À la recherche du temps perdu...

Fabulous 30

2011-11-03T22:09:00.002-04:00

Daring, Darling

2011-10-31T00:44:00.001-04:00

4:28 pm

2011-10-27T19:38:00.006-04:00

Sa inghete timpul. O surprinzatoare dorinta ce imi tot revine in minte in ultima vreme.

E poate legata de apropierea unui prag psihologic important, trecerea de la "late twenties" la "early thirties". Sa mai castig cateva ore, cateva minute, sa am putin mai mult timp.

Si astazi, ca prin minune, ceasul computerul a ramas blocat la 4:28pm. Nu mi-am dat seama decat cateva ore bune mai tarziu. A fost o dulce senzatie de evadare, ca in vacantele copilariei cand timpul avea inca rabdare si cand o zi putea fi transformata in orice imi doream.

Q and A

2011-10-25T01:00:00.005-04:00

be a professor

empathy

communication

patience

my career

I choose to see the good in people.

escape

Don't settle

2011-10-06T11:23:00.003-04:00

"You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle."

Steve Jobs, June 12, 2005.

Carla answers Sam

2011-09-26T23:57:00.002-04:00

Remember, Remember...that Day of September

2011-09-24T18:00:00.000-04:00

There's no smile like hers...and today,
my dearest SunShine was the most beautiful bride. In the whole wide world.

Love does, as promised, conquer all.

Revere Beach

2011-09-16T00:42:00.013-04:00

Beautiful early morning at Revere Beach. With joggers, seagulls and seashells forgotten by the last sunny days. The first public beach in the U.S. opened in 1896, just a few miles north of downtown Boston.

Seattle's Sunset

2011-09-05T23:52:00.008-04:00

...one of the most beautiful things I've seen.

Portraits by the River

2011-08-19T15:14:00.013-04:00

by Stefan

Far from the Madding Crowd

2011-08-11T00:28:00.000-04:00

All these things that we feel inside
Who can ever understand.
All those questions I won't even ask,
All those feelings I won't even fight,

All those dreams that have slipped away
So many things that have come and gone
If only future will give me a chance
Then I won't live this life in vain.

Listen love, no we're not alone,
there's a whole world out there waiting for us
in the infinitive blue sky
we might even find Life on Mars.

So come here
Let me kiss you,
Come on
Let me put my arms around you.
Your power comes from the sun above
It'a just what I need.

So c'mon let’s live our lives,
Come on
Or I’ll lose who I want to be.
I want to move
for a Life on Mars.

Life on Mars - Seu Jorge

Partir

2011-08-09T02:14:00.002-04:00

Vara e pe sfarsite.

Acum cateva saptamani ma intoarceam de la o cina cu unul din primii prieteni pe care mi i-am facut aici, in 2006. Pentru el episodul Boston s-a terminat, s-a intors firesc in tara lui, va fi profesor la cea mai buna universitate. Ma gandeam la toate astea in drum spre departament.

Strada nostra este cea mai frumoasa din campus. Cladiri din caramida rosie, copaci infloriti...avem chiar si un castel. Ma opresc pe treptele lui. In fata mea e un baiat mic de statura ce tareste dupa el un gemantan mare cat el. De fapt, e mai mult gemantanul cel care impinge. Baiatul nu pare sa vrea sa se miste. Il strig, alerg spre el.

"O sa ma faci sa plang."

"La asta ma pricep cel mai bine."

Le-a trebuit sapte ani lui si prietenei mele sa se gaseasca. Au venit, au plecat, mereu cu treaba, mereu cu gandul la lucrare, la interviuri, la munca de teren. Au fost mereu cei mai buni prieteni. Pana acum, aproape de final, cand un weekend la munte le-a adus aminte de ce incepusera demult, le-a adus aminte ca ce impart e mult mai mult decat prietenie si ca oricat s-ar impotrivi, nu pacalesc pe nimeni. Iar acum el pleaca. Intr-o tara spre care calatoria cu avionul dureaza 28 de ore. Intr-o tara in cealalta parte a lumii.

A lasat geamantanul jos, incearca sa faca o gluma. Ma roaga sa am grija de ea.

A doua zi, toti trei, pe banca din fata departmentului. Scena de final in locul asta unde am fumat atatea tigari si unde ne-am oprit de-atatea ori numai ca sa mai prelungim momentele impreuna. "The world lay before me... like an open trap door."

Si in acelasi decor, cateva saptamani mai tarziu, personajele se schimba. Pentru ei a fost un an intreg de cautari, de intrebari, de tatonari. In fiecare dimineata, in sala de clasa in care studentii se pregateau in liniste de inceputul orei, eu ascultam din nou si din nou aceleasi povesti ale colegei mele. Ce-a mai postat el pe Twitter, ce-a mai comentat pe Facebook, ce fisier a mai adaugat in Dropbox. Ce semn o fi asta sau poate n-o fi nici un semn? Ea era convinsa ca pentru el nici nu exista. Incerca mai bine zis sa se convinga de asta si promitea in fiecare dimineata ca e ultima oara cand se mai gandeste la el. Ultima oara cand isi mai controleaza frenetic mesajele. Si apoi. Pe neasteptate, dragoste. Ca-n filme sau poate chiar mai bine de-atat. Pana cand inevitabil, el trebuie sa plece.

"Sunt pregatita pentru asta, stiam de la inceput ca va pleca"

"Nu ma asteptam sa fie asa, nu ma asteptam sa fie atat de greu."

Pe cel de-al treilea prieten il astept pe aeroport. Despartirea de ea a fost printre bagaje, vamesi si promisiuni. Pentru el, a fost desigur doar o iubire de vara. E normal, relatiile la distanta nu dureaza. Si totusi, ea poate spera la ceva. Iar el nu e hotarat, dar nu vrea sa o ia de la capat. Imi povesteste de ei doi in seara trecuta, intr-un separeu retras, la cel mai bun restaurant din oras. Era atat de frumoasa. Si totul era atat de simplu.

"Cu nici o alta fata nu am putut vorbi atat de deschis, cum am vorbit cu ea."

"E mereu la fel. De fiecare data cand ceva pare ca devine important, de fiecare data cand ma indragostesc, se intampla ceva si trebuie sa plec."

Exista momente in care nu stiu cum sa fiu o prietena buna, acesta este unul dintre ele. Nu vreau sa incurajez sperante desarte, nu vreau sa distrug vise ce ar putea deveni realitate.

Nu avem toti sansa sa traim intr-o relatie veche si familiara. Nu avem toti sansa unei relatii noi, care sa ne aduca in locuri neasteptate. Dar atunci cand sansa apare, de ce ne spunem fatalist ca nu mai are oricum nici un rost?

Daca cel care are dreptate e (cum altfel) David Bowie? "Nu poti nici pierde, nici castiga daca nu alergi cursa pana la capat."

Boston University Girls

2011-08-06T00:09:00.005-04:00

May 1950

May 2010

Peste toate intrebarile mele

2011-08-01T21:28:00.010-04:00

Ai venit intaia oara intr-un foisor de lemn deschis, in care vara aluneca spre iarna si noaptea spre zi. Si, mai departe, in amintiri, in uitari si in mirari. Ai urcat apoi, cu noi de mana, o mie de scari. Ai plutit spre o insula si te-ai jucat de-a v-ati-ascunselea printre ruinele unei cetati, printre tufele de liliac alb si prin jocul de lumini al soarelui pe mare. Copii inaltau langa tine zmeie, iar parintii castele de nisip.

Povestea spune ca te vei intoarce in mijlocul verii, sa unesti ce n-ai putut desparti. La apus de soare, pe-o panza alba ce se incarca incet de toate nuantele de rosu, de albastru si de zgarie-nori. E cald, rece, aproape, departe. E atat de simplu. Te-ai infierbantat, te-ai racit, te-ai intors cu spatele, ca sa te intorci mereu si mereu mirosind a verbana, a portocala, a coriandru si a santal. Si ca sa imi canti ca muntii nu sunt suficient de inalti.

Si-ai mai coborat o data, cand toate erau de-acum schimbate. Cand nici nu iti mai recunosteam glasul. M-ai intors incet spre o spirala de lumina ce rotindu-se desena o ghicitoare. Te-ai asezat acolo, in contratimp, sub desene in acuarela, peste toate intrebarile mele.

"...şi ora, lovită, se sparse-n minute." N.S.

2 la 1

2011-07-27T13:22:00.002-04:00

July 4th

2011-07-04T23:49:00.003-04:00

America's biggest 4th of July party: Boston Pops Fireworks Spectacular

Blue Finland

2011-07-03T09:10:00.011-04:00

Noptile Albe

2011-07-02T00:19:00.006-04:00

Aveam 4 ani cand s-au intors ai mei dintr-o excursie la Leningrad in timpul noptilor albe. Si am fost atat de captivata de povestea asta ce imi parea incredibila si de entuziasmul lor, incat am invatat aproape pe de rost toate amanuntele calatoriei. Stiam una cate una toate detaliile pliantelor cu Muzeul Hermitage si cu Podul Palatului. Pasiunea era atat de mare, incat musafirii ii intrebau pe parinti daca am fost si eu cu ei. Si pasiunea a ramas acolo, visez inca sa ajung la Sankt Petersburg si sa ma plimb pe strazi in noptile cand intunericul nu se lasa niciodata peste oras.

Pentru ca am facut foarte pe fuga pregatirile pentru calatoria in Finlanda, nu am facut insa legatura. Mi-a adus insa aminte un domn foarte amabil de la aeroportul din Boston care mi-a lipit eticheta pe bagaj si mi-a spus zambind: "E superb acum la Helsinki. Va duceti pentru noptile albe, nu?". Nu chiar, dar surpriza a fost dintre cele mai placute.

In prima seara, am stat dupa sauna pana tarziu pe malul unui lac, unde cei mai curajosi s-au avantat chiar sa inoate. Era 10 seara, soarele stralucea si am uitat ca prin minune si de oboseala calatoriei de 20 de ore, si de noaptea pierduta in zborul transatlantic si de diferenta de fus orar. Parea un vis. Si dupa cum spunea un prieten: "Nu numai ca este lumina, dar toata lumea se si poarta de parca ar fi dimineata."

Si am rezistat asa, cu doar 2-3 ore de somn pe "noapte" pe toata durata sederii in Finlanda. Cine mai avea nevoie de somn? In fiecare seara in Tampere, ne adunam pe malulul raului din fata hotelului, iar povestile si glumele aveau o energie inepuizabila. Lumina blanda si prieteni dragi.

In ultima noapte, de data asta la Helsinki, a prins contur si visul acela din copilarie. Ne-am plimbat pana dimineata pe strazile unde soarele nu apunea niciodata, ne-am ratacit, am dat din intamplare peste un concert rock, am ras, am dansat. Peste tot mirosea a liliac inflorit si pasii nu vroiau sa se mai opreasca. Pentru o clipa m-am gandit la fetita de 4 ani ce tinea in mina un pliant cu un cer senin de vara si as fi vrut sa ii spun ca visele ei vor zbura in jurul lumii si vor ajunge pana la urma si la noptile albe.

To Have and to Hold

2011-07-01T21:56:00.004-04:00

Pentru Szim.

Rockport

2011-06-01T11:51:00.014-04:00

One hour away from Boston, Rockport by the Sea is my favorite site in Massachusetts. A beautiful escape from the ordinary and a place where time stands still.

Q&A cu trupa Taxi

2011-05-27T15:36:00.012-04:00

Taxi - Orice asemanare cu personaje reale e pur intamplatoare

Taxi - Niste raspunsuri

Vintage Travel Posters

2011-05-25T10:56:00.001-04:00

Haven't we all been there?

2011-05-24T23:19:00.001-04:00

Daca ti-as fi spus...

2011-05-24T01:44:00.002-04:00

...ca am fost fericita doar pentru ca ne-am cunoscut aici.

Nu ar fi fost de-ajuns?

Boston University Commencement 2011

2011-05-23T09:51:00.003-04:00

Watch this video on YouTube

Letting Go

2011-05-22T00:54:00.004-04:00

"I was born in 1902
I never once went back to my birthplace
I don't like to turn back...

some people know all about plants, some about fish,
I know separation
some people know the names of the stars by heart,
I recite absences."

Nazim Hikmet, Autobiography written in East Berlin on 11 September 1961

On Responsability

2011-05-21T18:20:00.005-04:00

"All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil. The only crime is pride." Sophocles

Another Rainy Sun(day) in Boston

2011-05-18T00:05:00.013-04:00

Contraste

2011-05-17T23:20:00.004-04:00

Ura de Alexandru Macedonski

Daca-as fi trasnet v-as trasni,
V-as ineca daca-as fi apa,
Si v-as sapa mormantu-adanc
Dac-as fi sapa.

Daca-as fi streang v-as spanzura,
Daca-as fi spada v-as strapunge,
V-as urmari dac-as fi glont,
Si v-as ajunge.

Dar eu, desi raman ce sunt,
O voce-adanca imi murmura
Ca sunt mai mult decat orice,
Caci eu, sunt ura.

If You Were A Sailboat - Katie Melua

If you were a cowboy I would trail you,
If you were a piece of wood I’d nail you to the floor.
If you were a sailboat I would sail you to the shore.
If you were a river I would swim you,
If you were a house I would live in you all my days.
If you were a preacher I’d begin to change my ways.

Sometimes I believe in fate,
But the chances we create,
Always seem to ring more true.
You took a chance on loving me,
I took a chance on loving you.

If I was in jail I know you’d spring me,
If I was a telephone you’d ring me all day long.
If I was in pain I know you’d sing me soothing songs.
Sometimes I believe in fate,
But the chances we create,
Always seem to ring more true.
You took a chance on loving me,
I took a chance on loving you.

If I was hungry you would feed me,
If I was in darkness you would lead me to the light.
If I was a book I know you’d read me every night.
If you were a cowboy I would trail you,
If you were a piece of wood I’d nail you to the floor.
If you were sailboat I would sail you to the shore.

My Favorite Flowers

2011-05-16T19:11:00.006-04:00

Lily of the valley. Muguets de mai. Lacramioare.

Cool Things in Random Places

2011-05-13T13:32:00.007-04:00

Nadal at His Best

3D Projection

NYC - Mindrelic Timelapse

NYC - Mindrelic Timelapse from Mindrelic on Vimeo.

Breakfast Interrupted

BSS | Breakfast Interrupted from Bruton Stroube Studios on Vimeo.

Bad Desire

2011-05-10T22:32:00.004-04:00

Seara asta am ramas printre ultimii la gym. Luminile se stingeau, mai aveam de alergat un tur. Si deodata muzica ce se aude deobicei discret in difuzoare a pornit la volum maxim. Probabil baiatului de la butoane i-a placut prea mult melodia.

The End of an Era

2011-05-05T23:11:00.018-04:00

On Friday I had the last discussion sections as teaching assistant. Today we held the final review session. In the fall I will get to teach my own course. It's a big step forward, but I will be honest: it is not easy.

There have been four wonderful years.

I received many nice messages from my students these days. I thank them all.

In the end, what matters most is how they see me:

"Andreea,

Just wanted to thank you for being a great discussion teacher. You've helped exponentially with my ability to go into an essay test confident and ready - and it paid off!"

"In the classroom the young, warm-hearted woman with the strong connection to home suddenly develops into a respected and knowledgeable teacher. Always on time, perfectly prepared and nicely dressed she tries to motivate every single student for the subject she loves so much, Politics. One of her students Antonio B. described her as the “most lovable teacher”. Andreea manages to combine the sweetness of a young girl, with the determination of a career lady and the humor of an experienced woman. B. said, “I think her great sense of humor comes from her many international experiences. I wish other teachers would tell us so many fascinating stories”.

Spring Remix

2011-05-04T19:44:00.001-04:00

DJ HriTac - April 2011 by bogdanhh

Lie to Me

2011-05-01T02:12:00.004-04:00

"You know the line we talk about, the line we have to draw because we see things people are hiding...things they don't want us to know...I think we should respect the line, I think is best for best for both of us."

“You are so bloody clever. You can figure out just about anything, except people."

"Cal Lightman: Have you ever had any specialized deception training?
Ria Torres: I've dated a lot of men.

"Raven: So, describe your ideal woman.
Cal: Well, I could describe her till the cows come home, but the real question is whether or not I'm her ideal man.
Raven: You never know till you try, right?"

Cuvinte simple despre lucruri importante

2011-04-30T16:23:00.004-04:00

Mi-am propus de cand m-am intors in America sa nu imi pierd timpul cu oameni ce nu imi plac si care nu imi sunt (sau nu ar putea sa imi devina) prieteni. Este opusul popularei idei de "networking" ce observ ca devine pentru multi un confortabil modus vivendi. Intr-un network permisiv si intr-un mediu lipsit de profunzime, este desigur cel mai usor sa te ascunzi. Si sa fugi. Nu de altii, ci in primul rand de tine.

Unii il vad ca pe un mare defect si ca pe o lipsa de flexibilitate, dar eu nu stiu sa fac "small talk". Nu stiu, nu vreau si nu ma intereseaza. In lista mea de numere de telefon nu exista oameni pe care ii sun doar cand am nevoie de ceva sau cu care ma intalnesc doar pentru ca am un interes. Nu am prieteni "de weekend" si mi se pare pur si simplu trist ca atatia oameni in jurul meu isi pierd timpul vorbind steril despre vremea probabila.

Ma gandesc la toate astea astazi, pentru ca vreau sa scriu despre exact opusul relatiilor superficiale descrise mai sus. Vreau sa scriu despre unul din oamenii cei mai dragi sufletului meu. Despre un prieten de la care am avut cel mai mult de invatat. In cuvinte simple, despre lucrurile cu adevarat importante.

L-am cunoscut abia in ultimul an de facultate, dupa intoarcerea din Italia. Grupul nostru de prieteni parea la o prima privire cel putin disfunctional. Nu aveam (si nu avem nici astazi) aproape nimic in comun, suntem temperamente si personalitati dintre cel mai diferite, vrem lucruri opuse de la viata. Doar ca asta chiar nu a contat. Am avut rabdare sa construim si sa ne cunoastem. Am avut si timp, pentru ca privilegiul studentiei este ca esti inca stapanul propiului timp. Am avut si noroc, pentru ca de multe ori mai tarziu in viata, am incercat sa construiesc aceleasi punti, sa investesc timp si rabdare in alte persoane si nu mi-a iesit. Daca exista asadar o "chimie" a prieteniilor, grupul nostru din facultate s-a bazat pe ea. A fost greu, pentru ca fiecare dorea sa fie vioara intai. Dar am avut rabdare si am vrut cu totii sa mearga.

Radu este cel mai mare dintre noi. Terminase deja o facultate si avea o meserie, o afacere si o viata independenta de ai lui. La cursuri nu venea foarte des, se oprea deobicei numai la cafeaua "de dupa". La examene ajungea cu emotii si pe ultima suta de metri. Cu emotii evident mai mult din partea mea, studenta model ce nu lipsea de la nici un curs si ajungea prima la toate examenele. Dar chiar si asa, era "cel mai si cel mai." De departe, cel mai carismatic coleg din promotia noastra. Cel mai inteligent si cel mai orientat.

Cu Radu nu am vorbit decat despre lucrurile care conteaza. Nici el nu stie sa faca "small talk". Stie in schimb sa aleaga intrebari simple si importante. Stie sa asculte. Si oricat de incoerente ar fi raspunsurile, la sfarsit stie sa puna diagnosticul exact, stie sa sintetizeze esentialul si sa iti explice foarte clar care e problema ta si ce rezolvare cauti. Ca un fin psiholog. Sau ca un confesor (foarte) laic. Umorul e fin, cuvintele pline uneori de ironie. Intentiile sunt mereu dintre cele mai bune. O discutie cu el este ca o partida de sah in care treci in doar cateva mutari de la deschidere la sah mat. Nu ai unde si nici nu vrei sa te ascunzi.

Mi-am dat adus aminte de asta acum cativa ani, cand ne-am revazut cu totii dupa o lunga pauza. Radu e unul din acei putini oameni ce nu isi verifica regulat adresa de email, nu are cont de Facebook, Twitter sau Linkedin. Nu mai vorbisem si nu ne vazusem de cativa ani. "Tu mereu pleci." Da, eu mereu plec. Si in doar cateva minute, a aflat tot ce era mai important. M-a facut sa povestesc concis, cum nici nu credeam ca sunt in stare, tot ce se intamplase interesant in viata mea. Tot ce merita mentionat. "If you do not ask the right questions, you do not get the right answers." Totul vine firesc si pare o joaca. Nici o replica nu are solemnitatea unei intrebari fundamentale si totusi exact acolo ajunge. Tonul e prietenos, niciodata intrusiv. Nu exista subiecte taboo, fandoseala sau snobism. Zambesti, povestesti si intelegi mai limpede.

Ii datorez lui Radu multe descoperi, poate cele mai importante. Despre mine si despre ceilalti. Ii datorez faptul ca m-a invatat sa am rabdare. Si ca a fost langa mine intr-o perioada cand toate in jur se zdruncinau.

Pentru el este astazi o zi speciala, una din cele mai frumoase. Sunt exact 7350 km intre Buzau si Boston, asa ca nu pot fi langa ei. Dar ii doresc sa fie fericit, la fel ca oamenii pe care el ii face fericiti...prin simpla lui prezenta.

Pâques au tison

2011-04-25T12:07:00.008-04:00

"I hope that wherever you are today, you enjoy the weather and some wonderful chocolate."

I surely do.

Adele. What I Love About Her

2011-04-21T09:11:00.004-04:00

Deadlines

2011-04-19T12:05:00.002-04:00

Scurt si la obiect. De Tudor Chirila:

"Fuck Deadlines

am deadline sa ma trezesc. am deadline sa ajung. oriunde. am deadline sa visez. ceva maret. am deadline sa intalnesc. oameni. am deadline sa ma tund. am deadline sa ma aranjez. am deadline sa livrez ceva. am deadline sa-i bucur. pe oameni. am deadline sa incasez si tocmai am primit un deadline sa platesc. am deadline sa ma schimb. am deadline sa intru in rindul lumii. am deadline sa ma casatoresc. am deadline sa fac un copil si am deadline sa fiu fericit. am deadline sa raspund la mailuri si trasez deadline ca sa primesc mailuri. am deadline sa sun. am deadline sa intreb sau am deadline sa raspund. am deadline sa ma inscriu si e un deadline sa ma retrag. am deadline de la avocati. am deadline de la prieteni. am deadline. am deadline sa ma imbat. am deadline sa ma trezesc. am deadline sa ma port frumos. am deadline sa ma realizez. am un deadline sa ma imprumut. am deadline sa construiesc. am deadline sa vin cu ceva bun. am deadline sa ma integrez. am deadline sa incep. am deadline sa sfarsesc. am deadline sa te conving. am deadline sa-mi repar masina. am deadline sa fiu fericit. am deadline sa primesc. un deadline. am deadline sa rezolv. am deadline. fuck deadline.

La capatul tuturor deadline-urilor noastre asteapta cineva. Suntem niste imbecili intr-un cerc vivios.

Mi-e dor pana la lacrimi de ceva intamplator. "

Crescendo

2011-04-19T00:53:00.007-04:00

A gradual increase. White blossom. Hope.

The magnolia in front of our department is my spring barometer.

In Search of Metaphors

2011-04-18T00:31:00.005-04:00

Intrebarea serii. Ne plac sau nu biscuitii Oreo.

Concluzie previzibila: de gustibus non est disputandum. Iar consecinta este ca opiniile in materie de gust nu sunt in mod obiectiv corecte sau gresite, iar certurile legate de gusturi nu pot fi rezolvate rational.

Just for fun: "biscuitul preferat al laptelui".

Iconic Characters in American Cinema

2011-04-17T10:57:00.003-04:00

Just read a very informative article by G. Murphy Donovan.

Starting with a great quote: "All literature is the search for a better metaphor."

Oameni ce ma fac sa zambesc

2011-04-14T01:40:00.006-04:00

Cand m-am intors din Italia, am trecut printr-o lunga perioda de tristeti si neadaptari. Intr-una din serile de revolta si nemultumire, am avut o discutie cu unul din oamenii cei mai dragi sufletului meu.

“-De ce ti-e dor?

-De orasul acela, de cladiri, de mare, de tot.

-Nu se poate sa iti fie dor de cladiri. Ti-e dor de oameni. Ei sunt tot ceea ce conteaza.”

Atat de simplu.

Mi-am adus aminte de asta azi, cand am vazut ca o colega si-a facut o lista pe Twitter cu "oamenii ce o fac sa zambeasca".

Ei sunt tot ceea ce conteaza:

Another photo album by Smilebox

Retail & Luxury Goods

2011-04-13T18:44:00.003-04:00

This weekend I had the privilege to listen to Tommy Hilfiger and William Lauder, at the Retail & Luxury Goods Conference at Harvard Business School.

Really liked William Lauder's conclusion:

"Pursue your passions. Don't just chase the money. There is a reason why Goldman Sachs pays more than anyone else. It's a miserable job. A real good job, would they have to pay you that much to work 24/7, as a slave? No."

Tomy Hilfiger - @ the Retail & Luxury Goods Conference at Harvard Business School

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Iarna asta

2011-04-11T11:15:00.002-04:00

Iarna asta cu drumuri lungi si fara rost. Cu furtuni de zapada, munti de gheata, zboruri anulate si nervi intinsi. Iarna asta cu viscol, ceata, cer cenusiu si temperaturi polare. Iarna asta cu nopti lungi si zile intunecate. Iarna asta cu multe semne de minus. Cu plecari, despartiri si drumuri fara intoarcere. Cu amaraciune si tacere.

Iarna asta. Este aproape gata.

Dear John

2011-04-08T20:12:00.001-04:00

"John: You're starting to make me a little nervous.

Savannah: Why am I starting to make you nervous?

John: Because I'm starting to think you might be too good of a person for me.

Savannah: Oh. No, I'm not that good of a person.

John: But no, seriously. You don't drink, you don't smoke.

Savannah: Nope. Nope.

John: You probably don't sleep around.

Savannah: Absolutely not.

John: Okay, look, you gotta have a fault.

Savannah: I do.

John: Okay, care to enlighten me?

Savannah: I curse.

John: No, you don't.

Savannah: Yes, I do.

John: I haven't heard you.

Savannah: Well, that's because it's in my mind. There's a never-ending stream of curse words that I'm thinking at all times.

John: Right.

Savannah: Yeah.

John: Okay, all right. Fair enough.

Savannah: No, I have faults, John. Trust me, I have plenty of them. You'll see. "

2011-04-03T00:44:00.001-04:00

Six Feet Under Ground

2011-04-03T00:41:00.000-04:00

San Francisco in 1906

2011-04-01T23:08:00.003-04:00

De la Stefan, nou venit pe blogspot, o filmare de epoca dintr-un tramvai din San Francisco. De pe vremea cand zgarie-norii erau contemporani cu rochiile cu crinolina.

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Poisson d'avril

2011-04-01T07:03:00.001-04:00

Nature's way of fooling us on April 1st: it's snowing. For the millionth time this year.

Grand Canyon West

2011-03-27T00:32:00.003-04:00

"To stand upon the edge of this stupendous gorge, as it receives its earliest greeting from the god of day, is to enjoy in a moment compensation for long years of ordinary uneventful life."

Stoddard, John 1898

Photo slideshow created with Smilebox

Middle of Nowhere

2011-03-21T00:21:00.010-04:00

On the way from Las Vegas to Grand Canyon West, we discovered Dolan Springs, a remote place that helped me visualize the idiom "in the middle of nowhere."

Welcome to Arizona, where summer spends the winter - and hell spends the summer.

Portret de Femeie

2011-03-10T11:19:00.009-05:00

Un proiect fotografic original si povestea lui ce demonstreaza inca o data ca a (good) picture is worth a thousand words. Si ca femininatea ne poate uimi cand nu e ingradita de cliseele modei si de artificialitate. Mai multe aici si aici (pe blogul meu preferat).

"Am vrut să avem în studio femei diferite şi am avut. Am vrut să le surprindem în aceeaşi lumină, adică nu „tehnica” noastră să creeze diferenţe, ci „respiraţia” lor. Am reuşit. Am vrut să „consemnăm” stările lor într-un decor neutru. Cred că asta am făcut. Nu am vrut fete de „plastic”, păpuşi depersonalizate de vreun stilist. Nu am avut. Visăm în continuare. Poate un album, poate la o expoziţie." Radu Badoiu

"Peste 50 de persoane au ales – nu ştim sigur de ce – ultima zi şi ultimele două-trei ore ale proiectului Portret de femeie pentru a-şi face curaj. Am tras, în total, peste 4000 de cadre. Şi foarte mulţi gigabiţi de memorie. " Cristian Sutu

8 Martie

2011-03-09T01:02:00.013-05:00

Constat cu parere de rau ca Ziua Internațională a Femeii nu este chiar atat de internationala, mai ales aici -peste ocean- unde se pare ca nimeni nu s-a gandit sa o popularizeze. Asadar…fara flori, fara martisoare, fara urari…nu pot decat sa imi aduc aminte de cel mai frumos si surprinzator 8 Martie de pana acum. Se intampla acum mai bine de 10 ani.

Se apropia sfarsitul clasei a XIIa si stressul examenelor de final. In clasa noastra cu profil de matematica-fizica baietii erau majoritari cantitativ si calitativ. Orele nesfarsite de profil real erau dominate de interventiile lor in care si cele mai complicate integrale pareau o joaca. Recreatiile erau nesfarsite ocazii de ironii si glumite la adresa noastra: cele cateva fete - visatoare si pasionate de limbi straine si stiinte sociale. Tabloul de ansamblu nu a fost niciodata unul armonios, intepaturile erau la ordinea zilei si raportul de forte mereu neeechilibrat.

De 1 Martie, mai mult pentru ca trebuia, ne-am mobilizat totusi si le-am cumparat martisoare. Da, in Bucuvina, din motive inca neelucidate, baietii primesc martisoare de 1 Martie. Iar traditia nescrisa cere ca ei sa se revanseze cu cadouri peste o saptamana. In anul acela insa, noi nu ne faceam iluzii. Nu erau baietii nostri nici dornici, nici capabili de surprize.

Imi amintesc foarte clar ca 8 martie a picat atunci intr-o zi de miercuri si ca prima ora era cea de dirigentie. De la 7:30 dimineata. Pentru ca era ultimul semestrul, doamna diriginta ne mai facea din cand in cand concesia de a ne lasa pe toti sa dormim o ora in plus. Cand am intrat in ziua aceea in clasa, asta am crezut ca se intamplase. Lumina era inca stinsa si erau in clasa, aproape ascunse in ultimele banci, doar cateva colege. Ne-am gandit toate imediat ca doamna diriginta a anulat ora, iar baietii s-au gandit sa ne faca o farsa de ziua noastra si sa nu ne anunte. Scenariul s-ar fi potrivit perfect relatiilor tensionate. Am dat asadar verdictul, am lasat lumina stinsa si am ramas tacute in banci. Peste cateva minute apare insa doamna diriginta, vizibil nedumerita si totusi zambitoare. Pregatisem din partea clasei un buchet mare de flori, i l-am dat adaugand ca “desi nu pare, este si din partea baietilor.” Nu primim nici intrebari, nici explicatii suplimentare, doamna diriginta se aseaza la catedra si incepe sa se uite prin catalog. Pentru noi e acum evident ca baietii s-au gandit sa isi simplifice misiunea de 8 martie si sa lipseasca in masa. Suntem realmente foarte dezamagite si ne gandim deja la mici planuri de razbunare.

Toate pana pe la 8 fara 5 minute, cand de pe hol se aud brusc voci. Usa se deschide. Sala noastra mare de clasa de umple brusc de lumina si cantec. Baietii nostri sunt toti, fara exceptie, imbracati in costum cu cravata si ne canta “La Multi Ani!”. Douazeci si ceva de voci calde si numai zambete. Impreuna cu ei, directorul liceului si profesorul nostru de fizica. Asa ceva nu se poate. Nu se poate. Si totusi. Surprizele continua. Baietii nostri au pregatit cele mai frumoase urari. Si un tort mare. Cea mai mica dintre noi este rugata sa taie prima felie. Am ciocnit apoi pahare de sampanie, am primit flori si cele mai frumoase complimente. Baietii au insistat apoi sa ne schimbam si locurile in banci, astfel incat fiecare dintre noi a primit strategic un nou coleg de banca care ne-a rasfatat o zi intreaga.

A fost ziua cand am fost vedetele liceului si cand toate fetele din clasele paralele ne opreau pe culoar sa ne intre daca este adevarat. Baietii noastri erau cei mai frumosi, cei mai politicosi, cei mai atenti…”cei mai si cei mai”. Am ajuns acasa mai mult plutind, iar emotia acelei zile a ramas firesc una dintre cele mai frumoase amintiri din anii de liceu. Anul trecut, la intalnirea de 10 ani, primul gand la intrarea in sala noastra de clasa a fost spre dimineata aceea innourata cand s-au aprins luminile si cand deodata… lumea era a noastra si orice era posibil.

Fermoare, nasturi si capse

2011-02-12T03:57:00.013-05:00

Sinopsis

Piesa "Fermoare, nasturi şi capse" a fost nominalizată la Concursul UNITER - Cea mai bună piesă românească a anului 2007.

At the Beginning...Everything is Easy

2010-11-21T12:05:00.002-05:00

You Must Know Me, I'm One of Your Secrets

2010-10-06T00:00:00.003-04:00

I Believe I Can Fly

2010-09-22T22:14:00.000-04:00

The Politics of Hard Times

2010-09-22T21:36:00.007-04:00

The 2010 APSA Annual Meeting

September 2-5, Washington, D.C.

The Politics of Hard Times: Citizens, Nations, and the International System under Economic Stress

Search Results

Nobel Laureate Elinor Ostrom speaks at the APSA Annual Meeting in DC

La Medeleni

2010-07-30T13:22:00.005-04:00

"Peste tacerea Medelenilor: zvonul acesta de surle si de trambite, al baietilor care au crescut.

Draga mea,

ti-am mai spus ce dar ai tu: de-a ma deschide clar in fata ta.

Langa tine sunt eu, in intregime, fara nevoia de a ma dovedi si explica. Langa altii sunt ca o casa ermetica, inchisa. Deodata... ferestrele dispar zidite, usile dispar incuiate. Langa tine se deschid de la sine ferestre mari, prin care vezi totul. E ca o ampla respiratie, e ca o dezlegare a inghetului, e ca o disparitie de nouri masivi. Sunt eu, dar sunt in intregime sub privirea ta.

E mai mult decat dragoste: e o senzatie de primavara, care izbucneste din pamant, cu florile si cu jivinele deopotriva."

La Medeleni de Ionel Teodoreanu, Dan catre Monica

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Boston from the 38th Floor

2010-07-20T22:28:00.004-04:00

Freedom

2010-05-05T07:11:00.003-04:00

"This is freedom, you're smiling, I'm smiling too..."

Cantec de gasit

2010-04-20T19:46:00.007-04:00

Un cantec si un test

Visez la stabilitate, la un loc si un moment in care nu va mai trebui mereu sa plec. Visez la cheile unei case pentru care nu va mai trebui sa platesc chirie. Visez sa fiu aproape de cei dragi, fara sa renunt pentru asta la cariera. Si visez la un drum inca neinceput.

De anii copilariei, nu pot sa leg decat fortat cuvantul "lipsuri". A fost in jurul meu multa dragoste si rabdare. Si iarasi, daca ar fi sa aleg o perioada in care cred ca am facut cele mai bune alegeri, aceea ar fi pana la 20 ani. A fost poate o greseala ca nu m-am uitat nici in dreapta, nici in stanga si ca am fost uneori prea incapatanata, dar nu regret asta, ci mi-o asum.

Ma linisteste zambetul unui copil, pacea din ochii lui. Si amintirea bunicilor. Ma nelinisteste gandul ca toata viata va trebui sa schimb avioane ca sa ajung (uneori prea tarziu) langa familie si prieteni. Cea mai mare frica e ca voi dezamagi, acum cand asteptarile sunt atat de mari si stacheta atat de sus. Iar intr-o relatie, e frica ca ma va privi in ochi, cu zambetul pe buze si ca va minti in legatura cu ce e mai important. Frica ca nu voi sti sa despart ce e sincer, de ce e butaforie.

I belong to where I'm happy. Au fost destule momente cand am stiut dintr-un gest sau dintr-o privire ca am adus bucurie in jur. Iar cel mai recunoscatoare sunt pentru oamenii dragi pe care ii simt fericiti doar pentru ca m-am intors (pentru cateva zile) acasa.

Daca am invatat un singur lucru bun in America, e acela e ca sentimentele nu trebuie sa fie niciodata un subiect tabu si ca de fiecare data cand iubesti sau cand esti fericit trebuie sa o spui. Chiar daca in secunda sau in ziua urmatoare ti se va parea desuet si exagerat. Si chiar daca uneori, in mod ironic, efuziunile sentimentale se platesc scump. Sunt fericita de fiecare data cand aterizez pe Otopeni sau cand trenul ajunge la Suceava. Curand dupa asta, entuziasmul dispare, dar ramane certitudinea ca a fost cea mai sincera si mai asteptata emotie.

Cel mai des si mai dur m-am lovit de prejudecati. Uneori ale celor de aproape, pe care i-as fi dorit mai toleranti. De cele mai multe ori ale unor oameni care fara macar sa ma cunoasca, mi-au aplicat tot felul de etichete. Doar pentru ca vin din Moldova, din Romania, din Europa de Est. Si revenind la prima intrebare, visez la o lume in care toleranta sa nu fie doar de parada si in care oamenii vor incerca sa inteleaga, inainte sa judece.

Lisbon I Loved

2010-04-19T19:05:00.013-04:00

city of the seven hills

best scenic view

Tagus and Praça do Comércio

pastel

Fado

Fernando Pessoa at Brasileira

view from above

Clara

Daria

Bagaje Reloaded

2010-04-08T04:30:00.003-04:00

Sunt ca un copil in mijlocul unei camere mari, plina de jucarii. Nu stiu pe care sa o apuc prima. Plec din nou. Am devenit o experta a impachetatului in ultimii ani, dar cand fac asta acasa totul devine mai greoi si mai trist. As face orice sa imi spuna cineva ca de data asta nu mai trebuie sa plec.

Privesc spre teancul de haine impaturite cu certitudinea ca oricum, oriunde as ajunge, voi purta doar o singura tinuta comoda si imi voi promite (solemn) ca data viitoare nu mai exagerez cu bagajul. Si inca mi se pare ironic ca stiu teoria atat de bine, in timp ce practica pare ca inca ma depaseste. ;-)

Acasa de Paste

2010-04-04T07:52:00.008-04:00

Antiprimavara

2010-04-04T06:50:00.001-04:00

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Hristos a Inviat!

2010-04-03T20:23:00.007-04:00

Nu am mai fost acasa de Paste de 6 ani. Nici nu mi-am dat seama cat imi fusese de dor. De toate lucrurile mici pe care pana la plecare le consideram atat de firesti si pe care apoi le-am pastrat doar in amintiri. Azi mi-am adus aminte de prima oara cand am fost la Inviere fara parinti, doar cu grupul de prieteni. La biserica Sfantul Nicolae. Eram in clasa a VI-a. Seara aceasta in acelasi loc si inconjurata de aceeasi prieteni, m-am simtit norocoasa si recunoscatoare. As fi vrut sa le spun fiecaruia in parte cat de mult mi-au lipsit. Zambetele, soaptele, asteptarea, lumina.

M-am gandit la toate cele ce au fost pana cum, la ultimele luni, la intrebarea fara raspuns. Ma intorc definitiv sau nu? M-am gandit la toti oamenii dragi care au ramas langa mine. Si la cei care au plecat fara nici o explicatie. In seara asta am simtit ca cercul se inchide si ca inteleg fara sa am nevoie de dovezi ca toate se intampla cu un rost.

E momentul pe care il asteptam tot anul. Din linistea asteptarii se aud clopotele si cantecul ce ne aduce aminte de cei ce nu mai sunt. Din intuneric se aprind una de la alta lumanari ce aduc speranta si iertarea. Minunea cea mare coboara intre noi, ne aseaza alaturi si ne ridica privirile coborite spre ochii celor ce ne aduc linistea.

"For everything there is a season,

And a time for every matter under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

A time to keep, and a time to throw away;

A time to tear, and a time to sew;

A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate,

A time for war, and a time for peace."

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

According to Norah Jones

2010-02-28T09:04:00.003-05:00

Pick your Artist:
Norah Jones

Are you a male or female:
Don't Know Why

Describe yourself:
What Am I To You?

How do you feel:
Sinkin' Soon

Describe where you currently live:
My Dear Country

If you could go anywhere, where would you go?
Back To Manhattan

Your favorite form of transportation?
Above Ground

Your best friend?
Until The End

You and your best friends are:
Chasing Pirates

What's the weather like?
Where Have All The Flowers Gone

Favorite time of day:
Sunrise

If your life was a TV show what would it be called?
Things You Don't Have To Do

What is life to you:
Butterflies

Your relationship:
Wake Me Up

Your fear:
One Flight Down

What is the best advice you have to give:
Shoot The Moon

Thought for the Day:
Not Too Late

My motto:
Ride On

A Perfect Moment

2010-02-24T17:08:00.006-05:00

Lacrimi de fericire

2010-02-15T16:37:00.002-05:00

Alice are un baietel.

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Pe cine iubim. Atunci si acum

2010-02-09T17:08:00.014-05:00

Noapte de vara la tara. "Viata ce aci palpita e lipsita...de confort occidental." Pe o banca in fata portii ne-am adunat, dupa treburile de seara, toti trei. Suntem un pic bronzati si obositi. Pe drum nici o lumina, iar stelele se vad clar si aproape. Incercam sa le ghicim numele. Cineva spune o gluma. Oana rade din toate inima. E de-ajuns sa o auzi o singura data razand, ca sa iti doresti sa se intample iar si iar. Grijile sunt departe, de fapt nici nu stim exact cum e sa fii ingrijorat. Bunicii vin sa ne cheme in casa, iar peste ei noi stabilim planurile zilei de maine in limba engleza, ca sa nu fim intelesi. Mici victorii, mari complicitati. Acum... suntem mari si noi. Si suntem departe, intr-un oras unde stelele nu se vad niciodata. E noapte si ne-am regasit, dupa mult timp, in formula completa. Povestioarele fara sens de alta data sunt acum probleme de oameni mari. Cineva spune o gluma. Oana rade din toata inima. Cat de dor mi-a fost. Mi-as dori sa ne traga cineva de urechi si sa ne aseze din nou pe banca copilariei.

Ma uit la ei doi cu privirea usor preocupata a surorii mai mari. Au atatea idei si energie incat nici nu poti incerca sa ii tii sub control. Acum cateva minute au demontat canapeaua si au transformat-o intr-un fel de cazemata, unde erau la adapost de privirile indiscrete. Acum sunt la masa si joaca carti. Ionut castiga si atunci Irina schimba regulile in timpul jocului. E ziua ei, orice e posibil. Proteste, suparari. Cei mari sunt chemati sa medieze si apoi indepartati pentru ca prezenta lor nu e de fapt dorita. Deodata vin amandoi spre mine si ma strang in brate. La casetofon incepe o melodie vesela, jocul de carti e uitat. Danseaza. Si apoi, ca intr-un efect cinematografic, culorile sepia devin color, e din nou iarna, Irina implineste 18 ani. Sunt tot ei doi in centrul atentiei. Doar ca Ionut e mai inalt acum decat Irina cu jumatate de metru. Danseaza. Ca sa le fie mai usor, Ionut ii aseaza usor picioarele pe picioarele lui. Numarul 34 peste numarul 46. Diferanta de inaltime devine o joaca. Aceleasi rasete de alta data. Eu ii urmaresc cu aceeasi privire usor preocupata a surorii mai mari, doar ca nu mai sunt langa ei, ci undeva departe, departe. Iar in locul imbratisarilor, am primit prin posta un DvD.

Primele amintiri. Intr-o camera mica din bucataria de vara, ma joc pe genunchii bunicului si el se preface ca ma scapa. Imi divulga un plan. Ma va ascunde sub plapuma, iar cand va reveni bunica ii va spune ca am plecat. Miroase a gogosi, iar laptele e aproape fiert. Sunt foarte vesela si de unde sunt acum nu vad nimic. Aud doar glasul suparat al bunicii: "Unde ai lasat-o se plece pe intunericul asta?". Chicotesc. Sunt descoperita. Radem toti trei si repetam povestea, e jocul nostru preferat. Inima imi joaca de bucurie. Si apoi... tot inima, tot in camera mica din bucataria de vara. Tot noi trei. Mobila e neschimbata, bunicul e in acelasi pat. Eu nu ma mai pot ascunde. Miroase a alcool medicinal, iar o asistenta tocmai a dat drumul unei noi perfuzii. Mainile puternice de alta data ii sunt acum uscate. I le masez usor cu o crema si imi musc buzele pana la sange. Incerc sa spun o gluma si el incearca sa zambeasca. Suflet din sufletul lui. "Nu merita atata zbucium. Lasa-l. Gaseste-ti pe cineva care sa te iubeasca. Pentru cine esti tu..." Ma opresc. Cuvintele se intorc ca intr-un ecou. Nu i-am spus niciodata nimic... De unde stie? Iar liniste. Atata liniste.

Luminile copilariei se sting incet in umbre. Rasetele se mai topesc uneori in lacrimi. Departarea iti apasa umerii, dar te face sa vezi lucrurile mai clar. Iubesti atunci cand ai despre cine scrie astfel de povesti.

Infrangerile ce ramân în noi

2010-01-31T15:59:00.002-05:00

Unul din marile avantaje de a fi din nou acasa e ca telefonul suna. La orice ora. Suna banal, dar mi-a lipsit enorm asta.

Acasa si infrangerile sunt mai usor de dus. Totul devine mai prietenos, mai relativ, pentru ca cineva drag a trecut cu siguranta prin asa. Ascultand alte povesti, dramele personale se estompeaza usor si situatia nu mai pare fara iesire.

Seara asta, o discutie lunga mi-a adus aminte rand pe rand de micile si marile mele infrangeri. De aplicatiile complicate care nu au avut succes. De incurajarile ce nu s-au ridicat la inaltimea asteptarilor. De zborurile lungi, sfarsite in cea mai dura lectie de viata. De teribila amagire ca au argument rational va fi mai important decat vechi prejudecati. De prietenii vechi pe care inevitabil i-am mai si pierdut. Si de luptele mici, de zi cu zi, pe care uneori trebuie sa le abandonez.

Cred ca totul pare mai dramatic, daca esti obisnuit sa duci o lupta pana in panzele albe. Sa lupti uneori si cu morile de vant si sa speri ca razboiul nu e inca pierdut. Pana intr-un moment cand telefonul, postasul, emailul, viata iti confirma inevitabilul. Si mai cred ca cel mai complicat moment dupa aflarea vestii, este dimineata de dupa. Cand primul gand e ca ai pierdut si ca nu se mai poate face nimic. Si cand totusi, trebuie sa te ridici si sa iti continui ziua ca si cum nimic nu s-ar fi intamplat.

Ca in poezia lui Blaga, "infrangerile pe cari nu le umblam, infrangerile ce ramân în noi, ne duc si ele, fara numar, undeva."

Life, Like a Chocolate

2010-01-10T18:21:00.008-05:00

Ma mai gandesc din cand in cand la ce spunea mama lui Forrest Gump: "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get." Si recunosc ca imi place cum suna, doar ca asteptarea e oricum ca vei obtine ceva dulce si bun, indiferent de aroma. Si ca life is good.

Ciocolata mea preferata e cea amaruie, cu cat mai amaruie cu atat mai bine. Seara asta am gustat insa o variatate, ce mi-a schimbat putin perspectiva. Pentru ca: da, exista o ciocolata amaruie cu ardei iute si sare de mare. Si daca initial m-am topit de placere simtind gustul dulce-amarui, in secunda imediat urmatoare m-a ars ceva intepator si pana la urma am ramas cu o naclaiala sarata absolut ingrozitoare. Cred ca m-am spalat pe dinti o jumatate de ora ca sa o uit. Dar apoi, m-am gandit ca asta ar fi o metafora mai potrivita pentru cum e viata (sau cel putin viata mea acum). Cu o tenta de dulce, o amaraciune ce ma face vigilenta, cate putin chili sa ma trezeasca la realitate si la final, mereu, sarea ce strica cand ti-e lumea mai draga tot ce e mai bun.

Caught in the Undertow

2010-01-06T16:06:00.002-05:00

Undertow (definition according to The American Heritage® Science Dictionary)
1. an inclination contrary to the strongest or prevailing feeling
2. the seaward undercurrent created after waves have broken on the shore

Nu mai e timp

2009-12-31T11:10:00.011-05:00

2009 a trecut greu, iar ultimele ore aduc acum povara unor retrospective nedorite. Peste amintirea Craciunului si a zilelor ce au urmat, se asterne lumina blanda si linistea de pe Valea Doftanei. Emotiile se aduna toate acolo unde gandurile nu au voie, iar inima vrea parca sa iasa din piept. Cartea s-a deschis pe rand la pagini din care au cazut semne de carte ce nu isi mai aveau rostul. Acum...nu mai e timp.

Cel mai frumos moment al ultimului an a fost un apus pe plaja din Rincon, pe coasta de vest a insulei Puerto Rico. Oceanul era linistit si soarele lasa in urma culori ce nici nu credeam ca exista. Am baut lapte dintr-o nuca de cocos. Am ras mult, alaturi de prieteni dragi. La un tonomat vechi, ca acelea din filmele americane, am ascultat Bon Jovi si Mana. Un sunet de clopot ne-a anuntat apropierea unei balene si am fugit pe terasa, tocmai in timp sa ii vedem linia cozii. Am plecat tarziu, intr-o plimbare lunga pe plaja, luminata slab doar de un far din departare. Apa era calda si valurile stergeau discret urmele pasilor pe nisip.

Cel mai greu moment a venit exact cand ma asteptam mai putin. A Blue Christmas si nici o luminita la capatul tunelului. In urma, mai multa tristete decat a incaput in bagaje si un zambet amar ce nu convinge pe nimeni. Nici nu mai stiu ce a fost real si ce nu. Si ce e cu adevarat important. Every night I cut out my heart, but in the morning it was full again. La miez de noapte, zgomotul unei portiere ce m-a lasat deodata singura in frig. Am plecat. Nu mai e timp.

Quote of the Day

2009-12-25T05:34:00.001-05:00

Never say never.

Herta Müller's Nobel Lecture

2009-12-10T14:17:00.010-05:00

There are few people today open to talk publicly about the memories of their communist past in Romania. A few years ago, one of them made an extraordinary movie out of it and won Palme d'Or. This year, the Nobel Prize for literature was awarded to someone who, far away in time and space, still writes about her years of growing up in a dictatorship. Herta Müller. "Who, with the concentration of poetry and the frankness of prose, depicts the landscape of the dispossessed".

Please take some time to read her Nobel Lecture. It explores far beyond social and political memories and reveals simple, yet essential stories about love, solitude and human nature.

All my life I asked myself how come my grandfather, on his way to work, used to forget every day his glasses and his handkerchief. And how come my grandmother used to ask him about them, just as he was exiting the backyard. Then, she would rush back into the house to find them both. The glasses on the upper bookstand. The handkerchief in that special drawer where his big grey handkerchiefs were in the left corner, my grandmother's white ones were on the right side, while mine stood in the middle. This arrangement is well kept till today, even though he is no longer with us and I come home just for a few days a year. Last September, as I was leaving the house for a wedding party, she stopped and asked me if I had a handkerchief with me. I said I have disposable paper tissues. She looked appalled by my answer and run into the house to bring me from the drawer "a real one". All my life I asked myself what is it about these handkerchiefs. Now I finally understood.

An exercise against the unbearable burden of forgetting. Thank you, Herta Müller.

Nobel Lecture

December 7, 2009

Every word knows something of a vicious circle

"DO YOU HAVE A HANDKERCHIEF was the question my mother asked me every morning, standing by the gate to our house, before I went out onto the street. I didn't have a handkerchief. And because I didn't, I would go back inside and get one. I never had a handkerchief because I would always wait for her question. The handkerchief was proof that my mother was looking after me in the morning. For the rest of the day I was on my own. The question DO YOU HAVE A HANDKERCHIEF was an indirect display of affection. Anything more direct would have been embarrassing and not something the farmers practiced. Love disguised itself as a question. That was the only way it could be spoken: matter-of-factly, in the tone of a command, or the deft maneuvers used for work. The brusqueness of the voice even emphasized the tenderness. Every morning I went to the gate once without a handkerchief and a second time with a handkerchief. Only then would I go out onto the street, as if having the handkerchief meant having my mother there, too.

Twenty years later I had been on my own in the city a long time and was working as a translator in a manufacturing plant. I would get up at five a.m.; work began at six-thirty. Every morning the loudspeaker blared the national anthem into the factory yard; at lunch it was the workers' choruses. But the workers simply sat over their meals with empty tinplate eyes and hands smeared with oil. Their food was wrapped in newspaper. Before they ate their bit of fatback, they first scraped the newsprint off the rind. Two years went by in the same routine, each day like the next.

In the third year the routine came to an end. Three times in one week a visitor showed up at my office early in the morning: an enormous, thick-boned man with sparkling blue eyes—a colossus from the Securitate.

The first time he stood there, cursed me, and left.

The second time he took off his windbreaker, hung it on the key to the cabinet, and sat down. That morning I had brought some tulips from home and arranged them in a vase. The man looked at me and praised me for being such a keen judge of character. His voice was slippery. I felt uneasy. I contested his praise and assured him that I understood tulips, but not people. Then he said maliciously that he knew me better than I knew tulips. After that he draped his windbreaker over his arm and left.

The third time he sat down but I stayed standing, because he had set his briefcase on my chair. I didn't dare move it to the floor. He called me stupid, said I was a shirker and a slut, as corrupted as a stray bitch. He shoved the tulips close to the edge of the desk, then put an empty sheet of paper and a pen in the middle of the desktop. He yelled at me: Write. Without sitting down, I wrote what he dictated—my name, date of birth and address. Next, that I would tell no one, no matter how close a friend or relative, that I… and then came the terrible word: colaborez—I am collaborating. At that point I stopped writing. I put down the pen and went to the window and looked out onto the dusty street, unpaved and full of potholes, and at all the humpbacked houses. On top of everything else this street was called Strada Gloriei—Glory Street. On Glory Street a cat was sitting in a bare mulberry tree. It was the factory cat with the torn ear. And above the cat the early morning sun was shining like a yellow drum. I said: N-am caracterul—I don't have the character for this. I said it to the street outside. The word CHARACTER made the Securitate man hysterical. He tore up the sheet of paper and threw the pieces on the floor. Then he probably realized he would have to show his boss that he had tried to recruit me, because he bent over, picked up the scraps and tossed them into his briefcase. After that he gave a deep sigh and, defeated, hurled the vase with the tulips against the wall. As it shattered it made a grinding sound, as though the air had teeth. With his briefcase under his arm he said quietly: You'll be sorry, we'll drown you in the river. I said as if to myself: If I sign that, I won't be able to live with myself anymore, and I'll have to do it on my own. So it's better if you do it. By then the office door was already open and he was gone. And outside on the Strada Gloriei the factory cat had jumped from the tree onto the roof of the building. One branch was bouncing like a trampoline.

The next day the tug of war began. They wanted me out of the factory. Every morning at 6:30 I had to report to the director. The head of the official labor union and the party secretary were also in his office. Just like my mother once asked: DO YOU HAVE A HANDKERCHIEF, the director now asked every morning: Have you found another job? Every morning I gave the same answer: I'm not looking for one, I like it here in the factory, I'd like to stay here until I retire.

One morning I came to work and found my thick dictionaries lying on the floor of the hall outside my office. I opened the door; an engineer was sitting at my desk. He said: People are supposed to knock before they enter a room. This is my place, you have no business here. I couldn't go home; any unexcused absence would have given them a pretext to fire me. I no longer had an office, so now I really had to make sure I came to work; under no circumstances could I fail to be there.

My friend, whom I told everything as we walked home down the pitiful Strada Gloriei, cleared a corner of her desk for me, at first. But one morning she stood outside her office and said: I can't let you in. Everyone is saying you're an informer. The harassment was passed down; the rumor was set into circulation among my colleagues. That was the worst. You can defend yourself against an attack, but there's nothing you can do against libel. Every day I prepared myself for anything, including death. But I couldn't cope with this perfidy. No preparation made it bearable. Libel stuffs you with filth; you suffocate because you can't defend yourself. In the eyes of my colleagues I was exactly what I had refused to become. If I had spied on them they would have trusted me without the slightest hesitation. In essence they were punishing me because I had spared them.

Since now I really had to make sure I came to work, but no longer had an office, and since my friend could no longer let me into hers, I stood in the stairwell, unable to decide what to do. I climbed up and down the stairs a few times and suddenly I was again my mother's child, because I HAD A HANDKERCHIEF. I placed it on one of the stairs between the second and third floors, carefully smoothed it out and sat down. I rested my thick dictionaries on my knee and translated the descriptions of hydraulic machines. I was a staircase wit and my office was a handkerchief. My friend joined me on the stairs at lunchtime. We ate together as we had in her office, and before that in mine. From the loudspeaker in the yard the workers' choruses sang about the happiness of the people, as always. My friend ate her lunch and cried over me. I didn't cry. I had to stay tough. For a long time. A few never-ending weeks, until I was dismissed.

During the time that I was a staircase wit, I looked up the word STAIR in the dictionary: the first step is the STARTING STEP or CURTAIL STEP that can also be a BULLNOSE. HAND is the direction a stair takes at the first riser. The edge of a tread that projects past the face of the riser is called the NOSING. I already knew a number of beautiful words having to do with lubricated hydraulic machine parts: DOVETAIL, GOOSENECK, ACORN NUTS and EYEBOLTS. Now I was equally amazed at the poetic names of the stair parts, the beauty of the technical language. NOSING and HAND—so the stair has a body. Whether working with wood or stone, cement or iron: why do humans insist on imposing their face on even the most unwieldy things in the world, why do they name dead matter after their own flesh, personifying it as parts of the body? Is this hidden tenderness necessary to make the harsh work bearable for the technicians? Does every job in every field follow the same principle as my mother's question about the handkerchief?

When I was little we had a handkerchief drawer at home, which was always partitioned into two rows, with three stacks apiece:

On the left the men's handkerchiefs for my father and grandfather.

On the right the women's handkerchiefs for my mother and grandmother.

In the middle the children's handkerchiefs for me.

The drawer was a family portrait in handkerchief format. The men's handkerchiefs were the biggest, with dark stripes along the edges in brown, gray or Bordeaux. The women's handkerchiefs were smaller, and their edges were light blue, red, or green. The children's handkerchiefs were the smallest: borderless white squares painted with flowers or animals. All three handkerchief types were divided into those for everyday use, in the front row, and those reserved for Sunday, in the back. On Sundays your handkerchief had to match the color of your clothes, even if it wasn't visible.

No other object in the house, including ourselves, was ever as important to us as the handkerchief. Its uses were universal: sniffles; nosebleeds; hurt hand, elbow or knee; crying, or biting into it to suppress the crying. A cold wet handkerchief on the forehead for headaches. Tied at the four corners it protected your head against sunburn or rain. If you had to remember something you made a knot to prompt your memory. For carrying heavy bags you wrapped it around your hand. When the train pulled out of the station you waved it to say good-bye. And because the word for tear in our Banat dialect sounds like the Romanian word for train, the squeaking of the railcars on the tracks always sounded to me like crying. In the village if someone died at home they immediately tied a handkerchief around his chin so that his mouth stayed closed when the rigor mortis set in. In the city if a person collapsed on the side of the road, some passerby would always take a handkerchief and cover his face, so that the handkerchief became the dead man's first place of peace.

On hot summer days the parents would send their children to the cemetery late in the evening to water the flowers. We stayed together in groups of two or three, quickly watering one grave and then the next. Afterwards we would huddle together on the steps of the chapel and watch wisps of white mist rise from some of the graves. They would fly up a little ways and disappear in the darkness. For us they were the souls of the dead: animal figures, glasses, little bottles and cups, gloves and stockings. And here and there a white handkerchief bordered by the black night.

Later, when I was meeting with Oskar Pastior so I could write about his deportation to the Soviet labor camp, he told me that an elderly Russian mother had given him a handkerchief made of white batiste. Maybe you will both be lucky, said the Russian woman, and you will come home soon and so will my son. Her son was the same age as Oskar Pastior and as far away from home as he was, but in the opposite direction, she said, in a penal battalion. Oskar Pastior had knocked on her door, a half-starved beggar wanting to trade a lump of coal for a little bit of food. She let him in and gave him some hot soup. And when she saw his nose dripping into the bowl, she gave him the white batiste handkerchief that no one had ever used before. With its a-jour border, and stems and rosettes precisely stitched with silk thread, the handkerchief was a thing of beauty that embraced as well as wounded the beggar. It was a combination: consolation made of batiste, and a silk-stemmed measure of his decrepitude. For the woman, Oskar Pastior was also a combination: an unworldly beggar in her house and a lost child in the world. Both of these personae were delighted and overwhelmed by the gesture of a woman who was two persons for him as well: an unknown Russian woman and the worried mother with the question: DO YOU HAVE A HANDKERCHIEF.

Ever since I heard this story I have had a question of my own: is DO YOU HAVE A HANDKERCHIEF valid everywhere? Does it stretch halfway across the world in the snowy sheen between freezing and thawing? Does it pass between mountains and steppes to cross every border; can it reach all the way into a gigantic empire strewn with penal and labor camps? Is the question DO YOU HAVE A HANDKERCHIEF impossible to get rid of, even with a hammer and sickle, even with all the camps of Stalinist re-education?

Although I have spoken Romanian for decades, it was only while talking with Oskar Pastior that I realized that the Romanian word for handkerchief is batistă. Another example of how sensual the Romanian language is, relentlessly driving its words straight to the heart of things. The material makes no detour, but presents itself ready-made as a handkerchief, as a BATISTĂ. As if all handkerchiefs, whenever and wherever, were made of batiste.

Oskar Pastior kept that handkerchief in his trunk as a reliquary of a double mother with a double son. And after five years of life in the camps he brought it home. Because his white batiste handkerchief was hope and fear. Once you let go of hope and fear, you die.

After our conversation about the white handkerchief I spent half the night pasting up a word collage for Oskar Pastior on a white card:

Dots are dancing here says Bea

you're coming into a long-stemmed glass of milk

linens in white gray-green zinc tub

nearly all materials

correspond upon delivery

look here

I am the trainride and

the cherry in the soapdish

never talk to strange men

or speak over the switchboard

When I went to see him later in the week to give him the collage, he said: you have to paste on FOR OSKAR as well. I said: Whatever I give to you is yours. He said: You have to paste it on, because the card may not know that. I took it back home and pasted on: For Oskar. And then I gave it to him the following week, as if I had left the gate first without a handkerchief and now was back the second time with a handkerchief.

Another story also ends with a handkerchief:

My grandparents had a son named Matz. In the 1930s he was sent to study business in Timişoara, so that he could take over the family grain trade and grocery store. The school had teachers from the German Reich, real Nazis. Matz may have been trained as a merchant on the side, but mainly he was taught to be a Nazi—brainwashed according to plan. After he finished, Matz was a passionate Nazi, a changed person. He barked out anti-Semitic slogans, and was as unreachable as an imbecile. My grandfather rebuked him several times: he owed his entire fortune to the credit advanced by Jewish business friends. And when that didn't help, he boxed Matz on the ears several times. But the young man's faculty of reason had been erased. He played the village ideologue, bullying his peers who were dodging the front. Matz had a desk job with the Romanian army. Nevertheless he felt an urge to move from theory to practice, so he volunteered for the SS and asked to be sent to the front. A few months later he came home to marry. Wiser for having seen the crimes at the front, he used a then-current magical formula to escape the war for a few days. The magical formula was called: wedding leave.

My grandmother kept two photos of her son Matz far back in a drawer: a wedding photo and a death photo. The wedding picture shows a bride in white, taller than he by a hand, thin and earnest—a plaster Madonna. On her head was a wreath made of wax that looked like snow-flocked leaves. Next to her was Matz in his Nazi uniform, a soldier instead of a husband, a brideguard instead of a bridegroom. No sooner had he returned to the front, the death photo came. It shows a poor soldier torn to shreds by a mine. The death photo is hand-sized: in the middle of a black field a little gray heap of human remains can be seen resting on a white cloth. Against the black, field the white cloth looks as small as a children's handkerchief, a white square with a strange design painted in the middle. For my grandmother this photo was a combination, too: on the white handkerchief was a dead Nazi, in her memory was a living son. My grandmother kept this double picture inside her prayer book for all her years. She prayed every day, and her prayers almost certainly had double meanings as well. Acknowledging the break from beloved son to fanatic Nazi, they probably beseeched God to perform the balancing act of loving the son and forgiving the Nazi.

My grandfather had been a soldier in the First World War. He knew what he was talking about when he said, often and embittered, in reference to his son Matz: When the flags start to flutter, common sense slides right into the trumpet. This warning also applied to the following dictatorship, which I experienced. Every day you could see the common sense of the profiteers, both big and little, sliding right into the trumpet. The trumpet I decided not to blow.

As I child, however, I did have to learn to play the accordion—against my will. Because at home we had the red accordion that had belonged to the dead soldier Matz. The straps were much too long for me. To keep them from slipping off my shoulders, the accordion teacher tied them together on my back with a handkerchief.

Can we say that it is precisely the smallest objects—be they trumpets, accordions, or handkerchiefs—which connect the most disparate things in life? That the objects are in orbit and that their deviations reveal a pattern of repetition—a vicious circle, or what we call in German a devil's circle. We can believe this, but not say it. Still, what can't be said can be written. Because writing is a silent act, a labor from the head to the hand. The mouth is skipped over. I talked a great deal during the dictatorship, mostly because I decided not to blow the trumpet. Usually my talking led to excruciating consequences. But the writing began in silence, there on the stairs, where I had to come to terms with more than could be said. What was happening could no longer be expressed in speech. At most the external accompaniments, but not the totality of the events themselves. That I could only spell out in my head, voicelessly, within the vicious circle of the words during the act of writing. I reacted to the deathly fear with a thirst for life. A hunger for words. Nothing but the whirl of words could grasp my condition. It spelled out what the mouth could not pronounce. I chased after the events, caught up in the words and their devilish circling, until something emerged I had never known before. Parallel to the reality, the pantomime of words stepped into action, without respect for any real dimensions, shrinking what was most important and stretching the minor matters. As it rushes madly ahead, this vicious circle of words imposes a kind of cursed logic on what has been lived. Their pantomime is ruthless and restive, always craving more but instantly jaded. The subject of dictatorship is necessarily present, because nothing can ever again be a matter of course once we have been robbed of nearly all ability to take anything for granted. The subject is there implicitly, but the words are what take possession of me. They coax the subject anywhere they want. Nothing makes sense anymore and everything is true.

When I was a staircase wit, I was as lonely as I had been as a child tending the cows in the river valley. I ate leaves and flowers so I would belong to them, because they knew how to live life and I didn't. I spoke to them by name: milk thistle was supposed to mean the prickly plant with milk in its stalk. But the plant didn't listen to the name milk thistle. So I tried inventing names with neither milk nor thistle: THORNRIB, NEEDLENECK. These made-up names uncovered a gap between the plant and me, and the gap opened up into an abyss: the disgrace of talking to myself and not to the plant. But the disgrace was good for me. I looked after the cows and the sound of the words looked after me. I felt:

Every word in your face,

Knows something of the vicious circle

But doesn't say it

The sound of the words knows that it has no choice but to beguile, because objects deceive with their materials, and feelings mislead with their gestures. The sound of the words, along with the truth this sound invents, resides at the interface, where the deceit of the materials and that of the gestures come together. In writing, it is not a matter of trusting, but rather of the honesty of the deceit.

Back then in the factory, when I was a staircase wit and the handkerchief was my office, I also looked up the beautiful word TREPPENZINS or ASCENDING INTEREST RATE, when the interest rate for a loan ascends as if climbing a stair. (In German this is called “Stair Interest.”) These ascending rates are costs for one person and income for another. In writing they become both, the deeper I delve into the text. The more that which is written takes from me, the more it shows what was missing from the experience that was lived. Only the words make this discovery, because they didn't know it earlier. And where they catch the lived experience by surprise is where they reflect it best. In the end they become so compelling that the lived experience must cling to them in order not to fall apart.

It seems to me that the objects don't know their material, the gestures don't know their feelings, and the words don't know the mouth that speaks them. But to be certain of our own existence, we need the objects, the gestures, and the words. After all, the more words we are allowed to take, the freer we become. If our mouth is banned, then we attempt to assert ourselves through gestures, even objects. They are more difficult to interpret, and take time before they arouse suspicion. They can help us turn humiliation into a type of dignity that takes time to arouse suspicion.

Early one morning, shortly before I emigrated from Romania, a village policeman came for my mother. She was already at the gate, when it occurred to her: DO YOU HAVE A HANDKERCHIEF. She didn't. Even though the policeman was impatient, she went back inside to get a handkerchief. At the station the policeman flew into a rage. My mother's Romanian was too limited to understand his screaming. So he left the office and bolted the door from the outside. My mother sat there locked up the whole day. The first hours she sat on his desk and cried. Then she paced up and down and began using the handkerchief that was wet with her tears to dust the furniture. After that she took the water bucket out of the corner and the towel off the hook on the wall and mopped the floor. I was horrified when she told me. How can you clean the office for him like that I asked. She said, without embarrassment: I was looking for some work to pass the time. And the office was so dirty. Good thing I took one of the large men's handkerchiefs with me.

Only then did I understand that through this additional, but voluntary humiliation, she had created some dignity for herself in her detention. I tried to find the words for it in a collage:

I thought about the sturdy rose in my heart

about the useless soul like a sieve

but the keeper asked:

who will gain the upper hand

I said: saving the skin

he shouted: the skin is

nothing but a scrap of insulted batiste

with no common sense

I wish I could utter a sentence for all those whom dictatorships deprive of dignity every day, up to and including the present—a sentence, perhaps, containing the word handkerchief. Or else the question: DO YOU HAVE A HANDKERCHIEF?

Can it be that the question about the handkerchief was never about the handkerchief at all, but rather about the acute solitude of a human being?

Translated by Philip Boehm”

Alegeri 2009

2009-11-23T06:24:00.000-05:00

Singura sectie de votare din Viena este la Institutul Cultural Roman. Ajungem acolo pe la pranz. Coada mare pana la iesirea din cladire. Ne asezam in liniste.

Imediat apare o doamna foarte (dar foarte) agitata. Nu poate sta, trebuie sa ajunga undeva. Este si foarte informata:

"Asta nu e nimic! Sa vedeti ce e in tara: sute de oameni. Asta e semn clar ca oamenii vor schimbarea."

Doamna ridica din ce in ce mai mult tonul. Se baga in fata si incearca sa se certe cu agentul de ordine. Incepe sa urle si sa injure. Multe cuvinte cu "p". E cu noi si un prieten american, ma bucur ca nu intelege exact toate cuvintele. Se sesizeaza un domn cu palarie, incearca sa o tempereze, nu reuseste. Incepe cearta. Problema e ca noi suntem exact intre cei doi. Domnul e identificat cu "sistemul", iar doamna e "rebela".

"Nu ne mai puteti pune pumnul in gura, GATA, spun ce vreau eu, de asta a fost revolutie."

Circul continua. Pana la urma doamna face asa un scandal, incat un membru al comisiei o lasa sa intre in fata.

La iesire, un tanar ii spune:

"Sa va fie rusine!".

Raspuns firesc:

"De ce?"

Completam doua formulare, dupa ce gasim cu greu un pix. Din nou la coada. Atmosfera e din ce in ce mai incinsa. O alta doamna din spate ma intreaba fara nici o introducere:

"Ati auzit de Antonescu?"

"Ce anume?"

"Pai toata Romania stie, nu va uitati la televizor, nu? Si-a abandonat sotia in spital {... va inchipuiti continuarea, prefer sa nu o redau in detaliu}. Pai... cum poate el sa aiba grija de o tara, daca nu a avut grija de sotia lui?"

"De unde stiti?"

"Cum de unde stiu? A spus-o domnul Basescu la Cluj."

Au trecut mai mult de 2 ore. Urmeaza sa intru in sala. O doamna foarte in varsta ii roaga pe membrii comisiei sa fie lasata in cabina cu prietena ei, pentru ca nu vede. Un distins membru al comisiei cu ceafa groasa si lant de aur la gat, se rasteste la ea:

"Nu se poate, doamna, nu se poate. Pai ce e asta?"

"Domnule, eu nu vad"

"Daca nu vedeti, nu votati.'

"Atunci ma duc acasa, nu mai votez."

Eu totusi am votat. Dar nu mi s-a pus nici o stampila sau un autocolant pe pasaport.

Retoric sau nu, ma intreb... de ce sa mai merg la vot peste doua saptamani?

Take Me Away

2009-11-19T13:57:00.006-05:00

Natasha Bedingfield - Pocketful of sunshine
Asculta mai multe audio Muzica

28

2009-11-02T16:22:00.006-05:00

A few years ago I was teaching philosophy in one of the high schools of Bucharest. I remember it well: it was a lesson on happiness. I was telling them about hedonism, about utilitarianism and then about the closing phrase of one book by Camus: "We have to imagine Sisyphus happy." And suddenly, one of the boys in the class interrupted me unexpectedly, looked into my eyes and asked: "When was the last time you were happy?" Thinking of that question now, random things come to mind, flashes of light and dark…

I like burned toasted bread. I hate fighting. I have tickles. I am afraid of frogs. Nina Ricci's perfume Premier Jour makes me joyful. I was four years old when I asked my grandmother what is the difference between the United States and the United Nations. I cannot swim, skate, ski or sing. I love horses and I would like to learn once how to ride one. I want to visit the underground galleries of Napoli and the palace of Alhambra. In 2003 I made a trip from France to Italy, changing 12 trains in 26 hours. I am always cold. I was never more proud than at my brother's first performance on stage. I tend to see things in black and white, to want all or nothing, and I lost many good chances in life because of this. I think what is hidden is more interesting than what is obvious. I lived in 5 different countries. I joined the Democratic Party in my hometown when I was 14. In my childhood, I used to cry when the bad character in the fairytales was punished or killed. I never drank a beer. I would have loved to be 3 centimeters taller. I like to fight with words. I can tell when a soccer player is in offside. When I left Trieste and 20 people were crying at the train station after me, I felt loved. Dark chocolate is my absolute favorite. I started a diary when I was 12 and I stopped writing in it when I was 24, in my second semester in Budapest. I have a sign on my forehead because my brother broke a mug into my head. I don't judge people based on their relatives. I always wanted to be the first in school, until I realized this does not make me happier. Last weekend, I visited Salzburg and it was one of the most beautiful places I have seen in a long while.

I like to dance and to spoil the people I love.

Sonnet 142

2009-10-21T17:12:00.009-04:00

Love is My Sin
Sonnet 142
by William Shakespeare
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving,
O, but with mine, compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving,
Or if it do, not from those lips of thine
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robbed others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov'st those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee.
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied!

How Proust Can Change Your Life

2009-10-16T05:11:00.008-04:00

"It might be a Proustian slogan: "N' allez pas trop vite!"

And an advantage of not going by too fast, is that the world has a better chance of becoming more interesting in the process."

On "Romantic Pessimism", "In Search of Lost Time" and many others .

Fanfare Concert at Hofburg

2009-10-04T12:02:00.000-04:00

Lucuri Simple

2009-09-22T14:25:00.002-04:00

Trenul ne-a adus in mare viteza (asa cum ii spune si numele) de la Paris si s-a oprit in micul orasel breton odata cu noaptea. Abia asteptam. Am intrat cu totii in casa pe varfuri sa nu o trezim pe cea mica. Doar ca, foarte curand, am auzit pasi grabiti grabiti pe scari si o fetitza dragalasa s-a ivit de dupa balustrada.

"Ce qui?"

Si deodata... o revarsare de bucurie fara seaman. Numele surorii mai mari se auzea de peste tot. Imbratisari, rasete, sarutari, euforie. Nu se mai vazusera de o luna. "On va danser! On va danser!" O bucurie fara margini, ochi ce sclipeau de incantare, maini ce se jucau fara oprire. Sarituri, tipete, piruete, mangaieri. Priviri ce se nu se mai deslipeau.

A fost cel mai frumos moment al vacantei ce a trecut. Mi-a adus aminte de cat de adevarate si de simple sunt bucuriile copilariei. Si de cat de mare nevoie avem de ele.

Les Valses De Vienne

2009-09-20T19:17:00.006-04:00

Room with a View

2009-09-18T15:55:00.012-04:00

¨The view from a balcony or a terrace that overlooks a port... That I can't change with anything in this world.¨

Not long ago, I was thinking of these words, as the morning sun was slowly revealing a petit port breton. À marée basse. Low tide. The quick and interesting change of the sea level brought to the landscape a unique dynamic. After all, we were not far from the famous Mont Saint-Michel, where Victor Hugo described the tides changing as "as swiftly as a galloping horse".

Our home was an aristocratic residence built at the end of the nineteenth century and surrounded by a walled garden. The room overlooked the small port of Portsall with views of the ocean beyond. Small secluded beaches were waiting for us...on the "Coast of Legends" by the Sea of Iroise.

Vacation aftermath: I want to go back.

Piano and Rain

2009-08-23T18:02:00.012-04:00

Mölkerbastei is an unexpected hillock in the vicinity of Vienna's famous university in the 1st district. It is the kind of place that you can miss if you stick too closely to your map or that you discover accidentely while your wander freely, searching for the famous landmarks of the Inner City. And like many other little known places in this city, Mölkerbastei is the nicest surprise. Here you find the Dreimäderlhaus that inspired Franz Schubert to write the operetta with the same name, translated as House of the Three Girls and adapted as Blossom Time or Lilac Time. And a little further up the hill, at Mölkerbastei 8, the apartment where Ludwig van Beethoven composed his Fidelio.

At the Mölkerbastei, I witnessed last Saturday this simple nice scene. A piano exercise in the rain.

Capul Retezat

2009-08-18T17:32:00.004-04:00

“Capul Retezat” de Iris Murdoch este una din descoperirile placute ale acestei veri, o lectura ce m-a purtat prin semne de intrebare pe care le credeam uitate. Si clasate.

"-Dragostea ta pentru mine, rosti ea, nu tine de lumea reala. E dragoste, desigur, nu neg. Dar nu toate iubirile au un fagas pe care sa inainteze, o cale -fie ea usoara sau grea- si aceasta iubire nu are nici un fel de fagas…Eu sunt un cap retezat din categoria celor pe care le foloseau triburile primitive si vechii alchimisti dupa ce le ungeau cu uleiuri si le puneau pe limba o bucata de aur ca sa le faca sa rosteasca profetii. Si cine stie daca nu cumva, stand prea mult in compania unui cap retezat, acestia nu ajungeau sa capete o stranie putere de cunostere. Pentru o asemenea cunoastere se platea scump. Dar toate acestea se gasesc undeva foarte departe de iubire si de viata normala. Ca oameni adevarati, noi nu existam unul pentru celalalt.

-Si, de fapt, ce face o iubire care nu are fagas?

-Se transforma in altceva, ceva greu sau ascutit pe care il porti in interiorul tau si il infasori in insasi substanta fiiintei tale pana ce inceteaza sa mai doara. Dar asta e treaba ta. "

Just Colour

2009-08-17T15:58:00.002-04:00

Just Colour from Jesper Kirkeby Brevik on Vimeo.

by Jesper Kirkeby Brevik

Some of My Firsts

2009-08-12T17:26:00.008-04:00

Miezul noptiii. Sunt prinsa la birou de o furtuna ce nu se mai opreste, este asadar un moment foarte bun pentru o “leapsa” de la Chris.

Care a fost primul/prima:

Masina pe care am condus-o… O Dacie galbena si 1300 de la scoala de soferi. Nu stiu nici pana in ziua de azi ce ar fi trebuit sa ii fac schimbatorului de viteze sa ma duca intr-a patra. Ceva cu un Z sau un W. Plus trage, impinge, trage, ridica si apasa. Cert este ca am luat permisul pe strada cu cele mai multe gropi din oras si nu a fost cazul sa merg cu mai mult de 20 de km la ora. Norocul incepatorului.

Calatorie in perimetrul tarii… Evident la bunici, la Comanesti, in judetul Suceava (nu Bacau). ;-) A urmat o calatorie mai palpitanta la Sinaia, la o vila frumoasa pe strada Schiorilor, unde am revenit apoi in multe vacante.

Calatorie în afara ţării… In Polonia, in 1991, cu tata. Am vizitat Kracovia si alte orase din sud si am ramas foarte impresionata. La intoarcerea acasa am facut senzatie cu acadelele ce aveau guma de mestescat in mijloc si cu penarul in forma de creion. Pe langa asta povesteam tuturor ca polonezii sunt “cu cel putin 10 ani inaintea nostra”, constatare care suna poate un pic pretentios venind de la un copil, dar nu era departe de adevar. La vizitele ulterioare in Polonia, am constatat ca decalajul acela a crescut si ca nu mai poate fi recuperat. Tot din excursia aceea, imi aduca aminte de o discutie si o imagine ce acum par desuete. La noi, pe atunci, pamantul nu era inca restituit proprietarilor si cand mergeam la bunici eram obisnuita sa vad dealuri intinse monocolore, semanate uniform cu aceeasi cultura. Si deodata, abia intrati in Polonia ne apare in fata un deal inalt impartit in fasii diferit colorate ce il traversau in toate directiile. L-am rugat pe tata sa opreasca sa imi explice cum e posibil asa ceva. Cred ca aceea a fost prima lectie despre proprietatea privata.

Amintire… O camera foarte mare, goala. In primul an am locuit intr-o casa dintr-un cartier de la periferia orasului si ne-am mutat apoi in centru, intr-un apartament la bloc. Prima amintire e camera mea goala, ramasa fara mobila. Ai mei mi-au povestit ca am plans atat de mult atunci, incat aproape i-am facut sa se razgandeasca in privinta mutatului.

Animal de casa… Am mai povestit de el. Nananu. A fost si primul si singurul pana acum.

Indragosteala… "Complexa si cu multe aspecte". A durat din clasa intai pana printr-a sasea. Ramane unul din acele episoade pentru care nu am nici o explicatie. Astazi suntem prieteni pe Facebook.

Descoperire… Cu fratele meu, am descoperit ca, dupa baie, pielea de pe “buricele” degetelor devine cumva creponata. Ne amuza foarte tare treaba asta si ne placea sa repatam: “Cine ne-a stricat manutzele?”

Job… In ultimii ani de liceu, am coloborat la o emisiune saptamanala a unui post de radio. Tineremura. Radio Top’91. Era o emisiune despre viata liceelor din Suceava si eu eram corespondenta de la liceul meu. Care evident era “cel mai… si cel mai…” Am invatat atunci cate ceva despre munca in radio si am ramas cu un mare respect pentru cei ce fac asta. Daca vocea m-ar fi ajutat, mi-ar fi placut mult sa continui in directia asta.

Primul meu telefon mobil… Cei apropiati stiu ca nu deosebesc intre ele marcile si modelele de telefoane mobile si cele de masini. 2 accesorii pentru care nu pot face nici o pasiune. Totusi, imi amintesc vag ca primul telefon mobil a fost un Alcatel, model caramida.

Idol… Nu stiu daca idol e cel mai bun termen, dar cred ca asa il descriam in oracolele vremii. Luke Perry, aka Dylan McKay din Beverly Hills, 90210. Mare pasiune mare. In camera mea, aveam (peste tapet) un afis cu el in marime naturala si multe abtibilduri colorate cu scene din film. Am citit toate cartile publicate atunci cu transcriptul (stenogramele) episoadelor. Am vazut toate seriile de mai multe ori pe TVR, ProTv, pe italieni, spanioli si francezi. M-am oprit cand mi-am dat seama ca inteleg replicile desi acum ma uitam pe nemti… si eu nu vorbesc germana. Inca imi mai amintesc evident multe citate, dintre care de mare exceptie ramane: “I'm mad, bad and dangerous to know”. Pe Luke Perry, nu l-am mai putut urmari apoi in nici un alt rol.

Creatie… Strans legat de al saselea punct din aceasta enumerare, am scris cateva capitole dintr-un roman “foarte” autobigrafic. Eram printr-a saptea, amintirile erau proaspete. Sincer, de mult ma gandeam sa il caut in podul bunicilor si sa vad daca as mai putea resuscita cate ceva.

…

As vrea sa dau leapsa mai departe, doar ca aproape toate blogurile pe care le urmaresc sunt bloguri serioase, de analiza politica. Asa ca poate o astfel de evocare nu ar fi cea mai nimerita. Incerc totusi cu Simona, Codrin si Crina.

La sfarsit cateva statistici. ;-) Mi-a placut mult leapsa asta si am mers cu rabdare pe firul ei. Ocazie cu care pot sa va dezvalui ca aproape toata lumea “a inceput” cu o Dacie 1300. A MUST HAVE. Si mai interesant poate e ca foarte multe din primele calatoriile in tara au fost la… Eforie. Sud sau Nord nu mai conteaza, e clar ca acolo era destinatia de vara cea mai trendy. Ma gandesc deci ca multi din blogerii de success de azi s-au jucat poate odata impreuna cu lopatzelele acelea de plastic inflexibil pe nisip la Eforie…

Simona Maierean

2009-07-30T16:22:00.007-04:00

O poveste de succes care a inceput intr-un sat indepartat din Bucovina si a ajuns pe primele pagini ale tuturor ziarelor de la Bucuresti. Un om exceptional pe care, fie de aproape, fie de departe, nu poti decat sa il admiri. Un model de seriozitate, consecventa si curaj, intr-o lume in care avem atat de mult nevoie de astfel de example. Fata ce e rescris istoria aviatiei romanesti. Cu modestie si profesionalism.

Fifty People. One question.

2009-07-27T17:22:00.005-04:00

Thanks to Crina, I discovered this thought-provoking video and the simple (yet great) idea behind it. One unexpected question: "Where would I wish to wake up tomorrow?". Fifty answers. People leaving behind their worries and speaking simply to the camera. Smiling and imagining that mornings can get better.

In Brooklyn, NY

I would like to wake up in the last place I was happy.

Vienna: Little Things That Make a Big Difference

2009-07-23T17:27:00.003-04:00

Since yesterday, I am a happy legal resident of the Vienna's 9th district...Few impressions after the first days:

Bookstores: Quit and chic small shops that I discovered while wandering on the narrow streets surrounding Stephansplatz. A must-see.
Public Transport: Everything is very well connected. The metro, the trams and the buses have a clear schedule that is indeed respected. So far, I didn't even see a one minute delay. In case public transport is not aristocratic enough for you, there is plenty of choice (as you can see in the image below).
Old buildings: Every evening while returning home, I am welcomed, in the big hallway at the entrance of my building, by the nicest cool breeze. No matter how hot is outside (today for instance 38C), the old solid walls keep the air cool.
History: To quote a famous saying: “The streets of Vienna are paved with culture, the streets of other cities are paved with asphalt..." Karl Kraus
Sweets: For everyone who craves for sweets (and has no history of diabetis in the family) Vienna is close to heaven. From the famous Mozart chocolates, to the Sachertorte and Apfelstrudel everything is incredibly gratifying.
Elegance: No better feeling than to start your working day by stepping on a red carpet. A sense of aristocratic elegance that I have not seen elsewhere. ;-)

The list will be of course continued...

Modern Choice

2009-07-23T17:25:00.002-04:00

Ziua aceea de mai

2009-07-21T14:00:00.027-04:00

Ziua aceea de mai. Aproape de final. Time to change the city. Vant. Verde. Pudra si parfum. Se opreste. Trage aer in piept. E tarziu si abia acum, abia acum... S-a ratacit. Parca nu ii vine sa creada. Se mai uita o data. Pe furish. Printre glume si fum. Fumuri. Dor. De cineva pe care l-a cunoscut acum cateva minute? Privirea joaca. Feste. Un fluture. O carte de vizita. Mai aproape. Nimic nu e simplu, mai ales ceea ce pare la inceput asa. Oare? Prea multe intrebari. Sa uitam de asta. Sa facem orice altceva. Imposibil. Ritmuri rock. Demult. Ce vremuri. Ironic, ironic e un cuvant bun. Tarziu, tarziu e un alt cuvant bun. Sau Praga? Teorie. Ca intodeauna, prea multa teorie. Negocieri. O calatorie, inainte de nunta. Duminica totul e slow. O fi de la Pinot Noir. Again? O aula festiva. Sute de studenti. E deja clar. E deja tarziu. Bucurie si nerabdare. Insouciance. ABC? Sau era ABD? Poate. Maybe. Un pic de filosofie. Un pic de fericire. The best way to be happy. Senin. Ploaie. Parca aveau si o umbrela. Parca, dar nu ajuta. In jur, oameni ce alearga. Uzi pana la piele. Radiatoare. Proteste. Telefonul e ud. Apa, ceai si vin. Ii e drag. De tine. Struguri. Ce-ar fi sa nu se mai uite la ceas? O secunda de liniste. Cartierul e elegant. Oamenii lipsesc. Cookies, Pepsi. Inghetata, capuccino. Viena, New York, Trieste, Ierusalim. About cities far away from home. O intrebare. Pe mai tarziu. S-au ratacit putin. Mai sunt 2 zile pana miercuri. 5 zile pana vineri. Negru. Alb. Negru. Iti sta mai bine in alb. Palma ei. In palma lui. Gandul ei. In gandul lui. Zambete. Plangi? Nu plang. Vorbe ce repeta ca un ecou intrebari nerostite. Explozie. Implozie. Before sunset. 1% surprins. Planul e cool. Doamne, nu are nici un plan. Long term. Long distance. Punct. Si de la capat.

Funny Line

2009-07-20T17:28:00.008-04:00

From Frost/Nixon:

"Caroline: Well, I've never been to Vienna...

David: Ohh, you'd like it... it's like Paris... without the French."

I really like the French, but this was too funny to let it go unmentioned.

Electrical Storm

2009-07-15T15:26:00.004-04:00

A shuffled playlist on my I-pod brought me today this song. Unexpected beautiful coincidence. Seven years ago, I was walking in the same Viennese neighborhood, on the same old streets and this song was the soundtrack of the trip.

It is late evening now in my stylish office facing Danube. An electrical storm started... just in time to clean the city after a torrid mid-summer day. And the coincidences don't stop here...

First Days in Vienna

2009-07-13T16:24:00.005-04:00

Viena primelor zile este o regasire cat se poate de placuta. Au trecut mai bine de 15 ani de la prima vizita aici, cand am descoperit orasul cu ochii copilului ce ajungea pentru prima oara in Europa de Vest. Astazi, urcand spre Gloriette, mi-am adus aminte ca de acolo a facut tata primele fotografii folosind functia "panoramic" a aparatului si ca apoi nu le-a putut-o developa decat intr-un studio special. A fost o vara torida, ca aceasta, ultima vara cand am fost (putin) mai inalta decat fratele meu.

Acum obiectivele turistice importante sunt toate in reconstructie, deci panorama fara cusur de altadata e alterata de macarale imense ce taie Viena in toate directiile. Doar ca, in ciuda constructiilor si a zgomotului ce le inconjoara, Viena imi pare totusi un oras relaxat. Un oras in care totul respecta un orar incredibil de fix si in care nici daca vrei nu poti sa intarzii...

Un milione di scale

2009-07-08T08:22:00.006-04:00

One late afternoon at home, while looking through my old things, I have found a forgotten memory from Trieste. A hard, dark-green cardboard on which I had written with a silver pencil a poem by Eugenio Montale. Simple and beautiful.

"Ho sceso, dandoti il braccio, almeno un milione di scale

e ora che non ci sei è il vuoto ad ogni gradino.

Anche così è stato breve il nostro lungo viaggio.

Il mio dura tuttora, né più mi occorrono

le coincidenze, le prenotazioni,

le trappole, gli scorni di chi crede

che la realtà sia quella che si vede.

Ho sceso milioni di scale dandoti il braccio

non già perché con quatttr'occhi forse si vede di più.

Con te le ho scese perché sapevo che di noi due

le sole vere pupille, sebbene tanto offuscate,

erano le tue."