Ciocolata

Patru bucatele de ciocolata, fiecare cu povestea ei...
Cea amara imi vorbeste despre uitare, o pot auzi de pe varful limbii.
Ciocolata cu lichior tine sa-mi amintesca despre cum viata trebuie traita ca o sarbatoare.
Bucatica patrata cu lamaie si ghimbir ma invata sa raman inocenta.
Migdalele scaldate in ciocolata cu lapte imi soptesc sa nu uit sa iubesc.
Patru bucatele de ciocolata pot spune mai multe decat un om intr-o viata...

Orasul zeilor

Poate ca nu am eu multe in comun cu domnul Cristian Tudor Popescu, dar filmele pe care le recomanda la TV imi plac la nebunie. Saptamana trecuta am vazut Orasul zeilor, un film brazilian care m-a uns la suflet. Sau pe retina. Ritmul in care evolua povestea era o samba fascinanta. Povestea unui baiat crescut intr-o mahala (daca se poate folosi termenul romanesc pentru realitatea braziliana) la marginea orasului Rio de Janeiro, intre hoti si traficanti de droguri, care nici macar atunci cand se straduieste, nu se poate deveni talhar. Si aceasta chiar este una din scenele ilare ale filmului, dar la fel ca povestea lui Bene, traficantul de treaba, ne face sa ne amintim de binele din oameni. In Orasul zeilor, toti au o poveste si toate povestile se leaga. Desi realitatea este una amara, in care “marunteii” fura si pana la urma ucid, chiar daca lumea aceasta este condusa de cate un imparat al mustelor, nu te poate lasa decat cu zambetul pe buze.
Pentru ca, dincolo de interpretarile mele literare (in genul liricului de a saptea), este un film bun. Mi-a placut faptul ca exista un narator si firul gandirii lui nu transpare artificialitate, pentru ca exista atatea jocuri cu imaginea incat uneori te simti la granita cu fotografia artistica, pentru ca se joaca cu stereotipuri si te face sa te rusinezi cand iti dai seama de propriile prejudecati, pentru ca o poveste aparent fragmentata e fluida si palpitanta, si mai ales pentru ca ii iubesc pe brazilieni si m-am simtit adusa din nou in mijlocul lor.

Oximoron

Ah, de ceva vreme ard sa povestesc despre Anais, Anais cea calda, intensa, eminamente feminina. De fapt, nu imi place in mod deosebit scrisul lui Anais Nin, si totusi imi place femeia pe care o deseneaza, careia ii da un miros, vise si pe care o trimite in lume sa greseasca… atat de femeieste, atat de putin sincera. Imi place gustul de sange andaluz pe care mi-l lasa lectura ei si mi se face atat de dor de Isabel Allende. Am cunoscut-o pe Anais Nin si pentru o vreme vreau sa-mi imbogatesc orele cu prezente feminine si randurile lor.
Zilele incep iarasi sa fie prea scurte. Mos Nicolae mi-a adus pace si un subiect pentru cercetare care m-a incurajat sa muncesc. Mi-am dat seama ca nu pot fi amuzanta decat in engleza. Si ca doar in engleza pot sa fiu subtila. In limba mea totul suna ca o confesiune. Fug de cuvinte sau le folosesc in exces, dar nu am invatat niciodata masura lor. Poate de aceea mi s-a spus ca scriu prost. Putinele mele mici fictiuni n-au avut nici o sansa. Tot ce pot spera deocamdata e sa-mi trezesc scanteia pentru cateva lucrari academice (si asta suna aiurea in romana). As vrea sa fac atat de multe intr-un timp pe care neputinta mea il scurteaza. Dorm prost si uit mult. Lucrez si petrec, dar nu la proiectele care-mi sunt dragi si nu cu oamenii pe care-i vreau aproape. Sunt treaza de 12 zile si singura alaturi de cineva. E de ras cum viata mea nu mai are savoare fara asemenea contradictii.

Teoria strutului

E o zi lunga de tot care imi face cu ochiul sa o bag in pat. Mi-am petrecut ultimele ore luptandu-ma cu un vraf de chestionare si pot sa spun cu mandrie ca deja vad cifrele din spatele oamenilor. Un fel de “2, vorbesc 1, 3, 4 si 5, caut 1 cu studii cel putin 5 pentru 1 si eventual mai tarziu doi 3, unul 1 si unul 2…” E mult mai bine decat sa vezi oamenii din spatele cifrelor. Am cunoscut si eu cativa. Cel mai mult m-au durut intelectualii blocati in mediul rural, obligati sa lucreze ca paznici la muzeele pe care le-ar putea conduce sau sa accepte postul de magazioneri cand pot preda matematici superioare. Scoala nu este intotdeauna pasaportul spre mai mult. Citeam odata ca femeia cu cel mai mare IQ din lume este o bulgaroaica somera de ani de zile. Si totusi, eu inca mai cred ca exista oameni care fac scoala dintr-o sete ce nu se poate potoli altfel. Merg pe autobus cu studente care sunt inscrise la cursul ala grozav de mitologie generala, si nu stiu nici macar cand e trecut pe orar, desi cunosc mall-ul mai bine decat cel care i-a desenat harta. Eu nu cred ca acestia sunt studentii care ne-au ramas. Nu cei care stau cu zilele in biblioteca in sesiune si nu pun mana pe o carte buna intr-un an. Si mai ales nu cei care au auzit trei cuvinte pe care le-au cautat in dictionar si acum abuzeaza de ele. Sunt peste tot in jurul meu… dar eu cred in continuare ca studentimea romaneasca nu are ochiul mai mare decat creierul, asa ca strutul.

Artificii si fluturasi

Am vrut artificii si fluturasi. Am uitat poate ca persoanele cu care "scanteiez" nu sunt cele puse deoparte pentru mine. Si totusi, pot sa fac lucrurile sa se intample. Pot sa am artificii si fluturasi... cu singura exceptie ca fluturasii zboara liberi si artificiile explodeaza in mine. Ceea ce e cat se poate de aproape de o psihoza. Am gasit o nisa... unde e cald si pot sa respir. Uneori aerul miroase a lemn de santal. Nisa mea e zugravita cu fericire si cand scot capul afara vad fluturasi. Inauntru bestia se hraneste cu dragoste, cu alune si ceai de fructe. Bestia e fericita, dar eu sunt mai mult de atat. Eu vreau fluturasii in burta si artificiile in varful degetelor. Vreau atat de putin cand am totul, si uneori as vrea sa fiu una cu bestia... sa dorm satula si sa nu ma satur niciodata de nisa mea calda.

Horror happiness

I'm so ill, my neck feels like a watermelon. When I try to speak, it's as if someone stuck his fingers down my throat. I'm on the edge of another night of fever and it's funny how I can see clear now. I can look in the mirror wearing my "you lucky bitch" grin. Every time I get sick, I become as optimistic as nobody who knows my drama queen scenarios would ever picture me. I eat healthier, I drink tons of tea, I work, read, organize and clean as never before. I take times to rest and to meditate. I stop with the worries and the complaints. It's as if I become a better person over night. The truth is... this time it might not be the sickness. Maybe the fever just made me lose my grip. I just know the black hole is indeed away. And sometimes the best thing that can make me crawl out is physical breakdown or physical ecstasy or both.

September is the landmark for new seasons

There is always a new season in life. Over is not over. There is no black screen with names on it to let us know it's time to move on, walk out, change the channel. Sometimes I wish I knew how to say "we're so over, we need a new word for over", rather than "this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship". There are moments in life when I lay in bed and I just know it's over, and that's the only "the end" page that I read. Right now, as strange as it seems, I don't know what's over. For sure the me is kinda the same... and most of the people in my life are still somehow there, even if I've left them behind, or if I naturally make them hate me from time to time. In movies, as in life, you may think some people are meant to be together and lose the bet. Black holes are when I can't even put on a pair of jeans to enjoy the day outside, when I keep myself busy and still be bored with anything I do, when little things around the room are the only source of laughter and unsure hope. I don't know if it was the hangover, or the phone call, or just me, but I've made it out. And maybe a new season has started, but for sure the last episode is over. So over, I need a new word for over. Over enough to be psychotically terrified with the little things around the room, but as comfortable with over as I always knew I would be. Maybe life or whatever is a big TV guru and knows just how to keep high audience rates... every time give viewers something to come back to. Some are thrown out by the script, some don't renew their contracts, but a new season is a natural promise for new faces. As mind-blowing as possible.

Anger

It took some time, but I realised I'm not critical, not hard to please, but angry. I used to beat up my friends in childhood and call them names. I used to have a wardrobe full of black clothes, and that was not for trying to be cool. I take the bus and hate everybody I see thru that window. It sometimes explodes and sometimes implodes, it makes me that girl. The girl with the inappropriate dress at the prom. The girl people won't let cook in their kitchen because for sure she will burn a pan. The girl who says the stupid things in the classroom. The girl who cries in public. The girl who gets drunk enough to piss off all her friends. Just the girl who fucks up things and is really good at embarrasing people. But I'm a friend of my anger. Anger lets me know I'm not as weak and stupid as I look. Anger comes from a feeling of personal value. And from giving in to the idea that life in unfair. Anger is realistic, anger is empowering and most of all, angry is better than numb. Some people may give in to kindness and optimism. They get better health, more good luck and lots of love. I dig anger. It's self-destructive.

S

Scriu rar, si de cele mai multe ori asta se intampla de lene. Urcand spre vila aveam senzatia ca daca nu o sa scriu despre toate nebuniile care ma zgandareau o sa explodez. Dar nu am facut-o. Nu am facut-o pentru ca incerc sa fug pe cat posibil de o chestie care pentru mine e ca si amenintarea nucleara: atata timp cat ramane latenta, mentine razboiul rece rece si pericolul ca lumea mea sa sara in aer e redus. Chestia asta e sinceritatea. Treaba asta cu sinceritatea a stat bine in sertarul sau pana saptamana trecuta la o betie improvizata, cand m-a luat gura pe dinainte. Nu ma mai intreb multe lucruri, si de o buna bucata de vreme ma las dusa de val. Am avut noroc. Valul asta m-a dus in locuri pe care nici cea mai buna intentie a mea nu le-ar fi visat. Dar cuvantul a fost rostit, zeita invocata. Sa fiu sincera cu mine insami e de-a dreptul ciudat. Iar cu ceilalti… la ce bun? Sunt obosita. Nu stiu daca am puterea de a duce un razboi si apoi de a reconstrui. Joaca nu m-a antrenat destul pentru asta.

Lost

Being back in Romania is kind of strange. At first, I felt like nothing had changed, as if I had never been away. Now I think maybe I’ve changed. I want to know more and I put up with less. The country is the same. You can always choose a personal perspective and you will be right. You can see all the beauty around if you are an optimist and all the bad management of this beauty if you are a little more skeptical. I used to say that in my country many things are better than in others. But now I know one thing… the only big thing that can be better is that I’m not a stranger anymore. That’s why we have a word here: it’s better in your small poor house than in a foreigner’s palace. I learned to cherish any place I go to. And stop criticizing everything that is little familiar to me. And now I’ve lost my heart somewhere in between: the comfortable place where my roots are and the magical places my thoughts fly to.

Tot eu, nemultumita

Sportul national in ultima vreme este sapa. Cine pe cine sapa. Cine pe cine amendeaza. Cine pe cine enerveaza. Nu imi place sa ma bag in politica de alta forma decat verbal, dar deja e evident ca Stirile de Sport ProTv sunt Stirile Gigi Tv si mai ales ca daca Tariceanu a zis sa se bage curent in localitatile unde copiii citesc la opait, Basescu o sa zica nu intr-un fel sau altul, adica o sa ceara sa se justifice fondurile la fel ca in cazul majorarii pensiilor sau mai stiu eu ce strambe au pregatite consilierii lui. Si pentru ca asta nu este de ajuns, s-a saturat sa pupe copii mici pentru reclama electorala si s-a apucat de pupat fundul maghiarimii intr-un moment oportun, cand UDMRul trage cu dintii ca un nou partid al minoritatii maghiare sa nu intre in legalitate. Pe de alta parte, autostrazile avanseaza cu viteza melcului turbat si organul nu e in stare sa decongestioneze traficul in cazul unui accident rutier care a intarziat orele de plecare ale mai multor avioane, turistii straini sunt atacati de ursii rupti de foame, iar patrimoniul national se prabuseste azi-maine in capul vizitatorilor . Eu nu zic sa ne facem reclame frumoase, asa cum are mai nou Malaezia, dar macar sa nu ne facem de rusine in halul asta. Poate ca nu suntem atat de orgoliosi ca alte popoare, dar sa nu transformam modestia in umilinta. Si mai ales, cand merg la un restaurant ma astept sa mi se aduca si sa mi se factureze ceea ce am comandat, iar personalul sa fi auzit de respect, dar deocamdata traim intr-o tara in care secretarele conduc institutii si bucataresele localuri. Vorba lui Badea... “traim in Romania si asta ne ocupa tot timpul”.

Complex guide

Yesterday I ran into a whole pile of magazines. They call them beauty magazines, but I guess the opposite word would fit just as well... I personally see most of the content as a very cruel advertising for the beauty industry. When 90% of the clothes are more expensive than most women afford or are willing to spend, and more than half (when at least a third is perfume advertising, which I love) consists of diet advice, plastic surgery and other beauty procedures, what is the use of the few articles that tell you to believe in yourself? They just make you feel bad. Aaa, your weight is ok? Well, we can find some other defect for you. Maybe your breasts are too small. See, one way or another you NEED surgery. Who cares you're 15? You need eye cream and for sure your legs are blasting with cellulite. Then they put photos of stupid bimboes who apparently are the idols of the new generation. Poor generation, who looks up to anorexics and surgery-addicts. Most of the real fashion icons were appreciated for the how genuinely they express interesting personalities in their looks. My personal favorites are Katharine Hepburn (not Audrey, she was just a black and white Barbie), Nathalie Wood (almost as beautiful as Carmina Ordonez :P, some might know what I'm speaking about), Allie McGraw (mixture of college and hippie, great hair), Sarah Jessica-Parker (some might hate me for this) or the new-comer Sienna Miller. And the most depressive part is that after these magazines encourage and greet you for being an independent woman (one of their favorite words), they write articles on relationships. And here Cosmo is not too far from what I used to read when I was 14... rules and rules and attempts to translate the male mind and body for helpless "independent" women. But what pissed me off most was an article in Elle (and Elle was for me a fashion magazine and had nothing to do with the swamp of girly magazines) that was apparently about how a woman learned to be alone. Well, after the initial bullshit with 'now I have time for all the things I left aside when I was in a relationship', we get the same discourse of 'he's out there... you just have to wait... no, better put yourself out there... always get a Brazilian wax, just to feel sexy and then... read more girly magazines to learn about how men work'. I feel offended. And I now understand why most men hate this kind of press. I like men. They are my best friends (no offense, girls), my best teachers, my best lovers (and only ones :P). I don't think any frustrated lady should write about men as if they had remote controls. And I don't approve articles that teach you how to 'manipulate' your boyfriend. It's nonsense and all that control is illusory, they know the game and play it because it's fun, you're not some wonderful hypnosis masters just because you can give good head. Playboy doesn't write about how to make your girlfriend less jealous, so why should Glamour write about how to make your boyfriend more romantic? I think women will stop being so frustrated about their relationships when they can accept that men are different and they are just fine the way they are. And enjoy this. We have become more successful, more educated, more independent (I can't believe I'm using this word), but not wiser. Actually, I guess we are a bit more stupid when it comes to our social behavior, rounded by contradictions... a tradition that makes marriage compulsory in your meaningful life as a woman and an emancipation that gives you the choice. Maybe we girls should just put the magazines in a drawer and go out for a coffee with a male friend. And just listen, be there with a friend and not a gendered person.

Isteria ca atitudine

Imi place sa cred ca sunt o persoana care stie sa aiba rabdare. Am invatat de mica sa stau la cozi si am dezvoltat mici strategii de a nu pierde vremea cand am de asteptat. De exemplu, cand astept sa intru la vreun medic, citesc. Sau in statie imi desenez mental tot felul de planuri. In autobus visez, iar la magazin rasfoiesc reviste pana imi vine randul. Dar azi oftalmologul mi-a prins coaiele (pe care nu le am, stiu, !dar e metaforic!) la menghina. Dupa ce am asteptat ieri doua ore ca sa fac o programare, timp in care in fata mea intrau cei care aveau asa ceva, astazi am asteptat doua ore. Bineinteles, s-au gasit destui sa intre fara a respecta ordinea, aceia aveau un plic, un buchet sau o cutiuta pentru doamna doctor. Pentru ca apoi sa mi se spuna ca voi fi consultata atunci cand va fi timp, pentru ca la ora la care eram programata nu eram prezenta in fata usii... pai recunosc, am intarziat vreo 20 de secunde, dar tot si 30 era cand am ajuns acolo. Nu inteleg cum poate o asemenea femeie sa tina predici despre punctualitate, cand minimul respect pentru pacient ii lipseste din moment ce zbiara, jigneste si da afara pana si batranici. Nu asta e Romania, asta e viata... asa nedreapta cum refuz eu sa o vad. Si cred ca daca eu am invatat sa fiu punctuala, si Romania va invata sa nu mai plece capul ca subsemnata si sa scrie naibii o scrisorica la condica de reclamatii!

What is home?

They say your home is where your heart is. Then my heart would be broken anyway. Researchers had real problems trying to determine what is home for all people. There is always a certain error. When applying questionnaries for a census, they had to operationalise the concept of home. Is it the place where you sleep? Then can some people who travel all the time call the hotel or tent home? Is that where we should look for them when we are doing a census? Another option is to consider home the place where we keep our things. But some people live in one place with a partner and keep their stuff in some privately owned place. Home can also be the place where we spend most of our private time. But then for some people the park, the coffeeshop or the gym may be considered to be home. I never defined what home is for me. But I can only find one thing: it's the place where, at least for a while, you always go back when nothing is the best thing to do.

Well

Well, I’m in the Zurich airport. Now I’m thinking about the luggage, I don’t know if they manage to put it on the plane in time, since I was late anyway. I hope so. I will wait half an hour and get on the plane to Budapest. The trip was not so bad. Actually, I slept very good last night, even if it was few time. And now I’m not very tired. I was very bad after running in the airport of Porto, I could hardly breathe because of the panic (I was breathing like Darth Vader in Star Wars). The weather is great in Switzerland, and the mountains look wonderful. There was good visibility on all trips and I had seats at the window on the flight from Geneve (and now I will have the same again, hehe). There were little children sitting in front of me on the plane who were very funny and we got yummy Swiss chocolate. I like this airport, you should see the smoking place, it’s like a very fancy bar. It’s easy to get around, the crew helps you and also there are a lot of signs (my grandparents worried I'd get lost). The Oporto airport is nice too (it was elected one of the best in Europe and has free wireless and LAN internet), but it can get confusing sometimes (like Portuguese roads). I dream a lot, this way I don’t get sad.

More than that

When I stop to listen and have a real conversation I find myself easier than when I go on the street alone shouting on the inside and trying to figure things out. There is more to life than the things that make me sad and worried. As the 'Sunscreen' song says, worry is like trying to solve an algebra ecuation by chewing bubblegum. Because the real problems we will have in life never even crossed our minds. But let's just leave that all behind. What is more to life than waiting next to the telephone, or being depressed because of a bad hair day? Things just as simple as that... dreaming about owning my own house and developing the plan to achieve that... and right then the right persons will offer their support. Then dreaming again about my outraging coffeeshop and deciding to learn how to administer one. Moreover, keeping the faith... that friends will be there when you have happy moments to share and opportunity will cross my way when I want to take my education further on. Rather than wait, I prefer to hope and rather than worry, to believe...

Someone to samba through life with me

My friends are moving to other cities, working in other countries, being left behind, coming and going and what can I do? I'm self-centered, but not self-sufficient. I'm actually a relationship person. Who turned over night into a sad 'wake up and smell the coffee girl'. And then, I'm just a little creature, all this sadness is too much to fit me. I'm working hard to face it, no one told me anyway I go I lose. The worst thing is... having to dance alone through life... But it was my choice and I'm sticking to it.

I love Spain!

I arrived last night and I still haven't gone out of the house. I ate good soup with Romanian ingredients and woke up on a wonderful heat. It's so good and sunny and it all smells like holiday. The best part is that I found wireless signal directly from my room. And all my family from the city lives within a 5-minute reach (they are all nice and funny) and the center and the river are at 10 minutes of walking. Next days I intend to go swimming, shopping and sleep a lot (three of my favourite s-words...). I'm still sad every time I stop to let my mind flow, but I'll cope just fine.

Closing time

The hard thing is not to say goodbye. The hard thing is to convince yourself that goodbyes are just 'see you later', when all you feel like doing is to cry. And the hardest thing is to go on when everything inside you has turned into a heavy rock that is growing and growing and the pressure is impossible to take and you wish a tear would break through your skin or a scream through your throat, but you just lie there helpless staring and wondering if it's best to remember the good times or contemplate the ones ahead. I personally prefer to let it all out. The past is now there to make me smile when I feel lonely and to give me strength when I can't believe in myself. The future is there to make me dream when I get bored and to give me hope when I can't make one more step ahead. But this moment is here for me to cry because I'm sad, to write because I have wireless and to hold my head up high because now I'm the only person left to to take care of me.

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.

Arca d'Agua

The beautiful park "muito perto" from my university is called Arca d'Agua. The little pond is a home for some duck families and the trees for rare birds. Next to the pond, there is a little cafe where senior citizens meet to play chess and sometimes at evenings to dance. On the street corners, you can find other two places to spend your time. One of them is the Cafeteria Arca d'Agua, redecorated, but following the traditional line, with its large windows where tasty cakes invite the pedestrians in. The coffee is ok, and everything is quite cheap. It's the only place where I found eclaire with chocolate so far, but the croissants and the other cakes worth your attention too. As most of the places in Porto, they also serve lunch. It's a must for a good business here, since between 12-13 and 14-15 all the city is taking a break and some live too far to go home for lunch. Not that they don't spend all day in cafeterias. It's not too hard to learn the menu... Bica is a simple coffee, galão is large coffee with milk, while pingo is normal coffee with a touch of milk. Coffee brands are all over the city, fighting for exclusivity in most places, with a lot of advertising items like the coffee cups, the sugar and napkins and so on. My favourite so far is Delta Cafes, the brand they also sell at the school cafeteria. Their coffee has a rich taste and good morning smell. In Norteshopping Delta Cafes has a little coffee shop where a pingo in about 50 cents and they serve it with a piece of black chocolate and a cinnamon stick to stir your sugar. My second favourite brand is Segafredo, which I think is a little stronger and more suited for a coffee on the esplanadas next to the beach. Talking about the beach, since I live in Foz, most of the places where you can have a coffee or more are within a five minutes of walk range and Praia dos Ingleseses is one of the very comfortable ones. Not to mention the pub Bonaparte, where you will never ever get bored... but about this, some other time.

Majestic

For the more pretentious and romantic, on Rua Santa Catarina you can find Cafe Majestic. It catches your eye while walking on the street and it's not a place to read in silence, but to take a handful of friends to spend the time talking about all that matters on Earth or above. Almost always full, it brings you back to the 20s-30s, in a Europe where politics has descended not on the streets, but in the cafes. Artists, politicians and profanes (J.K. Rowling wrote some of a Harry Potter book here, and Jacques Chirac also stopped by), all crowded in a magnificent decor, with wide mirrors and rich theatre-like walls. Marble tables, baroque chairs, winter garden, piano concerts and an exhibition room - all shaped to make my little heart amaze. The waiters are fast, polite, but it pays - a glass of Super Bock (great Portuguese beer) is 2,5 euros. For a short virtual tour, check out http://www.cafemajestic.com/, a website that stands up to the standards of the cafe itself. I personally went there with a friend, in a lazy moment when we had a lot of things to solve, but just wanted a break from all the noise outside. Surprisingly, it was more noisy inside, but a comforting noise. In the end we didn't talk about anything sacred, as the place encouraged us to, but just gossiped for about one hour, too preoccupied to stare at the walls and glance at the other visitors. For a cafes passionate like me, its a place to return to... of course, in the beginning of the month, when the scolarship money are not yet running low. But if you ever get to Porto... this place is a must see.

Revolucion

This week I will adopt the poor student strategy. That means buying food from the supermarket, going to museums with free entrance and walking around, practicing the good old cheap sightseeing. Easter is coming, I'm on holiday and I've crossed the line with eating out and passing time in cafes. Then the residence is almost empty, there is no point to think about parties. And life here with a couple of hundred euros is at subsistence level. But let me write more about the cafes, since this is a second home for the Portuguese.
You don't have to go far to find one. They're everywhere, usually with attractive windows - attractive = full of cakes, cookies and their other relatives. Some are more or less traditional, others are modern, and in the center you run into the more fancy ones. In Foz there is one I like very much. It's called Point Cafe, five minutes from where I live. Great interior design, I never thought that such a small bathroom could look amazing in granite. The furniture is simple in shape, black tables and leather benches, contrasting with the white walls with surprising and ingenuous accessories like the illumination or the napkin holders. I love it when they bring me the delicious tea in French press and the cups of thermoisolated glass - I always burn my tongue with those, because you can't feel the temperature of the liquid inside by holding them in your hands. The serving is pronto and the tuna salad is a dream, not to mention the coffee - I tried a pingo, which is coffee with a little milk. Surprisingly, it's just as or even cheaper than the traditional cafes and this Sunday you can watch the game on a wide screen (Benfica - F.C. Porto) with a Carlsberg on the house in your hands. They also serve lunch, but the best thing is it's right across the street from the ocean.
To be continued...

Blogging

One week of holiday, one week of surfing through blogs. One "rehab" to my virtual space, one coffee by the beach. Good week. I want to make a short list of the blogs I liked, some for their honesty, some for the sense of humor, and most because of good natured criticism. But before, as I decided to do from now on, I must give tribute to the author of the photo I'm using on this post, it's Maxime Boisvert and the title of the photograph is Sun, Dream and Coffee, as posted on the website where I steal artwork from; that is photo.net.
I discovered a set of blogs on clujblogfest.ro, a blog competition in my home town. One of my favorites is Aron Biro: The Deleted Scenes (you can find the link on the website mentioned above). Music and film reviews (sorry to describe it in such few words), I personally submit to his lines on Taxidermia. On http://comice.blogspot.com I had a really good time, must see all the Family Guy videos. http://mirandolina.wordpress.com/ is my personal champ in the ladies' blog category. I also ran today on 360 on the blog of a medicine student from Bucharest. I loved it. Read it for about one hour and a half. When I find it again, I must mention it. And the rest... explore.
I had a talk tonight about the blog vs. forum "competition". Which I think is kinda fake, especially since I expect that not everybody is either self-centered like me nor an opinion searcher like some of my neighbors. There is a little of this in any of us. In the end, I have a lot of fun on forums, in the rare occasions I get to visit one. One time I was searching for information on the chaos theory and I found a forum where some guys were talking such bullshit that even a five-years-old would laugh. Not to mention the very funny post that used to be on a women's magazine website about a girl worried she's had too much anal sex. And I guess my generation, who was reading the Q&A in Bravo about 6 or 7 years ago, when we didn't have forums to laugh at, knows how amazingly embarrassing the teenage mind can get. But I don't deny the role of forums. Just that I don't use them. In a way it's like what happens to a woman before she gives birth: she hears so many terrifying stories about childbirth that it's better not to know anything. When they speak about their problems, most people exaggerate. And I know somebody who was thinking she has cancer just because she was having the same symptoms as a girl who wrote on some forum. It turned out to be a simple infection. I know it's the one who is naive to believe everything, not the one who posts the story, but at least I've never seen a blog that makes you think you're too fat. Problem solved.

Go easy

Once upon a time there was a man who wanted to become a wise man. So he went to a buddhist teacher and asked him what to do to become like him. And the teacher said he should wait for one day and observe while he speaks to other people who come to him for advice. At the end of the day the man said that he didn't get an answer for his question. So the teacher took him to the garden and showed him a pine tree and an apple tree. The man still didn't understand what he's trying to say. So the buddhist teacher explained: "these trees have been sitting here in silence for years without asking themselves why one doesn't resemble the other. They are just different. Nobody can tell you how to become a wise man... you just start by being yourself, because it's the only thing you will ever really be able to do."

Tribute

What is it that makes me happy about the photography of Robert Doisneau? I've been trying to figure this out ever since I first saw his famous "Le Basier de L'Hotel de Vilne". There is something that makes you comfortable, and truly aware of your human condition, of how funny and fulfilling is to be a simple crazy person wondering on the streets of the city. Yeah, there is a lot to say. First, there ar all the "kiss" photos... of simple people who look like stars in '30s movies all because of being together in something our society generally calls love. Hehe. Even on this subject, Doisneau is "candide", both because overwhelming sexuality was not invented at that time, and because love was, as well as it will be 30-40 years later, the only answer to post-war problems (I keed). Then, there are the photos of children... but most of these children are poor and live in a world where playing still blindfolds them from despair. And some funny dogs, and some funny situations on the street... But what resides in most of the works of Doisneau is a feeling of loneliness that cannot be cured by temporary solutions like a kiss, a pet or even a child... the cellist will play alone on the rock and Picasso will look at his bread covered in spleen from head to toes. Try to speak of love, thoughts, playing, walking, crying... try to write about what it is like to be human in the modern world... I believe you need tens of volumes to say what resides in a Doisneau photograph. Because it's simple, just like that.

Born free, taxed for life

Sociologists consider that actually everybody is “culturated”, since we grew up in a culture that makes kind of predictable all our paths in life. What happens when most are more “culturated” than the rest? And I don't mean they know more about classical music, books or art. But that they are more likely to comply with what is expected from them. So either way, being less “culturated” is stigmatizing. They say freedom is a value. But how many actually practice what they preach? The first one who walks away from the line gets slapped. Find something to believe in! That's what commercials tell me and I think it sounds quite appealing. And then I sit by the ocean and think about it. Well, it's not such a big deal. Once you know how to put the questions and stop to listen to what you have to say to yourself, answers pop up. But then you start to wonder. If what you believe in is not what your “culturated” counterparts have in mind, you're doomed. Yes, I love sleep and books, I'm not such a freak if I don't stay up all night or spend my time gossiping. I just think people should practice what they preach, otherwise all the conservative bullshit restrains only the real ones.

Far away

Well, I'm here. It's the coldest week this winter in Porto. And I'm having a really bad flu. I start classes on monday, so I can only talk about the residence and the city. But who cares about the residence? Luckily, it was also sunny these days. I haven't seen the hystorical center yet, but I have an idea of the general "shape". Everything is so mediterannean, even though we are in the northern part of Portugal: lemon trees and palm trees, a lot of light-coloured houses. Some large streets, many narrow and cosy streets, green parks (in january) and modern public transportation. Sometimes, when looking at the little shops (still in the 70s) next to buses that run on natural gas you think that nothing can change a Portuguese, not even technology. There is a sense of belonging and family each Portuguese has for the other I've never encountered. I wish I could speak the language, so that I would feel I'm one of them.

No determinism, no randomness

Trying to find the connection between Zeno's Paradox, Chaos Theory and Organizational Change, I ran into this idea of snow flakes. The question was how does each molecule know where to stay in order for the symmetric and unique shape to appear? The answer was self-similarity. The shape of the snowflake imitates the behavior of its molecules. Still, each snowflake is unique - we can't predict its form from looking at the initial conditions (let's say molecule behavior), since these conditions cannot be perfectly measured - there is no pure determinism and no randomness either - molecules create a pattern according to which they will arrange. Maybe it's not clear the way I put it. But the point is - even physics can say there is no faith, no hazard, only strong will.