Scrisoare din troleibuz

Atât de rar analizez oamenii din jurul meu, și tot mai des mă analizez pe mine. Oare înseamnă că sunt egocentrica ori doar introspecta?

Văd oamenii în transport doar pentru a-i ocoli, pentru a-mi face un loc de citit sau de scris în carnet. Am un scris special “de troleibuz”, care seamănă mai mult cu un mesaj codificat, decât cu un text. Nu, nu sunt paranoică. Sunt doar editor de fire, nu pot lăsa un potențial cititor să-mi pătrundă în litere înainte de a le redacta.

Peste ani îmi găsesc carnetele. Cu greu înteleg cele scrise, cu greu descifrez cuvintele, aproape nu mai recunosc protagoniștii. Cum crezi, eu întâlnesc oameni pentru a scrie despre ei sau să mă adresez lor?

De ce niciodată nu-mi răspunzi la scrisori?

Scrisoare de pe litoral

Te salut din orașul de pe litoral. Sunt în apropierea portului, la o masă mică de la terasa unui restaurant georgian în care iarăși nu s-au găsit khinkali. Azi nu am găsit nimic din ce-am vrut să mănânc, nici khinkali, nici manti. Mi-au adus un suc de rodie și grapefrut, și o parolă de internet ce abia respiră. În schimb umerii mei arși în forma bretelelor de rucsac au timp să se odihnească de la soare.

Orașele pe mare au scop terapeutic. Și nu-mi pasă că aici vin corăbii, se pescuiește și se scaldă. Mie-mi sunt suficiente câteva ore de plimbare prin el. Să-mi ard nasul și umerii, să simt aerul sărat și vântul dinspre mare, să merg cu picioarele goale prin valuri, nisip și scoici.

Dacă simți că eu cad, du-mă la mare și plimbă-mă pe mal.

De această dată nu am căzut, dar un pic de profilaxie nu strică.

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

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 days = 8 cities

Day 1. 

San Marino is calm as an aging man who knows what he can offer you. He is not begging for your attention. He is sincere and noble.

Day 2.

As to Rimini… Rimini is a man in his forties. He is handsome as hell, he lives in an old villa and he is rich. What you don’t know about him is that he takes his grand-grandfather’s boat from time to time and goes fishing. He comes home with tanned nose and cheeks and cooks the fish, shrimps, and mussels on the open fire for his big family. And to be honest, Rimini is totally my type ❤

Day 3.

Bologna is a nonna. A typical Italian one. She is plump, she has red round cheeks and messy hair. Her clothes absorbed the smell of food and have a lot of flour spots on them. She will feed you well, be sure.

Day 4.

Parma is a girl. A bit provincial and shy, but still attractive. Probably the lack of self-confidence is the reason people don’t appreciate her beauty.

Day 5.

Milano is the man you admire but you know you won’t have. He will seduce you with his good taste in architecture, and music, and fashion. Actually, his hobby is seducing.

Day 6.

Do you know that type of not attractive men that have a lot of women? Bucharest is such a man. He has a personality and a strong charisma. And, somehow, you forget he isn’t handsome.

Day 7-8.

Sofia is a middle-aged woman. She is into traditions and the smell of roses. One single thing creates the disharmony: she doesn’t embrace her age and tries to look younger, wearing brand logos on all of her streets. You can trust her by night, but in the daylight you will easily recognize her real age.

Day 9.

Warsaw is a man. A bit corporatist, well raised, with a good background in science, history, and music. All his wars are over, the scars are already wounded, but he represents the great example of how to revive and rebuild yourself after a struggle.

Day 10 


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