My translating addiction

Ok, folks, here goes:
My name is Petronela. And I'm a translateohoolic.

I know, this makes no sense if your mother tongue is English and the only translating exercise you ever had to do was for Spanish101 or driving in Quebec and trying to figure out those ARRET signs.

But, see, I'm kinda permanently stuck between two languages, sometimes even three or four - no, I'm not part of a secret sect or anything... However, Romanian is my native language, while English has slowly but surely adopted and taken hold of me (in Romanian: "m-a acaparat"; in French: "m'a accaparée"), and, as you can see, French assiduously competes for a third place.

It would be one thing if my translating problems would start and end with the common, every-day things, as in using proper English constructions instead of the innate, habitual Romanian colloquial syntagms (saying "makes sense" instead of a Romanian construction that would ask for "has sense", etc, etc.)
No, see, for this to be an addiction, it would have to be something that uses up a lot of my resources, time, energy, potentially endangering my physical and psychological well-being. And I quote: 'The term "addiction" is used in many contexts to describe an obsession, compulsion, or excessive psychological dependence' (source: Google definitions- thanks!).
Oh, yes, indeed, translating is something I do simply because I Can't Help It!
I have all these great Romanian (also French and sometimes Italian or even German) songs and poems and quotes in my head, and I just HAVE to, Have to find the perfect English translation for them!
My best friends on the internet are Merriam-webster.com, dictionare.com (Ro-Eng-Ro Dictionary), dexonline.ro (Romanian dictionary), and LeGrandDictionnaireTerminologique (French dictionary).

I spend hours upon hours (usually while at work, hence endangering my physical well-being, cause I could get fired over this) trying to get that perfect word that describes exactly the emotion that the poet was trying to convey, or getting that verse perfectly matched with the tune, so that you can ACTUALLY SING it in English if you wanted to.... like, who cares, right? well, I do, and here's a few of my best translations:

Romanian rock band "Conexiuni" = 'Connexion' - as opposed to 'Connections' :P
Song: "Mai ramai putin" = 'Won't you stay a while' - as opposed to 'Stay a little longer'
Listen on youtube

You came back. How so?
You forgot a thing or is it
That you’ll tell me what for
You so early rushed to exit.
All the things that we shared...
Now lie dead and there is no way
To postpone a farewell
That will chill you to the bone.
Have a seat, it’s still yours
Until midnight there is still time
For us both to enjoy
Do you want us to skip over
All the fake smiles and tears
Or maybe you just want to forget
that you’ll have to leave tonight, too soon
Won’t you stay a while, my love
We can have one night together
Disappearing like a cloud
Let us just enjoy its magic
Let my hand caress your hair...
Let it fill my heart with treasures
Flight of dreams that never lie
High above with angels’ wings
Oh, just stay one more day
I still want you today
Like a blizzard of white diamonds
To fall down on my skin
And then silence to take over
I will drown in your deep blue eyes ...
And falling stars I’ll catch
with my hand, When we are apart
They will console my heart.
Don’t you say a thing
There is no need for long phrases
Won’t you sleep for a bit
I’ll remember this for ever
It is now far too late for you to leave
And then, your train is now gone
Unfulfilled will stay
Its destiny today.
_________________________________________________________

Romanian singer: Nicu Alifantis
Song: "Apa marii" - 'Seawater'
Listen on youtube

mare-albastru giuvaer, a suras in departare...
dinti de spuma alba-n soare, buze umede de cer...
tu ce vinzi, tulburatoare, tanara cu sanii-n vant?
apa marilor straine, domn, eu vreau sa o vand...

The sea, this deep-blue diamond, smiles at us from far away...
its froth teeth the sun admires, its lips moistened by the sky.
'what do you have for sale, charming siren, wrapped in breeze?'
T'is the traveling seawater, mister, that today I have to give'

_________________________________________________________________

After having attempted a short translation for Maria Tanase's folk song "Mi-am pus busuioc in par" = "I put basil in my hair, dear", my friend Mihai Colceriu came up with a huge challenge: to translate "Mocirita cu trifoi" .. which would be something like... "Little meadow full of clover". That will be a post on its own... Or.. You can learn Romanian instead, and help me keep my job!

A few notes on old people

The subway car was full. People were tired, on their way home. Rushing to grab a seat as soon as one emptied, they sat down, closing their eyes, or pulling out something to read –oblivious to what was around them.

The two walked in slowly, almost as if the door chimes were not invented for them – they were in no hurry to get anywhere. Hurrying had long been erased from their list of priorities – replaced perhaps by long exercises of trying to remember which stop to get off at. The automated door mechanism didn’t know respect, so it closed quickly, almost clipping the back of his white short-sleeve. She carefully pulled him in by the hand, trying to advance to a safer spot. The people in the door stepped aside in slow-mo, a bit annoyed by the new passengers attempting to pass by. Eventually, a woman noticed their white hair and got up. The lady next to her pretended not to realize both of them needed a seat, and continued her lecture.

Although at first sight the woman seemed to be the most frail of the two, it was her who stepped aside and allowed him to sit. You would realize only after seeing his face that his sense of space and time had been lost, and that her firm handgrip was the only thing that kept him connected to this world. She only let go of his hand as he leaned on the side panel, and started to breathe easily, hunched in his seat. She then put her hand on his straw hat, fixing it on his head – a gesture of complete tenderness and intimacy. No, he didn’t complain for being treated like a child – his gaze was floating around, measuring the air in between things. She planted herself in-between his seat and the woman who wouldn’t get up, making sure that he was well protected from all sides. It was probably not what she had signed up for, years and years ago – the role of vigilant watchdog. He was for sure not the same guy she had put her signature next to after having been asked if they willingly agree to wed. But here they were, in this Toronto subway car, crammed with all these strangers, making their way to their grandchildren’s place, or the doctor’s or the nursing home. And as her wrinkled eyes slid from the wall map to his helpless grimace, she smiled at the memory of their younger selves, whispering to him: “honey, we’re getting off at the next stop!”

why do guys keep intimate 'tokens' from former girl/lady-friends

I might be crazy, but I just have to put this out there:
why do guys keep intimate things that belonged to a former partner, in places that are easily accessible for the new girlfriend?
I'm not talking about the random book, or postcard, or CD or pizza dough that she might've left you, and you're not sure whether or not it was meant for you, or if you should try to give it back. Even though, items like those should be returned if the other person considers them to be their property.
OK, I'm talking about really intimate stuff, like underwear, birth control pills, feminine products, hair straighteners, etc. Stuff that YOU will never ever use... unless you're swinging that way if you know what I mean. And if you are into keeping them, um... then, is it too much to ask to put them away somewhere other than your bathroom cabinet, where I'm gonna look for bathroom tissue when you run out??
I don't know if it's just me, but from my experience, all the guys that I've been with long enough to feel comfortable leaving stuff at their place had (in their bathroom) one or more items I did not care to stumble upon. Actually, I did care, and I don't understand how they don't see why that could possibly bother someone. Am I crazy? I don't think so. I am not trying to negate your previous relationships, God no - I am grateful for previous relationships that have provided my current partner the opportunity to live and to learn. But I do have one small requirement - just bury the freaking skeletons already, used lubes and all!

Winter dream

I dreamt that the end of the world was approaching.
There were beasts in the fields, hunting people.
We ran and hid in mother's house.
But, since it was the Apocalypse, the keys kept twisting in the door.
And we somehow ended up safe in the middle of the house, unharmed by the frightening creatures, as if a miracle.
We were waiting for them, our chests clasped, tightened like a claw.
I did not know where my brother was.
Such a horrible fear!

Goran Bregovic - from the Balkans, with love

I found out Thursday that Goran Bregovic was going to perform the following day in Toronto, as part of the Luminato festival. I won't waste time describing how surprised and ecstatic I was, because I have better things to write about. Like - the actual concert!! (Wish I could talk about it too, but I think I lost my voice after all that yelling).
I made it to Dundas Square last night about an hour before the scheduled starting time. A bunch of people were there already, but nothing crazy. I knew that by the time Goran would go up on stage, this place would be packed. It's how we, Eastern Europeans, roll: you're lucky if we show up 1 minute before something starts. I couldn't see the rationale when my friend requested me to show up an hour and a half earlier, to get good spots... But I put aside the very very important things I had to do in that time, and made it to the square. Only to get a call from my friend letting me know she was RUNNING LATE! Like... an hour!

If you should know anything about E-Europeans, then it's this: we are always late. And we will not apologize for it, ok? it's just the way things are -we don't care much about the essence of time... Goran, being the Balkanian that he is, was also late - this is how things balance out in the end: we’re all late, so we’re all on time, make sense?

Given that I had some time to spare, I grabbed a coffee and made my way to a good place close to the stage. And, as I stopped and looked around at the crowd, I had this feeling of belonging, of being at home. I was surrounded by tall, beautiful people. Some of them freakishly tall. Some of them freakishly beautiful. Must be something in Europe’s water, or air, or mountains. Most of them spoke Serbian (I am guessing, as I cannot understand it), and then a few were Romanians. I also heard some Spanish around me, and I was intrigued to have beside me a South Asian guy, who jumped and danced and clapped all throughout the concert.
I hadn’t realized before what a large appeal Goran could possibly have. His catchy tunes are danceable enough for the Latinos, while his gypsy-inspired chants parallel ancient Indian songs, and speak even to Arabs.

The show started with a string quartet, playing something rather sad, and a bit too studied in comparison with Bregovic`s famous improvisations. But soon the trumpets, trombone, and tarragot responded from within the crowd. The public cheered and clapped in anticipation, until the entire Wedding and Funeral Orchestra, as well as Goran Bregovic were all on stage. And so off they went, with their explosive, syncopated, vibrant sound.

They had a few short "breaks" from the upbeat songs, allowing the players to relax, and the crowd to cool down. Their two female singers would inundate the square with beautiful, melodious traditional songs that resembled a type of mourning, grieving melody known to Romanians as doina. It is, after all the Wedding AND Funeral Orchestra. But people beside me yelled " veselo!" - I knew what that meant: "happier", and others rattled tambourines they had brought along for the concert. So Goran delivered: Gas Gas, Spij kochany, Mesecina, Maki Maki, Ya ya ringe ringe ra, Prostitutke, Artileria, So Nevo Si, In the death car, Bijav…

Dundas Square was pulsating with the drum's beats. People were all singing along; I knew a few to none of the lyrics, but that did not matter. I knew enough: “a-ahaa-aaa” to Goran’s Ringe Ringe Raja, “Charge!” and “bum bum bum” in Kalashnikov, “sao Roma babo babo” at their Ederlezi, “Artileria“ at Goran‘s cue, "Mexico, Mexico" at Bijav... I drove people around me mad with my loud yelling, obnoxious dancing, jumping, and clapping my hands up high.
A few more catchy tunes and everybody was dancing and singing along - even the people who sent me a few evil looks when I accidentally stepped on their toes, or bags, or even elbowed them. An hour or so into the show everything was acceptable; we were all a bit like family. Even myself, I got over the fact that people kept walking through the crowd, telling you they’re trying to reach some friends, and stopping right in front of you - did I already mention how they were all tall?!! Because the guy behind me had a bag at his feet, I had this lady technically in my arms, without being able to stand back, nor dance for 20 minutes. I felt like it was time for us to share some intimate secrets, we were so close…
Another friend of mine, a musician himself, was trying to move in to get a good picture of his idol. I smiled, as he was making his way past me, but this lady next to me asked: “are you serious????” At which he replied: “No, no, I’m not”. Oh, bless his heart, for he spoketh the truth: we, Balcanians, we are not serious. We are crazy, passionate, terribly and irreversibly melancholic, exuberant, wild, tender, friendly and rude at the same time, loud and soft, irrational and eclectic. Just like Goran’s music.
It seizes to surprise me that we all connect to his songs, although some of us don’t even understand a word he’s saying. He collected bits and pieces from all of us, and is now presenting them back to us in his unique, genius-touched style. I recognized in his Maki Maki the chorus from Romanian Maria Tanase’s “Bun ii vinul ghiurghiuliu” (“White wine tastes so good”), while Kalashnikov uses a bit of Romanian “Ciocarlia” (composed by George Enescu, with inspiration form Romanian traditional songs). There have never been any copyright lawsuits. It’s the way it always was: music is shared from village to village, from region to region, from neighbouring country to neighbouring country. One of Romanians’ most beloved traditional dances is sarba, the Serbian dance. I haven’t heard any Serbian complaining.
The dialogue between our cultures has started such a long time ago, and Goran does the marvellous work of capturing and preserving voices from a distant past. The last song performed at the encore was especially representative of this characteristic: the men’s choir chanted and sang as if souls of the people who travelled to the Promised Land, the two women joined them softly, soothing their anguish, and the rest of the band simply completed the mystic ritual that is Bregovic’s music. I looked around at the stores, and giant TV screens, and commercial ads posted up high on the square’s buildings. I wondered how these symbols of consumerism did not shiver and fall at the sight of such an original performance.

Archiecomics - will you hire me?

If I were a writer for Archiecomics, I'd have Archie go through a 2-3 years long engagement (that ought to guarantee a few high sale seasons, right?). In the meantime, he'd be trying his best to please the sexy, glamorous Veronica, while also offering his shoulder to Betsy for her to cry on. In fact, he'd be scheming up plans on how to get V and B to become best friends - in a potential attempt to establish a blissful menage a trois. This of course has many political implications, as legalizing polygamy might turn into a reality of the future (in a galaxy, far, far away).
In order to keep up with shallow, but (once again) glamorous Veronica, Archie would go through many personality disorders, which would be reflected in the comic strip by mind-boggling metamorphoses, whereby Arch is seen transforming into the Hulk, Spiderman, Wonderwoman, and, at last, Superman. It is thus that we shall witness the return of the hero we have wailed for so long. For, alas, Archie will prove to be none other than Clark Kent himself. I believe that unifying these two unique comic characters, as well as, of course, the implicit merge of DC and ArchieC (or should I say takeover?) will prove to be a crowd-pleaser throughout the crisis, panic struck North American continent. Think of all the jobs this will generate.
Anyways, getting back to our characters: I agree with you that the recent pairing of V and A is not the ideal, and also think that Bets should hook up with Jughead. Furthermore, I suggest that B does not do it simply to drown her sorrows, but to build a new comic book empire of her own. She will at first be part of J's little strip, of course, however, with time, she becomes such an imposing figure that Archiecomics will create a new style of comics just for her - and, in fact, will soon become Betsycomics. This wondrous transfiguration will take some time, understood - she does have the episode with the proposal to get over, plus all the subsequent sexual-innuendo-filled encounters with our Archie boy - all in all, perhaps, a few pages of nicely drawn comic strips should take care of that transition period. Once that is all exploited to the maximum selling potential, Bets will give up her silly name, and admit in front of the world (I suggest we do that on Oprah) that she is in fact Dr. Womanhattan – the mother of all being, the (flash)light, the (high)way, and the (half)truth.
I know that it seems as if she’s on to take over the (comic) world, however, I think there is still potential in Archie’s story. After realizing his true nature, that of a Superman, a Ubermensch, indeed, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, Archie will dump little V and join the school of post postmodernism in order to train as a Jedi. Thus , you can see, my friend, his story is only beginning. (to be continued).

Kings of Kleen - so you think you can party?

Ok, confession of the week: I'm somewhat of a social ostrich (sorry Dana, I know you 'own' this expression). The club district is something I see in the news whenever there's a shooting. Cherry Street is a route I take when I want to bike down to the lake in the summer. The Docks is this place I once played minigolf at...
I wasn't always this way - yes, it comes with old age (and boring friends - ouch! no, my friends are crazy party animals!).
Back in the golden years I used to love going to clubs, and big parties, and galas, and awards ceremonies. But now I'm stuck with an office job and school projects up to my ears...

So... when my friend G invited me to his reality TV show Kings of Kleen screening party, I was ecstatic!! Yes, of course, I wanted to see the show, and to provide some support for my friend's launching producer career. But my (not-so-secret) motivation was to go out, dress to impress, and see what these Toronto night clubs are all about.

The invitation said: doors open at 10, screening starts at 11, it's only screened once, be there by 10:15 latest. So I got ready in time, and was there by 10:30ish. Needless to say my friend and I were the first in the wait line. Of course the club wasn't open yet. Of course none of the important people were there at that hour.. What was I thinking...?
So we waited for a good 20 minutes or so, keeping each other entertained - yes, we can do that, although we didn't have to do it for long, as entertainment soon started showing up. The crowd lining up behind us was young, glitzy, chatty, and anxious to get in. A couple young kids holding big Canons tried to by-pass the bouncer who wouldn't hear any of it (at which point I was seriously regretting having arrived that early and being the first in line - bystanders get shot all the time in this area, right?). As the paparazzi weren't going to move to the back of the line, they started taking pictures of a group of scantily dressed girls who apparently knew all the bouncers in town. Immediately after, they all got access to the club right underneath our noses!

My poor friend, who came along without reading the invitation, was starting to wonder what kind of screening this really was... Apparently, at film festivals, you go sit down and watch a movie with a bunch of middle-aged, bohemian-looking men, at a reasonable tea-serving hour. Oh, well, this was certainly not THAT kind of screening. It is, after all, a reality TV show about two guys organizing parties! This HAD to be a party! And, my friends, newsflash for you: if you don't have ladies wearing nothing but lingerie at your event, well, then, it's not much of a party!

We finally got in. The place was rather small for the expected turnout. We quickly got forced into a tight slow-dance, as people were making their nonchalant tour d'honneur around the room. It seemed like everybody knew everybody, and they were there to enjoy yet another night of drinking and dancing in the company of old (I mean young) friends. Their bodies were floating around us easily, allowing their extravagance to rub off on us as we made contact. It felt a little bit like the good old days...

But this crowd was different. There wasn't much dancing for the whole time we were there. People were mingling, ordering drinks, and hunting anyone with a photo camera, in the hopes of having their head shot on Facebook the next morning. The VIPs stuck to their cozy booths, staring down at the rest of us. A horde of glam girls kept making organized trips from the bar to the coat check, scanning the place for suitable beaus. 11pm had come and gone, and no one seemed too worried that the screening wasn't happening yet. They had all the time in the world. My friend and I kept checking our watches and asking the organizer how much longer till the screening. We had to be at work in the morning. I know, we're those people bitching in the corner while everybody else is having fun. Oh, well, we're just too old for this stuff, what can you do...

With about half an hour delay, the show finally starts playing - no introduction needed, after all we (they) all know who's who.
As to not be totally egocentric, I will say that the Kings of Kleen pilot has great production value, good star potential, and plenty of stories to tell. Mark and Sergio have plenty of charisma, which explains the swarming ladies around them. It won't be long till you too will know who they are.
Having assumed this was reality TV, and not a docudrama, I was a bit bothered by the obviously scripted/directed scenes - an element that will surely get polished as the show develops into a (hopefully successful) series.

My friend and I left as soon as the credits rolled, with the excuse of having to get up early, and the regret of not having made any new friends. The day after, I noticed the Facebook pictures from the event. I couldn't stop wondering why I did not recognize one face (except for my friends, and the show's stars). I guess it was a case of not seeing the trees because of the forest... oh, wait, was it the other way around?

failed, obese haiku

i feel like a little hamster
that's not using its wheel
un harciog din ala care numai mananca si doarme
I can feel fat getting transported to my bum
I need some exercise

Romanian Police in action!

SO.. imagine this:
You're 55ish, your husband is 60ish. You live in a small town in central Transylvania (Romania), where nothing ever really happens, mainly because half of the population has fled to work in Italy. Your main pass-time is gardening and watching soap-operas on TV. Your daughter has emigrated to Canada, your son joined the Italy-bound self-exiled crowd. Your phone only rings because one of the following 4 people are calling you: your sister from across the street, your niece from across the street, your estranged ex-coworker and friend (once a month), and your daughter (every other week).
You can't imagine that? OH, darn! Well, I'm telling ya the story nevertheless!

So you noticed how your son is not on the list of 4 people who call you, right? Good, I like to think my readers are sharp! Marius doesn't call. He's just like that, he suffers of phonephobia. So my parents have to call him once in a while, to see what the weather is like in freaking SanRemo where he is right now (life is unfair, I know, I got to wear my freaking leather jacket in June!). The fact is, you just got off the phone with your son this morning - he was working away, planning to come back home soon for a short visit. The call made your heart warm up a little and your worries for your little babies shrunk a bit, moving somewhere to the background of your troubled, always-concerned soul. You go on with your day, taking care of your small garden, wondering who this 62 year old man resting in the shade is (no, really, my parents are still crazy about each other). But then, as you get back home in the evening, something weird happens: the phone rings, and it's not your sister or any of the people listed above. It's your brother, whom, since he joined the Liberals, you only get to see at election campaign parties. You would try to tell yourself it's just a thank you call for all your support, but his voice is rather shaky. He's calling because he got a call from your husband's sister (who lives in a bigger city), who in turn got a call from the police from yet another city. The police had called to inform my aunt (who shares our family name), that Lucian Serb had a fatal car accident and they need someone to go over and identify him. My brother's middle name is Lucian.
Ok, stop pretending you're my mom, cause you can't. My mom totally lost it. I don't know how she even managed to stay conscious, and tell my dad about the chain of calls. My dad is the rational one - he remembered they just spoke with my brother in the morning, and he was in Italy, for God's sake! But, as my brother takes unexpected decisions, there was a possibility for him to have left Italy in the morning, and have made it to that city with the car accident... My dad has a heart condition, mind you, he suffered 2 heart attacks three years ago. (I just want to go slap that policeman who called my aunt!) Anyhow, my dad keeps his cool, dials my brother's Italy cell number. My brother picks up. Yes, he's still in Italy. Mom, take a deep breath, mom! No, he's not planning to come home for at least another week, he told you that this morning, dad! "Gee, can I get back to work now? What? Mom's crying? For goodness sake! That guy's name was Lucian, my name is Marius Lucian, gee.. relax! ok, I'll call you tomorrow!" That's my brother for ya, nothing can move him. :)
My mom debated for an entire day whether or not to tell me about this, as she thought she'd get me worried. Honestly, I did not. I knew nothing had happened when she started the story. But now that I think about how they had to deal with it, I think they should sue the freaking Romanian Police. And so should all the other people who share our last name and got a call from the police asking them to go identify a potential member of their family! Gee! Does this happen anywhere else but Romania!???!?

Dimitri the lover versus the rest of Toronto's guys

It was Wednesday afternoon. The work day had gone by as usual, I had stayed a bit overtime, in order to catch up on my school project (yes, the same one). Before heading out, I took the time to fix up my makeup and hair. I was quite pleased with the result, and walked confidently down the street, expecting to see a couple approving looks. Sun was still up, the air was fresh, life was good.

In the corner of my eye I notice a tall, quite charming guy, looking about with what seemed a studied disoriented glare. He held my stare, with a half smile, for a few seconds. This never happens in Toronto. People do not look you in the eye - they check you out, and turn away as soon as you notice. But not this guy. It felt good. I looked away (I’m trained well by this city, can’t you tell?), and prepared to cross the street, with an incipient feeling of déjà-vu. He was already walking towards me, and hailed me before I set my foot on the crosswalk: “Excuse me...” My brain had already made the connection. I looked back and smiled, raising my eyebrows as if to say “what’s up”. “Excuse me, are you single?” I felt like laughing, but darn, wasn’t he charming. “No, no I’m not”. His stare measured me up and down: “well, you should be...” “..Thank you?” (I wasn’t sure that was a compliment). “How long have you been with this guy? You don’t seem that happy to me”...

You might think these lines are outrageous, but I knew they could have been worse. I knew exactly who he was – we had met before, three years ago. Three eons ago. Back then I was single, and, oh, so flattered to have a guy, for the first time in my Canadian experience (yes, European guys actually do this back home and it’s not such a big thing), turn their car around, get out and come to tell me how “elegant” and “exquisite” I look. I was indeed quite full of myself back then too: going home from a day at the beach, with my mom’s retro red and white mini dress, my red large sun hat, and favourite sunglasses. I told him then that I was married – a half lie meant to get me out of the embarrassing situation: people at the bus stop were already staring at us curiously. It was the coward way of dealing with it, as I always thought that rejecting someone should not be based on the “I’m already taken” excuse. What does that mean, anyways? “I’m taken, but otherwise, I might have been interested”. It’s how Dimitri interprets it. Yes, that is his name – he’s Greek, or at least, that’s what he told me (and quite a considerable number of other women, as I was to discover much later accidentally). Dimitri will not back down if you use the “I have a boyfriend/fiancée/husband” excuse. It incites him: “you know, marriages are really sad sometimes... here, I’ll give you my number and if you’re feeling lonely, we can go out for coffee sometime. I’m a very discreet guy.” And the compliments continued pouring. What had been flattering for two minutes, had quickly become painful discomfort. I couldn’t leave, the bus wasn’t coming. I had used up my best line, and did not accomplish anything. People were looking, I started doubting my choice of clothes...

Three years later, after having discovered his internet sites and workshops and disturbing voice messages for girls who were more naive than me, I decided not to entertain him again. “Come here for a second, can I talk to you?” Dimitri launched his net. “That’s ok, we’ve met before” I said. His face twitched in a few random places. “Why are you running away?” he asked, as I was moving on to my crossing of the street. Oh, Dimitri, I presume that question is the leit motif of your life.

About a year ago, when I found out he was a pick-up artist, I told the story of the beach encounter to anyone willing to listen. Yes, it’s creepy, but isn’t it still in some way, flattering? If anything, I would suggest women not to give him their contact info, although I am sure there are plenty of girls out there who are made just for Dimitri. He knows what he’s got. He knows his market. He will plant the bait, and probably get at least 40% positive response. Some of my friends have criticised me for providing Dimitri with publicity (I argued it was ‘bad publicity’, however, I’m aware that doesn’t matter to Dimitri). I realize that I am only adding to the myth that is Dimitri by writing about him. Youtube is full of clips about his infamous message to 'Olga', there are even impersonators trying to reenact the call; I presume some men actually enroll in his 'real men club'.

But still, he’s out there, with his strategy, scaring the hell out of some women, and making some others feel so much better about themselves. To all the other guys in Toronto, I say: what the heck are YOU doing? No, we don’t like to be harassed to the point that we want to yell for help, but we do like to be admired, and told once in a while how beautiful we are. And we ARE beautiful. Toronto has the most beautiful women, as my friend KE likes to say. And the most uninterested men, I would add.

Hats off to Dimitri for doing what he’s doing – his plan is far more intelligent than stuff I’ve seen other guys in this city come up with.

Letter to my missing mug

One day my mug went missing at work. Left it in the kitchen for 5 minutes, was gone when I went back. Now, there are quite a few people sharing this kitchen, so, needless to say I felt intrigued to find out one of my colleagues had seen someone walk away with my mug... So I wrote this note and posted it on the cupboards:

My dear yellow mug,
You have been my morning companion for so many years now.
My days were immediately getting happier when I was sipping away my coffee or tea from your ever warm, perfectly shaped rim.
Your cute, sleepy face, and your adorable yellow nose protruding from the luscious enamel that covered you were the traits that most attracted me to you. I still remember the day I picked you up from that ordinary, cold, insensitive rack full of other mugs. I knew it instantly: we were meant for each other. I held you up, against the fluorescent lights of the Dollarama ceilings, and looked at you, and through you, and read into our future together. I promised you then we will never be apart, never ever shall I drink my morning coffee from another mug.
And you have been faithful, and devout, and you’ve never shattered my dreams (or yourself), although I must confess that many times I felt weak, and tired, and unable to continue.
But there you were, a smile always on your face, offering me the sweet liqueur that brought life back to my lips.
And now, now that the cruel paths of life have taken us towards opposite shores, now that time for coffee has come and gone multiple times without us finding each other, without me having the joy of holding you up with my fingers and feeling your warmth... now... now I am alone... and I finally realize how much I miss you.... how much I enjoyed having you in my life... how much I cherished our moments (oh, so few of them) together...
Hoping you’ll come back to me...
Forever yours
Mommy


PS: the mug has been returned to me in the meantime. :)

25 or so things about me (from my facebook notes)

I. Ho imparrato dalla mia nonna di essere fiera di essere donna, e di essere fiera del mio corpo. Accanto a lei non mi sono mai sentita brutta, ne in imbarazzo, ma ho sentito che la nudita e naturale. “A chi non piace, non deve guardare” mi diceva lei...

II. I don’t believe in fate, good luck, bad luck, horoscopes, palm reading, etc. We do not have things “destined” for us in this world (no matter how much that story can sell in Hollywood). We are endowed with free will, and we make choices in life – everything is a choice, everything. Read Sartre for more on this.

III. I believe in miracles. This goes from the suspension of the laws of physics, to the existence of trees, to the fact that we perceive colour where there is simply an electromagnetic radiation…

IV. I am a person of faith. Some might call me religious – I sure hope I’m not a bigot. I have my own issues with religion, however I try to focus on the good things, and hope to always be able to respect the beliefs of others.

V. Je crois vraiment que, en amour, comme à la guerre, tous les coups sont permis. C’est pour ça que j’ai compris et pardonné les infidélités des autres et aussi les miennes.

VI. Je crois aussi que, si on s’aime, on a tous les droits sur l’autre personne. Et puis, si on s’aime vraiment, on va faire tout ce qu’on peut pour le bien-être de l’autre…

VII. I don’t get grossed out. That would’ve probably helped had I become a doctor as I was planning in high school.

VIII. Ich habe niemahls Zeit versteht. Ich hasse Uhren und ich fühle mich nicht verletzt wenn jemand spät ist. (Yes, I had a crush on my German teacher - grade 7).

IX. The first memory I have is of me on the back seats of a car, facing backwards, looking at this fantastic cake that was resting on the back shelf. I was two, on my way to a photo studio, with a cake I wasn’t allowed to touch yet!

X. First guy I ever had a thing for was named Ciprian, and we were probably about 3-4 years old back then. He was oblivious to my existence; he used to play with my best friend (I think she liked him too…) A few years down the road he moved to Germany. Story of my life, right there! ( I still have a pic of us in the same class! So cute!)

XI. In liceu in clasa a 9-a am avut nota scazuta la purtare! Eram eleva de serviciu pe scoala cu o colega – o zi intreaga, iar la sfarsit ni se cerea sa completam o condica in care sa notam eventualele intamplari neobisnuite din timpul zilei. Cum nu ni se intamplase nimic spectacular, si cum toata condica era plina de mazgalituri, desene si tampenii, ne-am hotarat sa scriem o mica povestioara despre cum liceul nostru a fost vizitat de extraterestri. Fiindca am avut dintotdeauna simtul copyright-ului, am semnat mica mea capodopera... Mai e nevoie sa va spun ce s-a intamplat a doua zi la ora de dirigentie? (diriga era si directoarea liceului...)

XII. I think Portuguese is probably the sexiest language ever... I understand so little of it, and love it so much! This might be Saramago’s fault – my favourite writer, who happens to be Portuguese… (I would’ve written this in Portuguese, had I known how…)

XIII. From all of the years spent in school, I am most fond of my philosophy classes. That’s where I’ve learned that there are so many different takes on this world, and that they each have their own logic. It’s how I’ve grown to love debating, and if you see me get very passionate about defending an opinion, please don’t take it personal – I love playing devil’s advocate till you take all my weapons away… at which point please don’t think you’ve convinced me your opinion is correct, cause you probably haven’t :P

XIV. I’ve taught myself how to swim when I was about 6. I love doing that ever since. Pretty much anything that involves a large body of water and some sun would represent an offer I wouldn’t be able to refuse.

XV. Growing up in a Communist country, I feel like kids today have it too easy – nothing to fight against. I was so proud to wake up at 5AM just to go wait in line for milk for hours, to learn by heart ridiculous poems glorifying a dictator, and to wear my little communist pupil uniform... Now there’s home delivery, freedom of speech, and no sense of fashion…
Bring on that economic crisis I say! Eviva la revolucion!

XVI. I used to work as a promoter for a short time. In Romania that includes bar hopping, see-through dresses, and limousine rides. Greatest time I ever had working!

XVII. I never smoked – not one puff. I never got drunk – dizzy, yes, but never drunk. I dare anybody to make me have to go back on this item and change it!

XVIII. My brother is the biggest bully I ever had to face. Nothing I did was cool enough for him. He dared me to do things like calling 911 and tell them I dropped a matchstick in my pants, throw eggs at passersby from our balcony, dive head forward in shallow water, jump from the top of our biggest wardrobe onto the bed… Of course I had no idea what the fire-department was, nor what damage an egg falling from the 5th floor might cause, I planted my head into the bottom of the lake, and yes, I missed the bed and landed on the floor. I love him terribly though!

XIX. I adore horses. I think they are beautiful, wild, free-spirited creatures. I’ve only been horse-riding once, but oh, what a great experience! The biggest extravagance I can think of is owning a stable with a couple of purebreds.

XX. Sunt foarte mandra ca sunt romanca. Pretuiesc valorile romanesti autentice, de la carul cu roti de lemn a’ lu’ Garaoi din Cacaceni – ulita copilariei mele, la stilul brancovenesc, la felul in care stim sa facem haz de necaz, la Brancusi, la mamaliga cu balmos, la Enescu, la Voronet, la poezia lui Nichita Stanescu, mi-s toate la inima cu mult dor!

XXI. My dad is like a spring of knowledge for me. There’s always something for me to learn from him – he’s a walking wikipedia! Looking at myself through time, I have noticed I only loved people I had things to learn from – you can psychoanalyze this all you want!

XXII. Sunt genul de om care tine inauntru lucrurile care il deranjeaza, si doar din cand in cand explodez si nimeni nu intelege de ce. Seaman cu mama la chestia asta.

XXIII. I know how to use a hoe (no, not that kind! Gardening! Gardening!), a scythe, a pitchfork, a loom, a sowing machine, how to knit, how to pluck a hen, how to milk a cow, how to make home-made alcohol & soap & starch, how to smoke meat, how to start a fire…. I’m telling you, agriculture is the future! I’m moving to the countryside!

XXIV. Although I have fallen many times, I haven’t broken anything so far. I’m talking about my bones!

XXV. I think people need to return to more basic ways of communicating, what’s up with all this virtual stuff... nobody gives anybody a call anymore, and what happened with dropping in uninvited, visiting friends and ending up living at their place for a couple weeks, throwing a party just because it’s Friday night, having coffee at midnight just because someone wanted to chat in person! There’s so much more you can find out that way! ;)

The sixth night

Had I been the one to decide
the anatomy of being,
I would have created us with eyes pointed upwards,
towards the skies,
so that we would never again be reminded where we're going.
It would be more difficult to see you, and find you,
my love,
but, oh,
when we would at last accidentally bump into each other,
our bodies full of wounds from all the other crashes with people around us,
then,
then I would turn my neck towards you,
tilt my eyes, full of blue skies,
and stars, and comets,
and see the depths of your waters.