Just imagine - a normal Romania

There are presidential elections taking place this weekend in Romania. For those of you who don't know much about it, let me fill you in quickly: Romania is a former communist country in what you would call Eastern Europe; it has been now a democracy for almost 25 years - yes, we were part of that wave of communist regimes take-downs which included the fall of the Berlin wall.

During this quarter of a century, Romania has seen various political parties and alliances come and go, political figures take charge, then fall into disgrace, economical disasters, NATO and EU membership challenges, riots, corruption - at all levels and in all areas, not just politics, growth and decline of citizen participation in the civil society. Romania is also my homeland.

There is very little time left until the votes are cast for a new president in Romania this Sunday. There are probably very few undecided voters, whose votes may still be swayed one way or the other. Most of us, however, already know what future we envision for Romania and what kind of president we would like to see leading it. The problem is that, after 25 years of democracy, a large number of Romanian voters have spend their past couple of weeks wondering and afraid. During the first round of elections, large numbers of Romanians living abroad were not able to cast their ballot. After many hours lining up outside of poll stations, these people were sent away by the Romanian embassies and consulates across Europe. The poor organization of the elections was then blamed on the current Prime Minister, Victor Ponta, who also happens to be one of the two remaining candidates. He is a socialist, or a leftie as we'd call him in North America; a proponent of a party which many see in Romania as communist left-over, and not a viable political solution. He has been charged with plagiarizing his own PhD thesis, but then cleared his name through a new evaluation committee which he appointed himself.

His counter candidate is Klaus Iohannis, a democrat, the mayor of an important city in Transylvania, which boomed economically and culturally during his administration. He also carries with him the charges of corruption brought against many of his political allies. On top of that, he is not well seen by those who claim he is not a true Romanian, due to his German origins, although his ancestors have settled in Transylvania (central Romania) over 800 years ago.
There are plenty of reasons for the public to be divided between these two candidates. The uncertainty of the country's political future makes many Romanians anxious. Many, if not all voters are afraid. Some are naturally afraid to see a win of the counter-candidate. The one they hate, the one they despise, the one they insult and offend publicly. The one they ultimately cannot understand or associate with. The one they fear. Any which way a Romanian will vote this Sunday, it will be out of fear: some are afraid their puny subsidized pensions will be cut, others are afraid to see a German lead their country, others yet are afraid the communists will be back in power, or, on the other side, that we will become the laughing stock of Europe by appointing a plagiarist for president.

What is even worst, and practically unthinkable in a democratic state in this day and age, is the fact that many of the Romanian voters still have to wonder whether or not they will actually be able to cast their vote this coming Sunday. A right as simple as that, as taken for granted as it may be in the West. The right to vote is still not an absolute guarantee for those Romanian citizens living outside of Romania, as the government was not willing to extend voting hours for those abroad, nor increase the number of poll stations available. Protests have been organized all over the country in support of those abroad, and we might see more riots coming up if the situation is not dealt with better than two weeks ago. Voters had to travel far and wide to reach polling stations located only in embassies or consulates. Their only desire was to cast their vote, to speak out their mind, to voice an opinion. To part-take in a crucial decision-making process for Romania. For their country, their children, their parents, their grandparents.

The PM, Victor Ponta, has rebuked criticism in regards to the way he organized the first election round. He claimed that Romanians abroad had to now undergo a lengthier process due to previous cases of election fraud (the current president was elected with the large support of Romanian voters living abroad, voters who lean towards the democrat side). Mr. Ponta ignored various complaints of election fraud at home, where multiple so-called "red counties" have encountered a questionably high amount of electoral tourists who allegedly voted multiple times in various townships by using supplemental voters' lists. Ponta marched on with his campaign, tacitly accepting the resignation of the Minister of Foreign Affairs - Titus Corlăţean, a scapegoat for the failure of the November 2nd elections. There was no talk of the claims that retirees received their pension slips in the mail along with electoral pamphlets framing Iohannis as the bad guy who will cut their subsidies (for someone having to survive on 180 euro a month, that would be a big issue). Nor was there talk of the campaign lead through the Orthodox church (Romania is roughly 80% Christian Orthodox) meant to demonize Iohannis for his Protestant religious views. Images and stories surfaced on the internet of the Roma community being instructed by their leaders to vote for the left, and of yet many other elderly in remote villages being told by their incumbent mayors where to place their stamp on the ballots.
No wonder Romanians abroad are worried and will most likely come out in even larger numbers to vote (the total turn out in the first round was 52%). Romanians living abroad are invested in this election, because they are the ones who sustained the Romanian economy in the last decade by sending money home to their children or parents (4,23 billion Euros in 2013 only). And yet, they are being told by politicians at home that their vote is fraudulent, unwanted, and should not even exist. You think that sounds undemocratic and unconstitutional? It is. To us, the Romanians abroad, it sounds as if our brothers at home are now demanding us to stop addressing our mom by the word "mother". We may be the ones sustaining her, and missing her, and wishing to return to her as soon as possible. But, for as long as we live far away, our filial rights are extinguished. It would be best if we sat aside while her fate is being decided. If we could sit meekly and observe as she is prematurely sent to the cheapest nursing home. It would be best if we could continue sending the money, but not intervene in choices made at home. We can, of course, participate in the online debates, and start throwing around words like 'slut', 'whore', 'sell-out granma', 'loser', 'stinky retiree'. These are labels applied on social media to those who published pictures of themselves alongside PSD insignia (Social-Democrat Party, Ponta's political ally), or were caught on video marching in support of the socialist candidate.
The political campaign in Romania has become a full-on circus which includes not just the candidates and their parties, but also their supporters, the partisan media, the social media, and those occasionally caught in the middle. It is now acceptable for all involved, from politicians to journalists, from public cultural figures to regular people, to lash out at each other using the most despicable gangster slang. Across the board, people have lost their common sense and seem to have forgotten that those they point at and make fun of might be their own mothers, fathers, grandparents, or neighbours. No one seems to be able to draw the line between political slogans and the individual right to one's opinion, between shameless promises and the right to a secret ballot, between public manipulation and the right to free speech and public protest. Comparing Romania to a mother and the Romanian voters to a family might seem exaggerated to you. I find it necessary, in order to remind people that once the votes are cast and counted, all Romanian citizens will have to carry on with their lives. They'll have to make due with their low income, or face the same red tape when attempting to launch a private business or obtain any type of government approval. This is not in any way, shape or form a perfect family. Far from it. Romanians are not united, they are not the same, they might come from different ethnic backgrounds, different religious and political beliefs. As one who was born in Transylvania, I can attest that my relatives comprise not only pure-bred Romanians, but also Hungarian and German ethnics. My close friends and extended family members also include Romanians of Roma ethnicity. Yes, gypsies. I am not afraid of the Germans, Hungarians, Roma living in Romania. Our cohabitation on this land is long and convoluted, but it would be absurd to fear each other, especially at this turning point in our history. My friends have different political beliefs and all come from different backgrounds. Once all is said and done, and the polls close, we will remain friends. And we will all remain, first of all, Romanian.

If Romanians still want to take something away from this election, it should be the example set by Klaus Iohannis. His campaign did not follow the pre-existing template of tarnishing his opponent's image until no trace of dignity is left. His message has remained calm, steady, reasonable. That is the type of German and Transylvanian character he bears. He's been criticized for reacting too slowly to Ponta's virulent attacks. He's been instructed to learn his slogans by heart and have his answers ready for any potential encounter. He did not - instead he knew by heart the Romanian anthem, whereas Mr. Ponta simply blabbered a couple of verses. Iohannis been told repeatedly he is not as good of a politician as Mr. Ponta is. In their initial debates, many have called him the runner-up. But his steady rhythm might just win the race. He has not given in, and he has not yet changed. He remains true to his word, that of trying to re-establish normalcy in Romanian society. It remains to be seen if the Romanian political scene is ready for such a change in discourse, and if he will be able to put his plan into action should he be elected president.
But even he, as restrained and calculated as he appears to be, will not be able to succeed without direct support from regular people. From those who might have in the past looked the other way when someone slipped them 100 euros to speed up an otherwise free, public service; those who ignored the busload of electoral tourists voting in multiple locations; those who sat quietly when a priest dictated what they should vote. Only this way will we ever have the chance of becoming a truly democratic state. A state where voting left is no longer something to be ashamed of. A democratic state where voting right is not a gesture of extreme contempt for the other side. A democratic state where it is simply normal to go out and vote, exercising your constitutional right to make a difference in your country's future, then move on with your day-to-day life. A normal state. A normal Romania.

Exercițiu de imaginație – o Românie normală

Mai este puțin până la votul de duminică. Mai sunt, probabil, puțini nehotărâți, al căror vot mai poate fi influențat într-o parte sau alta. Știm, probabil, majoritatea, cam ce ne dorim pentru România și pe cine ne-am dori să vedem în funcția de președinte al țării. Mulți dintre noi am trăit aceste zile premergătoare celui de-al doilea tur de scrutin, cu frica în sân, cu inima la gură. Principala teamă este bineînțeles aceea de a-l vedea ales pe candidatul cu care nu am votat. Acela pe care îl urăm, îl disprețuim, îl ponegrim, îl injuriem. Acela pe care nu îl înțelegem. Acela de care, în ultimă instanță, ne este frică. Indiferent de ce parte ne-am afla, votul nostru e motivat de frică. Unora le e frică să nu le fie tăiate pensiile. Altora le e frică să vadă un ne-român și ne-ortodox la cârma țării. Unora să nu revină băsescienii la putere; altora – comuniștii. Altora să nu ne facem de râsul Europei cu un președinte plagiator.
Pe lângă temerile legate de contracandidat, câțiva dintre noi mai avem o teamă, teoretic inimaginabilă în cadrul unui proces electoral organizat în secolul 21 într-un stat democratic. Ne este teamă că nu vom avea posibilitatea de a ne exersa un drept constituțional fundamental – acela de a vota. De a vota, pur și simplu. De a ne spune părerea. De a alege dintre cele două variante rămase, una care ni se pare mai potrivită pentru România. Pentru noi, pentru părinții noștri, pentru bunicii noștri, pentru copiii noștri.
Ni se reclamă din varii surse, nouă, românilor din diaspora, fie că suntem fraudatori, fie că nici nu ar trebui să avem acest drept de a vota viitorul unei țări în care nu locuim. Nu vreau să pierd vremea cu explicații despre ce înseamnă Constituția, sau cât de greu s-a obținut acest drept de vot, istoric vorbind, sau cu scenarii despre români care s-ar întoarce acasă dacă ar avea unde lucra, unde locui, unde obține ajutor în dezvoltarea de proiecte și investiții locale. Vreau doar să vă imaginați că aveți un frate care la un moment dat vă spune: nu mai ai voie să îi zici mamei mamă, pentru că locuiești la mai mult de 100km depărtare de ea. Nu contează că îi duci dorul, că îi porți de grijă, că îi trimiți bani când și cât poți, că aștepți cu nerăbdare să îți pună la pachet niște zacuscă, gem de prune, sau o sticlă de țuică. Nu contează că ignori oferte tentante de vacanță pe alte tărâmuri, doar ca să poți petrece concediul acasă, la mama. Nu contează. Gata. Tu nu mai ai dreptul să îi spui mamă. Poți să îi spui oricum altcumva: tanti, stimabilo, madam, fă, vecina de la 4, sau, de ce nu, capră, scursătură, scorpie, pensionară aberantă. Acestea sunt cuvintele vehiculate recent în media și în rețelele de socializare cu referire la persoane care au avut marea nechibzuință de a își face publică aderența la unul sau altul dintre principalii opozanți în turul de scrutin.
E normal, veți spune, ca într-o campanie electorală să se împroaște unii pe alții cu noroi. E trist, vă voi răspunde, că, în România de astăzi, nu suntem în stare să diferențiem între lozinci electorale și convingeri politice personale; între pomana electorală și dreptul individual la un vot secret; între manipularea din amvon și deliberări pașnice. Am uitat, oare, că acei pensionari care votează motivați de necesitatea de a chibzui constant acei 800 de lei amărâți sunt, poate, mamele, tații, bunicii cuiva? Poate ne-au fost profesori, poate ne sunt vecini. Când se va termina numărătoarea voturilor de duminică, ei vor trebui să trăiască din aceeași pensie mizerabilă. Iar noi va trebui să trăim alături de ei în continuare, oricare va fi rezultatul alegerilor. Vom putea oare să îi privim în ochi pe acești oameni pe care i-am înjosit doar pentru că au avut marea îndrăzneală de a vota PSD sau Ponta?
Da, am comparat România cu o mamă (veți spune că mi se trage de la propaganda cu șoimii patriei). Voi îndrăzni totuși să îi compar pe membrii electoratului cu membrii unei familii. Nu suntem uniți, nu suntem la fel; unii suntem chiar corciți, mai blonzi sau mai bruneți, cum s-a nimerit. Provenind din Ardeal, am veri jumătate unguri, alții jumătate sași, am prieteni de etnie rromă. La mine în sat în Țara Oltului se zice „ia, ia” ca semn de aprobare, in loc de da. Nu mi-e frică de sași, de maghiari, de țigani. Am prieteni care votează dreapta, alții care votează stânga, indiferent de ce argumente le sunt aduse. Când încheiem socotelile, prieteni rămânem, și se cheamă că tot români suntem. Nu ne este frică unii de alții, ar fi aberant.
Dacă mai e timp să învățăm ceva din campania asta electorală, este că disputele electorale ne învrăjbesc inutil. Degeaba îl votăm pe Iohannis dacă nu înțelegem să îi urmăm exemplul și să nu târâm prin noroi și ultimul semn de demnitate al oponentului nostru. Cu ce credeți că schimbăm acest om dacă îl împingem să dea replici mai acide, să fie mai înfipt, mai pe fază? Nu facem decât să justificăm propria ocară aruncată pesedistului cu care ne-am întâlnit ieri la piață.
Cât despre cealaltă parte, degeaba votăm Ponta, dacă nu am plecat măcar o singură dată urechea la rugămințile unei generații tinere care își dorește nu doar schimbare de dragul schimbării, ci o economie sănătoasă, o justiție independentă, și un sistem administrativ eficient.
 Mi-am petrecut aceste două săptămâni ca orice alt român din diaspora care mai e încă interesat de soarta României: citind articole, editoriale, urmărind dezbateri, căutând avid printre comentarii pe forumuri și rețele de socializare. Mi-au lăsat un gust amar toate postările injurioase, toate scrisorile deschise adresate premierului, cuprinzând expresii de genul „puie monta”, „ești un rahat”, „dilimache” etc. Cu ce credeți că se va schimba acest om în urma acestor intervenții usturătoare? Oricât ar fi el de perfid, funcția pe care deocamdată o deține îi acordă totuși o anumită respectabilitate. Cum mi-ar fi zis mie mama, „nu ați mâncat împreună din același blid ca să i te adresezi așa”. Acest avânt agresiv, fie și numai verbal, al unora dintre votanții pro-Iohannis, creează un sentiment de înstrăinare (sic!) și disconfort taman în sânul propriilor susținători. Parcă ne e jenă să ne înhăităm cu oameni care nu înțeleg să se distanțeze de circul electoral, să își îndeplinească o datorie civică simplă de a vota, și să continue să își vadă de treabă într-o Românie normală. Avem, probabil, presentimentul că aceeași oameni care îl atacă acum pe Ponta îl vor ataca în 5-6 luni și pe Iohannis dacă e să iasă președinte. Ne este oarecum greu de explicat că alegerea noastră, deși similară, nu este corelată cu atribuirea de calități și puteri imaginare unui om politic care, odată ajuns președinte, va fi și el limitat de legislație în ceea ce privește funcția de șef de stat, și de opoziție în ceea ce privește implementarea oricărei schimbări substanțiale.
Odată ce unul dintre cei doi ajunge președinte, noi, votanții de rând, va trebui să ne întoarcem la oile noastre proverbiale. Pensionarii la măsurat cotul de pâine, profesorii la predat, studenții la studiat, medicii la îngrijit pacienți, avocații la pledoarii, jurnaliștii la alte scandaluri. Depinde de noi să aducem un dram de normalitate în activitățile noastre zilnice, și să realizăm că doar astfel putem contribui la realizarea unei Românii normale, să ne împingem unii pe alții către normalitate. Depinde de noi să semnalizăm când cutare și cutărică pretind sume de bani nejustificate în schimbul unor servicii care ar trebui să fie gratuite sau subvenționate de stat. Depinde de noi să fim vigilenți când trabantul roșu cu turiști electorali se plimbă din sat în sat în văzul tuturor. Depinde de noi să îi explicăm bunicii sau vecinei că treaba cu campania electorală în fluturașul de pensie este o mare cacealma.
 Poate doar așa vom ajunge și noi ziua în care nu va mai fi o rușine să votezi stânga, ci doar o simplă variantă. Ziua în care a vota dreapta nu va mai fi un gest de exasperare, cu inima strânsă de incertitudinea aplicării programei electorale promise.
Asta îmi voi dori pentru România când voi folosi ștampila de vot duminică: o zi în care procesul electoral va fi unul normal, corect, în care tinerii plecați din țară să studieze vor ști sigur că au la ce să se întoarcă, și nu vor fi lăsați în lacrimi în fața ușilor închise ale ambasadei, așa cum s-a întâmplat în Londra pe 2 noiembrie. O zi în care vor fi primiți înapoi într-o Românie cu ușile larg deschise. O zi în care România va re-deveni normală.

Semi-biblică

De-aici, din patul meu de paie
văd sânul mamei rotunjit
și mâna mi-o întind spre ploaie
să se oprească din mugit.

Printre cei trei ce m-au purtat
pe brațe, spre altarul nopții,
tu nu erai - mereu îndepărtat,
te-nchini din pragul porții.
(iulie 05)

Business 101 - My top business ideas

It was sometime around the early '90s, right after the Revolution, when the new-found freedom of expression brought about a plethora of newspapers and colourful magazines never-before seen in the communist Romania. Stories and pictures of European and American stars or jet-setters were populating the enthralled minds of a people thirsty for the western world. I was a child, so for me, these images were not just passing curiosities, but also things worthy of collecting for later admiring. I had notebooks full of cut-outs with Michael Jackson, Madonna, 90210 – you name it!
One of my biggest projects though was decorating my grandmother’s country backhouse with colourful, interesting and some thought-provoking (sic) pictures and articles. Among them, a small story I told myself I have to remember till my adult years - to see if it came true. It was an account of the business accomplishments of what was predicted to become America’s next billionaire couple: Donald Trump and his wife (Ivana at the time). I looked at their happy picture every time I visited the backhouse and wondered if and when the prediction would come true.
I had my own innovating ideas at the time, and was sure to patent them one day and, why not, join the likes of Trump and Ivana. I wanted to invent a dress made of a special material that would change colours with a drop of colour ink. I later got a two-sided dress/sarafan (jumpsuit) that was either blue or yellow, depending which side you wanted to wear it. It was enough colour changing for me, so I forgot about my magic dress-colour-changing-potion. I wanted to be the first person to write a book that would read multiple ways, depending on how the reader chooses to go through it (I did not really know how to do this, but it seemed like a very advanced concept to me at the time). When I studied modern lit in Canada, I realized that was already known as a “choose your own adventure” book. So I gave up my entrepreneurial ideas for a while. Then I ran into Mr. Trump again, this time on the TV screen! Sure, he didn’t look much like my backhouse photo. His new wife was the age of his daughter, and his hair was a bit thin. But he did make the prediction come true! Well, at least partially. So why would I give up on my own business ideas? Right? Well, here they are, right out of the backhouse of my brain!

1.      The Esspresso-way Coffe Patrol

The elevator pitch:

Imagine your regular morning, driving down to work. You’re a bit sleepy, head is heavy, left in a hurry, had no time to make or buy coffee. Traffic is a bitch. You are stuck, late, and coffee-less. Do not despair! The Esspresso-way Coffee Patrol is here to kick-start your day right! 

You can order and receive your coffee in your car! Our high-speed patrols are equipped with state-of-the-art coffee and espresso makers, and will deliver it straight to your car window. The Patrol mini-cars have special Police permission to run on the highway shoulder, and will be able to track you via GPS. The business can be extended to fast traffic, for sun-roof car customers only – the coffee being delivered in a pressurized can, via bazooka-like device, straight to your coffee-mug holder!

For future development: the Bikespresso Patrol – for Toronto’s busy streets.

Now hiring: skilled bikers and drivers, preferably holding a valid archery permit.

2.      The all-in-one appliance

OK, so you know how you have about 10 electric appliances in your house, right? A normal household will probably have a vacuum, a hairdryer, coffeemaker, toaster, microwave, juicer, mixer, food processor, iron, magic bullet, washing machine, etc. How many of these are you actually using at the same time? Think about it... what? Two? That’s about right, you wouldn’t want to vacuum while making a smoothie, now would you. So. Think of all the time these electronics are NOT being used. Taking up space for no reason. Such a waste of coils, electric resistances and commutators. Why not have a universal motor that can be used as a source to power any of the above, whenever you need that one appliance?

Here’s how it could work. Think of your travel adaptor. Thant thing that you buy at Canadian Tire and has 12 different outputs you can select based on the respective country voltage. OK, well a all-in-one appliance works the same way. You just buy the motor, and then switch up the output for whatever purpose you need at the time. You wouldn’t have to use a hundred cables and store away all your unused appliances. One appliance that does it all! Dries your hair, toasts your bread and washes your dishes! If you invest in this idea, you would be at the forefront of electronic research and innovation! 

3.      Cement Africa! – or Pafrica!  

There is so much construction going on downtown that it got me thinking of all the cement being used. I noticed a lot of the cement-carrying trucks were labelled Holcim, and I knew this company also has production plants in Romania. So I looked it up on wiki – turns out it’s a Swiss company that makes cement all over the world. If you look at their world distribution, the map is almost all covered in red! Except for... you got it! Africa!

Our company proposes to enter the (almost) pristine market of manufacturing cement for Africa! Cement, pavement, roads – these are the blood vessels of great civilizations! The Roman empire rose to greatness due to its roads! Despite national, linguistic and ethnic differences, our company could make history by being the one that cemented Africa! Roads and infrastructure will bring about possibility of transport and commerce, therefore opening the gates for western investors and local prosperity!

Let’s cement Africa together!

Possible competitors: Egypt and China as the area’s most prolific cement manufacturers.

4.      Video Games for Losers

This particular business idea holds a great amount of emotional value for me. I must confess right off the bat that I am the biggest loser! Yes, I have never, ever ever completed a video game. Never killed Bowzer, never saved no princess, recouped any time daggers, finished first in any car race. OK? So. I am sure there are others out there. We need video games for losers!

I don’t care I wasn’t able to make the flying dino eat all those apples, kill those fire-spitting turtles and jump on the freaking pole! I want Bowser to die! And I want to get on to the next level already! I don’t care I ran my car into all the freaking walls, ran over ten people and flew over the bridge into the river! Make all those other stupid cars get into an accident of their own, and give me that damn trophy already! Oh, and I want to upgrade my car to a BMW with all the frizzle stuff too, ok? What? Points? No, I have NOT won any points, just give it to me already, I BOUGHT this freaking game, didn’t I?! So make me the damn winner already!

Videogames for losers. The virtual business of the future.

5.      The DDouble Cooler

This one is for a niche audience. And that’s why it’s gonna be the most successful of all!

Ladies! Let’s talk from woman to woman! We all know our periods suck. Cramps and headaches and nausea no Tylenol has managed to cure. On top of it, our boobs swell up and hurt like a m****r f****r! Apparently it doesn’t happen to all of us, but mine were burning like the freaking sun in July! Seriously.

This is why we need the DDouble Cooler! It’s a bra that cools down the ladies! That’s right! It works pretty much like those patchesthat cool down a strained muscle. Except it’s made to fit like a bra! I don’t know about you, but I would seriously pay big bucks to own this – I’d need at least 12 DDouble Coolers a year!

I’ve had a couple suggestions to extend this to a male audience.. ahem.. apparently they could use something similar... hey, anyone willing to invest? 

And, that, folks, is Business101 by Prof. Petpet. Perhaps I should call up Mr. Trump and see if he can throw a couple hundred k my way... :) Till next time, class!

Dare to stare!

I have a new project running a couple months now: looking people in the eye. Now, I usually do that anyways if I'm talking to someone face to face, but my project is a tad larger than that. I am trying to stare in the eye as many people as I can, and observe who looks back (if anyone at all).
You see (sic), where I come from, people will size you up and down whenever and wherever. Just take one step in the public space and you will be - sooner rather than later - scrutinized for what you wear, how you walk, talk, what you do or do not do. OK, well, at least that's the bad aspect of a staring culture. But here comes the good part: you can stare too! And there is also a reward: eye contact! Plus, if you're really good at this - smiles! Alright, if you’re really bad at this, you can get into a fight – but let’s not go there for now…
I can understand eye contact and smiles not being valuable currency in a world of avid video gamers (did I even use that term correctly?); however, there is something immensely comforting in a sustained, reciprocated human stare from a complete stranger. It sort of provides a connection that has been lost and remains unbridged by any sort of new media or electronics you may want to throw its way. It makes you feel like you are part of something bigger than just the thoughts that run through your head, because sometimes, that stranger staring you back seems to say “yeah, dude, it’s ok, we’re in this together”. That is one of the things I miss about… well, about back home.
So I stare. I stare mostly while walking down the street. I just look at the first person I see – straight at them, and wait. Till they walk by. So I’m on to the next. They walk by as well. No matter, tons of people on Toronto streets. My game has thus far confirmed my fears: Canadians would much rather look at anything else than to stare a stranger in the eye! Window shopping, cell checking, button fixing, glass adjusting usually get the upper hand over my staring attempts. Some people do get caught off guard, so they look back for a split second – enough to make sure I’m not a psycho trying to rob them, after that they refocus politely on some other object (“blah, what a freak, why is she still looking at me”). And then there are the very few who get it, they simply do get it, and they will look at you for however long it’s left until walking past you takes them back to their unknown, anonymous life. Oh, yes, and out of those, the one or two who will also smile! Thank God for the Latinos! They always make my day!
It is true that results vary with the time of the day. My morning walks to the subway are the least successful of all: everyone is in a hurry, half-asleep, shut-eyed, looking for their caffeine fix. Unless they’re sitting in the coffee-shop window, but those are already voyeurs themselves… Lunch and evening seem to be better, but still not what I was hoping to find.
Just to clarify the scope of my project, I’m not trying to obtain looks of admiration or approval here, this is not a big flirting scheme I came up with in my screwed up mind. It’s not even the same as an exercise I noticed one of my friends is up to: smiling at people to confuse them. I don’t smile at people, I just look them in the eye, I mean, I would, I’m actually looking them in the eyelid, because they’re always down. The smile is not a forced thing, it may or may not happen, depending how the object of my gaze reacts. Also, I try my best not to appear scrutinizing in any regard; I avoid looking at people’s physique or clothes – that’s a different project altogether! This one is all about the gaze, and whether or not people are able to recognize it and deal with it.
In North America (as opposed to Europe) there seems to be a social agreement not to stare at people – it is not politically correct or acceptable; it can insinuate discrimination or prejudice or racial profiling or etc… People are more likely to tell you “what the f*** are you looking at?” – heck, if you’re in the states, they might just pull out a gun at you(or is that another misconceived impression of a different culture?). Should this ever happen to me, I plan to politely and very Canadianly apologize.
However, to us Euros, staring is soothing, it’s good for the soul, even good for the mind. I strongly believe that, should we all be more comfortable looking at each other, we would all be much calmer people. I remember one of the first days of my arrival in Canada, I found the city and its masses overwhelming. My hometown in Romania, although I believed it to be big, was nothing compared to this huge wasp nest. The subway platform at Bloor and Yonge was simply mesmerizing. I was seeing, for the first time in my life, people of all races, social classes, ages. It felt like drowning in an ocean of hurried people. I knew it was wrong of me to do it, but I stopped. And stared. No one cared, so I just did it. I looked at everyone closely, I wanted to just take 10 minutes and just stare them all down, and just see them so that I don’t have to stare at them in the future. That to me was extremely calming, it allowed me to recognize and then immerse myself in this new and arresting crowd. It was also a conscious decision to adhere to social norms and stop staring at people thereon. Except that sort of makes me miserable. In a social setting. So, I’m afraid, Toronto, that my little project might just become permanent practice. Perhaps precedent-setting. Perhaps some of you people will stare back. And smile.

Short fairytales

You tell yourself a story;
people admire your pictures
- they frame them,
in glass, in oak,
      in brittle shells.
Then you look;
and you believe.

____________________________

You'll come by one evening -
the roles will be set.
Our heads will be hanging
the wrong side of the bed.

Memories of Romania

*to my grandmother (versiunea in limba Romana dedesubt)

It was Monday; a slow, and slightly debilitating Monday – nothing unusual for the little Transylvanian town my parents moved to after my departure to Canada. This town, named Fagaras, is the place I was born; to me it remained, however, a place that never quite became my home. The first six years of my life I spent mostly with my grandmother – Mamma Tori, or “Victoria, wife of Ispas from under the hill” as she was known to the villagers of Sambata de Sus (Upper Saturday). After that, I moved away with my parents in an apartment building in Brasov, a large city in the heart of Transylvania. As of back then, when I was nothing more than a miniature human being, that village, with my grandmother and her wonderful house, was the only place I thought of as home.

I used to go home every June, as soon as school was over, leaving behind in the city all homework and required summer readings. In the winter, at home, I was itching to hit the roads caroling with my friends, and then tobogganing down the big hills. At home there was the best homemade bread and Christmas cake in the world. At home, every spring, we would steal Granma’s stockings to dip eggs with them in red dye and then wait for the Easter bunny. At home was where I could run and hide, where I always felt safe and completely free.

Anyhow, as I was saying, it was a Monday, and I was not home. I was indeed, in Romania. I had already visited my aunts and uncles, and spent time with my parents on a road trip my dad had planned way in advance. I had yet to go see Sambata. Ever since I emigrated 8 years ago, I went back home about 5 times. I went back, but I never made it back home. My dearest Mamma Tori had passed away a mere 3 months after my departure. Whatever I did and wherever I went, without her, it was now impossible to re-find my home. Her house, the backdrop of my childhood dreams, has been placed under lock, as the uncle who took it over did not spend enough time there. I have been imagining for years that I was back running through those bright rooms, bathed in the refreshing breeze of the flowery fields outside.

My mother prefers not to visit the house, so instead we would go by the cemetery every time just to say hello to Granma. This Monday she had the same plan; first, we would go by the mountain spring to get some fresh water... I thought of my grandmother’s ice-cold fountain, which used to cool down all the workers that came knocking on her door for water in the hot summer days... We would then go to the grave, and light up a candle for Mamma Tori... I thought of her soft, hard-working hands, her brilliant eyes, and the voice that once told me from her hospital bed: “Petronela, I love you”. You might find it unusual, but in Romania, other than cheesy movie lines, no one ever says I love you. I have not even heard my own mother say it until after a good few years I had spent away. We, Romanians, always suffer of deep longings, but we never know why. We allow them to consume us to the bone, but rarely do we wonder what the cause is, or at least try to confess our feelings.

For me, that thirsty Monday, it was clear what I was longing for. Who I was longing for.

At the grave I listened to my mom whisper The Lord’s prayer; then I caressed the marble cross. I talked to Mamma Tori, as always, in my mind; then I grabbed a fruit from the apple tree that grows nearby. I had a strong feeling she could hear me, but I was not able to find her presence. Not there.

It was getting dark, time to go back to the city. There was time for a short visit with relatives on the other side of the village. My chances of getting away were growing thin. In front of their houses, people were waiting patiently for the cow herd to come back from a day on the pastures. It is the time of day when people take a break from their chores and get chatty with neighbours. My parents too started a long conversation with my aunt and uncle. I went back to the street and ran into an old childhood friend. There was lots of catching up to do. I tried to give him the short version of my life away, as I was dying to ask him for the biggest favour ever: to lend me his bike for half an hour!

I forgot to tell anyone else I was leaving. I flew, pushed by a childish enthusiasm. The bike dashed over the bridge that separates the village in half: the left and the right side of the Sambata valley. The wheels were rolling on their own, while I took in every house corner, the school yard, the old grocery store, the garden that faces the main road, the rusty cross beside the church, a long bench in front of one of my aunts’ house. People going by stared at the strange girl on the bike, trying to figure out who I was. I knew most of them, elderly faces I always admired and respected as a child. There were some new faces too – young kids who grew up in my absence, and some of my old friends, now grown-ups having a hard time trying to place me as well. In the village everyone says hello to everyone. So I answered smiling with my whole heart. Good evening! I was coming back home!

Mama Tori’s street was almost deserted. A young girl came out of her house only to quickly disappear past the neighbour’s front gates. It was Julia, one of the Neagus’ kids! I knew her since she was a baby! On a bench in front of his house, there sat Nelu, a red-faced frail man, probably waiting for his wife to call him in to dinner. My girlfriends’ houses were quiet – they were all gone away to the city to study or work. On the right, past the row of houses, there starts a wide inundated garden – a delightful vision every spring, clad with yellow flowers and crisp fresh grass.

Granma is last house on the left. The neighbours’ dog starts barking. I drop the bike in front of the gates and I jump on the pole to look inside the yard. I almost yell out: mamma! Come out and open the gate!

How many a times had she left the lights on till midnight, so that we, the kids, would see it from the top of the street! How many more times even had we searched above the gate, in that secret place, to find the key she so lovingly hid away for us to find. And some other times, the very few she would get so upset with us for not returning in time from our friends get-togethers that she would lock the gate and leave the key on the other side, so we had to jump over the tall stone fence to get in...

There was once, a few years ago, above this gate, a robust grape vine that would yield the most fragrant pink grapes on this earth. And besides the house, once, there was a walnut tree, with its secret safe house where I could hide to watch incredible sunsets across the hills...

I went around the house, feeling its walls with my bare hands. I ate a couple green plums from the tree growing behind the garden. I took a good look at the small maple tree forest which separates the garden from the hill. My lungs were breathing raw grass, wild flowers, willow leaves, and peppermint. And, somewhere, far away, under that hill, I could see, I could clearly see her: my grandmother, her hoe hoisted on the shoulder, headscarf a bit tilted, and her back a bit hunched, worried about the little child who was anxiously waiting for her at home...

I took all of it with me. Plus three linden flowers to keep the scent fresh in my mind. I hugged every little thing with my thoughts; then I left. Word must have gotten out I was there, because neighbours were stopping me now in the street to ask how I’ve been. We talked about Canada, America, visas lottery. I had to answer questions about my parents, brother, aunt, uncle, cousins. You see, here, everybody knows everybody and their entire family. I too know all of them; maybe not by name, but I know their house, their husband or wife, and I know that each one of them belongs to someone...- that one of the Rus family, the other of the Begu clan, the other - wife of Comsa...

For them I was and will always remain: the child of Tori, wife of Ispas, from under the hill...

***************************************

Amintiri din România

Era un început de săptămână, molcom, şi un pic tâmp, deloc ieşit din comun pentru micul oraş de provincie în care părinţii mei şi-au mutat reşedinţa aproape simultan cu plecarea mea în Canada. Făgăraş, „nici comună, nici oraş” - cum îi place tatei să spună, este locul în care m-am născut, dar care nu mi-a fost niciodată casă. Înafară de primii şase ani ai copilăriei, pe care i-am petrecut la ţară alături de Mama Tore – „Victoria lu’ Ispas din capu’ satului”, bunica mea – n-am mai avut altă casă decât un apartament de bloc în Braşov. Şi de fapt, încă de pe-atunci, pe când eram un bulz de om, satul acela, Sâmbăta de Sus, cu bunica şi casa ei minunată, mi-a fost singurul loc pe care-l puteam numi acasă.

Acasă mă duceam în fiecare vară, de cum se termina festivitatea aia amărâtă de premiere, cu coroniţe încropite la repezeală şi cărţi subţirele pe care le făceam uitate în oraş. Acasă ardeam de nerăbdare să ies iarna la colindat şi la săniuş cu prietenele de pe uliţă. Acasă erau cei mai buni cozonaci de pe lumea asta, şi ouă roşii de Paşti când mama rămânea mereu fără perechea ei cea mai bună de ştrampi, că, deh, ne erau de folos la vopsit ouă cu model. Acasă era locul în care puteam fugi a mă ascunde, în care mă simţeam mereu în siguranţă şi în deplină libertate.

...Ei, şi era o zi de luni, iar eu nu eram acasă. Eram, într-adevăr, în România. Vizitasem deja rudele cele mai apropiate, şi petrecusem timp cu ai mei într-o mini-excursie pe care o plănuiseră special pentru mine cu mult timp înainte. Nu ajunsesem încă în Sâmbăta. De când am luat drumul străinătăţii acum 8 ani, m-am întors în ţară de 5 ori. M-am întors, dar acasă n-am mai ajuns niciodată. Bunica, mama Tore, s-a stins la trei luni după plecarea mea din ţară. Orice aş face şi oriunde aş căuta acum acel acasă, fără ea, nu-l mai pot găsi. Casa ei, decorul copilăriei şi sufletului meu, a rămas pustie, mai tot timpul sub lacăt, mătuşa şi unchiul care îi poartă grija nefiind interesaţi să locuiască acolo. Eu jinduiesc de ani de zile să mai alerg o dată prin „casele de dinjos”, cele răcoroase şi înmiresmate precum câmpul ce le mărgineşte zidurile.

Mama preferă să nu treacă deloc pe acolo când mergem în sat să vizităm mormântul.

Şi în ziua asta de luni tot aşa plănuise să facă: să mergem întâi la mănăstire, să luăm apă sfinţită de la izvorul părintelui Arsenie. Eu mă gândeam doar la fântâna mamei Tore, şi la apa aceea rece de stâmpăra zeci de oameni ieşiţi la coasă prin roghinile din jur. Să trecem apoi pe la cimitir, să aprindem o lumânare mamei. Eu nu puteam uita mâinile ei moi şi totodată bătucite, şi glasul cu care am auzit-o spunându-mi la telefon, de pe patul de spital, pentru prima şi ultima dată: „Petronela, te iubesc”. Mai ţineţi minte că în România, înafară de poveşti romanţate de dragoste, nu spune nimeni nimănui vorba asta? Până şi mamei i-au trebuit câtiva ani buni de înstrăinare înainte de a o rosti. Nouă, în România, ne e mereu dor, şi nu ştim niciodată de ce. Ne lăsăm dorul să ne cutreiere oasele şi prea rareori încercăm să-l conturăm sau să-l destăinuim.

Eu ştiam prea bine de ce îmi era dor. De cine îmi era dor.

La cimitir am ascultat-o pe mama murmurând Tatăl Nostru, şi-am mângâiat la rându-mi poza din marmură. I-am vorbit mamei Tore ca întotdeauna, în gând, şi-apoi am gustat din mărul ce-i face umbră gropii. Trăiam sentimentul că mă aude, dar că nu o pot găsi. Nu acolo.

Se însera deja şi trebuia să plecăm înapoi spre oraş. Aveam timp de o scurtă vizită la casa unor rude din capătul celălalt al satului. Posibilitatea unei evadări se diminua. Pe la portiţe oamenii ieşiseră, ca-n fiecare seară, să-şi aştepte ghivoliţele sau vacile întoarse de la ciurdă. Ai mei se prinseră la poveşti în curtea tuşii Lucica. Eu am ieşit în uliţă şi am dat peste un vechi prieten din copilărie, reîntors în sat să-şi îngrijească părinţii. Nu mai ştiam cum să fac să îi redau pe scurt tot ce mi s-a întâmplat în atâta amar de vreme, ca să pot în final să îi cer ce mi s-a părut atunci cea mai mare favoare pe care mi-o putea face vreodată: să-mi împrumute pentru jumătate de oră bicicleta lui!

N-am mai spus nimănui că plec. Am pedalat împinsă de un entuziasm infantil. Am trecut în zbor podul peste râul Sâmbetei, apa ce separă satul în două: dincoace şi dincolo de vale. Apoi roţile au mers mai mult de la sine, şi eu sorbeam din ochi fiecare colţ de casă, curtea şcolii, cooperativa, grădina cea de la şosea, crucea din faţa bisericii, laiţa din locul unde oprea pe vremuri cursa de dus muncitorii la uzina din Victoria. Treceau pe lângă mine oameni pe care-i ştiam de-o viaţă, rămaşi neschimbaţi, feţe noi, copii crescuţi acum mari, prieteni care aproape mă uitaseră. În sat, invariabil, toţi te salută. Şi eu am răspuns zâmbind cu tot sufletul. Sara bună! Mă întorceam acasă!

Pe uliţa mamii nu era mai nimeni. O domnişoară ieşise dintr-o curte şi se îndrepta spre alta. Era Iulia a lu” Neagu, o ştiam din scutece. Pe laiţă la Ghiorgheci stătea Ică – acelaşi de cât ţin minte, aşteptând probabil să termine muierea de muls, şi-apoi să-l cheme la mămăligă pentru cină. La casele prietenelor mele era linişte – oricum ele sunt plecate fie la Sibiu, fie la Mureş. Mai în jos pe partea dreaptă se termină casele şi începe roghina (grădină inundată ce dă iarbă bună de cosit de trei ori pe an). Bunica e ultima casă pe stânga. La vecini mârâie un câine. Trântesc bicicleta în faţa porţii şi sar pe poartă să privesc în curte. Mamă! îmi vine să strig, hai deschide!

De câte ori n-a aprins ea săraca becul din pridvor la miezul nopţii, ca să vină apoi să ne deschidă copiiilor şi nepoţilor veniţi care de pe unde mai departe... De câte ori încâ n-am pipăit ţeava de deasupra porţii, locul ascuns în care se ţinea cheia, şi alte, multe alte ori, am sărit acea poartă pentru că bunica ascunsese cheia de supărare că nu ne mai întoarcem din sat de la joc şi prieteni...

Erau, odată, deasupra porţii, în vie, cei mai parfumaţi struguri de pe pământ. Iar în colţul casei era, odată, un nuc ce-mi prilejuise noian de semne de bună purtare, pentru că numai de-acolo de sus se vedea cel mai minunat apus de soare...

Am inconjurat casa atingându-i zidul cu mâinile. Am mâncat corcoduşe verzi din pomul ce încă se îndârjea să crească dinjos de grădină. Am măsurat cu ochii păduricea de arţari dinspre Perişor, dealul din spatele casei. Mi-am umplut plămânii de iarbă crudă, flori de câmp, salcie, şi izmă. Şi, undeva, acolo, departe, pe câmp, cu sapa pusă pe umăr, am vazut-o pe mama, venind spre casă, îmbrobodită, şi un pic adusă de spate, îngrijorată de soarta copilului ce-o aşteaptă acasă.

Am luat cu mine toate astea, şi trei flori din teiul din faţa casei. Le-am îmbrăţişat cu gândul pe toate şi-am pornit înapoi. La întoarcere oamenii m-au recunoscut şi, bineînţeles, nu m-au mai lăsat să trec în fugă. M-am oprit să le vorbesc despre cum e să fii în Canada, şi despre loteria vizelor. M-au întrebat, firesc, de ai mei, părinţi, unchi, verişori. Aici toată lumea cunoaşte pe toată lumea. Chiar şi eu îi ştiu şi acum pe toţi, chiar dacă nu după numele întreg; fiecare casă, fiecare bărbat, fiecare femeie, fiecare copil e ”al cuiva” – al lui Gărăoi, al lui Rus, a lu Begu, a lu Comşa. Pentru ei, acum, şi dintotdeauna, eu sunt şi voi rămâne a lu Torea lu Ispas din capu satului...