Category: Literare

Rediscovery. Meet me

Meet me, young and emotional on the front seat of a big white car with the seat belt fastened. I don`t know yet that this road trip will turn out in something more than just a ride. Where can a piece of fresh soft cheese with salt eaten in a sheepfold for breakfast, some fallen apples collected from the ground in a monastery garden for lunch, Sambuca near a bonfire for dinner lead to?


“Rediscovery” was an 8 days trip to the hidden and unreachable places of Moldova. We are four of us in our team and we don`t have a plan. We are enjoying the ride along the landscapes of Moldova, hills, caves, cliffs, along a land of sunflowers burnt to ash, turning into an apple orchard, where we stop to steal the round shiny fruits.

We drive slowly through a small village looking for stories. It is a special one in the whole country; old believers – a thousand of a kind, sunny people. Small houses with open gates and doors, dusty roads, barefoot kids playing with pumpkins and corncobs.

We stop near an old Soviet car with two people inside an attached open trunk. They are peeling the seeds out from the sunflower heads with their bare hands and black small seeds fall in a sack at their feet.

– The real happiness, – a woman tells us. – is that our children don`t leave. Young people fall in love with locals and come to Pocrovca to build a life. They don`t look for work in other places. There is always work to be done here.

After forty minutes, we turn on the engine and I hear the crunch of gravel under the wheels as a melody of sunflower seeds falling into the sack.


What do you imagine when you say “poverty”? Moldova has a description of it. It says: “Look at me, I am poor, but hardworking. I am poor, but calm. I am poor, so what?”

Somewhere in the north of the Republic, my mates wash the car. I, glossy and spoiled, lay down in the grass. My sneakers absorbed the dust of my tiny country. My brain absorbed stories. I will carry them with me like a tattoo, like a mark I connected with a local rustic reality. The reality in which the happiness is not an eternal introspective search, where happiness is kind and simple.

There are roads that can be reached just on one-side wheels of a car. They will frighten you; they will be disturbing and complicated. One day, you, the wanderer, the nomad, will come back to your comfortable nest, you will put on your expensive suit, and suddenly you will realize, that under it is another you. And you did a great journey to reach it.

Pictures: Andrei Moraru

11. Poetry


There are days

When I am not a woman

I am poetry

I am all words

Dots and commas.


Verses instead of hair

Verbs instead of lips

I am unbearable,

But on those days

I need to be read

The most.

10. Are we?

We are made of

People we love

And people we hate.

Of songs,

And movies,

And random phrases.

Of fears,

And longings,

And everything

We already lost.

Are we actually people

Or just a mix

Of experiences?


9. People

There are people

who break your Universe into thousands of pieces

And those

who break you into thousands of Universes

And those

who have to put

all your pieces and Universes


Plouă-n Bucureşti

Plouă-n Bucureşti.

Peste toate străzile concomitent.

Peste Dacia, Amzei şi Inocenţei.


Nu toate ploile sunt sincrone.

Nu toţi oamenii vin cu poveşti.

Nu toate drumurile duc undeva.

Nu totul are un sens.


Plouă-n Bucureşti.

Peste toate cuvintele aduse de mine.

Nu a rămas niciunul.


Şi e

mai bine


To a new city

Traveling to a new city is like entering the house of a new lover.

The desire, the anticipation, the fear:

– What if I am lost? What if…?

After a few days you will know:

Here’s the coffee, here the coffee cups are.

You will have the map of his body.

And the smell.

You will wear the smell of a new city, and of a new lover

Like a souvenir.


That’s why we make love

And that’s why we travel:

To steal the smell.


And they

Let us.

Woman leaving entrance door carrying two suitcases, low section


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