Thought Therapy – Cultural Antishock

In 2010, I resolve to look for less and find more. I resolve to stop asking questions and provide more answers. I resolve to make things better for myself and have no regrets. I resolve to just look around and…see. I resolve to smell ripe peaches and hear a saxophone fading off into the night. I resolve to become that person I had known at the beginning. And one more… I resolve to become a more responsible blogger, more present to my own experience of life. Here is to fulfilled resolutions for everyone in 2010!

Today I felt like I wanted to write about the American “airs”, just in case there is somebody left out there who still believes this is something you can’t find in this part of the world. Well, the American “airs” have an important percent of participation in the daily life, even if the mortals are impressed very little or at all by pretentiousness. But the “airs” manage to manifest themselves pretty often in different manners and styles and I cannot but make it subject of my reflections and observations about life.

The “Lexus” obsession! In the parking lot of my school there are about 30 Lexuses every morning. Well, parents with large pockets and even larger egos, nicely align their precious cars in a long, boring and unoriginal display, as unoriginal as a cold in the winter time. Why? I asked to myself. If I had to purchase a big money car right now, I swear (cross my heart-kiss my elbow!), it wouldn’t  be a Lexus. The sedan makes me think of the golden-agers and the SUV really pisses me off with it’s aerodynamic little spoiler and the way they are everywhere up to the level of extremely annoyance.  And no, I’m not jealous!

If I put “a lot of money” and “car” together, I’d have enough to think of a BMW, an Audi, a VW or even of a Mercedes, if it is from the original mercedesian country. But the lexusers know their own business. It’s a sort of a social condition that enables them put their noses up in the air and feel like they breath a different, more impurities-free type of ozone…

Another “must have” are the dental braces for kids. I don’t want to be mean or manifest any ignorance to the subject but, when in a class of 13 kids 8 of them wear braces, you just cannot stop for a second and ask yourself what’s the whole thing about. If they were one or two hundred dollars, you would say, oh, well, why not? I take my hat off in front of a good Mom who wants her kid’s teeth to be all straight and in place. But when you find out that parents take out up to 10 grand from their pockets for the luxury accessory, you look like a fool into the kid’s mouth and ask yourself what exactly is there wrong that must be fixed for that much money? You find out soon, that it is actually about a tooth somewhere in the back of the mouth, slightly veering towards something I would call normality. But what wouldn’t a mother do for a 10 thousand dollar smile?

I go to the gym. Sometimes everyday, sometimes I let months pass by without going. But, no matter when I go or how often, they are there. The divas! Beautiful, blond, athletic, wearing nothing but a little top barely covering voluptuous breasts and tiny  shorts, as well stretched on their heinie in such a way that would let half of the buttocks out and, even more important, would reveal at least a small portion of the thong, graciously matching the sneakers. These girls are pure magic. They don’t perspire at all, their coiffures stay the same, mascara doesn’t run down their faces, the gloss doesn’t wipe out, they finish their gym session, fresh and put together as for an event with a red carpet.

I decided to find out why I always come out of there looking like I had just plowed the field for an entire day, and they don’t. First the divas walk around in search for some strong, muscle males and then they start their warm up exercises that, between you and me, don’t look anywhere close to the ones preceding Mr. Heisman’s training sessions in my highschool PE classes. Widely open legs, breasts pushed out, noisily gum chewing so the jaws get stretched and attention caught. When eventually this occurs,the divas, climb up  treadmills where they take iphones and blackberries out of vuitons and call their friends to tell them that, oh my, they are at the gym which is, you know, quite boring. They laugh out loud, very out and very loud, and set up weekend plans while skillfully making gum bubbles. All this time there are these poor “plowers” waiting in a line to get to a machine where they can truly and sincerely sweat. Divas finally finish their phone calls and realize they need something to read while exercising their bodies and minds so they stepout of the treadmill in search of a tabloid somewhere in that little shelter with magazines forgotten or tossed aside by other divas. On their way back to the “occupied” machine they left a while ago, they remember about other plans and other phone calls they need to make, and these all last as long as my session, from which I come out looking beat and they come out looking like winners. Over points and calories.

Grocery stores. I don’t really like these places, the common, American grocery stores, as I am not satisfied with what I can find there. The bread is sour but nobody minds it. The sourer it is the prouder the consumers are.  Nobody can tell why they eat sour bread, they just know it’s sourdough and that’s…for good! Mustard is sweet, salamis have no taste, or at least not the taste I know and I brought with me from far away places, you can’t find parsnip, tomatoes are savorless and watery and peaches go rotten 3 hours after you purchased them.

And these places are all over.

I wanna say low prices are responsible for the poor quality, but I can’t. Because prices are not low. But even so, I am there thinking, maybe higher prices would raise quality? I found some high level places with “organic” spread all over the store, where food is healthy, no doubt. Is it also good? Ah, this I can doubt! The whole store is populated with ladies full of self importance, wrapped in even more important suits, getting out off their luxury cars to buy the organic yoghurt meant to improve their sensitive digestion and image in the corporate world. I totally admit, peaches at this store  smell like peaches and seem not to capitulate 3 hours after they were moved from the shelf. But even so, there was something not right with that place – the feeling that you pay a lot of money for something that should normally cost even half of the regular price.  And, also, I just don’t like those places where people ask to sample 7 different types of cheese 10 times because they just can’t decide which one is the one that would mostly go along with their mood that night, while 5 other  people are waiting in a line behind. When this happens I feel such an urge to find some normal people. So I found normal grocery stores in normal neighborhoods where people drive normal cars and the bread is normal and…good, oh! so good, and it smells like the oven, no matter if it is baked by Hispanics or Asians or anybody else. And where fruit and vegetables are fresh and yummy even if they are not polished and nicely aligned, even if they have flaws and spots and you have to search for the one you like in the pile. And no woman leaves the store pouting because she was not asked whether she wanted “the ball boy” of the store to carry her yoghurt and fancy cheese to the convertible.

I went out on the patio this morning and I noticed that some of the leaves have started to turn brown. “Here comes the fall” I say to myself, and I am there waiting for that well known emotion of the last days of summer, before school started, when leaves were falling and plums started to invade the farmers markets together with their friends the grapes, the walnuts and the pumpkins for pie. And the mornings were chilly and Mom was looking for notebooks for school and blue plastic covers.  School started here in California, quiet, with no signaling, with no emotions, with no kids running around carring huge school bags, with no aroma of autumn. Kids got to school on a Wednesday, in big SUVs, pushing backpacks on wheels and sharing vacation stories with no flavor of childhood. School started here but autumn didn’t come. And it probably won’t come any time soon, no matter how many leaves will change their color.

A friend has recently asked me whether I cooked here in America. I told her I did. Every now and then. But not very often. I don’t know if this makes me a modern woman or, on the contrary, throws me under the “no good housewife” category, but I know for sure that no matter which I would be, I don’t care. If you ask my Mom, she would definitely appreciate this as “no good” and her face would get sad thinking of all the recipes she carefully packed in my luggage, recipes of savory food that were meant to be reproduced in the kitchen over the ocean.

Well, it wasn’t meant to be! Those recipes entered a new world where there are always more important things to do than stirring ingredients into a pot. Of course, I sometimes feel like I would have our traditional ciulama or a piece of cozonac, the authentic Romanian sponge cake, but I quickly manage to annihilate my cravings with some delicious entrees from here.

Now, there will be lots of strong Romanian advocates, pleading for the traditional Romanian food and its superiority over everything else on the planet, who would be happy to jump at my throat and fight for their strong belief.  Well, madams and gentlemen, with all due respect, let me tell you you’re wrong!  It’s no doubt, our food is delicious because it’s ours, but once you get through the Japanese, Vietnamese, Indian, Thai or other kitchens, you start reconsidering your position towards the time-honored, long-established sarma and start to be happy that you could offer your  taste buds flavors and aromas of different brands.

Some people in Romania get very upset when somebody dares to compare the Romanian food with the food in America. I’d say it’s not the American food that gets into competition with the Romanian cuisine, but the food here in general, in its variety. In my opinion there is no such thing as the American kitchen. There is this sort of culinary pornography that takes place under the American label, where there are dressings and gravy dripping and splashing all over, sizzling oils, honey having an affair with ham and chocolate having an intercourse with bacon, fruit dipped into hot oil and then dragged and smudged into sticky syrups in an orgy of taste ending with an orgasmic finale, and heart attacks. Comparing the Romanian food with this, yes, we detachedly win the first prize! But if comparing the Romanian food  with the variety of dishes and recipes that happen on this land, I need to consider if we can even get a place on the podium.

Lie to yourself
Search
Forgive
Run
Count wonders
Pretend
Gather
Ask yourself questions with lots of question marks in the end
Think
Cry a tear 
Smile to the night
Search for yourself
Ask around if anyone has seen you
Feel
Too much, too intense, too real
Nobody has seen you
In a long time
Who?
Appear
Exist
Small and mediocre 
And empty
And with no access 
To the tale of life.

What do you do when there is nothing else left to do?