Author: Adriana

Bright side of life. Just a cliche?

I thought Copenhagen was not really my cup of tea: the grey days in here were so many and so long that I could feel their heaviness pressing on my lungs; it was not just the sun and the light that I missed but also the warmth of people, the small chat while waiting in a queue, the easy going friendship I made while waiting in the bus stop; on top of everything, converting the prices in the cheapest supermarkets from DKK to RON would always question my competences in math (“Wow, is that really the price!”) and installed the feeling that I have to learn to live only with dark bread, milk, vegetables and tap water. Last week, I met a Portuguese guy during one of my low skilled shifts in DPU who, in a few sentences, made me realized that my whiny attitude towards Copenhagen has to end. We had a moment of respiro before the people arrived at the event, so I took the initiative of socializing in my clumsy usual way, …

Coincidences or interconnections?

For those who believe in coincidences, this story is just an amalgam of facts, scattered on a white page of a silly blog. The facts go as simple and reasonable as this: on New Year’s Eve, I biked towards the City Hall square to see the New Year fireworks show; when I biked back after my first beer of 2013 (and last one, I promise), it was dark and there were many broken glasses on the bike lane from the early drinking stars of 2012 and the late drunkers of 2013; I got myself with an absolutely flat tire before I got home; I felt sad, as it was the first “happening” that the New Year brought to me; knowing that today, on the 2nd of January, I was supposed to bike more than 30 km to DPU, then to Charlottenlund and then back home to Amager, the first thing I did on the 1st of January was to go and make an inventory of all the bike service shops in the neighbourhood which open as early …

Istanbul

Istanbul?! Oh, Lord, to catch the uniqueness of this city into words, I find it absolutely impossible! It is rather a city I would feel: I would embrace and squeeze Istanbul so strongly that it melted into a river flowing in my veins. Thus I could always carry it with me and never miss it again. In the morning, I would step quietly and gently on the sunny narrow cobblestone streets with my eyes closed. In Istanbul’s sun, even when your eyes are widely closed, you see yellow-reddish playful lights. I would touch the hard irregularly-shaped ground with my bare feet and my palms, like a lunatic who never before had seen pavement. At lunch, I would touch Istanbullus’ faces: maybe melancholic, maybe smiling, maybe proud, or maybe flirting with a long-legged blonde tourist. I would touch their chubby cheeks when they chew a kebab, I would smile if I felt a black hedgehoged–mustache. In the evening I would feel the soft warm Turkish carpets, petting the dim light of the street lamps and the …

Christmas in “Istanbul. Memories and the city”

Reading a novel in a quiet flat under a gloomy sky, in a room transformed into an imaginary Yoga retreat centre as soon as our flat-mates left to their families outside Copenhagen, may not appear as the most exciting way to spend Christmas day. But reading “Istanbul. Memories and the city” in the dim light of a lamp are like instant teleportation to Istanbul, wondering around its cobblestone narrow streets through the soul of a young man. The way Istanbul and the author’s memories are described felt so real to me that I may say I spent Christmas with Dayyuman, and a few other familiar figures: with Pamuk, Pamuk’s brother, worrying for his mother spending her evenings alone in the sitting room, blaming the father for all the mistresses he had, taking part in family arguments, loving the love for Black Rose, loving the joy of painting, getting lost in Istanbul’s poor neighbourhoods and savouring every single memory and history related to this city. My dear family back home should be aware: really, this Christmas …

People in Grand Place/Grote Markt in Brussels

There are people kissing. And people making small talk: about pommes frites and Belgium Chocolate, about gauffres and the various types of Belgium beer. There are people playing: playing with a ball, playing with words, playing with people’s feelings or simply with their postures while taking photos. A kid is screaming out: MAMA, MAMAAAAAAAA. Some are holding hands. Some wished they were holding somebody’s hand, I assume. A few people are trying to sell their flowers to couples. But nobody buys flowers for their beloved nowadays. Some guys walk careless in groups. They look happy. Some are lonely  hearts. But they look happy too to me. Maybe I am happy and see happiness every where. Some girls are obviously talking pictures to nourish their Facebook profiles with some “Brussels Albums”. Some must be taking mental pictures: they stay still in front of the beauty of the buildings, maybe trying to encapsulate the moment in their souls. Some speak French. Some speak Flemish. Some speak loudly. Some don’t speak at all. Well, somebody has to listen… …

Metamorphosis

You wake up in a morning and you do not have the human body you had been wearing for years, but you transformed overnight into a monstrous insect. What do you do about that, how do you react? Metamorphosis tells the story of Gregor Samsa, who went to bed as a young man and woke up as a young insect with a curved brown belly, divided by stiff arching ribs. “His numerous legs, which were pathetically thin compared with the rest of his bulk, danced helplessly before his eyes.” Of course, the first question that could come to your mind in such a miserable situation is “What has happened to me?”. And Gregor ask himself this question. Once. Jut once. Without even bothering to answer. And then immediately starts to adapt to his new body without questioning what had happened to him, why, what is the sense of this strange metamorphosis… I revoltingly read each page searching for an explanation. I want to read Gregor’s reflection about his metamorphism, I need to see his struggle …

If I

If I had been born somewhere else than Scornicesti during the Communism… If I had grown up with somebody else than my grandmother… If I hadn’t had a brother… If I hadn’t gone to kindergarten with older children just to be near my brother… If I hadn’t had hepatitis… If I hadn’t had a crush on the most popular boy in school when I was 13… If I hadn’t gone to RM. Valcea for studying and living with my aunt, my uncle and my two cousins… If I had been in a humanistic class rather than in an intensive maths class… If I had gone to high-school somewhere else than Pitesti… If I had study something else than Communication and Public Relations at university… If I hadn’t been left for another girl… If I hadn’t worked in PR and advertising for more than 3 years… If I hadn’t had the courage to leave a job when I felt perverted by my work… If I hadn’t apply to an Erasmus Mundus scholarship in Copenhagen and meet …