Still the mere thought of the arrival of spring in Romania fills me with so much bliss and misery that neither crying or laughing is sufficient in expressing it. It’s such a great time of the year, it smells of sun dried mud and the air is finally free from the smoke and the kids change straight from winter boots to flip flop. All the old babas are popping up on the street corners like snow drops after a persisting winter. The lalleles and street dogs steal the best sun spots, the oldies the best benches and there is a massive black market of martisor, little brooches you give to your teachers and parents and friends and put on your collar to celebrate the springs arrival. The local market places get their clothes and shoes back on the tarp along the riverbank, you can buy little bukettes of flowers for 2 lei and right now I just can’t swallow the concept of living just one life, just blankly want to refuse the limitation.
Sometimes I wonder if that is why we have stories, to be able to guest play in someone else’s life instead of just grieving the loss of it. Because I want to live them all, I want to live the village life on the Romanian countryside, the New York publisher who wears high heels and do manicure in the lunch break, the nature photographer, the ghetto teenager, the old sailor with the arms full of stories and naked ladies. And I want them to live my life too. So that maybe, one day, we’d all understand one another.
But this week I decided to do the next best thing to making up stories; book a plane ticket to the very place I made up stories about, this little village in Romania. And I dare you life on the concept of just living one life. Wiz air and God, be with me, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, blast off!
See you around!