Forever Grateful for Friends

I think I am one of the very few folks out there who is happy when her friends move away. I am happy because I now have even more reasons to get out of town! Sure, you can say I am the same ol’ selfish woman you knew – it would be fair!

But, let me explain: when your friends move, you get the best of all worlds: you still keep the love, and trust me, if you really put your mind to it, long distance relationships DO work! So, you don’t “lose” them at all. Your relationship just changes … interaction. Then, you get to pull away from your routine once in a while, when you get to take the weekend off and go visit them; you get to disconnect from your boring life, and re-energize (how grateful do you need to be for THAT?!?) ; and you get pretty much free lodging and sometimes food when you go, too. What’s not to love?!

This year, I had two mantras to live by: stay in touch better with friends, close and far, and go places you’ve never been before. Thanks to friends who have moved places I have never been before, it looks like this is going to be an easy one!

This past weekend, I went to visit some friends who moved to Lexington, SC, just outside of Columbia. I have been to Lexington before, but not to this part of it: I didn’t know any part of SC can be so lush green and gorgeous! I have never been to Columbia, but I am planning to go back this year, to see that city also – I only hear good things about it. I am also planning to be on Lake Murray this summer, at some point, also courtesy of my said friends! I hope!

It’s always a pleasure to visit with my SC friends (who used to be NC friends). They are a gregarious bunch of folks, who always welcome you with open arms, always overflowing fridges, open minds, wisdom, poignant criticism and lots, and lots of unconditional love. The chats are easy and genuine, the love is sincere, and the giving is abounding! There is always a familiarity to see them, and a feeling of not being alone that is known to me only when I see family. They gave me a backyard bbq party, two restaurant meals, an office chair to take home (free!) , and a birthday gift, a month and a half after my birthday! It was like seeing mom, dad and having Christmas all over again!

I could have stayed on that screened in porch and talked about past, and future, and catch up on people we know till Labor Day, if I’d had my rathers! I didn’t mind the humidity, nor the mosquitoes that somehow got through the screen anyway, nor the heavy eyelids of a body tired from driving in the rain for three hours! It was so refreshing to meet the like-minded folks I once knew and still hold close! It was so refreshing to know, one more time, that I am “home”.

The moments spent with your friends are priceless! They are crystallized in time, and forever engrained in your brain. Those moments, I am sure, you take with you, in your heart, when you slip into "forever". They give you dimension in space, and teach you who you are. And on lonely nights, when you think you’re alone in the world, they give you something to feed off of, and something to dwell on: a family, and sense of belonging. We should really be more grateful to friends than we sometimes make time for!

I thank them now, as I always have, for just … existing. And making me a part of their world, about seven years ago. And never budging from that commitment. Yet. Family has no choice: they have to have you. But friends don’t have to. They do have a choice, and these folks made a choice to “have me” despite the changes in their lives, and mine.

I am grateful for the “things”, sure, and the “free trips”. But mostly, I am grateful for the love, and respect, the steadfastness with which they've loved me, and welcoming that they display, year after year, visit after visit, unmoved by the changes of time, and life.

They have married a son, and had two grandkids; they have retired and moved away. Their dog got old and slow. But they have always been the same to me: loving, giving and accepting! They humble me! And I love them.

One of my favorite pieces in their lush, perfectly manicured
gardens was a deep purple calla lily.

Thank You, Randy Pausch

And when I thought my week could not get any worse… I am actually being facetious: life can ALWAYS get worse.

Anyway, next time I complain about long hours and bad hair days, I’ll know what’s coming. Or at least I know what this week has brought.

Today, I go do my biweekly grocery run, and I get into a crash. A car crash, that is. I was due for one, I figured, since my small Echo has been hit more times, and regularly, but has been “on an accident break” since 2007, I think. I swear this car is an accident magnet! People hit it when it’s parked, and I am not even in it.

Anyway, so, on a gray, pouring outside kind of day, one of those days when you don’t feel in the least bit guilty for eating a loaded pizza all on your own, I get out of the said grocery store parking lot, and a lady on the opposite side of my space has the same plan: to get out too. I was all the way pulled out of my spot, and ready to straighten my wheel when she backs out of her spot, full force. And hits me.

We both got scratches on our back bumpers. She has a smaller scratch, I have a bigger one, as it always happens when my Echo and a bigger (Acura) car hit each other.

We looked at the damage. We both realized it’s not worth calling anyone, or getting the insurance involved; we exchanged phone numbers and license numbers, and … we’ll see how and if we’re going to fix this… Yes, I did say “if”.

Usually, when I get into one of these, no matter how small the damage, I am completely compulsive about getting it fixed right away, to make my car look as good as new. For some reason, this time (and I “blame” Randy Pausch for this), I am fine with a scratch on my bumper, be it however monstrous looking (it’s pretty tacky!). This one time, I am really letting go of my control over “everything has to look just perfect or else I can’t sleep at night”, and just put this on hold for a bit.

I have trips to plan, work to do, life to live. The car works fine. The trunk is not damaged at all. Most importantly, I and the lady in the other car are FINE. She even admitted that it was her fault, but I don’t even think that. It was a complete accident, on both of our parts. I also think a can of paint will do the fix-up! So, no fretting at all.

This first time, I don’t really care whether I fix it today, this week or in the next year. As it happens, bumpers are not made of metal anymore, so it won’t even rust. Sure, it looks ugly, but I have decided that my car is not a mirror of who I am, after all. So, I will let go, and I am actually breathing easier because this one burden is off my shoulders.

Now, I know that a car’s purpose is to “get you from point A to point B. They are utilitarian devices, not expressions of social status”, as Pausch says it in Chapter 18 of his “The Last Lecture” book. And he continues: “… if your trashcan or wheelbarrow has a dent in it, you don’t buy a new one. Maybe that’s because we don’t use trashcans and wheelbarrows to communicate our social status or identity to others. (…) Not everything needs to be fixed.”

I love that lesson! He is so right. We get so wrapped up in the fact that our lives are not oh, just so perfect on the outside, we so hold on, teeth grinding, to our appearances, our pants are not razor-sharp, and our cars don’t have a bigger monthly payment than our homes.

And we miss the stuff that makes life real! We miss the “little” things, like the fact that we have a job to go to at all to spend long hours in; the fact that we can afford a car at all; the fact that we’re lucky to go from point A to point B without waiting for half an hour for the bus, or the train in the rain; the fact that we’re walking on our two feet, and moving right along from day to day, without having to wait for others to give us a ride.

So, this one time, I will just shrug, smile, and be grateful for what I do have. And the scratch can wait. And as I have said it before, and as I know this might just jinx me even worse: I am grateful for the band aids, some days. And for good books!

A Girl's Gotta Be Shallow ... Sometimes ...

(Or "Guilty Confessions")


So, I have had a crappy, long week. Too long!

Not particularly dramatic, but just little bugs here and there, biting at you, at your mood, and chipping away at your zeal. If I ever had any, to begin with, that is.

Work was horrible. It always is, but for grace and political reasons, I can't say much about that. Pretty soon this "lucky to have a job" high is going to stoop, and the simple unhappiness of it all is going to take over. Maybe. We're humans, after all, aren't we?!

Then, little bits of "situations" cropped up here and there. Humidity crept in all week long, making for bad hair days, sticky shirts and lots and lots of cranky time. Then, a day off for everyone but not for me (someone had to cover some shifts) set the tone of the week to "bitter". Then, I have to work this weekend. Blah ...

More news about friends being laid off - always bad. More news from home about family feuds, dramas, disloyalty, and quarrels. Asked for advice, but hesitant to give any: after all, who wants to have the responsibility of all that?? Then, relatives traveling over the Atlantic, and being unnecessarily "persecuted" in Germany, and then England, and then Canada. Oh, the curse of ever being an immigrant to the Western World! Sleepless nights, till I found out everyone was OK.

Then, Friday comes, and I was looking forward to dinner with friends, and a cold brew, and some relache time. Think again: 4:30PM strikes, and bugs start to crop up at work, and although I was planning to leave the premises at 5 PM, I had to stay till 6:30. Almost. My dinner with friends was at 6:30. When I left, I discovered my cell went dead, looking for signal in my bunker office. Cripes! Now, I had to go home, because I am on call this weekend, and tonight, and I cannot be away from a working phone. There goes my looking-forward-to dinner on Friday night.

So, I get home, all shaking from the last minute adrenaline rush from work, and letting my friends know that I will not be attending our get-together ... and I was seriously looking for SOMETHING - ANYTHING to make me feel disgustingly better! Something cheesy, and cheap, that required zero thought and zero brain involvement, and so embarrassing, and lame that will make me feel like I am refueling again! So, I reached out for my all-day-girl therapy, "Sex and the City" - I didn't care what season, I just wanted girl talk! So, I pulled out season 3 and started my marathon!

I accompanied that with fresh air (make that "Southern humid air", but still more alive than the fake a/c) from the outside , crickets chirping, lots of beef jerky snacks, while my taquitos were "baking" (err... de-freezing in the oven), and my mashed potatoes were heating up in the microwave.

All those snacks, fresh air, "sexy girl talk" episodes, and a beer later and it seems like the pressure of the week might be slightly releasing off of my bones. I EVEN did the unthinkable and had ONE square of milk chocolate I bought in Paris - I figured, let's see if it's true that chocolate takes away ALL the pressure of the world off of a girl's back. I don't think it did much for me! But it didn't ruin the mood, for sure. Hey, when a girl's desperate, she's got to do what she's got to do, right?!

I wish I could tell the world that I came home and went for a long walk, or did two hours of yoga and meditated for half of an hour and found enlightenment, or ... watched an inspiring documentary about Mother Teresa's resilience. But no, I ate my comfort food (mashed potatoes and beef jerky), I heated up some junk food (Mexican taquitos), and I watched a cheesy girl show (thank you, FOREVER, Andy!!), and I had a cheap-cheap American beer, and YES, I feel better!

I allowed myself to stoop THAT low, and come in touch with my cheesy self! After all, the brain needs some literal time off, once in a while, too. Like anything human, it's not made to last forever, and it needs a cold reboot.

Sheesh! I am still not done with this week, but I feel like I might have found another couple of gallons of fuel to feed me for the next two days!

That you, cheesiness, for being available.

A Gastronomic Heritage

I do believe there is something about old ladies and tomatoes. Some sort of craving-affinity-love for tomatoes which "regular" folk just don't get. At least that's been my life: there is always, at some corner of my life a little ol' lady making conversation for minutes on end about some juicy tomato waiting on her when she gets home, to make it into a sandwich. And it's traveled with me across cultures, this tomato thing.


I grew up hating tomatoes. As a matter of fact, I was a terrible eater as a child. I'd fuss at pretty much everything: milk products, fruits, veggies or anything that contained them, sweets. My favorite foods were beans and bologna. That was it! Oh, and stuffed peppers. I was blessed with a mother that didn't fret too much about my eating disgusts. Her motto is: "You're not eating, it's your stomach that is empty. *shrug*". (very "insightful", eh?!) So, she didn't bother insist.


So, having all the freedom I wanted, I hated tomatoes along with all the other fruits and veggies there were. Until one summer.


We used to live in the mountains in the summer, when we were little - that is the subject of a whole anthology, for a later date. We used to live in houses with small quarters, share rooms with a lot of folks, and with electricity, but no bathrooms or any plumbing inside. People were self-sufficient, there: had animals, birds, land - to provide their own food daily. We just had to work for it. We ate what we grew or picked in the woods.


In the mountains, we used to live with my dad's godparents. These folks were so wonderful, in every which way, they sound like fairy tale people! Best marriage I have ever seen, older people, with their children grown, moved out and having kids of their own, with the patience of saints, and wisdom of sages!


I called his godmother "bica", which means "grandma" in Romanian. She was not really my grandma, but I have been ever so lucky to have several sets of family in my life.


"Bica" was not mom. She did fret about my not eating. A lot. She used to feed us fresh cheese and slices of tomato, with freshly baked bread every morning. For seven days straight, that's what you'd get for breakfast! Maybe you'd get some eggs, on weekends. Maybe, if it was not too hot to make a fire in the wood stove and cook them. It was usually: tomatoes and cheese for breakfast. I hated both. So, she let me be, for a day, two, a week. Maybe even a summer.


The following summer, she discovered I did not grow out of it. So, she sat next to me, and said: "I am not leaving here, until you eat every bit of tomato and cheese I put on your plate. Trust me: if something happens to you, I have enough money saved up, and I'll pay for you back to your dad. He won't fuss if something horrible does happen to you. So, eat up!". Somehow, in my 6 or 7 year old mind that ALL made sense.


Just like today, someone promises us "insurance" and it all makes us feel so much better (even if the car will still be totaled or the house burned down), I somehow knew that if she promises to pay for the whole me this really won't do any major harm! And she was right. Nothing ever did happen to me. And another beautiful thing that came out of it is that I have loved tomatoes ever since that very day. Still not a fan of cheese, but a 50% chance of a win, is a good deal! I think.


To this day, I buy tomatoes (a lot of them) in April - May. When the winter time is over and gorging on comfort food just because it's cold passes, and I want something light, healthy, guilt-free, yet rich and delish, I turn to tomatoes. I still eat them with a bit of salt and a drop of oil on them, just like she taught me to, and I think of my "bica" every time. I even cut them like her, holding them in my hand, rarely using a cutting board, all uneven slices, all various shapes. And she probably is smiling down on me, proud of her success, and that she didn't have to blow her savings on my account.

The whole thing now is a ritual that takes me back and makes me appreciate the simple foods, and simple gestures. We were not blood relatives, but it was important to her to do the right thing in this world, and teach a child to appreciate all that Earth has to give. She did it simply. I wish we found more people who would take the time to do simple and major things for those to come after us anymore.

Happy birthday, “bica”, wherever you are … and love, always …

What I Have Learned in Airports

These are some random notes, and thoughts I have gathered on my last trip on the wings of many planes (eight, to be exact). My emphasis is on "random" here. But anyone who's ever waited for a plane in long, endless hours will agree that your mind is going, and you notice all these things. It's an avalanche of thoughts ... and ... I am sure you can relate to most of these.

I swear that one day someone needs to write a compendium about what people learn in airports. We are all becoming so much more savvy and knowledgeable about what to do in the "oh, sh^t", time-limit situations airports force us to live in. That, and also we're experts in knowing human nature now. But let's see why ...

First off, I have learned that the meaning of such expressions as "short temper", "little patience" and "hot blooded" become absolute superlatives or absolute relatives in airports. You think you have a short temper, usually: in the airports it's at least half of what you think it is! Maybe 10% is more accurate ... This, I think, is the most amusing (and sad) find. Because airports and especially planes are some places we, as individuals, have zero control over. I am pretty sure that even if you were a pilot, you would have no control over when you take off. But still, people don't get it. And they yell, scream, threaten to sue, and the likes, when delays and cancellations happen.

And since we're speaking of delays and cancellations. I have seen planes being delayed for many random reasons. Some of them legitimate, some of them ... make you wonder: snow, rain, thunder, pilot is drunk, or not present at all, ice removing mechanism faulty in 100+ degree weather. But "wind" is a new thing for me. I have always thought (and I mean, I could have bet my life on it) that at hundreds of miles per hour speeds (not tens) that the airplane is capable of reaching, and when they make planes able to fly into hurricanes (???), wind (especially the one not mentioned to be a problem by meteorologists, like a tornado or something) is not an issue for planes. Hhmm... think again! So, yes, my whole trip was almost all messed up, all planes missed because my first plane (out of four) was being delayed by two hours because of winds. In a perfectly beautiful 75F, cloudless day.

And about those folks whose tempers are ever so short in airports: why are they louder than necessary? I mean, who cares, first of all, if they're mad? If someone did care, they would put them on a plane. But no, they're still here. And they scream, throw tantrums, while 50 other people are in the same boat, and guess what: that plane is still not moving. Conserve your energy, folks! Turning up the volume will do nothing but annoy whomever is concerned (is there anyone??) even more.

Also, these little angry people need to stop using "important" words, that mean nothing, but they do it for effect, to make sure they conveyed to all how mad they truly are. For instance, if you say " I'm gonna go there and literally smack that damn captain if we're not leaving. Literally." - I want to see you marching down to the cockpit and doing it, 'cause guess what: we're not leaving. Otherwise, hold off the "literally". Please.

I have asked myself many times, and still have not come up with an answer: why do they call it "cockpit". Hhmmm... I'll leave you with that one, on your own.

One other thing I have learned: it pays to be ridiculously early at the airport! Sure, your flight will be delayed, because ... who knows, The Phillies lost another game that day, right??, but ... you can get on flights delayed from earlier that might be empty! You're a step ahead of them! They think they can delay you further: guess what: you're there for their delayed flights. Not your own, but who cares: they fly you to the same spot! You win! All my life I have thought the ONLY way to succeed in life is to figure out how to trick life faster than it will trick you. 'Cause it will!

I have raved about the Paris airport before but one thing I didn't mention was: in Paris, they have free scotch (as in "whiskey") tasting in the airport! Yep. In one of their liquor stores, they have a huge table with all sorts of brands of scotch you can taste before you buy. What I have to say to that is: eat your heart out, open container law in the groceries of US! But ... "no pictures, 's'il vous plait", so I could not prove it.

I probably should write a whole chapter on this, but I'll just mention a couple of things: this should be under "Things only Romanians Do in Airports": they sit cross-legged on the floor, and eat sunflower seeds, while spitting the shells on a newspaper; they also listen to Gypsy music on their cellphones, with no headphones on, so everyone shares the joy ... err... dread ... of it ... ; or, sometimes they have a real life - like rooster singing "cock-a-doodle-doo" for their ring tone, which makes you wonder: who is bringing dinner alive on the plane. (?!?!?).
There is always a mixed feeling of embarrassment and of a certain familiarity when I run into my compatriots in airports, a familiarity that is sort of comforting, strangely enough.
Don't ask!!

What you also see in airports is people waiting. Such an overwhelming mass of them! I have always wondered what can humanity accomplish, if they can bottle up all the hours all the people spend waiting, between flights, in airports and use them for a project, somewhere... Could we discover another planet? A cure for a cancer or two, or ...?? Just time. Wasted. Material time, and material human force, talent and probably genius. On hold. For virtually ever. Just wondering ...

I have also now seen live music in airports: a cover band playing anything from 'I will survive' to Jimmy Buffett in the National terminal in Philly. My plane was on time, but ask a few folks that were about 24 hours late on going home what the live music did for their stress level. I would kill to know the answer.

You have probably seen my rant about water penury in airports before, but now I had to splurge, as I was craving really cool and really good (filtered) water: so I paid $3 for a bottle of water and $2 for a large order of fries! When water is more expensive than food, I reckon you know you've made it to ... civilization... ?! Again: think "Idiocracy" , the movie.

And still the number one "wow" of this past trip is just noticing impatience. Just people fretting, screaming, jumping up and down, cursing, for the very thing they can do nothing about: leaving the airport NOW! When will the supply of crappy service align with the (hopefully) very lesser expectations of the passengers, in this Post 9-11, "Brave New World" of flying ... I am not sure...

But pretty soon people will stop flying. Or some folks will start shooting. And I am not sure which one will come sooner. And I am not joking, either.

Where I Come From

Since I come from a far away land, a lot of people ask me “what is it like where you come from?”. That is a broader question that one can attempt to answer in a lifetime, and when you’re dealing with your familiar, it’s impossible to answer. Of course, folks here, especially those who have never been out of the country, cannot tell me what it’s like to be from “here”; all they have to tell me is “look around”. So I can never get any hints on what it is I am supposed to say to describe the world I come from …

I know it’s different than the one I live in here. I know, most times, why. But it’s hard to put into words.

I am sure one can google or wiki my home town and find out its location, its history, how old, how vast, how populated … That it used to be the capital city of the province of Moldova back when Romania didn’t exist; that one of the most famous and esteemed princes, Stefan cel Mare (later sanctified), had his residency in the castle built on the same foundation of now The Palace of Culture, back in the 15^th century; that we have 13th, 14th and 15th century churches and monasteries, and buildings still standing; that we host the first printing press in Moldova that printed Romanian materials; that we have the oldest university in Romania (1860), the one I attended: Al. I. Cuza – and so forth…

But I am here to tell you about what I think about my home town. About what leaves with me every time I get on that plane, crying a river, filled with guilt, remorse, sadness and also pride, in a sick and very lonely way.

There are some things I always make a point of seeing when I get home. I do want to take a sightseeing trip around town, be it on foot (my favorite) or in a car, to see what’s new. I notice new buildings, streets that are wider, even gas stations and convenience stores that were never there before.

I try to see places that bring back memories. For instance, on some trips, I love visiting the grave yard. Not because my grandparents and other relatives are there, but because that’s the first place that ever gave me the depth and perspective of life, human condition, and eternity. That’s where I learned first where we’re all headed. It gave me purpose, and scope. I didn’t get to see it this time around, though.

Other places are streets we once lived on; or schools I attended. That, somehow, connects to where my life’s been – it gives me an itinerary to understand how I turned up this way, by “connecting the dots” of what was. I look at the blocks of crumbling concrete flats and remember the cold winters, where we slept with the coats on, or the hot summers, with no a/c, nor fans, where we would leave the water in the bathroom running, to cool off the dry, hot air; or dress the windows in bed sheets, so the sun won’t come in. I think of the close quarters we shared, and which never bothered us – and compare those with the three bedrooms I have now, for just me!

I notice the architecture, however old, or new, or crumbling... Did I notice it when I was there? Probably not. But now, it leaves with me. Every street corner is another dent in my brain - never to be erased. It's amazing what you do see, when you do want to see it. Pressured by limited time and craving belonging-ness, you open your eyes wider! And your heart ever more so ...

My sister and I in front of our elementary school

Al. I. Cuza University - my Alma Mater

I can tell you that I also go home to watch the physical love affair that people have with the food they make. It’s literally like love making: so attentive, and detailed, and sensual: there, it’s a big touching party! You touch everything. You knead, and wash, and clean, and soak up in aromas, and … You feel the food, before it enters your mouth. You clean the animal, you portion it, you think about what to cook now, what you can freeze, and you never once squint that “eew, that’s blood”, and “eew, that’s teeth”… We work with it all. With respect. And love. And patience. Much patience. We try not to waste much in our food. We use it all. My friend will tell you all about it. Just ask him how I eat a Boston Market chicken.

Laborious deliciousness: making stuffed grape leaves and cabbage rolls

Back home, people are always merry. Times have been tough and even tougher than now ever since I can remember. But if there is one thing that stays with me is that Romanians know how to party. For better, or worse, they find time, and food and drinks to gather up, and share the happiness or sorrow that bonds them. I find that Americans are more inclined to withdraw in their shells, and communicate less in times of sadness. Or party with everyone, but not really with the ones that matter, when they’re happy. Romanians stay close to family, close and distant, and gather up for chow and drinking for better or worse. You’re truly free to be whoever you are amongst those folks: after all, they’re truly your folk. Nothing to hide there. There is always forgiveness if you do happen to mess up! The sense of “blood community” strikes me back home, and gives me new juices to go on for another year: after all, I belong, somewhere in the world.

There is always a reason to celebrate and something
to make a spread out of, at my parents' house

I like revisiting places like my favorite city park, with wide alleyways and wooden benches. I like remembering first kisses, and love quarrels in those parks. I like seeing places where I grew up, or where I remember I had a favorite ice cream, back when I liked that, and where my grandfather used to take me when I skipped preschool!

I love going back for the pizza – the best I have had yet, without having been to Italy, let’s say! I love the street food, fresh, warm pastries that are welcome no matter how full you are: you cannot survive the smell alone – you MUST buy a couple of samples! Food is, again, part of your day, who you are, your routine. It smears the soul with good oils!

And of course, I go for my family. I go for the hugs that really mean something, and for the kisses that are sweeter that lovers’ ones. I go for their advice, and sometimes, I love going back for a good scolding, too! My dad usually criticizes everything I wear: I am either a hippy, or a bum, to him. Mom cries a lot. Cries for my bad luck with men, and my being alone, always … She doesn’t know that I take that as a scolding: that I cannot do any better than “this”. But mostly, I go for their spreads, and smiles. They’re loaded with love and honesty. And meaning! They always make my favorite foods, and display my favorite silverware, sheets, home décor, what have you. They’re the best! Their eyes full or tears, with “I’m going to miss you lots” written all over them travel with me for another two years! I even go for those eyes! To remember them, and know that they’re waiting for me – no matter what. They’re my safe shore!

So, I guess, in short, I come from a place of mixed architecture, that travels time-wise anywhere from the 13^th century to the 21^st; I come from a place of old churches and old schools. A place of chatty, happy people, and love, lots of it. I come from where the bread is always fresh and warm, and the wine is always sweet. A place of vast spreads, and poor but giving people.

Crumbling history ...

Iasi, my home town, is a city surrounded by seven hills. I come, thus, from a protected space. We were deemed as provincial “Moldovans” (which was an insult), but we felt safe, and proud. We had our history. How in the world I escaped this protected space, it’s still a mystery to me. And to this day, I long for that protection, in some form, every minute.

Home is where your bread is plenty ...

For more glimpses of what it’s like to go back home, visit the Wander World’s Photo Album, and enjoy!

Little Man, Big Year

I know that some of you remember that a year ago I was wrapped up in the emotion, and the awe of having my first nephew born into the world. He came early. More than two months early, which gave us all a big scare.

As convincingly and stubbornly (a true Taurus, already?!) as he wanted to come into this world on his own terms, he has lived this year, also. As I also mentioned before, he went home way early from the maternity, only about three weeks after his birth, despite doctors’ predictions that he would be there to his full term, which meant almost two more months.

He showed us all that he was ready for life: he could do in seven months what others can do in nine. He breathed and learned to feed on his own sooner than expected. And fed he did. Around the clock and then some. He grew up fast, and grew up healthy. They tell you babies will run a fever after each routine shot. Growing up in a Canadian winter, he has almost never run a fever (until he got a stomach virus in a foreign land). By month three, he was the same size as babies born to term at that month. And he stayed caught up.

He’s taken on every challenge that life, and we, his family, have thrown at him with bravery and guts. And like a true little Romanian, with gusto, also. He was baptized just like every other “normal” baby, at three months old. Since they immerse the baby in water in our faith, I was afraid he was going to be too little for that, but he was fine. He has managed to handle a (small and close quarters) house full of guests at that age as well, for two whole months, keeping his sleeping and eating routine, despite the hectic to-and-fro of relatives and guests from Romania and the US.

Parents out there forgive me for my self-righteousness, but I have never believed in raising a baby in vacuumed bubble, away from the real life. And I am so grateful to my sister and brother in law for not raising him like that! They have raised him in real time, with real life challenges, and real environments, with real people all around, and he’s managed to handle them all so far, more or less cranky.

He took a road trip (and yes, you read right: “road” trip, as in driven!) from Montreal, Canada, to Greensboro, North Carolina when he was five and a half months old. Sure, he cried, he was cranky, but he made it fine, and he did great. He even started learning how to sit on that trip. He then took a trip to Germany, to see his paternal grandparents, when he was ten and a half months old. He took a trip from there to his parents’ home country of Romania, at eleven months. And now, that he’s one, he’ll go back to Canada, his home, finally.

Patrick and I in Romania, about a week or so ago

Through it all, he made it fine, as he learned new things, and progressed at his “normal” pace, as any baby would do. He ate everything he was supposed to, he is learning new words, and he’s finally not afraid of crawling, so he’s got that figured out now. He’s learned to warm up to people, not just his parents, he’s socialized and happy just to be held.

He’s still tiny, but that’s his charm! He cries when he needs something, but don’t we all?!

I am proud of his parents for giving him nurture, attention, and most of all, love. He’s a loved baby, for sure, and he will always be. I am grateful to his parents for bringing this miracle into our families, and making our lives a bit brighter and a bit more hopeful: now, we can see the face of our future. That is a priceless feeling, for which I thank them!

In Romania, we have this custom (more like a superstition, but it's like an unwritten law), when the baby turns one. We place a number of items from life on a silver platter (remember how your grandma told you that you had it all handed out on a silver platter?!). Each item symbolizes something that you might grow to like, or grow to make into a trade, or something that might possess you negatively, as a vice. We choose to place things like money (wealth) , rings (wealth and interest in jewelry, or coquetry) , hammers (for boys: handy-ness, industriousness, etc), thread and needles (for girls – same connotation), a book, a pen (signs of higher education, perhaps), a church item (an icon, a cross or candle, maybe) – as a symbol of spirituality; something technical (a cell phone, a mouse, etc), a musical instrument (if we want our child to be musically inclined?!), a glass of wine, a pack of cigarettes, to suggest vices; your imagination is the limit here.

We place these items on a platter, and we let the one year old baby choose three of them. They say, in old Romanian tradition, that what they choose will shape their destiny. Patrick chose a cross, a pen and a syringe. As he was choosing, the crowd of guests was gasping: “Will he be a priest?” “Will he be a doctor?”. The godmother is supposed to prepare this, so you can imagine the responsibility I felt (and I feel) for all this.

Patrick choosing the pen

All I can say is: I am not sure what Patrick will be, or what he’ll chose as a trade in life, but from the bottom of my heart, I would like to put on a virtual tray a huge amount of health, love, luck and happiness – and I want him to pick all of them with both of his little hands. That’s what I would destine him for, if I had a power to do so.

And I always want to assure him that he will forever find two big open arms to catch him when he needs to be caught, as long as I live.

Thanks for being in our family and bringing us together as you did, Little Man. And thanks for being you! Your smile makes my day, and your antics give me reason to look forward to tomorrow. You have been blessed since day one, and we through you, and may you always be that way!

Happy birthday from your Nana*, and much, much love!!

*Nana means godmother in Romanian.

One of my favorite pictures of Patrick. Go, show them, Little Guy!

Only in Romania

Some of my friends already know this: there are some things that can only happen in Romania. Usually, the weird kind of things … Sometimes, just the unusual ones, not necessarily “weird”, but … unique, however.

Every time I go back home people here ask me to share unusual, and “exotic” happenings from my trip.

So, I wanted to spend a few minutes to note the couple of “weird” things that have happened on this last trip, that just ended a couple of days ago. I hope they mostly make you smile, not necessarily make you throw up, or cringe!

Only in Romania … can a soccer (the “king of sports”, there) club owner be compared to Jesus Christ on the cross, when he is rightfully arrested for chasing down, assaulting, and shooting the people who were trying to steal his car, instead of calling the cops. Somehow, he felt like he was done wrong, and the thieves were done right, by being free, although they were still to be proven guilty, while his infractions were caught on tape.

Only in Romania … can a talk show host one enlightened actor/ director one night, and a “high class prostitute” (I was told) and XXX star the next. The first (Dan Puric) was presenting his new book (“Despre Omul Frumos” – or “About the Beautiful Man”), while quoting Charles Dickens’s father, who allegedly advised his illustrious son: “If you want to understand God, read a page from The Bible, every day; and if you want to understand Man, read a page from Shakespeare, every day. Only that Man, as seen by Shakespeare, has degraded in the meantime, so keep that in mind”.

The second invite to the talk show (Laura Andresan) was invited to discuss the topic of “Sex during an economic crisis”, while digressing into details about anal sex. Decency prevents me from linking to one of her sites, but you can feel free to google her name. I am not sure how a porn star is an authority on the quality and frequency of sex during an economic crisis, in a normal household, but … you be the judge.

Only in Romania ... I can finally get fish the way God intended it to be: with fins and tails, and with a fishy and not … airy taste. Yes, we peel the scales off of them, and we clean their insides, but … we eat the fins and the heads, too – or at least the insides of the heads. No, there is not much meat there, but … neither is on chicken wings! Also, fins and tails are like … potato chips: crunchy and flavorful. So, why not eat them?? Sure, this can be a “Third World” eating habit, but … sometimes Third World countries have the richest lives, don’t you think?? I know, I know: still weird – and that’s why it made the list …

At least you know you're eating fish, and not some kind of other creature!

Only in Romania ... , I think (or at least, in my universe!), are people ingenious enough to use a blow-dryer to fan their coals, on a grill. My dad decided that the wind was too strong on the very day he planned to grill out, so, he had to blow directly into the coals, to keep them burning, but his lungs got tired, so, he used a blow dryer. I, of course, schooled more in the spirit of American paranoia, was afraid he’s going to blow up the whole house, or at least the electric circuit, but … he was confident. And it worked!

Yep! That's a blow-dryer over a fired grill.

And only in Romania can you take a raw lamb’s head and force it into a grin, but I am afraid that PETA will call the cops on me, so I am refraining from posting that pic. Just trust me on this one!

Oh, how I am going to miss it all !!

The Good Friday: A Time to Feel Humble and Grateful

“There is something about coming back home. It looks the same, it feels the same, it smells the same. You realize the only thing that’s changed … is you”. (approximate quote from “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button”).

Walking the streets of my hometown is a surreal feeling: I am waiting to see old friends, and relatives show up around every corner, at the ages I last saw them: about 11 years ago, or so. But I am waiting in vain, of course.

Some buildings look the same, and some bear the mark of time, and of unfunded city hall candidacies, crumbling in pieces. Some of them have been more lucky and have been renovated, having gotten a new coat of paint on the ages they have weathered.

Old or newer, they all carry memories from my past: the movie theater I used to love, the museum we used to visit every January 24th, as a field trip in school (The national holiday of The National Union), the “Palace” that hosted my first public library, where I first learned how you can get lost and lose track of time, when you’re stolen away by book hunting … The churches where members of my family got christened in, got married in, first took communion in…. The restaurant that hosted my parents’ first date …
Memories abound.

The mind is a wonderful tool (when it works), and such a loyal depository of … things. Places bring back to memory people we met, and we knew and people who have affected our upbringing and character: our teachers, school mates, teachers, doctors, grandparents …

To make this journey alongside my sister and her new baby is a gift from God!
Coming back home, opening up the book of live memories alongside my folks and family around Easter , cooking traditional foods together, congregating with them in the kitchen, the true heart of our home, is making me breathless; more than words (in any language) can express.

I am not the same as 11 years ago when I left. My friends, parents and sister are different too. Time has passed over streets, buildings, as well as people; but the heart is just as raw, and hungry for love, and closeness, and just as nostalgic!

Enjoy the pictures, and I hope our smiles and the blue skies we’re fortunate with speak for themselves, and speak about the kind of happiness that we’re feeling blessed with and that abounds around us on this Holy Day, of the Orthodox Good Friday.

Vive la France!

Yes, I realize that this is not going to be a popular headline, in this day and age, but … I cannot help myself: I am a foodie! And when someone tickles my food cravings and my food preferences, I can’t help grand gestures …errr … words…

I have traveled on several foreign airlines in my time, anything from the famous Royal Dutch KLM to Czech and Romanian airlines (well, Romanian is not that “foreign” to me, I suppose). I am used to airline food to be a step up maybe from hospital food, but with the same potential to give you a tummy ache.

I never have high expectations about airline food: it’s either “chicken or pasta” or a warm napkin of nothing, inside the US. Oh, or $5 for a coke! But on my last trip from the US to Europe through France, my food standards were about to change.

On the flight from Philadelphia to Paris, we had a menu, and we had choices: yes, still some chicken and wild rice (no mushy potatoes, as usual), or pasta Bolognese, and both were accompanied by a couple of kinds of cheeses (of course) and a couscous salad which was divine! Couscous is a kind of pasta, and I guess this made it a pasta salad on top of a bed of lettuce. It was the most unusual, very stylish, pasta salad I know of. The couscous was sprinkled with a vinaigrette dressing, mixed with black olives, pimientos and bell peppers, and topped with chunks of salmon, in some sort of vinaigrette brine as well. It was so light, and refreshing and delish!

On the flight from Paris to Bucharest, also serviced by Air France, we were served a light mid-day dish of zucchini noodles in mayo (I guess a “healthy version” of frites-and-mayo?!), alongside sautéed scallops. YuMMy!

I guess what they say about the French it’s true: they don’t skimp on luxuries, even during these tough times: they live loud and expensive, because life, as the greatest gift, is meant to be splurged on an enjoyed.

I also read in the in-flight magazine that Air France has a contest going on this year, where they have various cooks offer to cook for the airline, and at the end of the year, the airline officials judge them by the quality of the food they cooked and tray design. Trust me: I did not mind being part of this experiment!

The in-flight tv schedule was like nothing I have seen before, either: not only did we get our own tv, where we had a choice between small screen and big screen programs, but we had at least 20 movies to choose from, some of them as recent and as valuable as "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button", for instance. We could also, rewind, pause, or fast forward through the movie, at our own pace. I know that this kind of luxury is very much non-existent on American airlines, for the coach tickets, for sure!

Again, as some sort of a testimony of a grand gesture, the Charles de Gaulle airport is amazingly different that anything I have ever seen: it’s modern, and huge, first of all; and it’s more crowded with boutiques and shops than one medium town in the US with strip malls, probably! There were more stores selling perfumes than I have ever seen my whole life, and more stores selling chocolate. Again: a bit of a French myth, but they know their chocolate and their perfumes, I gathered…

I didn’t buy anything, because chocolate and I don’t get along, and I could not find a bottle of perfume I could honestly afford. 25 euros for the smallest bottle which would not have lasted me for more than a couple of weeks just didn’t seem like a good plan. But … I was amazed at the various brands and abundance of it all. I guess it’s true what they say about shopping in Paris. If this was just the airport, I cannot even begin to imagine what the city itself offers, in terms of shops and boutiques. Or foods! I need to stop thinking about that couscous salad! It’s the first thing I want to make when I go back home!

A Note on My Birthday

In the tradition my dad instilled in me, by saying “you must find time to celebrate the important things in life”, I usually try to do something … different on my birthday. Even if it’s not the usual party bash, going out, and partying, what have you, I try to do something out of the ordinary to mark the event. After

all, we only get a birthday … once a year! It should be special!

Today was different, though. I just woke up at my normal time, took my shower, ate my breakfast, talked to a few members of my family, and some of my friends … Went to work. Went to lunch with a friend. Was in meetings all afternoon. Went to the grocery store. Then, did laundry, and packed for my trip the rest of the evening …

An usual day indeed, it was … Except for all the people who remembered my birthday! That was a such a treat. Those of you who remembered it outside of Facebook get extra kudos, of course.

I realized for the first time, I think, in a long time, how grateful I am to have all my friends, right along with my family! Today, I just want to say thank you, to all of you out there, whom I call “close friends” and who put up with me on a regular basis! Those of you who take trips with me, or call me “family”, those of you who make sure my head stays the right size, and those of you who travel with me. Those of you who encourage my timid attempt to writing and photography, those of you who are patient and giving enough to pay me compliments.

I have folks out there who’ve known me for 15+ years, and are still my very close friends. I have folks out there who’ve known me for a shorter time, but whose relationships are so deep, so soul-mate-like, that it’s scary! There are others of you who I can rely on with my life, and never question! It’s such a gift, and I thank you deeply!

Thank you all: for your love, patience, wisdom and friendship. Today, I was reminded of all of those thing you freely give me, and I just wanted you to know: they are never taken for granted. I love you all – you know who you are – and I thank you for making my birthday special just by your call or email! You will never know how meaningful and special, it truly was. I can only hope I can reciprocate, when time comes!

And just as one of my friends said today, I “hope our souls are not as mortal as our bodies, because I cannot think for even one iota of a second of ever parting with you all for good” (thanks, Tz.!)

Be well!

For Once, I'd Rather Feel than Think

"The longest journey a man must take is the eighteen inches from his head to his heart". (Unknown)

For the I-stopped-counting-th time in the past 10 years, I am getting ready to make the trip back home, in about a week.

It's a ritualistic sort of journey, as I always tend to read more into life than just what's in front of me. I am cursed that way. I always think of this as a return to the hearth, as a journey back to self, or a journey back in search of my roots. The fact that comes around Easter (my favorite holiday) and my birthday makes it even more meaningful. The fact that for the first time in 11 years my whole family will finally be together for Easter, with our newest addition in tow, makes is just over the top.

I am sure I'll have updates as the journey develops, so stay tuned.

For now, though, although I have done this for what seems like more times than I care to count, I am just worried sick about everything. And every time I do take this journey, all these worries crop up - every time. This time is no different: will I get to the airport on time? Will I make all my flights? Or spend some nights in airports? Will I lose my luggage? Will I be able to come back to the US on my way back? Will my cats be OK? Will I lose my luggage? Will I have enough cash on me? Will both my cameras die and I'll be pictureless (God forbid!!)? Will the wonderful lady that's taking care of my cats forget to come feed them? Will they die of starvation? Will ... oh ... you get the picture.

I am worried sick, almost, and for the life of me, I am not quite sure why. Sure, one year when I went there, I forgot to pack like half of my "necessities", for lack of a better word. Another year, September 11th 2001 happened while I was there, and Green Card holders (which I then was) were temporarily forbidden from flying back to the US. Another year, one of the suitcases got back to Greensboro about 3 days after me. But most times, everything went well, and I have had smooth trips. Typically. And even with the mishaps: I have survived it all.

I also love to travel. I love to be away. I adore my family and I cannot wait to see everyone. I cannot wait to eat the foods my parents cook, I cannot wait for the dancing, the parties, the family time, I cannot wait to see my friends, I cannot wait to breathe allergy free air!!! I cannot wait to see my middle school and high school Romanian teacher ... I cannot wait to go to church and actually hear the Easter sermon in Romanian. I cannot wait to hold Patrick once more!! Now, why in the world cannot all these things overpower the silly worries, I am not sure.

I want the switch in my brain to shut off the worrying, and just let life happen, with peace. You would think after the hundredth (it seems) trip I have taken back there (and millionth trip over all in my life), I would be used to this, and know how to shut off that switch and just listen to my heart and let that be the driver. Boy, how we forget!!

No Complaints

"Holy Lent is a time when we give up various foods, meat, fish, eggs and diary products. In the early church, the money that was saved by this type of fasting was given to the poor. Some people go further and vow to give up other things as well which may represent a personal sacrifice. They may give up some of their time to volunteer at local charities or visit shut-ins. My own personal goal this Lenten Season is to give up something which is intangible yet so beneficial to spiritual growth. I would like to concentrate my energies during this holy time to stop complaining. It sounds easy, but it's so difficult." (Father Dionysios of The Dormition of the Theotokos Greek Orthodox Church, in Greensboro, NC)

I was born and raised in the tradition of the Christian Orthodox Church. I choose to grow further in this tradition, and I want to pass over into "the other side" in it, as well. Growing up in Romania, we understood Lent (the 42 days or 6 weeks before both Easter and Christmas) as both a time for spiritual as well as a material journey. We thought of the body, as well as the soul, is what I mean.

The material component meant that this is a time of food fasting, mainly from foods that come from animals. In a spiritual sense, we understood Lent as a time to reflect upon our Faith and understand why (food) fasting, and withholding from "carnal" behavior and "needs" is beneficial also for the soul. The material withdrawing from "lavish" foods was meant to be just a reminder that the eternal soul has to be pure, too. This was a time to ponder upon things we don't normally think about, like the purity of our eternal souls, or about the example we have in Jesus Christ: it made us think about His life, and His painful journey to save us from a world of sin. It gave us accountability for our actions. Also a time to appreciate what we had. It was a time when we purposefully made supplies scarce, just to appreciate the bounty we truly have in life, and which we display, especially in foods, over the Easter and Christmas feasts. To this day, I see both Easter and Christmas as a powerful spiritual journey because of these things. And I am so grateful for having known and understood these things about life, momentary or eternal.

Lent was a quiet time. Music was not played loudly, and prayer was what started and ended our days.
The most obvious fasting was from foods. There were various versions of it: my relatives in the mountains (more conservative) would withhold from animal products for the entire Lent. My family (city people) would not eat animal products only on Wednesdays and Fridays. Those are special days for Christians: they say Jesus was captured on a Wednesday, and crucified on a Friday.

To this day, I obey my family's ritual for Lent. And to this day, I cherish this time. It brings me closer to God, and to what's eternal, and what will outlive me: my soul! I find myself also going to church more, praying more, and being more accepting, and more patient.

But Father Dionysios's piece in this month's newsletter really opened up a new door for me. It was half a slap in the face, and half a welcome revelation! I never thought of giving up something "of the soul" for Easter. And why, yes, I do complain quite an annoying lot lately! And if I could give that up, or at least be more aware of it ... wow! What an accomplishment!

The key remark in his opening paragraph, quoted above, was: "give up something which is intangible yet so beneficial to spiritual growth." I realized, as we all should, that yes, complaining is a huge hindrance to the spiritual growth. We get stuck in these 'catch 22's when we complain. We mostly complain about things we have no control over. Because if we do have control over them, we most often fix them and stop complaining! So, besides being a waste of energy, they're useless. They help no one, and definitely not us. Instead of moving forward, and seeing what's next and exploring the newness and gifts of every day, we find ourselves still stuck on what yesterday (and someone else) made us mad about. The utility bills, the economy, the frustrated co-workers, the "stupid" driver in front of us who's on the cellphone and driving too slow ... what have you... We hurt our own energy, and we bestow a negative vibe on everyone around us when we complain.

They say "answer the phone with a smile; people can't see it, but they can hear it!" - in the same way, when we complain, the mood of the whole world around us is negative, dull, abrasive, unproductive and lacks good vibrations to allow for happiness to happen!

So, my new Lent custom will be if not quitting complaining altogether, at least being more aware of it, when I do it, and trying to stop it in the bud. Like Father said: it's not easy to do. But no worthwhile thing is easy to do, is it?! I feel like my mind and my heart can make room for so much more "goodness" if they wake up with a smile, and go to bed with a "thank you" note to The Universe. And it's so worth it, too! After all, I think God wants our souls withdrawing from "junk food" more than He wants our bodies to.

I can only hope that this new custom won't stop at Easter. And it will carry me through the entire year! But just like Jesus's "New Life", after Resurrection, Easter Lent seems like a good start for it.

What About the Right of Words?!

The definition of the word vegetarian goes like this:

According to Webster Online: one who believes in or practices vegetarianism;

According to Princeton.edu quoted by Google: eater of fruits and grains and nuts; someone who eats no meat or fish or (often) any animal products;

And according to the Wikipedia, Vegetarianism is the practice of a diet that excludes meat (including game and slaughter by-products), fish (including shellfish and other sea animals) and poultry. The Wiki also adds that “the reasons for choosing vegetarianism may be related to morality, religion, culture, ethics, aesthetics, environment, society, economy, politics, taste, or health.”

So, as all of you probably say right now: you knew (as I did) that vegetarians are people who consume (for their food intake) anything but animal products, or, for the most part, don't consume animal products that come from slaughtering the animal. At least, that’s the common belief!

I was puzzled, this week, when one of my friends sported a pair or shoes that had this inscription on the bottom of them: “suitable for vegetarians”. My other very sharp and sarcastic friend blurted out: “What? They (meaning “the vegetarians”) eat the shoes?!”.

Well, yes, according to the above definitions, that was a perfectly legitimate question, and I think the note on the bottom of the shoes was awfully presumptuous!

Vegetarians are a class on their own right only according to what they eat, consume, for food?! Or so I (we?!) thought. Isn’t this a bit of overly-specific, even forced advertising, perhaps?

Because, see, if I am one of those vegetarians that chose that path “because of my health”, or “environment” (as The Wiki mentions), I have nothing against killing the animal: I just cannot eat it, because it’s unsafe for my health, or it’s simply not available in my food chain. So this very specific advertising becomes all of a sudden so odd, it borders the ridiculous?! Or it might be just me …?!

Sure, I get it, if the shoes “said”, “suited for animal rights activists” or “suited for PETA members”, or “no animals have been hurt in the production of these shoes”, like makeup does nowadays – that would have made sense, but … “vegetarians”?!? That’s a bit of a misuse of the word “vegetarian”, and a pretty big assumption, I think.

And if the above mentioned options would have been “too long” for the cool imprint (see picture), then, either don’t bother using the wrong word, or wait until … the English Dictionary comes up with a new word for people who would support fake leather: "animal non-killers”? “animal lovers”?! “animal protectors” ?! “antirealleatherpersons”?!

You figure it out. But don’t butcher the poor word “vegetarian”. It’s done nothing to you!

The Carrot Joke

Did you all hear "the carrot joke"? Did you? Well, if not, here it goes:

Two carrots were walking down the stairs together. One of them was paying no attention to the steps, and he tripped, fell down the stairs and hurt himself really badly. The other carrot called 911, and took the hurt carrot to the emergency room.

After a few hours of surgery and medical investigation, the ER doctor comes out to talk to the healthy carrot and he says:

"Well, I have good news and bad news."

The healthy carrot was waiting with bated breath to hear the fate of his poor, hurt, friend ...

The doctor continued: "Well, the good news is that Mr. Carrot will be OK: he will live, the fall didn't threaten his life. The bad news is ... he will be a vegetable for the rest of his life".

So, now you're supposed to laugh. Or at least think the joke was cute... Yeah, I know: it IS a silly joke, indeed. Nothing amazing about it, right??

The amazing fact about the silly joke was the man who told it to me. My group of volunteers was wrapping up a dinner preparation and serving for Urban Ministry, a homeless shelter, and the man who told us the joke as we were walking out from the charity event was a security guard at The Shelter. This was a man who sees the worst, darkest side of life, every day. No, not death. But struggle. Need. Hunger. And hopelessness. And even despair.

And yes, in the midst of all that, he found energy and purity in his heart, I thought, to tell us "the carrot joke". His laugh was loud and plenty. He told us his 9 year old daughter woke him up that morning to tell him this joke, and he found it so funny, he wanted to share it! I can only imagine that little girl's curly head swaying as she tells her daddy the joke, her giggles getting the man through his hard day, at The Shelter! Such a blessing!! And how his paying attention made his day easier to take on, maybe?!

And that was one of the life's biggest lessons for me, and made my (lately) incredibly pessimistic and negative self snap out of it, and wonder: am I wasting precious time on trite matters, and is life really not too short to worry about small things like co-workers' moods, and managers' inadequacy, and the state of North Carolina being short on cash and me not getting the tax return till June?!

Made me really wonder: did I miss a day in which I did not smile, if not laugh out loud, healthily and happily, as that security guard, at the simple, little things that are plenty around us, IF we pay attention?! And was that not such a shame and waste if I did?!

This silly joke, and the tall, dark, uniformed man visibly in love with his daughter, or with what she brings to his life, an island of happy, and calm, and love, in the midst of chaos and despair, made me stop for a moment and re-assess.

And I just wanted to share, as I thought we all could use a silly joke. Lately.

Movie (Low) Expectations

Everyone that knows me well, knows that I have zero patience. For anything. A place where I test my patience the most is the movies. There, for a couple of hours, there is nothing much else to do, but watch the screen in the dark and hope not to fall asleep. That's one reason I always buy popcorn at the movies: keeps me busy. Somewhat. Movies are like time out for me! Feels like punishment, anyway.

So, it doesn't matter what I watch, if it's at the the theater, it'll be somewhat painful! In this predicament, it really pays off, though, to be pleasantly surprised. My favorite movie experiences, then, are when I go in with low, low, low expectations and I leave ... somewhat satisfied.

This was the case this rainy Sunday, when one of my best friends, B., suggested we'd see Taken. I told her I could see anything, because I wanted some girl time, and to get out on a sad, crappy weekend, but I could not see: gory, horror flicks, no make belief, or sci-fi BS, and no bam-bam-bang-bang boy type, a la Matrix movies, either. I suggested a chick flick. She came back with two choices: Benjamin Button, and Taken.

We both agreed that we'd rather wait for the first one on video, since it's 3 hours long - she doesn't have that time, I don't have that kind of patience; so that was an easy give-up. I was skeptical about Taken. Our friend, C., had reviewed it for us , and I know that typically C. and B. have similar movie tastes, so I figured at least one of us will be happy there! As far as what I would get out of it, though, I was dubious! After all, they made me watch Jackass 2 a couple of years back. I still have nightmares on that one! After reading his review, I thought to myself: "great, a bam-bam-bang-bang movie, when I said NO such thing. *sigh*".

BUT ... for the most part, I trust my friends. Well, except for Jackass, of course! I am probably one of the few Americans who don't read movie reviews! I don't, because I don't believe in waste of time. And most times, that's what they are, to me. I watch trailers, I don't read reviews. There is a difference. I have found movies with great reviews to be shallow, and lame, for my tastes, and the ones with poor reviews to be masterpieces, in my view. So, yes, like everything else, I am picky about my movies! And hard to please! Tell me a movie got an A, 5 stars, or 5o billion red tomatoes in whatever review you're reading, and following and that leaves me as cold as the 40 degree rain that we've had this weekend.

Anyway - I digress....

So, we go to see Taken. Because, like I said: I trust my friends. We're friends because similar tastes and standards brought us here. So ... I trusted C. And also, I trust Liam Neeson! I figured, he could not have signed a contract "that" bad, and the movie had to have something going for it.
And it did.

Yes, it was a "boy movie". Guns, and violence, lot of shooting, and lots of blow ups, and car chases, the works! But I liked it. For three reasons: one: it had a (real) story; the European trafficking of women (and children) is a theme close to home, and my heart! It's not some make-belief crap!

Two: all the violence, and chase scenes, were believable. The way they got around, they found information, they chased each other, they killed each other, required nothing more than current technology and manpower. It didn't require computers and "Dick Tracy watches" (thanks, B.!). I absolutely hate movies where you need 30th century technology to solve a mystery, but the whole time, they look as real as the next day! Sure, it's nice to dream! But ... since I like real stories, that's not something I enjoy. This was ... current. Relate-able stuff!

And three: it had Liam Neeson in it. And even in a second-hand rated movie, as my brother in law called it, he delivers! I have followed him since he was a nobody (in a British TV series, I watched in Romania when I was very young) till when he gave us Oskar Schindler, in Spielberg's masterpiece. He delivers, I think, and although he can play a decent range, he keeps being the same ol' Irishman, I expect in him: brief and mindful speech, hot temper, respectful if you respect him, kinda-guy.

Sure, the movie failed to explain to me how he never got punished for all the mess he did create in Paris. But hey, even I know movies (for the most part) are fiction. So, I am happily writing those explanations off to ... it being a movie, after all! And as we all know: these things happen in movies.

Like my friend, C., said: don't expect Taken to get any Oscars, but it's a good break from the routine, if you're looking for a getaway!

PS: the writing was not even half as lame as my most recent viewing of New In Town, either.