Five years and counting

When it comes to be November I get restless. I hate Novembers, Stefan. In any other month, I would love the evening mist that casts shadows over everything, masking the stains of too much wearing. But for the past five years, November's mist speaks of uncertainty and loss. I reckon all of us have changed here and there in five years. But you, your chance to change was taken from you. What would you be like today? Where would you be? Would we still keep in touch? I guess we'll never know. At times like these I wonder over the randomness of life. But here we are, an invisible bond between us that'll never be broken as long as there will be November 9s. I'm okay with that.

To heroes and cons

I just spent a few days in Barcelona with a truckload of my friends. The trip's official reason was a Green Day concert. Which was, as expected, mind-blowingly good, with the added touch of Barcelona. This is one punk city. It's alert, alive, loud, shape-shifting, impertinent and immortal. Not that this is all it is. Of all the beautiful cities I've been to, this is the first where I can see myself living for a few years. I was happy in Barcelona. Huh. And now, photos that don't measure up.

Rambling

There isn’t much to indicate my street corner is dangerous. It’s a simple intersection, really. A three-way, plus a tram line. The intersection is reasonably well lit, the crossing of the tram line well marked. Yet not one week goes by that some car doesn’t crash into another car, or tram, or motorcycle. Usually it’s just metal bumping into metal, nothing serious. But every once in a while people get seriously hurt.

Tonight I saw a body fly about ten meters through the air after a white Dacia hit his or her scooter or motorcycle. There wasn’t a scream, but a gasp. A woman on the sidewalk later screamed. It happened as I was trying to get my cat, which has a history of ill-timed jumps and falling out of windows. It happened too fast for me to figure out the how or who was at fault. I am not traffic savvy.

Once I realized what was going on and the pieces started making sense again, I kept gawking out the window. I suppose curiosity over bloody car wrecks is a part of human nature.

The street had seemed relatively deserted half an hour earlier when I got home. Not a lot of cars, certainly not a lot of people in front of the buildings. Yet the instant the crash occurred the corner was flooded with people. At least 50, all curious and willing to help. It shouldn’t come as a shock; the corner gets pretty crowded each time an accident happens. It’s that human nature thing, I guess. Several voices were yelling for an ambulance into their cell phones.

There are a lot of stories out there about tardy ambulances. This one came in under four minutes. It was already pulling away with the victim ten minutes later when the police showed up. It impressed the hell out of me and once again reminded me how worthy of respect SMURD, the emergency rescue unit, really is.

Now, about one hour later, the police are slowly packing up the scene. The number of onlookers has dwindled. Faces dotting the windows of surrounding apartment buildings have retired. And thus a moment so thoroughly crucial in the life of one white Dacia car driver and one flying body passes into collective randomness.

Jupiter's travels

Actually, Mihai's travels, although he is the one that made me read Ted Simon's tale of his four-year journey around the world on a Triumph motorcycle during the late 1970s.

Mihai Barbu is one of God’s better people, as the song goes, a stubborn, obsessive dreamer, photographer, light chaser and lover of all things beautiful. He's currently wandering around Mongolia on a gargantuan trip of his own – 21,000 kilometres or about four months alone on a white motorcycle named Doyle. To fund part of his trip, he broke it into 43 pieces, 500 kilometres a piece, which he sold like hot samosas for 50 euros each. Buyers get the story of their 500 kilometres, the photos, and a little rock for luck.

Travel stories are a wonderful confirmation that there is a wondrous luscious world out there. I love reading of it, in Mihai’s stories, or Jupiter’s Travels, or Off the map, the little travelogue of two kick-ass girls. In Romania, Georgiana Ilie wrote a good story about a family of five out touring the world in an RV. Fiction also works. Let’s see, On the road? The Dharma Bums? Huckleberry Finn? Any book, really. I guess that’s one of the reasons we read, to confirm that there is a wondrous luscious world out there. “We make windows when we tell the stories,” as Kika (or is it Hib?) says in Off the map. But I guess there’s nothing like witnessing firsthand, is there?

Anyway, you can read Mihai’s stories -- involved, simple, honest, funny – here in Romanian, or here translated in English. My 500 kilometres are here.

Wear and tear

* Taken in August in Petrachioaia village, Ilfov county.

Meet Petre

So named after Saint Peter, who, as the story goes, spent seven years coal mining in Petrila.

Rain light

How Gigi made it to the European Parliament. A theory.

So, a few days back I was in a cab with two dear friends, talking about the poorly designed electoral campaign of the ruling coalition Social Democrat Party (PSD). A lot of the PSD banners have Bucharest's fifth district mayor Marian Vanghelie endorsing Adrian Severin, who headed the party's list of candidates.

Vanghelie, a PSD heavyweight, is revered by a large segment of Bucharest's inhabitants. They are constant Vanghelie voters likely lulled more by gifts, discounts and public New Year's Eve parties than by the "quality" management of district five. To his loyalists, he is such a larger-than-life character that he completely overshadows candidate Severin, a bore of a man.

Anyway, my friends and I were talking about how these specific voters are going to walk into voting booths, stamps ready, looking for Vanghelie on the ballot. Our theory was that they would get so annoyed at not finding him there that they would automatically turn to Gigi Becali, Bucharest's other peach.

At which point the cab driver turns to us, a look of dismay on his face, and asks:
- Do you mean Vanghelie is not running anymore?!

I rest my case.

* Oh, right. For those of you just tunning in, elections were held this Sunday across Europe for European Parliament. Gigi Becali is a former shepherd turned soccer club owner, who made his money in real estate. He is a loud, boisterous, relligious, hymn-singing, far-right dude. Also undergoing a criminal investigation for kidnapping. Not exactly policy-making material, but that's just my view.
My theory has competition. A lot of weirdos across Europe made it to Parliament, allegedly because of the hard times we are all seing. Here's a story on the EU's fringe candidates.

Reading Capote in Vama Veche

I spent the past weekend voting in 2 Mai, partying in Vama Veche and eating mussels in Bulgaria at a little restaurant called Dalboka that grow their own in a charming cove. Some thoughts on that:

-- Sad to see apathy to such a thorough extent in young people when it comes to elections and the way of things. Though perhaps not entirely hard to understand why.
-- Control club is a profoundly urban experience. Not exactly a good fit for Vama.
-- The year is 2009 and Saturday night at Ovidiu's they played Vank. Oh yes, they did, and it was awesome!
-- It was my first time in Vama Veche in almost two years and I'd just like to say reports of its demise were grossly exaggerated. Somehow, I managed to find intact all the little pieces that mean Vama to me - Ovidiu and his coffee, reading Capote (it's always Capote, somehow) with chill out music blaring, dear friends and the little ritual of walking past all the pubs on the beach passing one song after the other, letting them blend into one unique, familiar sound (more on that here, from two years ago). True, this time I did perform the ritual walking on unnecessary cement, but what's a little unnecessary cement when you're having fun?
-- And now, photos from Bulgaria. They deserve it: they have way more wind turbines than us. (Pics from Cape Kaliakra)

Buffaoles

... and lots and lots of quiet.