Care. In a package.

So Christmas is gone.
I was complaining I did not receive too many gifts this year, so I ended up buying some (quite expensive ones) for myself.
But Santa must've done his rounds and then ended up with another box that had my name on it. It is coming from afar. It is a care package from home. From my home. From my mom and dad.

My parents tend to do this care-package thing once a year, whether it's Christmas or Easter... The box usually contains cards from everyone at home, a couple of clothes that I will probably never wear, a pair or two of shoes that are too tight, and some Romanian-made cosmetics (we don't trust North Americans to take care of our skin, ok?)
Despite my efforts over the years to explain that I have plenty of clothes, and that it is probably cheaper to buy them at ClubMonaco than to have them shipped to me from Romania, my parents do not want to hear about it.

This time, my box, beside the extremely large pair of pants, a church-appropriate skirt, and uncomfortable boots, also has two bottles of cherry (sour-cherry liquor) and some really emotional notes from my dad. He actually went through the attic and found an old magazine where I published some of my poems back in high-school...

I'm drinking the cherry as I translate his touching thoughts:
"I think we die a little bit as of the day we are born (we do, after all, owe life a death), and we die even more as of the day our children leave us!"

And here's one of my published poems:
(English to follow)

Tarie

Am invatat sa merg
cu picioarele rupte,
ce mai conteaza daca voi invata
sa zbor cu aripile frante?
stiu sa vorbesc fara cuvinte,
voi invata sa cant
si fara muzica.
Citesc fara sa vad,
voi asculta fara sa aud.
Simt si fara inima,
voi plange si fara lacrimi.

Strength

I've learned how to walk
with broken legs,
does it matter if I learn
to fly with shattered wings?
I know how to talk with no words,
I will learn how to sing
without the music.
I read without seeing,
I will listen without hearing.
I feel without my heart,
I will cry without tears.



Ok, fine, and here's another. (Oouch, these boots are killing me!):


Pe zi ce trece

Pe zi ce trece mi-e mai greu
sa rasar.
Pe noapte ce vine -
tot mai greu sa apun.
Nu mai am putere sa nasc
lumina in zori,
desi mi-e atat de dor
de culoarea amurgului.

De-as avea care o mama
sa ma nasca
la fiecare sfarsit de noapte
si sa-mi astearna giulgiu
inainte s-adorm,
mi-ar fi mai usor
la amiazi
cand ma vei parasi
in intuneric de grota
si n-ar mai trebui
sa fug
de pe Golgota.

As days go by

As days go by it gets harder
to rise.
As nights keep coming -
harder to set.
I fail to deliver
the light of the dawn,
although I yearn
for the colours of dusk.

I wish I had a mother
for every passing night
to give me birth
and cover me in shrouds
before sleep;
it would be easier
at noon
when you'll leave me alone
in my dark cave
and so I won't have
to run away from Calvary.




Ok, shut up, I was 16, ok? :)

My love affair... with a book

(or... What doesn't kill you, makes you better)


It must have been about three years ago... I walked into the Librairie Champlain, with the uncertain walk of a street-sweeper going into a Channel boutique...
Having moved to Toronto from Romania four years earlier, I had my eyes out for anything that even remotely represented European culture. For a homesick girl like myself, a French bookstore in Toronto qualified as the runner-up to a Bucharest-bound plane ticket...
My anxiety doubled at the realization that I would have to address the bookstore staff in French (duh), an exercise I hadn't practiced much outside of the classroom - pretty shameful for a self-declared Francophone like myself...

I knew of Champlain from my university French professor, and was hoping to find here a book I read a while back, during high-school in Romania - a time when I took pride in my fluency in French. It didn't take me long to recognize the "Livre de Poche" label, and to find "Bonjour tristesse!" by Francoise Sagan. But now that I was here, surrounded by Europe's classics, I was going to take my time wondering around the shelves...

Oh, I wanted to buy many of those wonderful books.. but for some reason I picked up one of the thickest novels I have ever heard of: Lev Tolstoi's Anna Karenina. You'll probably judge me for having fallen for the cover - but you should take a look at this cover before you speak... I don't know who the painting is actually supposed to represent (there is no reference to the author or title), but there she was: Anna - ravishing, fierce, a bit spiteful, with dark eyes of profound sadness and so proud in her posture and coquetterie, bundled up in her winter fur coat, leather gloves and bracelets, stylish hat with feather and bow, in her carriage, on her way to the theatre perhaps...
I knew her story, I had, of course, seen the movie(s)... but I thought: "I should read this book in French, since I can't read it in Russian; it's a love story and reading it in French will make it even more Romantic".
Actually, I think I already felt an affinity with that woman in the painting, with Anna in fact, and I wanted to know her thoughts on that winter day, in that carriage, on her way to see her lover.. or to run away from him...

In the following days I went through a few pages from the book... my reading was progressing slowly... I was really impatient, I wanted to get to that page where she gets dressed and she gets onto that carriage, that page where her thoughts are all written down, that page where her most secret passion is expressed in words, that page where she finally gets to share her love with Vronski, that page... that page...
But pages came so slow, as Tolstoi switched from one tableau to another, to include both his main characters (Anna and Levine), and there were so many other things happening before we could get to hear Anna, really hear her...
And then my own life got hectic, and school readings started piling up, and projects began to be overdue, and my book was put on a shelf to wait...

I picked it up again in the spring of 2009. I had a hard time putting the pieces back together. There were all of a sudden all these people with long names and nicknames I had forgotten about. But there was also Anna, and Vronski, and Kitty, and Dolly... and so I continued...
This time I couldn't put it aside! The book has traveled with me to Romania and to Hawaii this year, it's been with me to work in my purse every day. I have tried my best to make time for it during my subway ride, lunch break, coffee break, and thesis-writing break.
It wasn't just my eagerness to read, there was also a change of style in Tolstoi's writing (a thing that he himself confessed to); it's as if he finally got to figure out who Anna is, who everybody is in the story. Things are happening so quickly - important things, challenges, death, social mores, illness, children, love, duty, attempted suicide, confessions, implacability...
My heart melted with every page, I felt like I really really understood Anna, and I just couldn't stand how no one else was able to understand her... how Vronski distances himself, how she slowly grows lonelier and sadder despite all the love that she is carrying inside.

I brought up the fact that I was reading Anna over dinner with friends a few weeks ago. I was so surprised by my friend's blunt comment: "I didn't like that book. I didn't understand it. How someone can betray her husband is beyond me". Although I fully appreciate my dear friend's point of view, and I don't necessarily condone Tolstoi's treatment of his heroine, I must take my hat off to him. His novel portrays a gripping drama, a profound story of unexpected love, a terrifying struggle that shakes Anna's soul to its innermost core. I may be biased, I sympathize with her so much sometimes I feel that the only difference between myself and Anna is that I haven't killed myself ('yet' - as another dear friend of mine would say).

Talk about that... there's one more thing... I am now unable to finish up this book... I have just a few more pages left, but I have put it again aside for more than two weeks now... See, I know how it ends, and I don't want it to end.. I somehow want Anna to continue loving, to be that beautiful lady in that carriage on her way to the opera, to defy them all... I want this love story to be fixed, I want it to be patched up, have everybody happy, I want a Hollywood ending goddamit!

Yes, I know what you're thinking, I'm too sentimental... AND I'm wrongfully judging beautiful literature, ain't I?
Well, I will try to get myself together and accompany Anna all the way through.
I will miss carrying her around with me everywhere. My bag will be so much lighter now. And Champlain is no longer there to help me replace her with another beautiful love story published in French...

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.