Lingering

No time to waste, no time to linger, precious moments of intense activity until you drop dead. Working, seeing people, watching films, cooking, always doing something, keeping crazy busy. Having the cell and Internet always at hand. Too busy to think.

These months of laziness and zen attitude fed my soul alright for the times to come, beyond the tears and the doubts. I feel like a dot under an exclamation point, complying only with the fact of existing. Life is so complicated, applying for jobs, using rigid words to express your professional exceptionality, trying to find a dignified subject for a PhD thesis, when it could be so simple - this is what I know, this is what I can do, take it or leave it, just don't make me wrap it and sell it. Sometimes my hands are restless, I enjoy cooking and ironing, I regret not having learned a manual profession, something with a practical meaning, really useful. A words' child is clinging to relativity itself.

The other day a hostel receptionist was explaining me how bad it is to live in Catalunya and that he would consider moving to Canada. I think that anyone that hasn't lived in another country would think his is the best, or the worst of all, not appreciating its positive sides. And it's always a very personal choice, that involves taking risks, again, not something everyone would do. There are always miscalculations that you have to take the philosophical way. I didn't realize that my Canadian Master of Arts degree needed to be legalized in Spain because there is no bilateral agreement. As Maître Pangloss used to say Tout est pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes possibles.

Catalunya is amazingly beautiful, joining the Pyrenees with the Mediterranean. It's drier and less green than Romania or Canada, but we can't have it all, right? Spain was a target when I was 20, then I first visited Italy which got me under its spell. Now Costa Brava conquered my senses with its crystal clear cool waters guarded by the yellowish green hills that form long bays all along the shoreline, up to the French border. Living on the shores of the Mediterranean has been an old dream of mine and like every dream becoming real it has its price, which I cannot even evaluate right now.

Waiting room overlooking the Mediterranean

The Germans have a saying: Alle Anfang ist schwer - all beginnings are hard. Starting over for the umpty umpth time at almost thirty six (well, one day away by now) is certainly hard for me. And I wonder how smart it was to stay home in Bucharest for five months, as it broke my heart leaving the house I grew up in, that in end I was sharing with barely my cat. Certainly, I have a strong affinity with Spanish culture, I am eager to learn more about Catalunya and I've always dreamed to live close to the Mediterranean, this space where cultures met, clashed and eventually mixed. The trendy and touristy Barcelona certainly doesn't attract me at all, but I am fascinated by its long history and beautiful imaginative buildings. Besides, it's a very functional city, where transports and cleaning work pretty well, and so far people seem to be very nice and helpful, from the bank clerk who gave me visitor information when I went to open my account, to the people who explained me thoroughly the annual celebration - Festa Major, of the sea town Sitges.

I have a strange feeling of being in the right place at the right time, although the job market is a mess, and at the same time I can tell I won't be staying here forever, my guess is that I will move further South, in Spain or another country. But for now I have to stay and learn some new life lessons here. The six months since I left my last job start to weigh on me, I need to keep myself busy, and not exactly entertained, that wouldn't be enough, and it requires money too. Since I came three weeks ago everything has fallen into place, except medical insurance, which depends on my social status: student, worker or no income person. The PhD programme won't start until October and jobs are hard to get, there are many Spaniards and Europeans in competition, although my knowledge of languages and international studies and experience are good assets.

I miss my cat, I wish I could bring her over as soon as possible, but my roomie, who happens to be nice, is allergic at animal hair. At least it's easy to make new friends, I tried the Meetup groups of interest and they work well here too, I can't wait to go hiking this Saturday and the next whole week-end. Nature and art are my best friends when the dark thoughts overcome my enthusiasm.

Seacily - Into the blue

Pretty Cefalù, dominated by the Norman Duomo

Even if I had any expectations, I have to admit Sicily went far beyond them, like in any other country that sits below a scorching sun, everything there borders the superlative. On the positive and the negative side, true, but exercising an irresistible attraction, maybe also because I have a weakness for ports and islands. We spent nine full days there without seeing a cloud. The sun makes things look brighter, but also blurred, their contours fading in the hot trembling air. A feast of colours and hard to bear heat.

Beautiful sea, deep blue skies, the silhouette of Etna with its 3350m dominating it surroundings, delicious food - arguably the best ice cream on the planet, history, art and creativity beyond the wildest imagination. Who would believe there is such a thing as Arabian - Norman architecture? Or that the poets at Norman kings court in the XII century were Arabs, while the administrative language was still Greek, until the immigrants from the continent finally latinized the island? Sicily is more than a border between continents, it is a gate, an interstitial space where the richness of exchanges crosses over centuries reaching our time.

Its history is as intricate as the Arab and Byzantine mosaics adorning its churches and cathedrals, as inexplicable as the amazing combination of architectural elements coming from all ages of art. An emirate, then a kingdom, or sitting under imperial powers, a pure mixture claiming its own identity of many cultures. Once part of Magna Graecia, now part of the Republic of Italy, still holding some autonomy, having its own legislative assembly. Sicani and Siculi to start with, then Phoenicians, Puns, Greeks, Romans (Archimedes got killed during the siege of Siracusa), Byzantines, Arabs, Normans (Hauteville/Altavilla) dynasty, even Swabians (Hohenstaufen), the French (Anjou/Angiò), the Aragonese, who brought Catalan as the court language, all ruling for not more than two centuries, fighting continuously for the power. When Aragon and Castilla were joined through marriage, Sicily became a feud of the Spanish Crown, for about three centuries and its sumptuous barocco art easily rivals the one of Spain and its other colonies. Even the Savoia and the Habsburg families took hold of this golden island, so Sicily finally chose to unify with the Kingdom of Naples under los Borbones, a family of French descent that got to rule half of Europe.


Detail from La Martorana church

All these different nations left their mark on the food, the architecture, the arts, the lifestyle. So traveling there is like taking a trip with a time machine that's also able to overcome space constrictions. Churches and palaces mixing Arab and Byzantine mosaics and cupulas, Romanesque structure and Baroque paintings and marble intarsia.

For gourmets without prejudices - calf spleen sandwiches - pani ca meusa or roast intestines of sheep or goat - stigghiola. For seafood amateurs like me - all kinds of fish and shrimps, plus sea urchins, oysters, small conchs and a variety of seashells, ranging from well known mussels to razor clams - cannolichi and big clams - fasolari, culminating with the calamari ink pasta, as delicious as unattractive. A lot of almond paste sweets, including marzipan fruits (frutta di Martorana) and the famous cassata, or pastries filled with fig and citrus jams. I had a delicious watermelon thick jelly flavoured with jasmine and sprinkled with pistachio bits.

Pasticceria Scimone in Palermo

The first two evenings we went to a symphonic concert at Palazzo Chiaromonte or Steri, then a jazz concert in the garden of the ruined Santa Maria dello Spasimo in the Kalsa district. We were lucky enough to be there in time Wednesday for the Santa Rosalia day, the patron saint of Palermo, extended sometimes to the whole of the island. Beside a popular music and theatre show in the courtyard of Theatre Ditirammu we admired the whole procession through Via Vittorio Emmanuele, made of about 40 colourful caretti siciliani carried by heavily adorned horses and exposing a beautiful girl dressed in white decorated with red roses, the symbol of the saint. To my great pleasure, with the contribution of the Santuzza, I met twice a young Sicilian actor whom I happened to see just a few weeks before acting in Bucharest: Alessandro Romano,

Around Palermo we have been to Monreale, worth a visit for its panorama of the Conca d'Oro region and the most amazing Cathedral, from 1174. Then Cefalù, a charming medieval town on the shore, with a swarming beach and enchanting atmosphere. Most of the time we swam in Mondello, with crystal clean waters and fine sand, but far too crowded. The picturesque Sferracavallo fishing village attracted us with great seafood. As I was longing for quite a few years to see Etna, a one day trip there and to the touristy Taormina accomplished my desire and confirmed my disgust for programmed group trips. Nevertheless, it is an unforgettable experience to be on top of an active volcano and see old craters, lava courses and wisps of smoke raising into the thin air.



We expected people to be noisy and drive like crazy, so there where very few downsides to the whole experience. One was the shops schedule, including supermarkets, most of them closed daily from 1 to 4pm, on Sunday and Monday mornings. plus the Santa Rosalia celebrations made them close doors for two extra days in the middle of the week. Palermo is not dirtier or noisier than a lot of other cities, including New York for instance, and our bus trips proved very successful. People were very nice, eager to help and answer questions, also curious about where we're coming from and our way of life, willing to share their experiences and knowledge, given that we know Italian.

Summing it up, I will definitely go back to Palermo, also eager to see more of Sicilia, there is plenty to learn and discover. I had the same great time with my mother, both sharing the same interest in combining sightseeing with sea swimming and food and wine tasting. I could say it was a complete vacation from all points of view, overwhelming all my senses with a profusion of smells, colours, music, landscapes and buildings all admirable in their own way. I had to admit to myself that Italy still sits comfortably on top of my preferences and makes me feel welcome and at home, offering so many things to my curiosity about the world's ways.

The in-between

I am kind of settled now in an intermediate state, about three months after landing again in the land of unaccomplished promises, so full of resources and resourceful people, seemingly unable to stop going from bad to worse. I wonder how much is this the fault of our inability to get rid of Ceausescu's camarilla, the very same people that took him down so they can get more comfortable contemporary design armchairs under their butts. After all the two parties that are now disputing the power: PD-L and PSD derived both from the National Salvation Front, to me it looks like a two- headed dragon. We have no real civil society to stand-up against them, our intellectual like their own comfort more than anything, and even if they chose the hard way, who would join them?

Of course I am glad to see the positive changes, a cleaner, cuter city, more flowers in public areas, nicer taxi drivers and sales people in small shops and fruit/veggies stands. As for the restaurant services, they are as lousy as ever, the waiters don't seem to know what the word service means. There are some recycling procedures in place, but not everywhere, in my area for instance I saw just a few very small containers and the population couldn't care less about it. There are cycling lanes in some places, but few people respect them. In general there is a carelessness about what goes on out of the someone's personal area, no awareness of the public space and goods. The roads are terrible, including the sidewalks, some places seem to have been bombed recently, there are streets full of sand since I came, but for sure one of the reasons is that nobody complains, nor tries to find out what's going on. Romanians are used to be disconsidered and treated like shit and they respond in the same manner.

My trip to Spain was really pleasant, seeing ancient comrades from the cruise-ships times and two of the women poets I met in la Sierra Mixteca in 2007. I liked Madrid, but I didn't have a crush on it, Valencia impressed me more with its variety of life stages: old city, beach, the ancient river bed that became a park and the airy City of Arts and Sciences by the one and only Santiago Calatrava. I think I got a better, more balanced idea of Barcelona, with its good and bad sides. I would definitely like to live there, assuming all the unavoidable risks. Sheri-D and Éliz enlightened my stay bringing it a new multicultural dimension, beyond the poetry that brought us together. Canada, what I learned and what I lived there, will always be from now on part of what I am. The Great North and the Inuit culture still make me feel regretful for not making it up there.

Right now I consider trying my luck in Catalunya, I just applied for a PhD and already got a one-way ticket. I have no clue about what's in store for me, I am taking it one day at a time, cleaning the old house of the lot of crap that got accumulated here over the years, by four generations. Sometimes the sadness paralyzes me, I cry and I despair, I don't see the light at the end of the tunnel, I miss my dear departed ones and I feel lonely like a street dog on an empty alley at night. But it is a mandatory period, in a waiting room, I needed to stay home for a while, spend time with my family and friends and figure out things. After so many years living and working with people from different countries I feel estranged in Bucharest, I have to be in a city of more cities.

Home strange home

It's been almost two years since last time, meanwhile Bucharest got better at some points, and worse at others. Some parts look nice, restored and cleaned up, others are dirty and falling apart, with certain areas that fall just in between, like the one where I happen to stay. There is a seriously hideous building, sitting on the spot where there used to be an open air cinema. I feel like home...at home, in my old room, a yellow/green aquarium, as I cannot pull the curtains apart so the gypsies who are squatting across the fence won't see inside. Toshka, my young black cat is here, sleeping on my big red and dark blue suitcase, you'd say she never lived on another continent, in a different house. I didn't quite unpack as I am not too sure about the end of this road, or rather about the next destination.

My VIM (very important meeting) about a job ended up in the air, maybe there is something and maybe I'll hear about it in May, the earliest. There are no jobs, there are no money, only expectations and hopes, mostly followed by disillusionments. While waiting for my Romanian residence ID I'm trying to set up a presentation about my thesis research in Uruguay with their Embassy, I want to take one to one salsa classes with a cubano and most probably I will be in Barcelona/Valencia in May, seeing friends and joining a couple of poetry/spoken word nights with two Montréalers. Canada seen from here is almost exotic, and I'm quite surprised I don't miss it yet, maybe it's too early as I'm still enjoying the embrace of the familiar. My friends surprise me with nice messages inquiring about my arrival and my stay, I must confess they touch me deeply, as their care crosses the ocean and so many countries and reaches me hiding behind my laptop and the green curtains, hearing the spring birds chirping and enjoying the sight of the buds, as much as I can see through a narrow opening.

The magnolias and forsithya are in bloom and I'm absolutely thrilled by the small violet carpets in the nearby park - dark purple, lilac and white. Viola odorata, so delicate in shape, so strong in colour. Our street is quiet at night, and the soundproof windows are of great help. I feel quiet too, waiting but not breathless, enjoying the cultural life, staying with my family, meeting my lifelong friends, like Adriana, that I've known for 29 years and my new ones whose blogs I've been following. It's a real pleasure to recognize a person from their writing. I have a little time to sit and wait, do little things that I really want to do, that you never find time for. My man is also in a stand-by mood, wait and see, maybe we'll last, maybe we'll break, and there will be just you and me, again. Things can only get better, I say to myself.

E la nave va

So I want to leave Canada and go live in an European city of my choice this time, close to the sea, not too far down South or up North. Oh yes, the crisis is still ravaging the business and consequently the job market. By the way, I'm also 35, a little past the age of looking for my own true self around the world and back.

Oh, no! What a crazy idea living this cozy comfy existence of mine, my boyfriend (who can follow me if he chooses to do so), a nice apartment (that I rent anyway), my cat (that I can take with me), this secure and safe job that bores me to death, the many friends of many cultures that I've known for only five years maximum and have to deal with their own lives anyway, like anyone else on this planet. Five years were not enough to grow roots here, and a passport doesn't buy any feelings of belonging or being home. Of course I will miss some people, but being here I miss my friends back home and in other countries. The balance is never even.

Yes, it is a risk, but it occurred to me last night that this is not a one time decision. A while ago I decided once and for all to take risks, to swim against the current, to draw my own path, regardless of what did Mr. X and Mrs. Y. I took a risk when I went to Lisbon in 1997, fresh from university, to work in a Duty Free Shop. Then to Turkey as a waitress on the very pretty island of Büyük Ada, across from the fascinating city of Istanbul. About two months later I was in Athens for the whole of November and I managed to see the Minoic Knossos palace, an old dream of mine. In 2001 I left a career that just started to blossom and I stepped up on a cruiseship and became a qualified seaman aka foreign languages sherpa at sea and on the Caribbean islands.

Canada followed in 2004. I have never been here before, but it was one of the few countries that received immigrants based solely on your request and background. It didn't work out, I'm not fit for North America which is not fit for me. And it doesn't mean Montréal is not nice or Canada is not a beautiful country. It is a marriage that was simply mismatched, also because it was a long distance decision. So I want to try to settle in an European city that this time is not the first opportunity that arrised, but a conscious choice, why should that be bad? How many Romanians left Canada to go to Barcelona? Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar says one of my favorite poems. Maybe it is not the way, but it is MY way and I have to try it, no matter what. As long as there's no matter of life an death, what's the matter?

WINDOWS TO CUBA

Since I came back, on Saturday the 16th, I feel like I'm living in a black and white TV set. Since I left Cuba, the colours vanished, from the houses and people's clothes, as did the smiles and the quick wit jokes and compliments on the street.

There's a certain liveliness about Cuba, and especially La Habana, out of the few places I visited, that filled me with energy, tenderness and joy. Or should I say gratitude, for the Cubans, for making me feel so at home, welcomed and sheltered. Maybe it is also the language, this barrier that does not exist in my case, or my bubblying personality, my love of colours and extroversion. The fact that I knew communism until I was 15 and that I toured the Caribbean from 2001 to 2004. Having seen a few Cuban films and read Reinaldo Arenas and Alejo Carpentier. Maybe it is all that, maybe it is just an inner feeling.

I realised my affinity with Cuba has little to do with the one I have for Italy. It is admiration mixes with compassion and tenderness. The Cubans I was lucky enough to meet conserve a certain childhood ingenuity, confidence that the world can be better, that people like me, who experienced living in many different ways and in several places, puts always into question. Today it ocurred to me that most people we talked to reminded me of my mother, with her cheerfulness and impossibility to surrender to sorrow and cinicism.

Than it was the whole grandeur of Havana, its large streets and beautiful buildings, with vast rooms and high ceilings, even in more popular neighbourhoods like 10 de octubre, so unlike the appartments and houses we live in, molded with an innate sense of beauty. A past when people could afford all that...what a marvel. Especially when you compare it with the empty shops and scarily low salaries, from 12 to 30 dollars a months, the latest being for the famed Cuban doctors, that also get exported to Venezuela, in exchange for oil and prestige. People have to "solve", "resolve" - manage, in a word - to get more money somehow. Either by inventing themselves another profession: massagist, craftsman, electrician, pastries, candies or cake maker, prostitute, in the worst case or by succeeding, God knows how!, to arrange nicely enough one or two rooms to rent to tourists, for which they pay heavy taxes, monthly and yearly, either if rooms are occupied or not. Same goes for private family restaurants - paladares, they are not allowed to have more than four tables, as becoming rich would be a counter-revolutionary action. Another category is made by the people who succeed to steal from work items that can be commercialized on the black market, from lightbulbs and batteries to blankets. Maybe it's not honest, but if the State took everything away from its citizens, isn't it just to get some scraps in exchange, just to make a living? There is free healthcare, but there is a lack of doctors (so can they really afford to send that many to Venezuela?), of medication and hospital amenities. There is free education, but many teachers deserted looking for something more profitable. And when you get your free education what kind of job do you get? Now, even if you make enough money, the shops are mostly empty and other clothes than jeans, shirts and t-shirts impossible to find. It was cool when we were there and on the all along the commercial Calle Obispo we couldn't find a damn sweatshirt or light jacket. Food is scarce too, what we found in the fancy Vedado neighbourhood market were good fruits and veggies, the pescaderia sold only frozen fish and shrimps. We also saw long lines for the only type of white bread available. The distribution card still exists, for rice, sugar, a little black beans and coffee and one mug of oil, probably soy. Otherwise there also a package of pasta and some crackers. The hard currency shops (Cuba has moneda nacional pesos CUP, 24 of them making 1 CUC - convertible peso, the salaries, the food card shops, the market and the bread are in CUP) sell Havana Club and other liquors, bottled water, powder soups and canned juices, fruits and veggies, at the same prices as in Canada. Now let me guess who can afford that.

But against all odds people are extremely courteous and helpful, unlike any other country I happened to visit. Cuba was to me a beautiful and sad window with a look towards a luminous sumptuos past and another one towards a gloomy decaying present. Just another great socialist victory, like the one I grew up with, in the name of people, payed heavily by the people.