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.

Fear

When I arrived at my parents’ place for the usual visit my dad was waiting for me in the kitchen, smoking, his eyes staring into space.

He was still a little shocked at the thought of what he had done on May 1st. See, it was my mother’s idea, and he couldn’t wait to tell on her.

What my parents did on May 1st was fix up their graves. They had bought the plots in the cemetery of my grandmother’s village last year on the anniversary of their marriage. (I think at the time they asked me if I wanted one myself).

My parents are not morbid people, by the way (even if on occasion they do get sucked into conversations about ghosts and dead people at family gatherings, usually for Easter). They’re salt of the earth types, great parents, capable of every sort of sacrifice for their family, genuinely good people who like to do things by the book, which implies a lot of planning ahead.

Buying cemetery plots was something they had to do. That’s what they do, they prepare for stuff, the same way my dad makes sure to pack up coffee when we go on holiday (what if they don’t have coffee in Prague?!)

But this latest bout of planning had left even my dad a little shocked. I cannot begin to explain how it left me. A huge argument ensued between me and my mom.

- Why wouldn’t you leave this to me, ma? Why worry about it, when I could?
- We had to fix them up, put a fence around them or else the priest might sell them again.
- What do you mean sell them again, ma? You have a receipt, right? Ma? You do have a receipt?
- Well of course I don’t. No one has a receipt over there.

But I digress. This isn’t about the damned receipt. It’s about my deepest, darkest fear: of the day I lose my parents. Or anyone in my cloistered little life, really.

I don’t think of that moment much. And I’d appreciate it if my parents wouldn’t either.
I’d have to think really hard about my parents’ ages. I know their birth dates, day, month but not year, because I don’t think of them in terms of age (this in turn gives me a world of problems when filling in paperwork on their behalf, or even when people ask me how old they are). But I manage.

I need my parents to be energetic and feeling very much alive. I don’t want anything to change. I want for the three of us to be as we have always been. We’ve managed that for 27 years, I reckon we’ve become pretty good at it.

They had me when they were young, the youngest parents in all of my classrooms. Soon after they got married in their early 20s, so they didn’t get much of a chance to be by themselves. My dad put me on his shoulders and off we went. My mom put a pillow on het feet and rocked me to sleep while reading fairytales. They took me everywhere with them. Every holiday. Ever. Last year we even went to a place in Maramures where they honeymooned 28 years ago and it wasn’t awkward at all. Well, maybe a little awkward.

Every major story in my life has ended in my running home to tell them about it. Well, almost. And now, they’re serenely getting ready to go where I can’t holiday with them. All around me, everything’s changing, from the city where the three of us grew up to the health of people close to me.

As I write this I am getting ready to go to my grandma’s village, for the birthday celebration of one of my uncles. My whole family will be there. My mom has been nagging about this for weeks, every since my grandmother came to Bucharest to see some doctors. There was anxiousness in her voice every time she asked me if I could get away from work and come. What my mom isn’t putting in words is that this may very well be one of the last times the whole family gets together. And I’m scared shitless.

The Great Chinese Takeout

For those of you who still doubt the increasingly large role China will soon play in all our lives, here is a fantastic series of stories on how the dragon is eating up sub-Saharan Africa.

It's a well researched story that paints an amazingly detailed picture of why China needs Africa, what Africa is getting in the bargain, why the West can't or won't keep up, plus stats, ways to do it, incredible quotes and the feeling that the world really is as flat as a pancake and that each and everyone of us made it so.

If then you remain unconvinced, here is another story about how you can get a factory up and running in under a day in the world's factory.

Both stories, by the way, were short-listed for awards by the American Society of Magazine Editors.

"What keeps India strong is its freedom."

Thoughts on Indian poverty -- or how to make democracy work for the poor -- with Aravind Adiga, author of brilliant White Tiger. Incidentally, elections in India are just underway.

Because the force needs another racist

A few weeks back, I hop in a cab, cranky. It’s too early in the morning, too early in the week, I haven’t had my first cup of coffee, I’m late and I got myself a talker.

The driver tries incessantly to strike up a conversation. He tries the weather, the traffic, the best way to get to the destination, the front page of Libertatea, stupid drivers... I try to appear present by nodding and saying the occasional, huh, definitely, oh absolutely. Out the window, my city beckons, alive, noisy, dusty, crowded, desperate.

And then he says something about buildings seized under communism that are now being returned to their owners and how this is changing the face of the city. I must have timed my "Oh, absolutely" badly, because he seems encouraged. You see, he says, all these beautiful mansions all around Bucharest were occupied either by politicians or gypsies. And the gypsies ran them into the ground. You know how the damn gypsies are, not very bright, when they’re cold they burn the wood of the window sills and then houses get ruined because the cold and humidity get in and mold… All because these damn gypsy bastards can’t think straight.

I try: "I'm not sure that's fair or appropriate to say." Sure it is, he says, ellaborating, and I try to wrap myself inside myself, to put as much distance between this dude and me. I’m not going to try to reason with him. Today I’m not in the business of reforming lost souls, it’s too early in the morning, too early in the week, I haven’t had my first cup of coffee and I’m late for a meeting.

Just as we were getting closer, his phone rings. He talks to a friend telling him about his need to change jobs. He’s got a hunchback, he’s tired, working nights, always in the car… he's decided to take this last test for the police force, and then work for a year or two in interventions busting doors and whatnot and then maybe get an office posting somewhere...

India...

is where I was at the start of the year, a whirlwind trip to attend the arranged yet beautiful (that's European prejudice - or is it hypocrisy?- right here) wedding of a dear friend, sprinkled with bits and pieces of Delhi, Chandigarh, Jaipur and Agra.

The bits I've seen revealed an amazing country. Heady in everything: people, smells, foods, colours, fabrics, spices, contrasts. Generous, too. India's economy has incredible, still untapped potential, yet growth is slow in reaching its people.

The rich are rich, the poor are poor. All are happy, among the happiest I've ever seen. And they somehow seem able to spread the joy around.

I've seen hundreds of people sleep in terrifying conditions on bare floors of cold, smelly train and bus stations while at the same time India's biggest corporate fraud was revealed.
However, when the fog sets in, both rich and poor are confined to waiting. Some in better quarters.

This is mighty touristy of me, but I loved the flowers and sweets and temples and colours and Ganesh statues peaking from literally everywhere and the tea, definitely the coffee. But above all, I loved the people, with their million questions a mile. They gave back, too, in kind.

I loved everything about India, even the parts I didn't like (such as the living conditions of poor children, the traffic, some men's attitude towards women, the smoking ban, the haggling and some of the nastier smells). It's all part of a process. And I so plan to return.

Here are some photos that don't do it justice.