Archive for the ‘Tgdyk tgdyk’ Category

The New Old Vilnius of 2019

Sunday, August 25th, 2019

They have this thing in Lithuania that they strive to rebuild the past in the most literal, concrete and visible way they can, bricks and mortar and shiny new paint at the ready as if that's what matters and where the essence is - in the very first layer that meets the least discerning eye and nowhere else. And funnily enough the rebuilding of the past sits side by side with failing to take care of the present1 but enthusiastically building for the future past just next to it, so that it all looks - depending on where you turn - either decrepit or ultra-shiny among new-old:

Decrepit building at the top of the hill in central Vilnius. Or looking up to see what you are all headed to.

Decrepit building at the top of the hill in central Vilnius. Or looking up to see what you are all headed to.

The shiny new dwarfing the not-so-shiny old in the front. Or looking the other way - down the hill, away from the decrepit building at the top.

The shiny new dwarfing the not-so-shiny old in the front. Or looking the other way - down the hill, away from the decrepit building at the top.

As to the rebuilding of the past, there's no more trace of the red road in Vilnius2 but the new old castle is fully completed, a white building with small windows next to the mound where the ruins used to be in the very centre of the town behind the other white building with fancy windows and a lot of guys on top holding on to huge crosses. Essentially holding on to their catholicism I suppose, in the very literal and concrete way that seems to be specific to the place. In any case, the completed rebuilding of the past from one ruined tower to a whole "palace" further includes a black statue that can proudly compete with Romanian incompetence at building monuments of this sort. Apparently it's called all sorts of mocking names by locals who focus on the guy's position but I find the "horse" just as weird - as if it were pushing the man over the side of that plinth and into the plazza below:

The horse pushing Gediminas down from his monument.

The horse pushing Gediminas down from his monument.

Just so you don't end up thinking that this rebuilding of monuments and all things past is a Vilnius-only thing or even a modern-only thing or even a focused-on-some-specific-past-only thing, there's also the castle at Trakai as an earlier example of the same approach - if by other masters - in those lands: while there was once a castle there, what you can see nowadays is at best a reconstruction and more to the point a fancy and a pretense really. The history of the place mentions a gradual building and addition of defenses and features while the place held military significance3 followed by similarly gradual falling into disuse and disrepair as its usefulness dwindled in the 17th century. Not a bad life for a castle after all and arguably a rather honorable one to start off as a little fortress on an island, to grow and expand, to serve in all ways possible from an outpost to a dungeon to a royal summer residence and then to rest its weary ruins surrounded by the same blue waters that for all their daily change of colours turned out to have changed so very little by comparison. I've seen photos of the place in the 1870s and I've seen a picture of it from a few years earlier and I'd have rather visited those honest ruins than the reconstructed tourist-attraction in castle-shape for all its prettiness and all its exhibits. Still, one visits always the castle that is rather than the castle that was and there's little point in faulting locals for rebuilding a castle now precisely to bring in the paying hordes while only a few centuries ago they had built a castle to keep away the armed hordes:

The ever-changing Trakai water that stays apparently as it was.

The ever-changing Trakai water that stays apparently as it was.

Tourist trap in the shape of a old castle that used to be on those same islands at Trakai, in other times, in other lives.

Tourist trap in the shape of an old castle that used to be on those same islands at Trakai, in other times, with other lives.

An old chess set exhibited in the castle at Trakai.

An old chess set exhibited in the castle at Trakai.

How did the lion go through the wall?

How did the lion go through the wall?

And so I took the child to Trakai and showed him around the whole place, reconstructed castle included and he was delighted that there was a moat and there were boats and it was truly "on an island" as it's apparently correct and proper for a castle in his mind. The walls and unexpected ends were sort of all right too, at least for... a bit:

The very funny walls of this castle!

The very funny walls of this castle!

The child found the castle smelly inside and it was indeed smelly on a hot day with that many visitors going around. I couldn't get him to try the prisoner cage nor any of the other similarly demeaning attractions that people around were nevertheless rather happy to squeeze themselves in. He did watch them smiling though so I suppose they served their purpose anyway. And he got some sort of equipment more to his liking too so he posed with his new wooden axe as ferociously as a 6 year old in shorts and sandals and otherwise a sunny disposition can look:

Defender of the castle's gate (in summer garb).

Defender of the castle's gate (in summer garb).

As a bit of a break from rebuilded castles of all sorts, we tried on other days the tamed and less tamed nature all around Vilnius. For the town is indeed the greenest town of that size that I know - its parks are more like proper woods and at times, starting from the centre of the town it can easily feel that the town itself is a bit of outgrow on the outskirts of the woods rather than the woods being on the outskirts of the town4.

Tiny corner of landscaped gardens at the Belmontas park of many-closed cafes.

Tiny corner of landscaped gardens at Belmontas park of many-closed cafes.

Pretty mini-waterfall.

Pretty mini-waterfall.

Rather insensitive to green meadows and carefully constructed waterfalls, the child was nevertheless delighted to get to chase a ball with sunglasses and cap on just as well. So he chased the ball and played some football in recruited-company while we had a walk around and enjoyed the green and the quiet and the less crowded place.

The boy, the ball and the sunglasses too.

The boy, the ball and the sunglasses too.

And then we sampled the very tasty shashlik and I gave up on trying to find a drink I might actually like on their menu so I decided to get to know at least what I don't like, namely all the Lithuanian beers:

One beer among wasp-traps and other liquids.

One beer among wasp-traps and other liquids.

As they didn't bother to actually provide any sort of help naming them or labelling them, I had to match them to the menu as a sort of extra challenge to make the time pass while the shashlik was being done. But better than their actual names, I remember their very specific taste so that I can describe them like this: from left to right above you have some pish-wasser with an unidentified aftertaste; a glass of liquid smoke with no other taste; an almost-beer with a slightly bitter after-taste; the best Lithuanian beer that turned out to be Belgian, of course; a foamy yellow wasp-attractor liquid.

To forget about beers though, there were otherwise in other places more interesting drinks, from those for little ones...

The more drinks the wider the grin!

The more drinks the wider the grin! those for very stubborn ones:
A very stubborn wine in various colours.

A very stubborn wine in various colours.

  1. The town has changed in many ways but most striking of them all are two that I can see: a lot of new buildings appeared; a lot of the local specific goods - including a whole selection of caviar in the shops! - all but disappeared. The change of wind from east to west is clear but nobody seems to have noticed that the problem stays the same - it's one of balance and strengths of the winds that are let through, not one of choosing sides. A hurricane from the east is just as bad as far as I can see as a hurricane from the west. Anyways, the locals are otherwise generally helpful and pleasant enough but you'll be able to hear some outbursts too - especially if you know what language to listen to, at what time - and otherwise there is the same boredom decay that I saw recently hanging over Romanian towns, almost palpable in the standard-malls, among the rather idle employees that have to watch rows of chained items such as school bags that cost 300 euros or more each, for no clear reason at all. 

  2. It was still there some ~10 years ago when I last walked the whole centre of the town and took in all the details, red bricks included. And I know now that I should have written it all up as it was then, for I'm now sorely lacking any way of providing the references that my mind throws in at almost every other sentence. But at that time I couldn't see anything worth writing about - I explored the city and took it in without any need to spit anything out again. Perhaps I was way too inwards focused, perhaps I was too young and too foolish to know better. But mostly I had had by then such a terrible and prolongued lack of anything useful coming from the *contemporary* outside that I maintained communications very close to a minimum really. 

  3. Until about 1410 when the Teutonic Knights were defeated. 

  4. This is true in a direct sense too: it's the only town I know of where you need to go *towards* the centre to get to the biggest parks rather than away from the centre. On the first visits this made a total mess of my internal bearings, of course. 

A Visit at the Recycling of War Artefacts Museum

Wednesday, August 7th, 2019

His name was H. and he was made to fly. H. flew sometimes for fun, sometimes for duty and nobody really stopped to separate the two - how did it matter whether or when it was one or the other, anyway? After all, H. had made loops in the air when followed by the eyes of children waving flags but also when trying to avoid a quite different type of followers. In between flights though, there was also a lot of travel on land and on sea, chasing the next possibility to fly and getting in the process a lot of markings from all the travel and from all the chasing. But it was in the end a simple fire after taxying that kept Harrier ZD4611 down long enough for it to be declared the past and rather than repaired, just hung on ropes at the museum, in a bit of a mixed-up exhibition, next to a bomb of previous times:

A WW2 bomb next to a Harrier plane active from 1990 to 2010.

A WW2 bomb next to a Harrier plane active from 1990 to 2010.

We visited the Imperial War Museum in London (IWR) at the end of June this year but I never bothered to write down anything about it - it's a bit of a mix really with some interesting bits (there are Robert Capa's photos taken during the landing of American troops on the beach in Normandy on 6th June 1944; there are also regular events with WW2 veterans - at times and depending on your luck, you might get a glimpse of what they made of it), some reasonable parts (I hadn't seen the insides of a bomb before) and some terribly propagandistic stuff - at times the three are even mixed, what can you do. As I was clearing up my old camera today, the few pictures I took at the time (and promptly forgot about) came to light and so here's the entrance too, from the only awkward angle I could find at the time to avoid having some t-shirt clad icecream eater in the picture:

Barrels of 2 naval guns stranded on land in front of the former-hospital that is now the Imperial War Museum in London.

Barrels of 2 naval guns stranded on land in front of the former-hospital that is now the Imperial War Museum in London.

The entrance though is quite representative of the whole place - it makes me think more of recycling and propagandistic posing than of war itself (then again, everything is indeed forever recycled and arguably propaganda of one sort or another too). The building itself is a former hospital that recycled in the 19th century the Ionic for its columns. The two guns pointing away from it are barrels of naval guns taken from 2 different ships - the link being that both shot at least once during WW2. The shells are planted in neat rows for framing the picture I suppose and serve inevitably as climbing/sitting places for bored children. Mine liked at least the guns (they are BIG) but wasn't impressed by the shells (why are they yellow?). He liked the aeroplanes inside but that's be default currently - if it's an aeroplane, then and therefore it is interesting. And he listened politely to the old man telling his story of what it was like living as a child in London during the war, bombings and deaths and then evacuation and all. After which he raised his hand and waited his turn and asked of course about the one thing that was indeed most interesting from his point of view: *what* was inside this bomb exactly and *how* did it work?

  1. According to the Imperial War Museum docs, the plane is a vertical/short take-off and landing jet aircraft constructed in 1989, used in Iraq, Kosovo and Afghanistan and retired in 2010. 

Pura Vida Like No Other

Tuesday, September 4th, 2018

Costa Rica is this enchanted land that has it all: balmy1 weather, sunny skies, warm waters, lush hills and heady mountains, cheeky monkeys and cute crabs, the friendliest people you ever saw and a very good dose of pura vida. This pura vida is the locals' own version of happiness, honey and spice and all the things nice and it really looks quite like this:


There, have you ever seen that wonder before? The very smiley crocodiles of Costa Rica! And not only very smiley, but very friendly too for they won't eat those fish that swim - happily, pura vida! - around their tails. It's true that the smile is just a way to soak in more sun and it's true that fish are simply not worth the bother for those two very full crocodiles. Nevertheless, just try and convince those fish of such ugly thoughts and that crocodiles aren't really just being friendly and nice and good neighbours and all that - you psycrocopat!

Fish aside, if you look carefully at those tico crocodiles, you might notice also something else: the one on the shore has a rather short tail and the one in the water is missing the front paws entirely, now how could that be, how could such horrible things happen in this land of beauty, calm and sunshine? Well, they didn't happen through malice and ugly intent, no; they happened through... ineptitude, ain't that much better? In short, one crocodile insisted on fighting with those who were better at it and a bit of tail lost here and there did not make it change behaviour for it couldn't possibly change - it just was. The other crocodile kept eating some farmer's cattle and the farmer was very friendly and humane so he didn't kill the crocodile - he just chained it so well and so competently that the chains entirely destroyed its front paws essentially ensuring the crocodile would starve left by itself as it can't really swim properly anymore and it can't really move much on land anymore either. Don't you love those kind hearted people that won't kill an animal even when it's a pest?

Happily though, Costa Rica certainly has much more than crocodiles and it turns out I really actually quite like its birds, from owls and mini-eagles to tiny parrots. For they are not even just any birds really but the most curious and rather intelligent birds - some would literally come to check you out, to see for themselves from up close this weird huge bird that won't fly and is not even coloured properly with some real contrast! And even from a cage2, one toucan bird came to say hi and have an upside down look, perhaps that way it might - who knows! - make head and tail of me:

A very curious Toucan bird saying hi.

When speaking of animals of Costa Rica, one can easily go on for ages. There are also owls of various sorts and macaws and parrots and snakes and monkeys and crabs and iguanas and frogs and many others that I don't even really know the name of. And almost everything is either brightly coloured or otherwise well camouflaged in dull sandy colours. Tiny crabs will vanish in the sand as soon as they realise that you spotted them and small pebbles will suddenly wake up and start moving as soon as you went past them. From the trees above, monkeys will suddenly dart down and grab anything they find - whether they need it or not is something they don't bother asking themselves until after they got it since dropping stuff from high up comes at no cost whatsoever to them. From under the rocks below, iguanas and all sorts of other reptiles will come out in the morning and take their favourite place for soaking sun up. And from all sides, the ocean will brush the shore rather savagely with a strong push of breaking foam and an even stronger suck of waters back, sand and shells and anything else included. It's only in smaller, mini-gulf areas that are protected between rocks where waves are broken way before they make it to the shore so that they end up as tiny, gentle ripples only. A bit like that everywhere - in smaller, protected areas, the ocean may seem more like a little sea and the world may seem more like a fairytale.

But let's come back to the kind, friendly and totally innocent people of Costa Rica for what would the land and all the wondrous nature even be without the people! Ticos are truly friendly beyond anything you've likely ever saw - the whole country really feels more like one big village where one knows if not everyone else then surely someone who knows someone and so on until... one feels and pretty much acts like one knows everyone else. And just like in one big village, nobody bothers with street names or house numbers or indeed addresses of any kind - everyone is expected to also know where everything is or at best ask for ...directions on how to get there! So your address ends up being not a short ugly thing such as street name and house number but a long and rather intricate description of how to get there with approximate 100 metres before this and 1km towards that and past the one but before the other and green gate3 on the left but not first but second! And you'd think given this habit that they would have at least the basic idea to keep gate colours as diverse as possible at least within short distances or if not that then the pride to make each of their houses properly stand out with some crazy, unique and obvious - even monstruous if need be - thing at the gate! No, not the friendly, innocent ticos, why would they do such a thing? So no, not much in terms of specific or unique for houses and no attention whatsoever to street names or numbers even when they exist. For everyone knows where everything is and directions are just as good as addresses, remember?

Weirdly enough, the direction-instead-of-address even works of sorts - it works that is most of the time, for it requires of course a local to know where all sorts of small shops, car dealers and weird deposits actually are. If you are not a local or your driver is not a local4 then you are lost anyway, directions or no directions. And so you... ask of course and you get an answer - there's always an answer - but that doesn't mean it is the *right* answer! For you see, they want to be helpful and they won't let such small things as not being able to help stand in the way of their wish to be helpful!

At times however it's true that their being helpful is helpful indeed - especially at times when one didn't even imagine there would be a need for any sort of help! After witnessing a lot of the local traffic, I'd say I would probably need local help even with that - and in all fairness, I really preferred to rely on local hired help for all the driving. Even so, it took me some time to realise that they really honked their horn every time they came close to a crossing of roads - traffic lights or no traffic lights, it does seem in hindsight that one would do well to announce they are coming since nobody bothers necessarily with street markings, signs or indeed lights of any kind. And then the traffic jams and the unexpected turns or stops or what have you. The pedestrians walking on the motorway, the vehicles of all descriptions and no descriptions. After tico traffic, I surprised myself after landing in London since I spent the time admiring from my taxi the ordered progress of british cars along the roads - even now that I write it, I can't quite believe it but at the time it had a certain attraction given the stark contrast of previous days.

At any rate, in terms of getting one out of the trouble that is purely local, there is indeed nobody better apt than a local to help. Imagine this little wonder of a direct bus going straight from the capital San Jose all the way to Manuel Antonio national park, on the Pacific coast. Everything nice and tidy and even ordered by tico standards with seats numbered and even assigned by those same numbers - I honestly wonder why wouldn't they give the seat the same style as the addresses sort of walk about 5 steps and then 2nd on the right with the pink arm rest or something. So taking the bus from San Jose is basically no trouble at all, there's a bus terminal and a ticket station and the bus even leaves on time, goes as stated, arrives on time! But then, at the other end, in Manuel Antonio, they don't sell tickets *at all* - you need to go instead some 10km away to the little town of Quepos to buy any tickets because.... well, I don't know, apparently nobody thought that someone would actually want to take the bus back, going away from Manuel Antonio! Or perhaps tickets are really too advanced for selling in anything smaller than Quepos and what does it matter that the bus really leaves from somewhere else?

But let not any of those small details of ineptitude spoil anything for you - pura vida, remember? People are happy and friendly and monkeys are noisy and a bit of a pest and overall everything is perfect, especially as long as you don't really try to change it. Oh, and to make that clear, there is of course cultural life too and even one that depicts - rather truthfully I'd say - the local pura vida from at least one angle if a rather... obtuse angle:

In other rather greedy recollections, there'd be of course the rum, notwithstanding the fact that it's venezuelan, not costa rican at all. But even before that and certainly more local than that, there is the cocoa and therefore the chocolate that is simply delicious. And the coffee that is so good that even I - who don't really drink much coffee otherwise - still drank coffee in Costa Rica at pretty much any opportunity without any regrets or second thoughts. A certain fig cake there is delicious and some cocktails can be enormous. Some of them really are in fact more like semi-liquid icecreams with alcohol poured in - for better or worse. The fish is always good and - if you ask them to leave the darned salt out of it - well cooked almost always. The local fruit is about 10 times better than anything of same sort I ate anywhere else and I say this although I don't really like unfortunately exotic fruit - to give you some idea, the pineapple there is simply too ... sweet for me! I'm weird like that though and other than the fact that I just don't much like those particular fruits there's otherwise nothing to hold against costa rican avocado, pineapple, mango, coconuts and papayas.

Even in spite of all the monkeys and racoons and iguanas and whatever else the jungle harbours, the best part of it all is for me the water, of course. The warm water and the sun and the sand and all that joy that swimming or even simply jumping the waves can bring. Joy I said, not serenity, for the ocean I find doesn't hold much serenity at all, not with those huge waves, not with the rip current, serenity is just not an ocean thing despite the one thousand words all sorts of pictures might still whisper:

The Pacific ocean at Manuel Antonio, Costa Rica.
Manuel Antonio beach, Costa Rica.

  1. The notion is still debated really: what feels balmy for the first days turns out to be rather too hot after a few days and what feels hot away from water seems all of a sudden rather fine next to water so don't take my word for it - use your own thermometer!  

  2. While I saw toucan birds in the wild too, I couldn't quite get a clear picture of one in the wild, sadly. 

  3. Porton Verde - this is now a character in my house, the Porton Verde! 

  4. We had once this taxi driver from the capital who insisted they knew the place when I asked before getting in and then of course, they didn't but they had no problem with it since in their mind I could just act as a GPS, why not? I really don't recall getting that annoyed with a taxi driver in ages and just like last time more than 10 years ago it ended in just asking them to stop exactly there and then taking another taxi, yes, what else. 

Prin Prahova-n Prier, 2018

Saturday, April 14th, 2018

Padure in aprilie (Sinaia, 2018) Padure in aprilie (Sinaia, 2018): nedreptatea brazilor de-s verzi tot anul!

Cum am luat recent o mica pauza de la multe mai mari si mai marunte, am fost putin prin Ploiestiul natal si apoi inca mai departe, pe coclauri, ba chiar si pe acolo pe unde ploua odata demult interminabil si implacabil. La munte, Prier prieste ca intotdeauna mugurilor si bobocilor si-n general puilor de ce-ar fi ei sa fie, ca-s de pom, de floare ori de om. Si mergand deci prin padure pe la Sinaia i-am surprins pe cate unii in plin fapt de primavara cum s-ar zice, rasarind de sub radacini si trunchiuri batrane ori pe carari din alt veac, din alte timpuri:

Branduse la Sinaia (Aprilie, 2018) Branduse la Sinaia (Aprilie, 2018)

Pui de om surprins pe carare Pui de om surprins pe carare cu banda albastra. Trunchiuri tepoase numai bune sa le-arunci buzdugan la sosire in poarta castelului. Numai c-acum mi-e ca s-o darama castelul de la mai putin de-atata, o ajunge sa arunci o ramurica-n el ca nici pietrele nu se tin laolalta singure. Asa de la distanta si in poza totusi in fine, inca arata macar a... conac al nimanui asa, precum si e, asta e:

Daca pietrele se darama, in schimb apa tot trece peste, printre si pe langa ele, ca dintotdeauna, ca mereu. Si muschiul creste verde langa zapada ca nu se sinchiseste de atata lucru:

Mini-cascada la marginea potecii prin padure. Mini-cascada de mai sus de la marginea potecii spre vulparie1 prin padure e amenajare veche, de pe vremea cand padurea n-avea doar vizitatori ci si stapani de-adevaratelea - din cei care ii aveau grija adica, fiind ea a lor nu doar a... urmasilor urmasilor lor.

Sus la stana - la fosta stana ca acum e un fel de n-ar mai fi ca in tot cazul deschis nu-i - ne-au intampinat si petrecut o bucata de drum vreo patru catei flocosi si altminteri prietenosi. Dupa tipic modern, fosta stana ar fi teoretic acum restaurant dar se vede treaba ca e pentru catei ca ne miroseau ei pe noi dupa mancare si altfel nu era picior de om pe nicaieri. Asa ca ne-am vazut de drum noi si intr-un final si cainii. Cred ca inteleg si eu noua sintagma de-o tot aud prin Romania cu tinerii frumosi si liberi ca in fine, erau si frumosi flocosii si tineri si liberi, drept.

In alta parte de padure, viata isi vede de treaba, ascutita si nemiloasa: unii cresc mai drept ori mai chinuit ori mai bizar de-a dreptul, dupa cum li-e soarta, altii se frang, altii se crapa de la radacina de nu mai raman decat aschii spre cer:


Copac cu rana

In alta zi si pe-alte dealuri, am umblat in linistea de-o stiam demult, pe versantii de se tot duc la vale pe-o parte si se depun apoi pe cealalta parte, de se intoarce valea pe dos graunte cu graunte de pamant. Si-n vremea asta puiul de om a scotocit prin cladirile lui stra-strabunica-su', a gasit un fierastrau oricum mai batran ca el si-o capra idem si s-a luat deci hotarat de pecetluit soarta lemnului cand nu mai e copac:


Precum se vede in fundal am zis ca are de lucru suficient asa ca l-am lasat sa-si vada de treaba si m-am dus in ale mele. Iar altii si-au vazut si ei de treaba la loc anume din gradina unde lucrurile stateau la un anumit moment cam asa:


Dupa momentul asta n-a mai stat nimeni de poze, asta e.

Altminteri inapoi in Ploiesti, Prier nu prieste ci mai degraba zice-se ca ...jupeste. Cu tot Pastele trambitat altminteri prin megafoane de catedrala din buricul centrului, plutea asa disperare si pustietate-n aer de nu se poate. Si-i prima data cand am vazut asa cozi serioase (20+ de oameni) doar la... "schimb valutar si amanet". Concluzii o trage fiecare pentru sine si dupa cum ii trebuie, ca altminteri opiniuni pe orice tema are tot romanul ba chiar in dublu ori triplu exemplar, doar n-o putea altminteri sa taca ori sa admita - imposibil! - ca... nu stie ori nu pricepe, nu?

  1. Vulparie care era regala de altfel si care nu mai este deloc ca ori e om ori nu-i nimic, ca atatea altele. Era practic casa padurarului regal care avea in grija intre altele nu doar copacii ci si animalele din padure, evident. Pe de alta parte amenajarea si cararea pietruita in sine sunt probabil de mai tarziu, din lucrarile facute mai cu sila mai cu forta mai cu bata mai cu parul de comunisti ca asta ar fi varianta a doua: daca nu-i de drag atunci o fi de frica. 

Romania 2017

Friday, August 18th, 2017

- Mami, ce oras e acela?

- Brasov.

- Brush off? Brush off! Brush off!

Spre amuzamentul copilului asadar am ocolit in fapt Brushoff-ul de data asta. Spre amiaza intr-o zi de vara am trecut muntii hurducat spre Transilvania unde-am gasit de altfel la un moment dat minunea de mai jos1:


Pana s-ajungem insa la fluturii devoratori de piersici, banane si alte delicatese, am mers admirand fiecare dupa puteri, preferinte si inclinatii cand drumul neted - minune! - cand sapaturile pornite toate deodata2, cand natura cata apuca a se baga si ea de seama printre atata lume revarsata pe toate vaile pe acolo in vara asta. Relativ imun la peisaj, copilul numara in schimb neobosit lucrurile exceptionale din punctul lui - mai nou asa pe lumea asta - de vedere:

- Trac-tor! Cal, cal, cal! Caruta! Tractor, mami! Caruta, caruta!

- Da, pui. Trei cai, trei carute si doua tractoare.

- Nu, ca mie imi place sa zic asa: tractor, tractor daca-s doua. Aaa, uiteeee: tractor, tractor, tractor, tractor!!

Ca sa stiti asadar: prin ochii copilului de nici 5 ani, Romania e in esenta o insiruire de cai, tractoare si carute pe drumuri de munte printre capite si baloti de fan. Are si el dreptatea lui, nu-mi pare chiar asa departe de adevar pe unde-am fost.

Dupa ce-am terminat asadar de numarat caii, carutele si tractoarele din zona, ne-am oprit cateva zile la Korund/Corund - satul de olari din Harghita, nu mineralul omonim. Lume mai degraba primitoare si in general cel putin bi daca nu tri-lingva, hotarata cum ar veni sa continue comertul si turismul din care-s clar ridicate atatea case nou-noute in stiluri mai degraba amestecate. Porti frumoase de lemn sculptat cu multe detalii, unele cu stema Transilvaniei in centru. Lemn sculptat, dar nu manual ci clar mecanizat si de serie, sa nu exageram acum cu pretentiile ori ideile. Lucrurile sunt in zona - ori cel putin cele mai la vedere - "traditionale" tot asa cum sunt "traditionale" bluzele de panza cu trei flori brodate la masina si vandute drept "ii". Pe alocuri kitschul se revarsa si el sub forma de colectii intregi de pitici de gradina, caprioare pictate pestrit si alte asemenea minunatii de nu le-am priceput niciodata rostul ca sa nu zic ca nici nu prea le suport sub ochi.

Pe langa portile de lemn sculptat, mai sunt in Korund/Corund mormane de oale, strachini, cani si ulcele pictate, targ turistic - si pe alocuri chinezistic - cat de lung e drumul principal, ateliere mai degraba ferite de lume, muzeul de aragonit cam trist si timid, ramasita a unei lumi care nu mai e, promovat si descris local ori turistic mai mult pentru fala de alta data decat ca o parte din prezent si eclipsat brutal de o ...benzinarie cu pensiune (sau pensiune cu benzinarie ca nu-i clar ca ar fi vreo diferenta intre cele doua, asa-s de apropiate si egal de urate intre ele).

Povestea muzeului de aragonit din zona e ca multe altele - si tocmai de aceea ar merita mai des spusa. Intr-un sat locuit de multa vreme altminteri a venit intr-un sfarsit, pe la 1915, un om. Cam asta ar fi intr-un cuvant povestea toata, dar pentru cei mai tineri care au nevoie de mai mult detaliu, am scris mai in amanunt despre om si aragonit.

Daca aragonit nu prea mai este ori nu pentru ce geologi s-au mai nimerit pe la Korund/Corund, izvoare cu ape minerale inca mai sunt. Si acestea sunt mai mult ramasite a ce au fost odata3, doua firicele de apa prin tevi inchise mai cu robinet mai cu un lemn uscat varat pe teava si altminteri folosite de localnici drept fantana: vine lumea cu bidoanele de Perla Harghitei si le umple - ca-i gratis - cu apa de izvorul Corundului din dosul hanului Arcs.

Pe langa ramasitele prosperitatii de altadata se mai remarca altminteri in zona inghesuiala teoreticei prosperitati actuale: morman de lume curgand in valuri de slapi si izmene inflorate, inghesuiala incredibila la orice e in "circuitul turistic" de la salina (care-i asa ca un fel de parc de distractii la adancime ca in rest partea de salina/exploatarea sarii propriu-zis mai ca lipseste cu desavarsire) pana la "centrul" satului oricare ar fi el. Asa ca in cateva zile am epuizat propria rabdare cu asa stare de fapt si am coborat deci pe Rucar-Bran pe drum pe cat de frumos pe atat de insuportabil de... aglomerat4. Dupa care cu mici ocoluri am revenit in locuri vechi si cunoscute, cu 3 seturi de case din 3 generatii, cu muntele pornind din fata portii, cu linistea data de gradinile mari si largi, de oamenii putini.

La casa veche a strabunicului, s-a luptat voinic copilul cu urzicile mai mari decat el, s-a suit in toate podurile, a tras de crengi, a scos apa din toate fantanile din cale, a mancat porumb crud, abia format si a urcat practic primul deal serios de l-a vazut de atat de aproape. A mai incercat si ciocanele mai vechi decat el, a inventariat toti fluturii care-si faceau de cap prin iarba si a mancat cat doi (din ceva motiv muntele asta face pofta de mancare de cand il stiu). Asadar la final de plimbare in tara lui cal-caruta-tractor-cal-cal pot zice ca desi noroaiele sunt altminteri fix unde le-am lasat, mai ca incep sa ma gandesc ca si noroiul isi are pana la urma ceasul lui si nici ca poate chiar sta in calea omului hotarat.

  1. Fluturi tropicali la "casa fluturilor" in Praid, judetul Harghita. Casa asta a fluturilor e un loc asa cam cat o carte postala cu totul dar altminteri simpatic si teoretic inca la inceput. Intre altele era si cam singurul loc din toata zona aceea unde NU era aglomeratie ori in tot cazul nu una de slapi si carpe asudate. 

  2. Din ceva motiv pe peste tot prin Harghita pe unde reparau trotuare le reparau invariabil pe amandoua partile simultan, ce atata rand pe rand. 

  3. Poveste nu tocmai foarte-foarte diferita de cealalta, ca apa mezotermala cu debit serios si pe langa care se construisera bai altminteri a fost ...rezolvata prin anii 1950 in urma unor foraje din cate am reusit sa descalcesc istoricul locului pe tema.  

  4. Serios, in centrul Branului era puhoi de lume de n-aveai unde arunca un ac, nici n-am oprit/dat jos din masina ca nu duc nici lipsa nici dorul unei inghesuieli din alea ca in autobuzele din studentie. 

Satul si omul - poveste cu aragonit

Sunday, August 13th, 2017


A fost odata, pe la 1900, un sat numit Korund/Corund si aflat cam la marginile lumii de pe vremea aceea, prin dealurile Transilvaniei. A mai fost tot cam pe atunci si un om - unul singur, ca unul e de ajuns, doar om sa fie. Omul se numea Knop Vencel ca era ceh din nastere si altminteri mai degraba international prin educatie si experienta, precum se si intampla mai mereu cu oamenii de ajung miez de poveste. Educat la Viena si angajat la Zlatna2, Knop Vencel era geolog in singurul sens real al verbului a fi: fara ore de program anume si dincolo de cerintele minime ale vreunui angajator. Asa ca in momentul in care Vencel ajunge in Korund/Corund, descopera faptul ca satenii pasteau vacile ori ce-or mai fi avut printre aragonit3. De unde in alte parti se extragea aragonitul de la adancime si cu dificultate, la Korund/Corund lucea la suprafata si in praful drumului chit ca nu-l vedea nimeni drept altceva decat o piatra ceva mai lucitoare decat altele.

Asadar pe la 1915, omul ajuns in satul altminteri locuit de ani de zile pune tot ce are la bataie - inclusiv viitorul propriu caci isi da demisia de la serviciul bine platit si se si imprumuta - si inchiriaza dealurile, cumpara terenul, construieste atelier de prelucrare a aragonitului, angajeaza satenii si face apoi si fabrica si satul cu totul in fapt din nou de la biserica pana la invatator, de la protectie in vremuri tulburi pana la sustinere financiara in vremuri mai linistite si imprumuturi catre croitoresele mai istete din sat pentru masini de cusut.

Apoi vine un razboi si cu el moartea unui fiu si o perioada de prizonierat pentru Knop Vencel. Cel care se intoarce la Korund/Corund si redeschide minele de aragonit e in acte tot Knop Vencel, desi in fapte nu-i tocmai clar de e tot el ori poate altul. Si povestea nici nu sta sa lamureasca anume asa amanunt ca al doilea razboi vine repede din urma iar omul acela care ori cat mai era moare in 1941. Vine apoi si nationalizarea care trece minele din proprietatea omului care a stiut a descoperi zacamantul si construi totul de la zero in proprietatea functionarilor care stiu - intr-o oarecare masura - citi cifrele si face adunari. Pe asa baza solida de expertiza, comunistii nou improprietariti redeschid asadar minele si exploatarea facand - evident, progres!- imbunatatiri, cum stiu ei mai bine. In urma acestor glorioase imbunatatiri - extractie cu dinamita - se distruge zacamantul cu totul si satul mai trage o vreme cat si cum se pricepe (un muzeu modest si fala trecutelor fapte) de ce-a ramas din ce-a facut odata un om - unul singur, ca e de ajuns, doar om sa fie.

  1. Desi aragonit de felul lui, acesta nu e cel de Korund/Corund - dat fiind ca nu prea mai e nimic in satul cu pricina, n-am avut ce poza sa se poata si vedea. Asa ca iata, poza cu aragonit din cu totul alta parte, poza facuta de arien de la Morguefile

  2. Judetul Alba 

  3. Una din formele cristaline ale carbonatului de calciu. 

Picuri reci in arsita verii (ori de ce urla cainele baskervillez)

Wednesday, August 5th, 2015

Stiti cainele acela misterios, urlator si fioros din Sherlock Holmes? I-am rezolvat misterul mai ceva ca Sherlock Holmes, cu o singura vizita in regiune: daca as trai fix in baraganul acela si mi-ar ploua in cap insipid si friguros in fiecare miez de vara asa cu saptamanile, as urla si eu cu siguranta.

Am fost de curand intr-o expeditie (ca n-o pot numi vacanta) pe verzile plaiuri englezesti, fix pe langa Exeter si deci pe langa baraganul baskervillez. Pe harta precum si-n realitate da' numai cand e soare, zona arata chiar bine: dealuri verzi si domoale, paduri faine, apa marii la o zvarlitura de bat intr-o parte si baragan inverzit la o zvarlitura de pietricica in partea cealalta. Numai ca direct la botul calului (care cal trece pe drum pe bune, nu-i bai, ca traficul poate sa astepte, doar de aia e drum) clima e mai murata decat un butoi de acrituri si mai racoroasa decat beciul cel mai adanc. Asa ca in miezul verii dai drumul la caldura, mai pui o haina pe tine si altminteri iesi pe usa cand e soare si n-apuci sa incui ca deja s-a innorat si a inceput sa-i curga nasul. Nasul cerului zic, ca aia nici ploaie nu-i, nici vara nu exista.


Totusi, ocazional si indaratnic, mai da si cu vreme frumoasa. Moment in care intai nu crezi, iar apoi alergi repede-repede la sus-mentionata mare, cu gandul complet ne-englezesc ca ai putea adica sa inoti. Ha ha (ori hau hau?) zise cainele baskervillez de prin tufisuri, curatindu-si blana de maracini. Da' unde te crezi aici, la Mediterana? Se cheama "Riviera" da' numai asa ca sa avem si noi falitii nostri, doar nu suntem mai prejos. Apa marii sta ea cum o sta coloristic, ca n-am musai nimic de reprosat albastrului, da' sta cam la frigider termic. Noroc ca pichipontul din dotare era hotarat sa faca fix ca maica-sa si deci daca ea tot s-a varat cu picioarele macar in apa, atunci musai si el. Pentru lopatitul nisipului rosiatic n-a avut nevoie de indemn ori model insa. Si spre fericirea lui totala, indiferent de vreme ori de lipsa unei veri rezonabile, trenul cu aburi si carbuni tot merge, ciu-ciuuuuuuu....



Un climat ranchiunos

Monday, June 1st, 2015

Dupa acesti cativa ani petrecuti in Anglia pot spune ca pricep in sfarsit cum si de ce e anume vremea subiect esential in conversatie. Ca de 1 iunie, vantul te ingheata pana la oase in vreme ce soarele rade fara jena si cu toti dintii la vedere, lafaindu-se nesimtit pe cerul altminteri senin. In urmatoarele 5 minute poate sa ploua sau sa arda in egala masura si in esenta oricum ai da-o tot ai ce povesti, chit ca te-ai lipsi cu cea mai mare placere de asemenea motive de poveste. Cat am trait si calatorit prin toata Europa, vreme mai putin plicticoasa decat asta chiar n-am intalnit, mai ales ca soarele din Tirol incalzea altminteri in mod italienesc, dar si era mereu la datorie in stil nemtesc, cu mica pauza de ploaie si curcubeu la 5 dupa-amiaza vara, nesmintit. Prin comparatie, spiritul englezesc e clar mult mai haotic si mai ranchiunos in mare parte.

Ranchiuna asta nici n-ar fi de mare mirare, dat fiind altminteri mania pentru impartialitate - aparenta cel putin. Cum impartialitate in fapt si de drept nu exista si nici nu are musai mare sens ca atare, normal ca rezultatul incapatanarii de a o impune realitatii prin simplu exercitiu de vorbire genereaza ranchiuna. Ba chiar ar fi de mirare daca nu da nimic mai grav decat atata, dat fiind ca realitatea chiar este si deci n-are nevoie de efort, pe cand pretentiile aberante ale omului cu mare cheltuiala se tin.

Ce-mi pare insa cel mai curios e ca abia in asemenea climat si intre oameni atat de incarcati de propriile pretentii fanteziste imi vine in sfarsit cel mai la indemana si chiar necesar sa lepad si eu din tensiunile proprii. Poate tocmai pentru ca ale mele au mai degraba de-a face cu a vedea lumea mai valoroasa decat este - chestiune extrem de dificila in acest climat cu ranchiuna la vedere si atata incapatanare in a ignora realitatea de dragul unor concepte nu doar abstracte ci si extrem de artificiale.

Vant si soare.

(Imagine preluata de pe Morguefile.)



Sunday, February 22nd, 2015

E ceva in strazile inca pietruite ale Winchesterului, de nu-mi da tocmai pace. Saptamana trecuta i-am batut centrul istoric in lung si-n lat si undeva trebuie ca mi s-a agatat ceva intr-o rotita inca ascunsa a gandului, de imi revine cu atata forta-n minte. Fac deci inventar si succinta foaie de parcurs mai mult pentru aducere aminte, pentru sansa mica de a descoperi ce anume a rezonat atat de mult si surprinzator cu mine, in vizita asa de scurta.

De sus de pe colina, orasul se vede ca intr-un joc, cu planul trasat cu rigla: e pana la urma intai de toate constructie romana cu forumul la mijloc si strazile ordonat si sistematic asezate in jur. Poate e ordinea asta anume ori poate e un anume punct din trecutul acesta de asezare romana, ca o jumatate de cifru cu care ma potrivesc nebanuit. Asta pentru ca m-a facut sa ma gandesc iar la Lyon si la o noapte bizara de festival tarziu cand nu stiu exact cum s-a invartit timpul de nu l-am dumirit nici azi.

Dupa gloria romana, orasul a trecut prin multe, dar nucleul central e inca acelasi, iar organizarea stradala (cel putin in zona relativ centrala) a fost pastrata si doar extinsa. Venind dinspre gara care-i un pic mai sus pe o colina, centrul pare sa fie cumva pe dupa colt, ascuns, sarind la tine pe neasteptate: acum mergi pe strada asfaltata, plicticoasa si urata, plina de cladiri victoriene meschine si trase la indigo, iar in secunda urmatoare esti in plin centru pietruit, cu case mai degraba saxone, cu ceasuri ornate si cu clopotul care vesteste inca ora “tarzie” cand se inchid adica portile cetatii si chiar strazile ei, cel putin pentru cetatenii onorabili ori care nu-si permit sa fie mai putin onorabili.


Pitita in coltul acesta care te scoate in alt veac direct, o fosta poarta de cetate e acum doar arcada si reper, un fel de iluzie doar a trecerii, ori poate numai o reamintire a faptului ca exista diferente de o parte si de alta dincolo de cele inca vizibile azi, dincolo de cele anume evidente. La nici 5 minute de mers mai departe, un alt colt de strada piteste Buttercross care-ar fi deci o cruce a untului ori de unt si despre care pana si ghidul tace malc si nu stie sa zica anume mai nimic dincolo de denumire.


Buttercross in Winchester

Aproape opusa Buttercrossului si vizibila doar la intoarcere, o cizma uriasa si cazona din metal galbui fara nici un fel de podoabe ori infrumusetari in afara unui ciucure obraznic de-i atarna drept in fata, sta agatata de un zid, dreapta si nemiscata fix deasupra trecatorilor. Presupun ca e ceva insemn al unui negot de dedesubt, dar cat m-am uitat n-am zarit magazin anume de cizmarie ori macar de incaltaminte propriu-zis. O fi replica strazii la Buttercrossul misterios, nimic nu-mi pare cu totul imposibil.


Cizma lui Alfred cel Mare? Ori replica la Buttercross?

La capatul acestei scurte concentratii de mistere, sta mult-iubitul rege Alfred cel Mare, imbatosat in fier negru, proptit bine in scut si altminteri pregatit sa dea cu sabia lovitura finala traficului de dedesubt. La stanga lui, iesi prin gradini spre zidurile catedralei, care au insemne ciudate si nepotrivite pe caramizi: ici o rozeta, dincolo doua dreptunghiuri intretaiate, mai incolo 4 gauri insirate dezordonat ca muscaturile de glont si tot asa. Catedrala era in renovare si deci am vazut altminteri mai mult schele si sapaturi de data asta, dar nu-mi pare sa fie nicicum parte anume din cifrul de care ziceam. E o catedrala ca multe altele, mare desigur1, in stil gotic, cu arcuri frante peste tot, cu contraforti, cu tot tacamul obisnuit.


Alfred cel Mare (omoratorul de trafic in Winchester?)

Un pic mai la vale de catedrala si mai sa-l pierzi din vedere dat fiind dimensiunea a ce a mai ramas din el, castelul, resedinta deci civica a orasului dupa cum catedrala ar fi cea spirituala. Din castel mai sunt fix trei lucruri: un tunel micut din incinta de aparare, sala principala2 si o gradina minuscula care totusi se pare ca era marele lux al reginei doritoare altminteri de verde intre atata negru si galbui de piatra. In sala principala e o statuie curioasa a reginei Victoria3 si Sfantul Graal. Aaa, pardon, nu chiar acela, nu, dar tot un fel de, anume masa rotunda zice-se. Care de rotunda si egalitariana deci ce este, are altminteri pictat clar unde-i altminteri “Nordul”, ca locurile de cavaleri sunt delimitate micute, iar locul regelui e marcat cu ditai pictura care face cat 1000 de cuvinte. Mi-e clar ca nici castelul nu-i asadar pe lista cifrului meu, nici macar la notele de subsol, pe unde poate totusi catedrala ar mai avea o sansa sa se afle.

Am iesit apoi din sala principala in gradinita reginei si de acolo pe cateva trepte abrupte drept in sus in plina strada din dosul centrului propriu-zis. Ne-am uitat un pic dezorientati la soare si la liniste, iar apoi am urmat strazile printre fostele baraci ale legiunii4, printre treceri neasteptate intre strazi, pe langa case nehotarate carui veac ii apartin si intr-un final inapoi spre gradini si spre Alfred cel din mijloc de trafic.


Baracile transformate in locuinte.

Pus asa la rand tot nu pot zice ca mi-e clar unde anume am ramas agatata. Ce sare in ochiul memoriei clar e centrul propriu-zis intre poarta veche si Buttercross. Poate si fostele baraci, tot nu-mi dau seama insa de ce anume. Singura (slaba) legatura ar fi asta cu romanii, dar n-am idee: ce au avut romanii atata de puternic sa mai fie inca in Winchesterul cel construit si reconstruit peste originalul lor? Si orice-ar fi, ce-am eu in comun cu asemenea ceva?

  1. Ei zic ca ar avea nava cea mai lunga din Anglia si ca ar fi printre cele mai mari per total (daca nu chiar cea mai mare) din Europa, dar nu mi-e clar de ce ar fi ca taman la biserici sa conteze marimea pana la urma. 

  2. Great Hall 

  3. Descrierea zice ca-i impozanta si maiestuoasa, dar eu zic ca-i destul de greu sa fii maiestuos si impozant cand e clar ca stai cu curul gol pe piatra rece, dat fiind ca fustele-s toate ridicate la spate pana sus la ceafa. 

  4. Acum locuinte. 

Amintiri din Sibiu

Thursday, October 30th, 2014

Acum 3 ani si jumatate fix cum ar veni, am fost la Sibiu asa mai pe indelete, plina de bunavointa in a gasi orasului calitati cu carul daca se poate, ori macar cu sacul. Si nu m-am dus singura, ci cu strain adus anume la Sibiu ca la pomul laudat... Sa le iau pe rand:

- Am luat taxi de la aeroport, cu aparat de marcat si tot, dar fara a fi de prea mare ajutor in ce priveste strada care ne trebuia. Am gasit-o pana la urma noi si i-am explicat cum sa ajunga - era la fix 2 strazi de buricul centrului si la 5 minute de mers pe jos. E primul oras din Europa in care iau taxiul pentru o adresa atat de aproape de centru de care totusi taximetristul habar n-are. Ori Sibiul nu-i european in afara centrului, ori are o frumusete cumva incompatibila cu gasitul drumului altminteri.
- Ajunsi la pensiunea1 la care facusem rezervare prin telefon confirmata cu o zi inainte de sosire, ne-a intampinat un pustiu desavarsit si un numar de telefon in usa. Am sunat si am aflat ca desi intr-adevar isi aducea aminte de telefonul din ziua anterioara, nu, n-aveam camera. Era un 9-10 seara.
- I-am spus strainului ca daca nu-i frumos inceputul, macar e complet original. Si i-am propus o incantatoare plimbare spre centru cu geamantanele dupa noi, sa ne bucuram de Sibiu noaptea. Centrul a fost usor de gasit, ca acolo incepea orasul dupa cum s-a exprimat citadinul meu amic strain. Dupa ce calcasem in noroaie doar 2 strazi in spatele centrului, nu l-am contrazis.
- De draci si nervi, ne-am cazat din a doua incercare fix in buricul centrului la hotelul din Piata Sfatului. Unde intr-adevar, camerele faine, receptionera chiar amabila si hotarata totusi sa ne gaseasca loc chiar asa pe nepusa masa. Pretul dublu chiar nu m-a deranjat deloc, cata vreme oamenii muncesc de banii aia.
- In ziua urmatoare reveniti la dispozitia de admirat Sibiul si hotarati de altfel sa ne placa, am mers intai la centrul de informare turistica, tot eram fix langa el. Doar ca intai n-am intrat ca am crezut ca era inchis de vreme ce usa era proptita inchisa cu un scaun pus in interior. Pana la urma ne-a deschis o domnita dinauntru si am aflat ca scaunul era acolo doar pentru ca usa nu statea inchisa altminteri. Si era frig inauntru, ca incalzirea ori nu functiona ori nu era pornita, dar in tot cazul lipsea cu desavarsire.
- Am cerut domnitei de la centrul de informare turistica o... harta. A orasului ori a centrului macar. De care n-avea, de nici un fel. Atunci poate un pliant turistic? Ori macar ceva... cum sa zic, util unui turist? La care domnita a fost macar sincera: a, n-avem, ca stiti, nu e sezon turistic. Deci mbun, marile strategii turistice si marile investitii turistice tin doar cat e sezonul, da? Si daca tot nu e sezon, la ce drac si fras si tot neamul lor mai e deschisa dugheana aia numita pompos centru de informare turistica? Sa vanda linguri de lemn si magneti cu Piata Sfatului (nu, nici magneti nu aveau, ca macar un magnet ar fi cumparat amicul)? Si cui, localnicilor?
- Daca de la oameni nu afli, am zis apai sa aflam macar de la masini, ca alea n-or lucra doar in sezonul turistic. Pentru ca da, minunea minunilor, in Sibiu sunt terminale turistice unde teoretic butonezi un pic si afli cate ceva util. Doar ca... din toate cate erau raspandite prin tot centrul (si da, le-am verificat pe toate in final) nu functiona complet nici macar UNUL. Chestiune pe care sunt chiar curioasa cum o explica cei care spun ca nu, nu, nu, nu s-au sifonat banii publici la Sibiu (bani europeni probabil, dar publicul meu e european, nu doar romanesc, da). Eu exemplu mai concret si mai vizibil (vorba ceea, chiar in piata publica la propriu) de bani sifonati n-am vazut. Si recunosc ca fix asa i-am si explicat amicului care nu pricepea cum pot fi stricate chiar toate, ca doar na, se mai strica, dar atunci le repara cine le-a pus, ca doar nu-s de folos daca-s stricate, nu?
- Apoi am facut un tur de oras, pornind asa in cercuri concentrice din centru. Am gasit chiar si o librarie destul de faina pentru cat era orasul de adormit altminteri, am baut ceva cald, am mancat ceva aproape rezonabil la un restaurant din centru, ne-a mai revenit zambetul. Am indraznit sa zicem iar ca poate totusi chiar e fainut Sibiul, asa la nivel de oras mic, dar totusi fain pentru cat e el2.
- La al treilea cerc concentric am renuntat pentru ca deja ne noroisem bine.
- Am iesit apoi cu masina pe la cateva din periferii. Am vazut vile noi frumoase. Am vazut case in constructie, mai de toate tipurile. Am vazut vii pe dealuri si erau frumoase. Am vazut pe peste tot ramasitele de trotuare care erau, a spus amicul, "ca dupa razboi".
- Cand am plecat dupa 2 zile de batut "orasul", au reusit sa-si dea cu firma-n cap si cei de la hotelul ultra-central si cu pret care nu admitea asa ceva: i-am intrebat cat e, au calculat totul, mi-au dat nota, am platit cat au zis, n-am stat sa le fac calculele. Am lasat bagajul cat am mai umblat si am revenit dupa cateva ore. Moment la care era o foarte intepata donsoara manager fara nume care nici buna-ziua nu a dat, dar s-a ratoit ca lipseste ceva din nota de plata. Am poftit-o pe ton calm si muult mai scazut decat al dansei, sa-mi spuna ce anume, ca nu-i timpul pierdut. S-a ratoit in continuare ca aia si cealalta si ca sa platesc. Nici macar asa un pic mai calm ca doar ei facusera boroboata nu eu, necum scuzati ori altceva.

E drept ca a fost cum se spune un oras de neuitat. E drept ca i-am cules amicului strain mandibula de pe jos de chiar mai multe ori decat mi-as fi dorit. De mult mai multe ori, de cam prea multe ori. E drept si ca centrul orasului, atat cat e, e frumos. Frumos si extrem de mic si extrem de ...trecut. E frumos pentru ceea ce a fost odata, e frumosul lasat in urma de altii, altii care se pare ca nu au urmasi pe masura din pacate. Si astept cu nerabdare sa ma contrazica totusi sibienii dar asa cu exemple concrete, cu explicatii anume la toate cele de mai sus. Mai ales cand tot e aruncat Sibiul in lupta electorala pe post de exemplu extrem de pozitiv, nici mai mult nici mai putin decat unul din cele mai frumoase orase din Europa. Ca ar putea fi, aia e sigur. Dar ca sa si constati la propriu ca este, mi-e ca-ti trebuie o pereche de ochelari anume si nici pe aceia nu stiu sigur daca-i vinde domnita din dugheana cu scaunul proptit in usa si eticheta de centru turistic in oras capitala culturala europeana.

  1. Coroana de Aur 

  2. Da, marimea chiar nu conteaza, ca veneam din oras de 20,000 locuitori de altfel la momentul cu pricina