Thoughts, Travels, Pictures of 2019

I reckon this is just as good a year as any to close out a decade. A decade of us being together. A decade of fortune, loss, sickness, birth, happiness, and sadness, too. A decade of all the things human, fortunes we don’t dare talk about out loud for fear we might jinx ourselves, and a decade of learning so much about each other, our families, our worlds that sometimes it hurts. Mostly it hurts with pleasure.

This past year had everything. Love, hatred, bounty, loss, much of that, work changes. Heck, we even saw a ghost! It continued a streak of bad news started a few years ago, but God and life have also been merciful and giving, peppering our journey with friends, loving family, love, in general, good news here and there. And as always, it gave us travels. Many beautiful trails to pick from and journeys that we’ll cherish for a lifetime. 

From the bald peaks of The Rockies, through deserts and through the dark green Smokies all the way to the emerald Atlantic and beyond, we hiked, we listened to music, we met new people and tightened the bonds with old friends, we saw family and somewhere in there we found time for work, too … But as important as work might be, this is not what we’re taking with us to our deathbed. All the other stuff is what …

This is about remembering this old year… 

…. we started out the year learning about the passing of a dear aunt of mine. She lost her battle with some rotten form of leukemia because of a stupid cold. She was always a fighter and had such a spirit! The year continued with much loss of people – not close to me, but close to people I knew. Lots of sickness, too, from people close and far from us physically and otherwise … There is just so much pain in this world …

We also learned about my mom’s cancer coming back and we stood by her side, from far and close, with bated breath, through her chemo treatments which lasted most of the year. It was not easy, to say the very least. My sister and I went together for the first time in 10 years to see her, to touch her, to learn … As hard as this was, it was also good. For us. For mom. For taking it all in and building some perspective. But this was not till May-June, so I skip ahead...

Before then, we visited Richmond, VA, met family in Chesapeake, VA, we spent a weekend tasting good foods and bonding with old and new friends in Kinston, NC in early spring. There are so many corners of magic and wonder all around us, if you only open the door to let them peek in … 

Come April, we wandered about Charleston, SC. We stayed downtown and walked pretty much everywhere. We walked the lush grounds of the Magnolia Plantation and the marshes of Sullivans Island. We ate every seafood seen on this planet and came back full of Southern history and amazing pictures. April is just a perfect month for Charleston. 

We spent probably the coldest May on record while we explored New Mexico and Colorado. We visited Taos, NM, and Denver, Colorado Springs, and Breckenridge in Colorado. We tried to drive up Pike’s Peak in Colorado Springs, which was on my bucket list since I was a teenager back in Romania with no prospects of ever seeing it. Who would have expected a thick snow storm in mid-May?! That prevented us to go past the 10,000 ft mark. We got lost in the desert in Taos, NM amazed by art, old Native culture, delicious Southwestern cuisine, and even more art … If I were to pick one trip that we took this year to do it again soon, this would definitely be it. 

Back to my trip to Romania, my sister and I also saw The Pope come to our Romanian hometown while we were there … Now, that is not something we planned for, but more of being in the right place at the right time sort of luck … The skies opened up with glorious sunshine when he started speaking, after several days of gruesome rain and hail storms … Maybe a sign of hope for us all ... 

We spent a couple of weekends in the North Carolina mountains, around Blowing Rock, Grandfather Mountain, Boone, and Banner Elk. 

We spent the summer months taking in all the foods and events around our area – Durham, Raleigh, Chapel Hill, Pittsboro. There is just so much to see and do around here … Food halls, wine, beer, and even mead festivals, rooftop bars, lots of live music, small and big ticket concerts, lots of farms. Everything … If only we had all the time to do and see it all.. 

We camped on the shores of Smith Mountain Lake in VA and rounded up our winery visits for the year in that area, too, towards the end of summer. 

We visited Highlands, NC in early fall to see what the fuss was all about in that sweet mountain town. I swear there is not one issue of Our State magazine that doesn’t mention it. It’s like a fantasy village, complete with cobblestone streets and a trickling stream that runs through it. 

We walked the streets of Greensboro, NC for two days listening to the music of The Folk Festival and sampling the local food, and again bonding with old friends … Greensboro will forever feel like my one of many homes to me … I always love going back … 

We took in the history and charm of Atlanta in October, and learned many new things at the FH Summit down there. 

We closed out the year of travel in The Bahamas. We took home memories of learning about a new culture as well as the painful memory of having lost our dear kitty while stuck on a boat somewhere in The Bermuda Triangle … We came back home to rest our tired bones and mourn our sweet boy for a while … 

Most of us, close family and friends, are still here, on the right side of the dirt. And for that, and that alone, I am immensely grateful … The rest is the cherry on top.

We have built new friendships this year, and like always let old ones drift away, as life would naturally have it in its constant shifting … We are older and probably none-the-wiser, but happy we made it to almost the end of this year and decade now … I am wishing for us all to know more beauty and less pain in the new year. More acceptance and less fright. More understanding and less hatred … I wish this to us all close by and to everyone out there … 

Happy Old Year and Happy New One, too! May you always keep an open heart! 

Click the video to view our year in the rearview mirror. Many thanks to Emily Scott Robinson for the amazing background music. When all else hurts and fails, we are forever grateful for our mobility to take in the travelling mercies … 

My Lucky-Charm Cat

Gypsy: May, 2001 - November, 2019

This is the first blog I am writing in many, many years from my home, when I am not getting sidetracked by little fuzzy paws pulling at my sleeve as I type, asking me to stop and play with them; I am not getting pitter-patter feet running across my keyboard, nor kitty faces rubbing against my laptop lid, in a tireless effort to make it close. This is because for the first time in 21 years I am in my house, completely catless.

Our last kitty, Gypsy, went away to meet his two brothers over the rainbow bridge this past week. He was 9 days short of being exactly 18 and a half years. The pain of missing him is only surpassed by our regret of not being able to be there when he passed. Life wanted it other ways … But this is not about us … It’s really about him.

Gypsy  was an answer to a long, secret wish I had as a 20 some year old. Before I moved to the Bible-belt South, I never knew such hatred towards black cats. I was amazed every fall, around Halloween, how people found black cats mutilated and strangled, and drowned in bags in the river. Humanity, or lack thereof, made me sick. Although at the time I was a happy mommy of two gorgeous cats, I said to myself: “one day, I want to have a black cat! I want to love him and raise him and turn him into the most amazing, kind, gorgeous kitty so I can show all these freaks that black cats are awesome.” No sooner did I utter this wish than in two or three-week’s time, we started hearing this piercing meow under our house, coming from the crawlspace. We had a stray cat that usually came and went, and we were thinking, OK, maybe it’s in heat and she’ll stop once it’s all over. But the meow would not stop. A day became two. A night became three, and the meow continued.

One warm late May afternoon, I opened the door to the crawlspace to let the poor creature out, weary from several sleepless nights where it had kept me awake with the incessant meow-and-meow-and-meow. I was figuring it must be a huge kitty, probably hungry from days of being trapped and dying to get out. When I opened the door, the meow kept getting closer to me, so I knew the kitty found its way to the opening. Instead of a huge kitty, to match the loud meow, I saw this tiny fuzzball, easily under a pound, covered in cobwebs, one eye half closed, I thought, or just dirty with under-the-house muck, big blue eyes, and completely black walking towards me, slipping and sliding on the rotten beams we stored in the crawlspace at the time. His voice was piercing. I had never heard such a loud meow in any size of a cat, but especially in a cat small enough to fit my palm! Since the minute we made eye contact, he did not want to lose my sight! He had the most expressive face and just begged and begged for help and comfort.

I knew I had to keep him! I was absolutely smitten, and my prayer of an all-black cat was right then and there answered. I took him to the vet who thought I wanted to put him up for adoption, having just found him under the house. I was insulted. How can someone, anyone, put this kitty up for adoption?! Just look at him: eyes blue as the skies, hungry, lonely, skinny as a rail, tiny, lonely, and all he wants is some food and love. Who can put him back out there into the world with no one to his name?! He became mine, or rather I became his the first moment we locked eyes. I asked the vet to check him out, before I would bring him to my other cats, to ensure he is not carrying some odd disease. He was not. Other than being severely dehydrated and hungry, he was 100% healthy. The doctor called him “a woolly worm” and he said: “This cat has incredibly strong lungs, and that is a sure sign that he will have a long and healthy life.”

We named him Gypsy, as my mom who was then visiting suggested “kindly”. The name fit: he was independent, dark, stubborn as they come, and with no regard to anyone’s wishes but his own. He was then and he remained for the rest of his life, the baby. Me-me-me … all the way.

As a young cat, he got himself into all sorts of troubles. He chewed more wires than any other cat I had. He chewed my shoes like a dog. He was 100% nocturnal. When the sun would go down, that’s when he was wide awake and ready to play, bite your toes, lick your face, knock pictures off the walls in your bedroom, and pull your hair. He was relentless. No matter how much he got sprayed with water, he continued his shenanigans for years. He was fearless of getting in trouble. I always joked that he knew that if I saved his life, there is nothing that I could ever do to hurt him, so he was not really ever scared of any consequences. I think he was maybe 8 or 9 when I ever noticed any sign of him slowing down and maturing just a tad … He was always playful, curious and loud. With all that said, he was also the most gentle cat you ever met: he literally had no idea how to hurt anyone, but especially humans. He trusted humans more than any other cat I knew. He never bit or scratched maliciously. Ever. He was trusting and gentle.  

People will talk about cats that want to escape and want to be outside more than they want to be inside. The number one prerequisite for being my cat is that you are going to be a 100% inside cat! No arguments! I cannot risk them being eaten by some beast, or run over by cars. Gypsy never had any interest whatsoever to ever be outside. He was completely content in the house, always in the humans’ business, especially mine. He had a nervous breakdown when I was behind any closed door – he was my shadow, constantly. He wanted to be where I was and have me in his full sight. In his old days, he would pick the most strategic point in the room so he can watch me no matter where I was headed from just one spot. His big yellow eyes (they turned from blue to yellow when he matured) would follow me around like laser beams. He loved to nap with me, and sit with me as I typed on my laptop. He slept under my desk, when I worked … His eyes were intelligent and intent in everything that had to do with me. We had a bonding like I never had with any other being. This was our life for 18 years. We read together, napped together, put up the Christmas tree together, ate lunch at the kitchen island together …

Gypsy was the only one of our cats that traveled to Utah, and then made the trip back to the North Carolina woods where he was born. He came back across the country as a 16 and a half old cat, and he did superbly during that journey: sleeping all day in his carrier in the back seat of my Corolla, and sleeping at night in our camper, when we’d camp at KOAs across The Land. He never complained. He always felt safe with us, and I hope, always loved. He was.

In the two years that we have been back in NC, he has slowed down a lot. He has outlived all the cats and dogs in our families and extended network of friends. But, life took its toll and his kidney disease advanced, and he started crying incessantly again, just like when he was a kitten. His piercing meow could wake up the dead, really! You’d never know that a creature weighing only 7 pounds (or not even one when he was a kitten) could be so loud. But that voice is what saved his life.

His big voice, bright eyes, curious nature, soft as silk coat, beautiful, picture-perfect profile will stay with us forever … He was in truth my dreamed-about, picture-perfect black cat, just like I wished all those years ago. And he did show the world that a black cat can be gentle and kind and loving and sweet, as well as mischievous and naughty ... 

I am not sure how I can now move on without any kitties in the house. I really don’t know how to function with no bowls to clean, no stop in the litter aisle at the store, no special blankets around the house … no one to snuggle with when I nap in the afternoon, no purring as I fall asleep … Gypsy was my go-to kitty for all the naps I have had in the past 18 years. Fero almost never slept! And Little Kitty was way too independent to be anyone’s cat … But Gypsy was my mirror. My soul-mate, the answer to my prayer. Just like I wanted him before he ever happened under my house, I want him now, and will want him always …

Life, of course, is never endless … He was called to the other side to maybe make other souls as happy as he’s made us.

We’ll miss you more than you know, little guy. We’ll mourn and ache for you for a long, long time, and we pray that you’ll forgive us one day for not holding your paw when you crossed that bridge. We were, and I know you knew – but just not in person. Sleep well, and wander free – enchant other worlds as you so plentifully did ours.

With a bleeding, aching heart, your momma loves you, and Mr. Aa., too …

O Mama - O Minune ...

Ce poti face in viata fara … viata?! Unii oameni ne-au dat educatie, altii fericire, dar doar mama ne-a dat viata. Multi intram in lume fara prezenta tatalui, dar mama ne este mereu alaturi de la prima rasuflare.

Mama e singura care isi sacrifica propria viata timp de 9 luni ca noi sa existam. Azi, de ziua ei, as vrea sa stau un minut sa va povestesc despre ce femeie este mama mea si de ce mi-e la fel de importanta ca si in ziua in care m-a creat. Dar, ... ce pot spune oare despre ea, decat totul?! Nici nu stiu unde sa incep …

De cand ma stiu mama ne repeta ca ne-a dorit mai mult decat orice. A dorit sa fie o mama tanara si ne-a avut de la 22 de ani. Si azi, cand implineste 66, pentru mine ramane tot tanara. Si-a dorit mereu sa ne fie prietena, si asa o percep si azi. Mama mea nu a fost niciodata pentru mine o suveranitate, o forta disciplinara, cineva de care sa imi fie frica sa nu fac boacane, ci un egal. Mereu ne-a privit ca pe egalii ei si din asta am invatat multe, dar mai ales simt de responsabilitate si fermitatea cuvantului dat. Cuvant cinstit, onest si fara ocolisuri.

Petrecem, daca suntem norocosi, mai mult timp pe pamant ca adulti decat ca si copii; si faptul ca ea m-a tratat ca un adult de la inceput m-a ajutat sa fiu mai pregatita pentru viata.

Nu imi imaginez viata mea altfel, cu altfel de mama, decat cu cea pe care mi-a dat-o bunul Dumnezeu. Desi isi exprima dragostea fata de noi prin multe gesturi, poate nu e la fel de romantica, si dragastoasa ca alte mame. Mama mea e mai cerebrala si mai serioasa. Dar pe langa dragostea care la ea vine firesc, ne-a dat o temelie mult mai puternica si mai permanenta: un exemplu de tarie, putere, cinste si dreptate, si o independenta totala sa fim cine vrem.

Mereu am stiut ca ne va apara si ne va sustine pentru ca ne e cea mai mare fana in tot ce facem. Chiar daca nu e demostrativa, ochii ei frumosi, mari, albastri, sinceri, calmi ca un lac cristalin si netulburat in lumina verii, ne asigura ca ne sustine si ne indruma tacit. Modul ei de exprimare e tacut, modest, dar ferm si consecvent. Ca si mintea ei frumoasa, e lucida, si dragostea ei consta mai mult in fermitatea convingerilor si sinceritatea indrumarii decat in efluvii sentimentale …

Poate nu e o mama care ne-a tinut de mana la fiecare pas. Dar ne-a dat drumul in viata sa mergem pe picioarele noastre si sa ne gasim modul de a merge pe cont propriu. Nu ne-a tinut de mana, dar cand am pornit-o in viata si cand ne apuca frica pentru ca ne intalneam cu ceva de speriat, ne uitam mereu in urma, si ochii ei mari, plini de incredere in noi, ne vegheau si ne incurajau la fiecare pas! Privirea aceea incurajatoare si sprijinul stabil a fost mereu, pentru mine, un far calauzitor fara de care nu as fi putut inainta…

Si efluviile sunt multe – sub aparenta solemnitate, are un suflet tumultuos, plin de pasiune. Multe exemple de peste ani isi spun cuvantul aici: dragostea nemarginita pentru noi doua si pentru tata si in genere pentru familia din jurul ei; dragostea pentru soare, mare, muzica buna, dans; dragostea pentru flori, mai cu seama lacramioare si crizanteme; dragostea pentru copiii care o fac sa zambeasca; dragostea pentru experiente noi, ca mancaruri noi cand calatoreste; curiozitatea pentru tot ce e “nou”; lipsa de frica pentru tot ce este misterios si unic: mi-aduc aminte ca am mers cu ea la o gradina zoologica acuma vreo 15 ani, poate mai bine si a lasat un dresor de serpi sa ii agate un sarpe viu de gat. Zambind, fara sa clipeasca si plina de viata mi-a spus sa ma grabesc sa fac o poza, cu aceeasi prezenta de spirit si calm ca in oricare alt minut. 

Pasiunea ei se arata si in fapte care spun mult mai mult decat vorbele. Sfaturile sale sunt mereu masurate cu bun simt si o minte lucida si fara subiectivitate. Gesturile ei sunt discrete dar inechivoce.

E inzestrata cu un perfectionism singular, in care tot ce isi propune devine standard de calitate. A avut o cariera de invidiat; mi-aduc aminte ca si cand era aproape de pensionare mai mergea inca la cursuri de specializare sa invete tehnologii noi, ca sa poata instala aparate performante la laboratorul spitalului unde lucra de 30+ de ani. Mereu in cautarea a ceea ce e mai bun, pentru a face viata altora mai usoara. Multi ani a facut goblene pe care nu le distingi de picturi; rabdarea si ochiul inclinat pentru orice detaliu au ajutat-o sa produca cred ca aproape de 100 de tablouri care vor clati retina multor generatii de acum inainte. Acestea sunt doar doua exemple dar as putea da inca multe altele in care tot ce isi propune sa faca devine un standard de perfectiune…

Am invatat atat de multe de la ea, ca nu ma pot limita doar la cateva exemple: mi-ar trebui o carte sa scriu totul despre ea, si poate cartea va veni intr-o buna zi. Dar daca ar trebui sa ma limitez doar la un exemplu pentru care e deosebita, as spune ca este cea mai puternica fiinta din cate am cunoscut vreodata. 

Dificultatile din viata ei au fost multe, si au venit nu numai de la oamenii de care a fost inconjurata, dar si de la accidente si boli pe care nu le-a putut preveni. Ea m-a invatat sa imi placa cicatricile pentru ca mereu ele sunt o marturie clara a maturitatii, intelepciunii si vitejiei noastre. Cicatricile sale sunt multe si sunt vizibile, iar daca o stii intim sunt si invizibile - cele pe care le poarta doar in suflet. Prin toate luptele pe care le-a dat a iesit mereu victorioasa, cu gropite in obraz, si ochi senini, mai puternica, mai tare, mai pregatita pentru urmatorul val! Incerc in fiecare zi sa ma hranesc din exemplul ei si sa intampin fiecare obstacol cu taria si seninatatea ei … 

Oricat de mult am incerca sa fim altfel, cred ca in cele din urma devenim mamele noastre. Daca as deveni macar jumate din mama mea, as spune ca am avut o viata implinita.

Acum, cand zilele sunt uneori mai intunecate, dar mai ales azi in zi de celebrare a vietii tale implinite, tot ce imi doresc este sa te imbratisez, sa iti spun ca te iubesc si ca totul va fi bine, pana la urma. Astazi as vrea sa privesti impreuna cu mine in urma, la toate aceste realizari, aventuri, momente si sa le cinstesti cum se cuvine pentru ca ai de ce ...

La multi ani, mama! Sa ne traiesti multi, multi ani buni si sanatosi! Asteptam cu nerabdare sa ne revedem ca sa ne cladim amintiri noi, cu noi calatorii si aventuri. Nu ne putem imagina viata care ne-a mai ramas fara privirea ta urmarindu-ne la fiecare pas, in fiecare email zilnic, de la distanta si de aproape. Te iubim si iti datoram … totul! Sa ne traiesti!

2001 - Myrtle Beach, Carolina de Sud
(e viu, nu e de jucarie!)

A Gorgeous, Restless Summer

I cannot believe it's September and my mums have bloomed already. Some blooms are actually already dried out. 

Where has the summer gone?! I don't know whether it's because we are getting visibly older and they say time just slips from under you when that happens, or what ... but this whole year's been nothing but a dream ... Here and gone before you knew what's what ... 

This summer's been busy beyond words with all its summery events and long, languid days of dolce far niente - if that can be ever busy ... 

We visited the cool mountains, hiked alongside fast springs and calm, deep, cold lakes; we drove on steep, twisty green roads, framed by roadside waterfalls and rhododendron-covered cliffs; we sipped sweet (or dry, but mostly sweet) Southern wine right from the wineries; we made some smoke in the back yard cooking meats, or in the woods while camping; we scouted numerous farmers' markets in search for just the perfect fruit and tomatoes. 

We listened to live music in the toasty evenings, and marveled at the gorgeous sunsets at the end of hot days. Have you noticed how sunsets are more colorful because the days themselves are literally burning in the summer?!  We chased butterflies and breathtaking rainbows after hot summer showers... 

We are lucky to be here, to be mobile, to be healthy, to have the energy and mind and willingness to explore and learn another thing about our town, our state, ourselves, to have each other and to live another day to tell the tale ... And all this with almost no vacation days. Just weekends and national holidays. Time is always here for us to fill up, and for that, I am so grateful! 

Here's to a long and hopefully gentle fall, and to more summers to come ... 

Some of the sights of this summer: 

Sunset on Smith Mountain Lake, VA

Camp fire on Smith Mountain Lake, VA

Chasing dragon flies in Natahala National Forest, in Highlands, NC

Sitting by Mill Creek in Highlands, NC

The dam and rhododendron at Cliffside Lake in Natahala National Forest, NC

Grilling in the back yard

Listening to Booker T at the NC folk festival in Greensboro, NC

Chasing birds at Duke Gardens, in Durham, NC

Chasing butterflies ... everywhere ... 

Relaxing on the patio of our neighborhood bar after a hot day

Chasing rainbows on Haw River - Pittsboro, NC

Sunset in Hickory, NC 

The view atop Grandfather Mountain, in NC

Out of all the wineries we visited this summer, this was our favorite: Grandfather Vineyards outside Blowing Rock, NC

Who Is She?!

“Cu mainile mele am prins soarele

Si mi-am sadit caldura lui in inima.

Poate de aici am invatat sa iubesc.”

--

“With my hands I held on to the sun

And seeded its warmth in my heart.

Maybe this is how I learned to love.” (my sister)

She smiles. A lot. She talks. Even more. She is constantly moving, walking, cooking, turning on some radio that plays classical music, another appliance, another device … She remembers she has not taken her pills for the day, while she yells at the kids to get ready for their play-dates. She realizes her hair needs a touch-up and that she’s behind on answering her emails – all at the same time. She is a ball of energy, constantly rolling …

And she is so much more … It seems like the little insecure, shy girl that I grew up with has morphed into this self-assured adult who would not take crap from anyone, including her bigger sister – or especially her bigger sister. She is smart. So much smarter than me. She decides people’s lives for a living and can live with herself at night. How many of us can say that?!

She is an artist, a poet, a painter … She loves symphony concerts and European old movies. She loves Starbucks, and Zara, and H&M, bookstores and shoes. Art museums, botanical gardens, and hiking mountainous trails. Her favorite city in the whole wide world is New York City, but she feels at home anywhere big, and hectic, and dirty, and smelly, and reeking with history, but also anywhere wild, remote, with lack of the everyday commodities, like a mountain camp …

She tells me always that I taught her everything, and yet I would have never tried to learn Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, the principles of painting, Canadian history, Starbucks, Guinness (the beer), patience, the freedom of non-planning and of letting go, truly, if it were not for her … I would have never slept on a beach awaiting a sunrise, nor tried a latte if it were not for her.

She is my favorite conundrum: she will have no qualms about riding a bus all alone in NYC, but is terrified of driving. I love traveling with her because she makes me look for things I would never look for on my own. To think we share the same blood is still mind-boggling. We march by totally different beats.

She is a Canadian but so proud of her Romanian heritage that she oozes Romanian into everything she does – all the foods, the stereotyping of people, the way she talks about money, the friends she chooses … everything…

She is a Leo and proud of it – in love with the sun, their ruling “planet”, and in love with gold and the thought of power. Of reign … She rules her kingdom, with grace and slyness, as she purrs coyly while walking away in a cloud of perfume. Like a true ruler, she is a lover of expensive things, and practical minded at the same time. Like a true lioness, she lives for her cubs. She dotes over them, and shapes them every day into these beautiful (inside and out) creatures. She plays with them, bikes, paints, reads and buys books with them, they plant herbs and clean up fallen leaves in the fall, she goes to concerts with them – I joke and say that she created her own buddies and a fan club at the same time. They adore her. Everything they do, they come to her first for approval. She is their Northern Star. Or maybe their ruling planet?!

She loves dark things, like stouts and full-body cabs, and dark chocolate, murder mysteries, and real-life kidnapping stories,  but her soul is nothing but light and hope; the sweetness of peaches in the summer and the gooeyness of the honey-like summer heat in the air. Her eyes filled with light are wide-open windows to dreams, and plans for the future. And mostly much hope. She dreams of a beautiful place she is trying to get to when every day closes, and she always assumes the goodness in all of us. A goodness foreign to even ourselves.

Reading the lyrics she wrote as a child reminded me of her basic connection with her ruling star, which has been telling every day of her life … She fills up every day since I can remember with this warmth and love and hope she’s learned from the sun, intrinsically, at birth.

She is my Yin to my Yang: she completes me and yet she is my true opposite in everything that is essential. She is my sister. My parents’ free gift to me. 

Happy birthday, sorella! I love you more now than when I started writing this, and less than tomorrow. Be bold. Be brave. Be happy. Be you! You are already everything else.

A year ago leaving Manhattan en route to Lady Liberty

Return to the North Carolina Mountains

A haunted hotel, a rainy week, a tall mountain, puppies, sweet wine, an old Southern manor, an artsy town and a whole bunch of hot-as-the-blue-blazes watering holes can pretty much summarize our Independence Day Weekend. But if you want details, you can keep reading.

I used to drive to Blowing Rock for the day during my first habitation in North Carolina. Of course, from Greensboro, it was slightly closer. It’s my favorite getaway spot, the silhouettes of the mountains, the quiet artful shops, the fresh trout, the smiling faces of mountain people in coffee shops - they all bring me to a place where my heart is whole and peaceful.

Blowing Rock has gotten more cosmopolitan over the years I have been gone. So did Boone. Lots more options to eat vegan, or gluten free, or …what have you … It accommodates just about every appetite and preference. It’s always been good Southern cooking at its best, but now it’s more varied. I loved to see that it’s growing still. Some part of me still wants to see it remain a small, off the beaten path area, but it’s good to see that it’s doing well, too … Parking is the worst, especially on a busy weekend, as July 4^th. But parking far and walking across the downtown is good for the city, good for your health and it makes for great people watching and window shopping. Stopping for a cup-a-joe, some fried pickles, a cold brew, or some Kilwins ice-cream ain’t so bad either.

We had a few days to spare there, so we visited some of the adjacent areas, too. We went up Grandfather Mountain, to cross the mile high swinging (if you ask my husband, not so swinging if you ask me) bridge. Last time we tried to see it (https://wander-world.blogspot.com/2007/11/asheville-trip-thankful-trails.html) we were not so successful – pretty much a white-out in November made for an adventuresome day where we could see no peak and no bridge and the wind almost blew us off the mountain. This time, it was clear as far as you can see, with only some poufy clouds to make the pictures more interesting. It was almost like our Grandfather Mountain curse, or something, was following us, because about 15 minutes after we climbed off the peak, they closed it because thunder clouds were gathering and the bridge was no longer safe to cross. Lucky ducks, us.

We tasted wines at two wineries in the area – I am always surprised how easily you can find sweet wine pretty much anywhere in North Carolina. It is definitely not as prevalent in California and it is hard to find in restaurants. I know, ‘cause that’s how I take my wine and it’s not easy to find. They had some great sweet glasses at Grandfather Vineyard and some smooth middle-of-the-road ones, still tasty at Banner Elk Winery, too. Grandfather Vineyard was our most favorite hang-out spot on July 4^th: so festive, everyone in their red-white-and-blue best, wine glass in hand, sitting on the large covered porch or in Adirondack chairs by the river, listening to a cover band and people watching while their puppies were pooped with heat, laying lazily at their feet. It was an intimate and yet lively joint – a big surprise to find and it already beckons us back. I wish all wineries around us were that good and varied and welcoming …

One day, we visited the Moses H. Cone Flat Top Manor outside Blowing Rock (https://www.blueridgeheritage.com/destinations/moses-cone-manor/). We drove partly on the Blue Ridge Parkway to get there, which was framed by white and pink splendor: the rhododendron was in bloom right about then, and it looked as if the mountains were having a wedding.

The manor is a beautiful place, full of history and the grounds are amazing – they reminded me of the Biltmore grounds: there is something peaceful, pristine, lush and mellow about The Smokies. The soft curves of mountain tops, flowing onto one another like elegant ripples, the steam from all the vegetation gathering up in thick, low clouds, lingering onto their slopes, as if haunted, there is a mystery and wonder about them like no other mountains. The place now belongs to the National Park Service, and it’s free to visit. But the lack of funds unfortunately shows in the lack of care to maintain it. While the grounds were almost perfectly manicured, the house was in a sad state of disrepair.

The house was not open to visit, except for the first floor. There was a movie playing in what seemed to be the former drawing room telling the story of the Cone family and of the house. There was an artist turning wood on a lathe, and there were many artful projects already finished from various media in the gift shop – all locally made. There were things of beauty in there, and the people were incredibly kind and welcoming yet again. I know, I should stop repeating myself: we’re in The South and we should expect this, but having been everywhere across the land, I never take this for granted. I am glad Southern gallantry is still at home here.

Back to food: I had read in one local magazine (could have been Our State, but it could have been something different, too, I cannot remember) a review about The Ridgeline Restaurant in Blowing Rock. Since it was pretty much across the street from our hotel, we wanted to check it out. Although the promised “best restaurant view in Blowing Rock” absolutely delivered times a hundred, the atmosphere was kinda blah – lots of jaded, morose drunks hanging off the bar, and too many kids for our taste (I know, weird combo, right?!) and the food was solid, but not exceptional. I still much prefer my absolute favorite, my first and still biggest Blowing Rock love – The Speckled Trout. I was as giddy as a five year old on Christmas morning to find that it’s still there, beautifully renovated and still delicious and still locally stocked. We also much preferred the atmosphere at The Town Tavern in downtown Blowing Rock – another old timey (for me) joint.

For breakfast, we had lots of options and all good. Village Café in Blowing Rock has a unique setting, in a dark alley at the end of a thick garden in an old-as-the-hill one room house and amazing Argentinian bread with fresh preserves, but Melanie’s Food Fantasy in Boone was my favorite – their vegan “potato madness” plate was invented just for a potato lover like me.

One thing all these places had in common, though: they don’t believe much in air conditioning in this town. We were under fans but dripping sweat the whole time. They think that it  gets “cooler up here in the elevations”, but 80F and 90% humidity with the sun baking your skull is still darn hot … Took us forever to find an off-the-Marriott-trail-and-speaking-a-more-local-accent hotel with a/c for this trip, and even this one had an old, rusty window unit, and yes, another fan above the bed.

And now, about the hotel …

That would be the Green Park Inn. Well, the long and short of it is: it is haunted. If you’re into heavy antiques, sleeping in old, musty wood beds that rock and creak, finding the lop-sided bedside furniture piece “charming” and the rusty mirror frame “full of character”, then this is for you … It has “character”, all right. Especially at 1 minutes past 12 AM when a bright red shadow watches you sleep from the side of your bed and then it disappears into thin air when you try to wake your husband and ask him what the heck … No, seriously – look it up: this place is haunted. I do believe it now, although it did not occur to us to look that up before we booked … Even before I saw this, there is a feeling as you walk towards your room, on uneven, noisy floors, that there is someone behind you, following you. The silence in it is surreal. The red shadow vision happened on our first night, so after this, we tried to make the most of the town and what was around it rather than spend any time in that room … I guess it was a great incentive to get out more and make memories … or maybe the town’s evil plan?!

The hotel is built on top of the Eastern Continental Divide and maybe that’s a space full of energy or something, I don’t know … The name of the hotel bar is The Divide, to honor that. It is the first hotel ever built in Blowing Rock (1880) and it hosted the only Post Office in the town when it was first built. Furniture from that establishment still exists on premises. One night, we had the world’s most hilarious waitress at this bar: a middle-aged woman with her curly dirty blonde hair in a knot held together by a pencil, laughing the most incredulous laugh there ever was uttered … Her name was Roxanne, but it could have been a stage name, too. She jumped between stories about her daughter and her two year old granddaughter, houses blowing up somewhere, and her life in Ohio, Florida and Charlotte where she has lived before – she puts down roots for 2-3 years then she moves right on, she said – she laughed herself to tears after every sentence she finished with an eerie laugh that resembled a “lamb’s voice”, my husband figured. He was not totally wrong … We laughed more at the laugh than the stories.

She kept reminding us that although she loves for us to stay as long as we want, the management team will make her close the bar “soon” (it was around 9 PM which seemed early for a vacationing crowd, but …). She never did close, but with that kind of invite, no one wanted to really stay. We did, though, because her stories were funny. So much free entertainment, you know?!

She was so scatter-headed that she served a customer a burger with no meat on the bun. The plate looked nice and well-put-together, except the bread was opened, one side - lettuce, tomatoes, and onions, and the other side, naked. When her manager brought it to her to show, in front of all of us, she laughed her usual laugh and didn’t seem to mind a bit. After all, we all agreed, it was fairly hilarious. Appropriateness of things, or reality herself did not seem to faze her …

I wondered after some time if she was real or maybe she is the ghost?! I never want to know, really. Although we will be back to Blowing Rock and probably soon, we won’t be staying at The Inn.

See, I didn’t even tell you about he fact that it rained almost the entire time we were there, because that was irrelevant. We did so much, saw so much, ate and drank till we could not breath anymore, looked at people, puppies, art, and the great Smokies that we will not remember the weather part … The ghost part we will. Always. The weather part – ephemeral as it always is – will drop in the deep blackness our forgetfulness …

I still hear Roxanne saying as she did the dishes ('cause yeah, she did do them in the creaky, shaking dishwasher right under our noses, 'cause she was about to close, you know): “I don’t believe in death and taxes. I believe in dishes and laundry … (bw)hahahahahaha … We do, too, Roxanne, we do, too … 

Click the rhododendron to see the photographic journey of our adventures

Tata la 67 de ani

M-am gandit ca nici o zi nu e mai buna sau mai sigura ca ziua de azi, si, fara intarziere aditionala, azi inaugurez o serie de bloguri pe care le voi numi simplu “Zile de nastere”, sau “birthdays”. In ultimii doi ani, am ajuns la concluzia facila (asa sunt eu, mai inceata, ce sa spun?!) ca singurele entitati prentru care merita sa ne “consumam” sunt cei apropiati, mai ales cei care ne iubesc si pe care ii iubim. 

Ca sa ii pretuiesc pe cei dragi mie si sa ii imortalizez pentru cei care vor veni dupa noi, voi scrie cateva randuri aici, in semn de “la multi ani”, atunci cand le celebram ziua de nastere si intreaga existenta. Deci azi incep aceasta serie cu ziua tatei. 

Astazi tata are 67 de ani, cu ajutorul lui Dumnezeu. In ultimele cateva zile ma gandesc mult la “excursia” lui prin viata - el iti va spune ca e “mic, nacajit, si nu il ia nimeni in seama.” Desigur, pentru mine, ca de altfel pentru toti cei care il cunosc, nu e deloc asa. Pentru noi e o mare prezenta si un mare spirit care ne umple viata si zilele de cand ne stim! Un opinionat, indrumator, vorbaret nevoie mare (si-a mostenit mama in ale graiului), un spiritualist si putin cinic. Cu siguranta nu o persoana care nu e bagata in seama. 

Pentru ca si el o face in orice ceas aniversar de “privit in urma”, ma gandesc astazi la toate lucrurile pe care le-a realizat in viata asta desi cateodata nu isi da singur laudele de rigoare. Cateva din ele: o familie frumoasa care il respecta si iubeste; o cariera diversa; relatii si cunostinte mai mult decat ii incap in orice agenda de nume; calatorii prin lume: a vazut orizonturile Romaniei si nu numai - si ale Europei de Vest, de Sud, Americii si Canadei; o cultura generala de invidiat - el e lumina mea calauzitoare in ale muzicii “de calitate”, cum o numeste el; si nu il ultimul rand: desi 67 nu e o varsta inaintata, e o reusita imensa in familia noastra - tatal lui s-a stins la doar 62 de ani. As putea continua cu realizarile dar va dati cam seama care sunt, mai ales daca il cunoasteti.

Pentru mine, ca prima lui fiica, cel mai important e faptul ca are o inima imensa. Nu conteaza ce spune si cat de certaret este, la sfarsitul oricari conversatii, mai mult sau mai putin aprinse, ii transpare inima lui buna, blanda, plina de compatimire si generozitate. 

Cand era mai tanar era un fumator agresiv - mama spunea ca isi aprindea o tigara de la tigara precedenta, si ca avea cate o tigara aprinsa in fiecare camera din casa. Cand aveam vreo 14 ani s-a lasat de fumat dintrodata. Nu asa cum auzi pe altii ca “o raresc intai” si apoi se lasa de tot. Nu, el s-a lasat brusc! Si cand ne spune motivul, este acesta: pentru ca i-am cerut bani sa ma duc la film cu prietenii mei (aveam 14 ani si incepusem si eu sa mai ies de sub aripa lor) si a zis ca nu are de unde sa-mi dea. Si in momentul ala si-a dat seama ca el “arde banii” pe tigari si nu are bani sa ii dea copilului sau pentru “cultura” si pentru a-si face un grup de prieteni. Pentru mine episodul asta dovedeste dragostea lui pentru cei de langa el si mai ales pentru cei care depind de el: nu s-a lasat de fumat pentru sanatatea lui; s-a lasat si de fumat din dorinta de a se imparti si de a-si imparti banii cu cei apropiati si care poate aveau mai multa nevoie decat el. 

Sutele de cunostinte pe care le are si prietenii care i-au fost loiali toata viata stiu ca niciodata nu spune “nu” nimanui. Mereu vrea sa ajute, de unde si cum poate, si niciodata nu inchide usa nimanui. Nici cand isi pereclita propria siguranta si securitate nu se dadea inapoi din a ajuta pe altii ... 

O alta caracteristica de neuitat care il defineste este un umor debordant. Azi, cand l-am sunat sa ii transmit urarile de rigoare a vorbit din gluma in gluma printre propozitiile mele. De la pilda la banc m-a purtat, razand ghidus. Va ramane mereu in minte tuturor ca cea mai buna gazda pentru orice fel de petrecere, pentru doua lucruri: mancare delicioasa pe care o pregateste cu o pasiune impetuoasa si sincera, si un umor copios. 

Tata e un om pe care il intalnesti odata si nu il uiti. Are un dar de a se face memorabil mai mult decat orice alta fiinta umana pe care am cunoscut-o vreodata. Cand scriu aceste randuri simt o mandrie aproape perversa, nerusinata ca suntem din acelasi calapod! Din pacate nu am mostenit decat o molecula din altruismul lui neconditionat. 

Ii doresc multi ani sanatosi, puternici si rabdatori. Acum cand corpul poate il ajuta mai putin, si rabdarea se tine de un fir de par, acum cand distantele i se par poate mai mari pentru ca nu le mai poate ajunge, ii doresc rabdare si sa se uite mereu in interior, sa isi priveasca mereu inima dogoritor de calda, ca o zi de iulie, care il ajuta inca sa fie fericit si sa ne faca si pe noi toti la fel. Inca o mai are, inca il mai poarta spre cel de al 68-lea an, si mai departe ... 

La multi ani, tata!

Looking for Something That’s Already Found Us

“We're reaching for death

On the end of a candle
We're trying for something
That's already found us” (Jim Morrison – Freedom Exists)

I’ve traveled a bit to find my heart. I traveled from country to country, continent to another continent, one mountain peak after another, just in search of that one place – twin to my heart.

With every trip, I hope that I will hear back that echo that my heart puts out into the world. Sometimes I think I hear it, and it quickly fades away. I cannot positively tell you that I have ever heard the true one, the one I have looked for since the day I was born.

This past month I went back to that beginning place we all have: the one we are born in. I can only picture that first day when I came into the world: atop of a hill in my home town, at the top floor of a maternity hospital, the first child of very young parents – however many hopes and dreams they were building upon that little bundle of flesh! It was a snow-day, I am told, cold and surprising in the middle of April. Sometimes I think: quite like myself.

Every time I go back I wonder: am I truly home? Or am I visiting? And I can never truly answer that question for myself. God only knows what is in my heart when I go back. Most times I think that if it were not for people related to me being still alive and still there, I would never go back – not even every 10 years to visit. I never understood people who are born and raised in America that want to visit far away countries just because their ancestors come from there … I find no interest anymore in my own country. That is until I actually go back.

This year, I was blessed enough to go with my sister. The bond we have had through the years transported us back straight in the middle of our childhood: going to the same schools together, eating from both ends of the same loaf while walking around the city and hopping around pot holes while chased by stray dogs, eating street food, stopping for a cold beer when we got tired, or a latte at the new fancy mall which also harbors a Starbucks nowadays.

Once I was there, my heart was beating in unison with everything else around me. Every barking dog, every honking (for no reason at all) car, every speeding tram, the churches, the cobblestone streets, every person who opened our doors to visit us – they bore such familiarity that all of a sudden not only my heart, but my whole body just melted in the fabric of my home town and home life … The smells were familiar, the tastes of every food – so different than mine at my own house now, although I cook by the same recipes – everything was like an extension of my own body. I, once again, belonged.

We wandered around old streets where we used to live, or went to school. We shopped till my toes were the size of walnuts. We crisscrossed the entire downtown and spent hours in book stores and cafes … We ate, we laughed, we remembered where we came from and how incredulous our lives’ journeys have been – how different and yet how much the same in many ways – driven by the same principles we were shaped in. America and Canada were in the rear-view mirror and we were once again … home.

Then, there were the parents – the main reason we ever go back, really. They are not old by age (they never have been! They are still the young parents of my birth, in my head), but they are aged beyond their years, with heavy decaying health burdens to bear. We fight, almost every time we go there. We argue, we criticize our mutual choices, and we hug, and we laugh, and at the end of a teary and sobbing argument, we love each other. At the end of every tiresome and restless and commotion-full, overly dramatic day, when I look into their eyes, it’s like I look into a mirror. They make me crazy and angry and they also give me an identity. It makes me happy that somehow I know where this crazy, unruly heart of mine comes from.

This year, more than ever, seeing them was both a desperate cry for gratitude of being with them for a few days (who knows when the last visit will ever be?!) and a scream for help! I want to do more. I want to turn back time to the day when my dad was young and playing badminton with us, or hiking mountains for mushrooms, and mom was happy jumping waves with us at the beach. Happy and smiling, with big dimples and blue eyes. They are tired and curmudgeonly now. Their lives lost to many hard and what they consider lonely years.

I am still not sure where my heart belongs. Being of Gypsy blood it is probably my curse to keep looking. I am still lured by many corners of the world, and by meeting and knowing other people … But just now, this month, I found one thing for sure: I may not know where my heart belongs where it will end up, but I know where its roots are. I know the place that it stubbornly hangs on to, the earth where its roots stubbornly spread, beyond extrication … I know where my heart’s foundation is – and that’s enough for now.

Seafood street food

The Pope was visiting my home town of Iasi right as we were visiting

Old Communist crumbling mess of a block. I cannot believe, each time, that these structures are still standing today. 

More Communist "beauties" lines up on the shore of a very much redesigned Bahlui bench. The river looks so posh nowadays - a far cry from the dirty, smelly mess that it was back in my childhood - no concrete edges then, either ... 

My parents' kitchen has a microwave, two ice-free refrigerators and many other utilities of the modern era. However, they still grind their veggies and meats by hand, with a manual grinder. 

We celebrated The Ascension when we were there. It is almost like a Second Easter for us. 

The entrance to one of the many blocks my sister and I grew up in

Our high school 

I was blown away how long Romania has come in the matters of making recycling available. Much, much, much more modern than anywhere else I have lived in The States. 

Our elementary school. 

A "simigerie" which is a bakery that makes these fresh hard pretzel-like wonders covered in poppy seeds. My friend who is Turkish calls these "simit" - and now I know where the word for the place comes from. Most likely the same root. 

My home town of Iasi seen from above - you can see the Palace of Culture somewhere in the center of this picture

Almost perfect example (minus the pizza) of a Romanian appetizer platter: meat, cheese, fat back and more meat ... 

With my sister in front of The Palace of Culture - downtown Iasi

"Tochitura modoveneasca" - one of the most traditional Romanian dishes: slow cooked pork meat, fried egg, a big chunk of aged cheese and "mamaliga" (a type of polenta). 

The utra-urbanized Iasi (the power lines are in my parents' yard) in the sunset

An attempt to copy the Western World - an English named B&B

This was the year of the snails ... 

Sights around downtown Iasi.

Click the picture to view the entire album from this trip