I Got It From My Momma

My sense of humor, that weird one, plus the irony, which is fully understood by 10% of the people, causing the rest of 90% to think that I am completely insane. Or weird, or stupid, it depends. The lexicon jokes and the affinity for puns, that make me laugh the hardest, and also work charms for my sister.

My passion for cooking and baking, the fact that I can actually make edible dishes and my hating to follow recipes and go instead for a twist or an extra teaspoon of sugar or spice.

My inclination towards all kind of arts, my being able to sing without punishing my fellows (either that or all my friends are masochist or plainly deaf), to dance, to draw respectably, to paint on all kind of surfaces, to write (I hope) acceptably, to cut and crop and sew.

My long-shaped nails, brown eyes and weird eyebrows that grow all over my eye lids except the right place. Also my thin lips that would supposedly make me look like a mean person at times.

My analytic thinking and attention to detail, my preference for calculus and exact sciences, and what I like to think is a sharp mind.

Always keeping an optimistic appearance and a positive smile in front of the worst.

My being, wishfully thinking at least, a person with enough common sense and character.

But also my paranoid strikes and my tendency to be (more than) slightly gossipy and judgmental.

My overdramatic and oversensitive character, my unfortunately worrying for anything one can possibly worry about.

The bad habit of often comparing myself to other people and shadowing whatever satisfaction instead of just being content.

My growing overly attached or dependent to the utmost wrong persons.

That weird combination of always being displeased with my own self but still remain borderline arrogant.

If there's thanks to be thanked or blames to be blamed for most of what's fundamental(ly good or bad) about me and defining without my choice, they should go to my dear mom.

Smugness and insecurities altogether, it's clear as light and easy to outsource, I got'em from my momma.

Tons of Luggage with Baggage

It seems like it's a recurring theme these days, people are leaving a lot. Doesn't matter if they run from something really bad or towards something good indeed, there's some sort of escaping mood floating in the surrounding air, my surrounding air at least. I've started of course my own string of goodbyes, which despite my best of effort is turning out to be a hot mess. These days I'm doing the part I need to do at home, as in my hometown. Take one only, it needed to be fulfilled since it happens (as previously observed) that my departure somehow interstects some other farewells.One one side, bummer, it means that I do not get all the attention. On the other side though, this is far from the point of tonight's words of wisdom.

So today I hugged goodbye one of my most favorite kids in the world, who's leaving across the ocean tomorrow. While her motivation for leaving is still unclear to me and rather dubious, what else to do than keeping fingers crossed. Still far away from the point, but worth mentioning. Right to the point, in a couple hours I'll be sharing a tougher farewell, this time with my most favorite kid in the world, who's incidentally going in a two week's trip, to return only after my departure.

Since I'm known to have an affinity for packing and I'm rather talented to organizing many things in a limited luggage, I helped her pack. We do have in the end a perfectly put together trolley, despite of my rattled nerves. I could not help thinking though that I'll be preparing my own luggage in two weeks, and while I know exactly how that will work out, and I have it almost sorted out in my mind what stuff I'm gonna bring, and I'm prepared for the imminent frustrations, I still have no idea what I'm gonna do about my stupid hearty baggage. My tons of luggage with baggage.

I'm positive everyone has it, their kryptonite, their skeletons in the closet, those thoughts they cannot share with their closest, the fears or loathings. But this is just me with my own, which in such circumstances of extreme change cannot be ignored. Which I'm going to have to decide if I'm leaving behind pending and unsolved or carry with me around, in a courageous attempt to loosen the bulk. These tons of bitterness I cannot spit out, that keep me from moving forward despite the apparent progress. The strings attached that impair me from fullheartedly reaching out for something better. What about that? Will it fit in the stuffed 20 kilos carry-on I'm allowed to take, or in the entire plane, or my flat in Paris, or the entire world?

Some lack of coherence? That's right, goodbyes make me crazy.  

Addicted to a Certain Kind of Sadness

I'm in a strange love/hate relationship with Bucharest. Even though I conceded that I had a bad year, which was mainly because I forcedly returned here, I still love it and in a twisted way it has become my home. And now that I'm leaving for good in two weeks and I have just a few days to actually spend here, leaving my own and only notion of home behind, I feel a bit of bitterness and sorrow for abandoning my little cozy piece of sad heaven. I do realize though that it is for the better, that I am up to plenty of good ahead, I swear I'm excited through the roof, but still addicted to this special kind of sadness.

To make it easier, I keep in mind the (oh so many!) things I hate here, which make it impossible to turn Bucharest into a place worth loving. With no particular affinity on what I hate most, I loathe the stray dogs, the all-arounding needy homeless people, the people lacking common sense which are not at all rare, the overpriced, overrated and overcrowded pubs, the long dusty streets that lack garbage bins, the weird ratio of 3 cars per owner and all the attached discomfort, the scarce parking lots, the uncomfortable mosquitoes, the frustration of searching for a job in such a limited range of opportunities, the sometimes unbreathable air, the fact that I fear walking alone the streets at night, the sweaty cluster in all public transportation means, the way too hot summer days and way too snowy winter nights, the lack of logic and the abundance of kitsch at so many levels.

But there's some pretty great stuff, that makes it difficult to leave Bucharest, this time perhaps forever. I'm gonna miss the walks on streets with old houses, the gorgeous teashops with homemade cheese cakes, the late evenings with frappucinos at Starbucks, my friends that came from quieter and faraway places and brought cleaner and happier air with them making Bucharest worth loving, the occasional attention seeking cats around the block, our seriously flawed apartment which felt like home, the cheap books I would buy from Carturesti, the greatly talented doctors you'd still find in a messed up medical system, the quite fair number of malls and shopping facilities, the way we chose to live near parks and seldom stroll their holed alleys, the Turkish kebab places with kebabs better than in Turkey, the best Chinese restaurant I ever tried, the endless possibilities for nightlife, the cheap taxis and rents, the wonderfully bohemian people you'd still see on the streets. 

I'm leaving the Small Paris for its greater version. And while it pains me, I've learned and try to keep in mind that the mistreatings should not go unpunished, and though my love and my home, this dear city has also done a great job at steadily disappointing me. So there's gonna be some French rehab, and then whatever else comes next, to heal my addiction for all certain kinds of sadness. Bucharest, let you just be the first sick tenderness I'm crossing off my list for reasons of unworthiness. 

Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

I keep lingering over the gaudiest and most controversial sayings, in a strange way rooting for them, because I steadily proved to be a lab rat for the cliché sayings, that are searching to be impersonated, so I believe them to be true. It's usually the worst thing, when your experiences seem to perfectly fit the cheesiest phrases. But once in a while, the string of misfortunate apothegms plants a happy one. Fortunately now, after this string of smaller or bigger misfortunes, a happy cliché phrase is what's happening to me.

I had a bad year. I used to think it's just bad days, that it is not so awful after all, but now that all's about to change I realize I had a bad year. A little more than a year ago, I was telling a story about my experience in Oslo, I was resigned at the thought of returning home, but I kept telling myself that everything happens for a reason (booyah, another cliché phrase that pops my way).  I lived these 15 months with a constant feeling of frustration, not fully realizing that this was just a bad year and not actually knowing what I wanted to do about my unhappiness. As always, when people who give the slightest damn see you losing it, they try their best to drag you out of your misery. And guess what my dearests did, besides from the encouraging hugs and sweets and guilty glasses of wine (each with their own method and resources). They slowly bombed me with stereotype advice. Among which there was, 'don't worry, hun, good things come to those who wait'.

I found that preposterous, I laughed to myself and to their face, reckoning that obviously that was so stupid. Only now, after having beaten up the bad year, do I realize that if drifting away from the strict sense of this saying, it does gain some sense after all. I kept thinking that waiting refers to merely laying around, waiting for God or whoever to throw some magnificent happenings your way. My mind could only grasp the passive alternative of waiting, and I could not imagine how in any universe anyone with a trace of brain would think that is a solution. But then, or better said recently, I learned that there's also an active side to waiting, commonly known as patience. Thus I realized that good things do happen to those who wait, but not in vain and not for a miracle, but have the equanimity to rip the benefits of their own actions at the right time.

This being said, self-confidence boosted through the roof,  in less than a month I'm departing to Paris, to practice my French, to eat macaroons, to see the Eiffel Tower, to wear red lipstick in a French fashion, to test all the clichés, to live my dream and to try my limits. This time in a good way, doing what I like, learning a lot, hopefully for half of a good year. 

One can never be too happy though, full happiness is only for the weak. While on one side I'm joyfully learning that good things come to those who wait, on the other I'm learning the hard way that if you wait too long, it might be too late.

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