(images of Sydney in photo gallery)

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 its 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.

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.

 This summer I seriously decided to take advantage of my status as the occupant of a place 10 minutes from the ocean. So far I have managed to go to the beach about 5 times. More than in other summers. I don’t ride a bike there, it’s hard to find a place to park your car and it’s impossible or innapropriate to just walk. It’s not that I have turned into a person full of airs, it’s just something you don’t do here. It’s a sort of an unwritten rule that you start to follow soon after arrival, as you don’t want to stand out. And, why shouldn’t I admit it? It’s comfortable!

It’s just that, because of this, during the summer, the ocean is inaccessible. And for the same reason, I’ve started to wonder: Where is it better? At the ocean or at the seaside?

“At the ocean, of course!” I tell to myself quickly. It’s right here, it has palm trees and piers, the beaches are wide and not crowded, there are surfers, and it’s clean, as nobody spits out sunflower seeds shells and the air is not phonically polluted by the guy next to your towel who turns the music up in an attempt to draw everybody’s attention to his shiny, 2 finger thick golden necklace.
Maybe this is no longer the reality at the seaside, the reality I experienced when I used to spend my Summers there. I don’t know how much things have changed or if they’ve changed at all, but I still like to remember the mici on the terraces spread all over the beach, the tacky minute made photo with the monkey or the camel loaded with summer memories, the craziness of Costinesti and the stabilopozi. I know it sounds crazy, but I miss climbing those monsters and losing myself in contemplation while watching the sea playing hide-and-seek. And, to be perfectly honest, I also miss the algae and the sand full of shells and the lady with doughnuts and the beach that doesn’t close at 10pm. I don’t know where it is better. I don’t even know whether the seaside, the way I remember it, is still there, but I know that as long as there is this projection in my mind, the ocean has no chance to reach the status of the perfect place, as there will always be something richer in my memory to compare it with. ]]> http://carinabro.mdf.net/2009/08/10/at-the-seaside-or-at-the-ocean/feed/langswitch_lang/en/ 2 http://carinabro.mdf.net/2009/03/17/answer/ http://carinabro.mdf.net/2009/03/17/answer/#comments Wed, 18 Mar 2009 06:13:18 +0000 Bobiţa http://carinabro.mdf.net/?p=206 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.

Somebody said that if you can’t go back to yesterday to start a new beginning, then you should start today a new ending.