Owlspotting

I can’t see the sun anymore—it’s now a smidgeon of light behind grayish clouds, as if it turned away to fluff the pillows and get ready to tuck itself in.

I’m not a sucker for sunsets and I’m not one to indulge much in star-gazing or in the occasional open-sky-as-a-parable-for-freedom banter. I once dumped a girl because she used to do too much of it.

“Oh, those stars clogging the sky, you should have seen them,” she could have said.

“Oh my God, please don’t go there,” I must have thought to myself.

But I do let the occasional imagery fool me, especially when accompanied by the sound of the train rocking the tracks (the draft of this post was written on the Bucharest-Sighisoara IC). I’m a train kind of guy—it has this romantic quality, a ‘loner on a mission’-allure that, while cheesy, I find attractive. It’s comforting to crash into your assigned spot, open your book and let go.

And the occasional gaze out the window just as you’ve escaped a tormenting passage describing stomach-removal followed by an orgy involving spray-painted pink bunnies (hypothetical reading material) is like the bite of chocolate you take at night after you brushed your teeth: clichéd but fantastically rewarding and awkwardly self-affirming.

But I’m afraid I’ve derailed the discussion from where I intended it to go. Wednesday night I saw Cristian Nemescu’s beautiful “California Dreamin’ (endless)” and one thing I can certainly say about it is that I wasn’t nearly as perky on the bus ride home as I am now (Lavi knows).

The movie is ruthless in its portrayal of an absurd situation that takes place at a desperate time for Eastern Europe and involves characters desperate to hang on to their personal quests.

In the movie, a train packing American NATO troops (led by Armand Assante) and military equipment bound for Kosovo is stopped by the station master (a devastating Razvan Vasilescu) of the small Romanian village of Capalnita. The train ends up sequestered there for five days because it lacks proper customs forms. The station master is a crook and the master of his fiefdom: he collects (or simply pockets) mountains of bribes from passing freight trains: everything from cigarettes to bags of cement. But he stops the NATO train under the legitimate pretense that it doesn’t have documentation.

As a recent returnee and a former Romanian exile, this is when my heart began racing. This was kafkian bureaucracy and clerk-bullying at its best: people at the mercy of a hypocritical scumbag who randomly decides to use the law today, while ignoring it on every other occasion.

Many of us who’ve left the country have left because they didn’t want to fight that. Many of us who returned still think we can change it. What hurt me most is that the man’s actions (the character is brilliantly written and is far from being one-sided although I know I make him as such) are often dismissed by people as being „the way things are.” He is a prime example of how things should not be and he illustrates the failure of an entire system, not just one station master. The fate of the NATO train was chosen randomly—little peons in the system often have that power—but its long-term stay was sealed by a lack of action at all the levels above. Nobody brought the customs papers from Bucharest and all the way up to the minister people tried the same approach of „fixing the problem” by throwing more bribes at it.

The station master-type freaks people out because of the power he wields and I admit that this archetype scares me, too. That is why Nemescu’s movie is so good. Because it shows what journalism has taught me in recent years—even bad men sometimes have good (or at least understandable) reasons for their actions. In this case, the station master stopped the Americans because they never came to save him and his family after World War II. Blocking their passage to Kosovo, where they would aid the US army bombing the Serbs, was his revenge on what life had bestowed upon him. Not to mention that stopping the Americans somehow feeds his illusion that he can keep his daughter (Maria Dinulescu) from eloping into the world.

The Americans, though mostly a group character, are no caricatures either. They slowly give in to local temptations (yes, that means women), allowing some personality to shine through their soldiers’ uniforms. The captain though has his own obsession—he has to finish the mission and get the train to Kosovo no matter what.

It’s hard to believe that the American captain and the station master understand their mutual obsessions. Their devotion to their mission, which Nemescu conveyed so clinically to the viewer, is too blinding for them to open up to a stranger.

California Dreamin’ is a movie about the early times of when the West met East; about a clash and mesh of cultures in the unlikeliest of circumstances, where not even a translator can do much good. It pits American idealism and slight naiveté to Romanian laziness and slight cunningness and the result is epic chaos on a minimal scale. In such chaos, the only hope lies with the dream of escaping—whether it’s the train escaping its imprisonment or the station master’s daughter escaping his grip.

Nemescu and his co-writers penned one of the most touching tales of longing, obsession and cultural difference I’ve ever seen. The movie is sad, but hopeful in that things move on, which in itself is a metaphor for the backstory of the movie. Nemescu and his sound engineer died in a stupid car crash before the editing was finished, but this rough won the „Un certain regard” section at the 2007 Cannes film festival.

Romania has always dreamed of the Americans coming and whatever we feel about them today (be it hatred for how their late and often condescending arrival or appreciation for their long-expected and just as often enthusiastic arrival) is borne out of this sense of longing. And for some, like the station master, this longing was endless and overpowering.

I’m full.

Every once in a while (alright, every once in a very rare while) you get the chance to spend that perfect weekend peppered with just the right amount of food. Saturday was burger time and Sunday–following another lovely American tradition–was brunch time.

Just a few days ago I was chatting with Mirona over beers about how awesome American breakfast was: not just the variety of salty foods and omelets, but the myriads of soft textures and heavenly flavors that reside in pastries–everything from pancakes to scones to sweet breads. Couple with that, Lavi shared a personal fantasy of the “hangover party,” which involved getting together with people for coffee and such after one of those rougher nights on the town.

These conversations, along with my own personal longing for American breakfast and a new muffin pan purchased as a birthday present to myself, led me to the logical conclusion that Sunday should be brunch day.

And it was. The menu was simple but tasty:

– Pepper and onion omelet;
– Strawberry Banana muffins (we used this recipe as a guide);
– Mimosa cocktails (1/3 orange juice, 2/3 champagne).

I’ll take credit for chopping and cutting a bunch of the ingredients as well as finding recipes and offering the much needed cooking space and encouragement. As usual, most of the cooking credit goes to Jo and Lavi. We make a pretty good kitchen triad and we’re available for weddings, funerals and various spontaneous gatherings. All we ask for in return is a decent working soundtrack and the right to share your personal story with the world.

Are we worth it? Just check out our dream-like muffins below (and this was our first attempt, mind you!)

A couple of weeks ago I found myself drooling at the thought of an American hamburger. One of those that require you to handle ground meat, assemble the patties, grill them (in a pan will work just fine), slap a piece of cheese on them and so on. Yesterday I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted a hamburger and I was going to make one even if some ingredients were hard to assemble on a visit to the giant Cora store.

What I didn’t have was good lettuce and some of that seriously American cheese. I made do with some Romanian cheese (the softer kind) and Lavi suggested some of the leftover cabbage. The onions and the tomatoes proved lovely though. And the hamburger buns were not really hamburger buns, but they were OK.

Here’s what we came up with:

Perusing the drafts folder in my e-mail, I came across an excerpt from Svetlana Boym’s book, “The Future of Nostalgia.” I met Ms. Boym, a Harvard professor, in Boston a few months back and we chatted over coffee about nostalgia, its post 9/11 manifestation in the West (her book came out just before and she said she’d revise some themes today) and other pretentious-sounding topics.

It was a pleasant late-afternoon, one of those dominated by concepts rather than facts. For some reason I believe Thursday is the ideal afternoon for concepts to trump facts. That being said, here’s more theoretical ranting on the idea of “home.”

When exiles return “back home” they occasionally realize that there is nothing homey back there, and that they feel more at home in the exilic retreat that they have learned to inhabit. The exile became home, and it is the experience of returning to the country of birth that might become unsettling.

One shouldn’t ask writers in exile whether they plan to go back; it is condescending, and presumes that the biography of a nation carries more weight than the biography of an individual and his eccentric imagined community. The tear of nostalgia is not a tear of return; one doesn’t become one with the object of longing.

The booming sound of the giant speakers was pounding us all.

I’ve been tortured by concert speakers before, but the warm butter way in which the violin layered itself over the bass sent chills down my spine. People all around me were waving their arms in the air and jumping, their feet touching the pavement for just enough bounce to leap again. This muggy Bucharest May night was the perfect backdrop for Gogol Bordello to rip into “Immigrant punk“, their wonderful track about alienation.

Music has often been a solitary experience for me, a personal exile I craved to share with others, but rarely could. On that night, bobbing, bumping and bruising with my friends, it was no longer just mine. As the band sang “Immigrant punk,” I remember grabbing Tibi and Jo, who had suspended themselves on the guardrail, by the shoulders and kissing them on the head. (Luiza was next, and Lavi must have received similar treatment at some point during the show.)

On stage, Eugene Hutz sang:

Of course we immigrants wanna sing all night long
Don’t you know the singing saves the troubled soul?

Yes, Gogol Bordello is a fun band and their Bucharest gig was an awesome concert. But this post isn’t (just) about them.

A couple of weeks back I was rushing home from the neighborhood supermarket hauling a vacuum cleaner. I had just had an air conditioning unit installed and I had debris all over my rug. The men who installed it had a horrid fight with my super (too pretentious a designation for the Romanian equivalent but I’ll go with it) and the two parties even traded threats like “Go hang yourself,” “I’ll head-butt you in the mouth,” or “I’ll slap you with the back of my hand and you’ll go to sleep for five minutes.”

Social hysteria aside, as I started sucking up the dust I realized that the AC unit, along with the new fridge and stove that I had bought a few days before, was more than just a shiny addition to my Bucharest apartment. It was one of those pathetic cries for permanence that some people—me for instance—answer by buying domestic appliances.

I say this because everything is still about being ‘here’ as opposed to ‘there.’ Everything is still about no longer being a visitor. Everything is still about re-claiming the idea of home. Everything is still about being in control of a new, yet familiar, reality.

One of the saddest things I have come to realize is that all of the above are my responsibility and I have to do all this (largely) by myself.

You see, I blush when people mention the United States because I perk up no matter how disconnected from the conversation I might have been. And it’s not because I’m one of those “America is the land of honey and milk” preachers; it’s because for a long time America was home. So when people want to talk about the reality I’m familiar with, I start buzzing. “Yes, please please please please. Let’s talk about America. What can I tell you? Is there anything you want to know? Can I tell you something even though you might not care?”

I told Lavi I’m still largely a visitor being shown around the streets on Bucharest. Sure, I know those streets like my back pockets, but they are not my streets (yet). They are their streets and I follow their lead. And what’s most irritating is that I can’t show them MY streets, can’t have them drink in my bars, sleep in my bed, use my toothpaste (or even my toothbrush), or go to my concerts.

I will soon own these streets myself and I will become one of them. But they will never become one of me because they never experienced my reality with me. I know it’s childish (and corny) to think I’m losing something of my American experience by not being able to convey it to others, but I feel this deeply.

The childish kisses I gave my friends Friday were both an acceptance of this natural process of loss and a small thank you note for the work they do as guides.

There is a Bright Eyes song (music talks about a lot of things) that says:

All your friends and sedatives mean well, but make it worse
Every reassurance just magnifies the doubt
Better find yourself a place to level out

I think I know what that means, or at least I know what it means to me. I “leveled out” as Eugene Hutz and Gogol Bordello crashed on the heads of a couple of thousand screaming Romanians at Arenele Romane.

I might not be “home” yet, but I don’t feel like a transient gypsy anymore.

Somehow, on a muggy night, at an outdoor rock show in Bucharest, I have traded transience for permanence.

And such.

Can you see us? Sure you can–we’re on the bottom left of the screen, where the yellow shirt becomes illuminated about 11 seconds in. Yes, I’m the one wearing yellow.

My friend Andrei is an awesome photographer. I just thought I’d share that bit of info with you today. You can see a slide show of his work on diversity in mid-Missouri (where we both went or still go to school) here.

Sometimes the comments one gets on a blog should be stand alone posts. Like this one:

I am ZAhoor from a Group of company based in DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES. Our company is looking for BARTENDERS, professionals and entertainers from ROMANIA for a 7 star hotel project. I am confident you will be able to help me in serving my client. Please get in touch as earliest as possible. My contact details is Mobile 00971502722960, Office 0097143323301, Fax 009714332378, Email reachme@aimsgroup.ae, chat alwaysmirza@yahoo.com. Please get in touch. Its very urgent.You can be my business agent in ROmania.

No, I did not accept the offer. Yes, I guess this can be called free advertising.

Romanian cities didn’t use to have suburbs or much of anything resembling living spaces on their outskirts. The outer ring was the land of giant factories, the heartland of soulless production, where metal once ruled and now rusts in peace.

As metal rusts on one edge of town, metal gives birth to new neighborhoods at the other. Cities are expanding, people are slowly gravitating outward, traffic jams have become common place, and metal is once again in fashion.

Photos taken in Cluj Napoca.

My Bucharest apartment is (still) largely empty. I barely have any clothes here, I am using kitchen utensils borrowed from my friends, and I live by the “3 things you buy first in a new apartment” list: an excruciatingly large amount of chips (because cooking this early on is out of the question), bedding (there’s something comforting about new sheets) and toilet paper (to ease the pain of the chips).

If you are lucky, you have friends who’ll come and attempt to cook a first meal using the paucity of equipment. They’ll even stuff whole lemons up a chicken’s ass and make it the smokiest meal you’ve seen in recent years. And it’ll be damn tasty! Thanks Jo!

“Romania is the country where queuing is for idiots,” Karla writes on her blog. Navigating ques in Romania takes a particular degree of rudeness that foreigners, or us, Romanians returning from abroad, find puzzling and more irritating than locals do.

Karla’s anecdotes are funny and revealing. Last summer I got into a similar fight at the bank, when a guy cut in front of me. I usually don’t snap at strangers but that time I did, and I scolded the guy and his wife for having no manners. It felt lame afterwards to pull out the manners card, but I did feel better for a moment. I do wish I wouldn’t have to unload my social frustrations on strangers in banks though.

Horde mentality, cutting in line and giving others no privacy in public spaces remain largely foreign concepts in Romania. For example, last month when I came back, it began to feel like home the moment my fellow countrymen started shoving each other to board the Bucharest-bound plane in London. Romanians are so afraid of being left out that they’ll crowd into any space, assigned seats or not. What’s odder is that they also bum-rush the exits when it’s all done, as if to secure their place on Earth–which, by the way, we are the center of.

For the Romanian speakers among you, I’ll attach a top 10 of Romanian ques that I compiled in 2002 for FHM. It’s oddly current, although I’d place supermarket/hypermarket ques way higher if this were done today.

For the English speakers out there, the list includes ques at ATMs, supermarkets, cinemas, the post office and so on. Top of the list is waiting in line at the American embassy in order to get the visa that can get you away from it all.

And if you come back, you can be sure ques will be there for you.

Top 10 al cozilor:

10. Coada vacii.

Coada vacii este o coada cat se poate de romaneasca. La aceasta coada sta intreg poporul roman de vreme buna fara sa cracneasca. Fie ca vaca se numeste NATO, UE sau mai stim noi ce! De stat la coada vacii se sta.

9. Coada de la Bancomat.

Coada de la Bancomat e o gaselnita destul de recenta. Cu cativa ani in urma coada de la Bancomat se manifesta doar in cazul in care o intreaga familie posesoare de card-uri, dorea sa-si scoata niste bani. Cozile de la bancomate au cateva cauze determinanete pe langa cresterea numarului de carduri: nimeni nu vrea sa lase masinariei un comision (fie el cat de mic) si atunci cauta bancomatul bancii care i-a eliberat card-ul. Unde e foarte posibil ca 20% din cei ce stau la coada sa nu stie sa foloseasca card-ul, 10% sa-si uite pinul si 5% sa-l introduca gresit blocand automatul.

8. Coada de la supermarket.

Coada de la superkmarket tine in special de ora zilei in care te hotarasti sa-l vizitezi. Si pentru ca in Romania vizita la un supermarket este „la moda”, cozile apar si ele. In special in preajma serii cand te intorci de la servici si simti ca trebuie sa improspatezi stocul de beri, iar ea sa stea din nou cu minutele la raionul de cosmetice, desi a stat si ieri si cu doua zile in urma. si probabil nu va cumparara nimic. si cand te bucuri ca pleaca de la langa raft si vei putea iesi si tu din magazin vezi coada, unde alti barbati tristi stau cu cosul plin si prietena zambitoare asteptand sa ajunga odata acasa.

7. Coada de la cinematograf.

Fenomen ce iese de sub control in zilele cu reducere. Atunci desi e o singura ferestruica prin care se elibereaza biletele, coada este pe 3-4 randuri, fiecare sperand ca pe randul lui sa fie cei mai multi nesimtiti care sa se impuna acolo in fata. Nici de aici nu prea scapi caci daca ea vrea la film, ecran te faci. si atunci ajuti si tu cu un dram de nesimtire ca randul tau sa ajunga la casa. Iar daca nu poti, te adresezi vanzatorilor ambulanti si dai mai multi bani chiar decat pretul normal. Halal reducere!

6. Coada de la ghiseul de abonamente la metrou.

Aceasta coada ia amploare de doua-trei ori pe an, dar atunci trebuie sa lupti pentru supravietuire. In special dupa anul nou, cozile de la metrou nu sunt departe de peron, iar daca destinatia ta e Universitate, ora 11:00, iar tu vii de la Piata Unirii (evident cu gandul de a iti face mai intai abonament) ar trebui sa te prezinti la ghiseu la 9:00 si sa speri ca nu se va termina stocul de abonamente. Pentru ca o pedeapsa mai crunta decat a ajunge in fata unui ghiseu fara abonament nu este decat „saptamana fara sex” pe care ti-o mai impune din cand in cand consoarta.

5. Coada de la Posta.

Coada aflate in floare cand pensionarii vin sa-si ridice pensia. Stai acolo dupa ei, astepti sa se certe toti unul dupa altul cu „tovarasa” si apoi sa plece bombanind. Tu probabil ai de pus un plic sau de ridicat un colet, dar asisti la tabloul varstei a treia in Romania contemporana. Te intrebi invariabil de ce nu au fost acasa cand a venit postasul cu pensia (ca parca d-asta sunt pensionari!), iar cand ajungi la ghiseu te trezesti cat de marcat esti. iti ceri pensia, faci scandal ca nu e, iar cand ispravest lista de injuraturi ceri un timbru si pleci multumit. Asa da coada.

4. Coada de la Gara

Ea vrea vineri la munte/mare dar tu afli asta abia joi seara. Asa ca ajunsi vineri in gara, ea numai zambet, tu numai bagaje, incepe coada. Pentru ca din nou langa tine ii vezi pe „colegii” de la supermarket si ei cu bagaje si cu niste ele zambitoare. Dupa o ora de coada (asta pentru ca ai nimerit un week-end mai slab) si 2 bilete fara loc esti in cea mai buna forma pentru a o asculta pe ea bombanind despre cat de greu ii va fi sa stea in picioare.

3. Coada de la Farmacie.

Sa te puna dracu’ sa ajungi fara prezervative la mare. Pentru ca atunci incepe cu adevarat coada. La farmacie se sta precum in trecut la oua si ai mereu impresia ca iti lipseste tichetul. La cat stai acolo ajungi sa ii cunosti pe ceilalti baieti necajiti, iar cand ajungi sa cumperi te intrebi de ce dracu ai stat atata. Coada de la farmacie iti ofera, pe langa prilejul de a te intalni cu mai vechii prieteni din supermarket si de la gara si pe acela de a studia farmacista. Care va fi de doua tipuri: frustrata si intristata de barbatii bine care ii „pradeaza” farmacia, sau buna si amuzata de cum stati cu totii ca disperatii la coada.

2. Coada de la evidenta populatiei

Incearca pe cat se poate sa nu te muti, pentru ca altfel te vor apuca pandaliile. Iar daca trebuie sa o primesti pe ea la tine, mai bine ia-o intr-o chirie simbolica decat sa-i faci buletin pe adresa ta. Bine, probabil te va injura ca la usa cortului, dar inchide ochii. Pentru ca n-ai vazut iadul pana nu ai asteptat la coada la Serviciul de Evidenta al Populatiei. E unul din locurile in care vii cu doua ore inainte sa deschida si tot e tarziu – sunt cei care au venit chiar cu trei ore inainte! Locul in care nu-ti ajung niciodata hartiile pe care le ai la tine si locul unde cei aflati la coada nu sunt buni parteneri de discutie. Decat daca te pricepi la evolutia pretului la rosii si stii destule injuraturi la adresa birocratiei.

1. Coada de la Ambasada Americana

Trista coada. O coada mitica si imprevizibila. Toti cei care au stat la ea spera ca nu mai e nevoie sa mai stea vreodata. Cei care stau de mai multe ori dar la intervale mici sunt perseverenti si idealisti. Cei care stau de mai multe ori insa la intervale mari sunt norocosi. La aceasta coada nu vei sta pentru ca te pune ea, iar in cel mai optimist scenariu, stai pentru ca nu mai vrei cu ea la supermarket, munte sau mare. Celor de la ghiseu (dupa prea mult stat la coada) le spui diverse chestii numai adevarul nu. Caci tu stai la acea coada in speranta sa nu mai trebuiasca sa stai vreodata la altele.