothes and hats, and of course on parties. There are parties every night, on tuesday there was a parade (that I was able to see on my way home to study) and all the city wants to participate, at least by looking at the students' costumes. The Queima started last weekend, and I've heard it's not so great at the parties. Basically, it's all about a big crowd getting drunk and a lot of bad music. But hey, I wanna go. I still have a bitter taste for staying in the last two weeks, but we really had to study. Well, we still do, because it's hard to start when it's so good outside and you keep yourself from going out, but lay in bed with no enthusiams about the pile of books/papers/assessments that you have to finish. So in two days I have two exams. My international relations knowledge has at least improved in the days when I pretended to be studying, but the Portuguese language problem is getting bigger, since in the last month I've been living in another world and I don't even remember to how many of the classes I went. I can master present tense, but past and imperfecto are waiting in the textbook and right now I just want a long shower. We intend to go to Queima on Friday... it's already awkward to come home earlier and go out less then when living in the parents' house. One more week... and school's out. For now. Hey, I enjoy even these cave days, when I cook tortilla in the microwave, go out only as far as the bakery and walk around in pijama asking all the people about real life. Hehe.

Sad but true

The medical system in Portugal is getting to my nerves. The first contact with it was when I was happily enjoying an Indian teahouse and my neighbor called to tell me she was feeling very bad and that the doctor from school told her to go to some clinic she couldn't even find on the map. So we were looking for the clinic for about two hours and when we get there it was terrifying. First of all it was full and although you had to take a number, nobody respected the order (quite strange, since Portuguese stay in line for almost everything). The floors were dirty and the smell of medicine and disinfectant was overwhelming. It's true I was very hungry too and maybe that's why I felt so sick, lucky that while waiting I went to have diner (my first francesinha... mmm). Not that the waiting was not also long... and then the doctor said she has to go to another clinic because he doesn't have any equipment to make a proper consultation. The next days she was walking from one clinic to another, one evening she spent around six hours in the hospital's emergency room. And all for a stupid easy to treat infection.
But now it's my turn. Around the 20th of March I went to the emergency room of a hospital with severe abdominal pain. I had to wait to get registered (slow process... especially since my Portuguese is not perfect at all), then to speak to a nurse, then to the doctor, then to make some test, then to make an ultrasound, then again to speak to the doctor, then to wait for the exams of the test, then speak to the doctor again (who invited me to lunch the next day, thing that was more than shocking and offensive, but this is another story). The only thing they could say is that I should go to the clinic nearby my residence to speak to a doctor for further analysis. So I went to the clinic, they said I need an insurance number, because I have the right to free medical assistance and it's not worth to pay and use later my other insurance policy. So they called to another clinic. And I went to this other clinic to be told that I have to contact the medical insurance organism in my country to ask for my social security number. Luckily, my mother gave a chocolate to the right secretary and I got my number. And then I went back to the second clinic to get a consultation. It's not as easy as it seems. I waited one hour to get registered. Then I spoke to the nurse, the nurse spoke to the doctor to approve a consultation, then I got a number, then I saw the doctor, then she told me... guess what? That I have to go to a private clinic for more tests. So I went downstairs to speak to a secretary to get the address of a such clinic and I went that day to make an appointment... the closest they could get me in was 3rd of May. Well, I didn't give up. Today I found another clinic and made an appointment for tomorrow. Not that I don't still have pain almost every night. After that I will go back to the clinic and go through the whole two-hours registration and consultation dance. But hey, when I started to make my papers for Erasmus, I got trained for this... I'm going from one office to another since October. So long live bureaucracy! I don't have to fight the system. I've already adapted to it.

So give me novocaine

Today I woke up with a lot of energy and a surprising will to write my paper for the semiotics and literature course. So I was writing about Barthes in a paper where he was not actually supposed to be mentioned. But the books I've read since I came to Porto have made me a rich girl. Of course, they have been long debated, but I guess that's just a recognition of their value.

One of them is The Crash of Civilizations of Samuel Huntington. Most of my teachers don't even want me to mention the book, they consider it farfetched and not too objective. But switching the view from a traditionally realist perspective in international relations to one that puts in the core of external affairs cultural identity is quite accurate in my view. Take for example Turkey and the European Union. They have been struggling for a long time to be accepted as members and they hardly made it close to the candidate countries' list. The pretext the EU always puts on the first page is that they didn't do much work to solve the problem of minorities, basically refering to the kurds. But ask any turk, they know the real reason: it's hard to think of a Muslim country in a Christian union.

Another is Gabriel García Márquez's Living to Tell the Tale. A story of the becoming of a writer who was strong enough to leave law school to have time to write. And this is just a rough and stupid summary. Márquez in a Columbia struggling to get over its dead, in a big amazing family and with a crazy passion for reading made me feel sorry I stopped writing. In Majestic cafe I had my first great idea for a short story and I really hope it will come to life before I leave here as a tribute to the woman who taught me about luxury cats. More than the story and more than my pain (my fingers were almost bleeding while I was turning the pages thinking about my own frenzy to write), nobody can deny the great storyteller Márquez is... how he constructs his paragraphs and the way he makes mundane events magical.

Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason by Michel Foucault was hard to digest but amazingly graceful. I have always been interested in the subject, and deconstructing reason itself was a titanic work I still can explain with some difficulty. Then the references to Bosch and Goya, two of my favourites, has taught me more than being in a museum, putting in context the actual emergence of the notion of insanity. The book, as most reviews admit, is nevertheless opaque and complex... a sociology of madness that has to be read several times to be understood at least at half its value.

One I'm reading now is The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, by the Portuguese contemporary Nobel Prize winner Jose Saramago. I don't know much about it, but the preface speaks of a book created on the idea of labyrinth (from Borges on) and Ricardo Reis is one of the pseudonyms of Fernando Pessoa, the greatest modern Portuguese poet. The story is that Fernando Pessoa died and Ricardo Reis came back to Lisbon after 16 years in Brazil. Pessoa comes back from death and has long converstions with Ricardo Reis, who is also a poet (the is the author of the Odes). What is wonderful is that Portuguese speak of the three pseudonyms of Pessoa (for whom he created personal stories) as if they were real poets and different persons from their creator.