Of winners and survivors

I`ve always wondered what  is the difference between a winner and a survivor. Both of them are pretty much American movie concepts. Sooner or later one comes to the conclusion that any survivor is a winner just because he/she survived some unconceivable circumstances. What if the circumstances are not spectacular and the event is just another big fat heartbreak? This is a Carry Bradshaw question and I am not her, my life is not all about sex, so let`s get serious. What if the circumstances are about living your life it was given to you or live the life you managed to pile up out of various events that came across your way? What are you then? A winner, or a survivor?

This Carry pase is getting on my nerves, so I get to the point. The point is that I visited my homeland after 8 moths and I met some old friends. And they were happy to see me and sad they could and did cry when I left them-again. One of them is a very special woman, although she has no special life. She hasn`t done anything special in her entire life. She is as normal as you can get. She takes care of her husband and dog. She has no kids although she would like to have one. She has no money, but she makes her way through life with a  salary. She has a degree in History but for the last 10 years she has been working as a club administrator. She is the one who criticize you but stands by  you.

In many (American) ways, she is my hero. Because she is a survivor and a winner. Thank you for being my friend, Mari!

Kenzo

Three days ago it was Kenzo`s birthday. He is 11 now. Quite a respectable age for a big Rottweiler. Kenzo has always been looking much younger and I really hope to have him around for a few more years. It took me a while to write this post, but somehow tonight I realized what I needed to say. I was walking him and observed his innocence. He is a dog in many ways. He sniffs, he loves snow, he cries when he is left alone in an unfamiliar environment, he wants to fight with other male dogs, he is dominant, he pees on every tree, he does not understand why he should stop when he badly wants to go to great greting other dogs… He is a dog. Just a dog, some  may say. For me, he is all I want to be. I am wondering why is so offensive to people to be called `a dog`. Dogs are wonderful creatures and my intimate belief is that they are God`s gift to people. They are here to teach us commitment, trust, love, honesty and courage. Have you ever looked in a dog`s eyes? For him, a human being is everything. Dogs don`t want to be like us, just to be  around us. They don`t need us, we need them. They are just unconditionally offering their services and their souls. Can anyone refuse such an offer? Have you ever received such an offer from a human being?

Kenzo is not my dog, actually. He came to my life `by accident`, like all the good things of my life did. He is my ex-husband`s dog, but Kenzo slept by my side from the first night he came to our house. He knew we were meant for each other. He knew he was the dog I was looking for and the friend I was lucking. I have to words to express my gratitude for everything this dog did for me. If it wasn` t for him, I would have probably got into a dangerous nervous breakdown at some point. But he was there, making me laugh everyday, reminding me that it was time to go outside and meet people and other dogs, he was there for me. When I was sad, he came next to me and waited. Kenzo is not intruding in my personal life. He is noble and discreet. He just lets me know that he is there. When I was pregnant, Kenzo listened to the sounds of my womb and played with my son even before he was born. Now, Kenzo  is Joachim’s big brother in any way. He corrects him without punishing him, he loves him and plays with him.

Kenzo  is not just a dog, Kenzo  is a person. Not half-human, as people say about dogs, but a person. Kenzo  is part of my family. He is my first born and also my master. I learnt a lot from him and I am grateful for every single day I can see him running happily in the snow- because Kenzo  loves snow. If my sins are not paid  already and I`ll have  to come back in this world, I`d very much like to be a dog. I`d like to be Kenzo,  because in my soul this is what I am: a Rottweiler. And Kenzo came to me to teach me the Rottweiler way in this world. Thank you for choosing me, Kenzo,  and happy birthday to you!

The issue of the Swedish Hej!

One of the first things you learn in Swedish is the every day Hej! Everybody is hej-ing everyone, from old to young, from children to their grandparents. This looks like a very nice socialist habit at the first glance. That, until you discover the multiple colors of Hej.

There is a friendly Hej you may occasionally hear from Swedes. This is the iiiiiiiiiii Hej, when the last vowel is raised cheerfully. It`s the Hej meaning you are welcome, we like you, if you prove to be as you seem to be, maybe we can fika (aka get a coffee and a brioche) together. That`s the maximum Hej you can get.

Then there is the neighborly Hej. This one does not a cheerful I, but a long e. Sounds more like Heeeeeeeej. What can I do, I am your educated and well-raised neighbor, it wouldn`t look good for myself not so salute you in any way, so here is your Hej but don`t dare to ever bother me. It`s a kind and distant Hej, though.

You might also get a racist-xenophobic-bored-suspicious-avoiding Hej. This one does not have any raised or cheerful vowel. It`s the pure: who the hell are you, why are you looking so different, this country is clearly going to hell Hej. Depending on your language skills, you may reply to it with one of the above-described Hej-s, but I cannot guarantee that the initial Hej you get shall ever be friendlier.

Swaiting-or waiting in Sweden

Long time ago, during my restless youth, I remember studying about different  types of languages and the connection between mentality and language. I was surprised to find out that, for instance, some African ethnic groups don`t even have a word for ‘waiting’. The reason is quite obvious:  their lifestyle does not imply waiting at any moment in their lives.

I had to come to Sweden to find out were the  concept of waiting came into being. That`s right, here, in Sweden. Swedes must have invented the idea and also gave it a name ‘vänta’. Every single thing you ask for or want to do here involves a lot of waiting. People are queuing for a visit to the doctor, for talking to a bank clerk (even if there is no other client there you still need to get a queue number), at the drugstore and so on. There are waiting lists for everything.

Almost all my fellow expats seem to be frustrated about all this waiting. I am wondering how Africans can cope with it-or maybe they just belong to some ethic groups that have already accepted waiting in  their daily routine.

The most shocking thing was to hear my 2 year old son saying his first word ever: vänta ! Then I was lost for words...

Us, those behind the Iron Curtain

I happened to talk to foreigners many times about my country’s history and to discover that sadly they were interested more in the Communist Era. I talked for hours about the dull afternoons when the power was off and I had to make my homework at a candle`s light. Later we found a petroleum lamp at my grandparents and it felt better. It was the same lamp they used during the World War Two. I told “the Westerns” how we collected beer and juice aluminum cans (something exotic, terribly rare) and use them like precious pen-holders. No need to say that none of use had ever tasted the content of those cans. We were gathering  those cans at the seaside resorts, from the garbage left by the foreign tourists who could buy them from special shops where they paid with dollars or pounds. We were not allowed to talk to foreigners or even touch foreign currency. If someone disregarded this law, long years of imprisonment for ‘high treason’ followed.
Most Romanian women hadn`t seen hygienic pads until 1990. Either baby diapers, coconut powder, or other toothpaste brand than the only two Romanian ones that existed by then, contraceptive pills and single use pens. They  were all from another planet. We didn`t know that MTV existed. So hard to understand that for my foreign friends…
But I also happened to meet other fellow East-Europeans. The first one I talked about those things was a Polish woman about my age. We were stunned to discover how similar our stories were and at some point a warm feeling of sisterhood emerged. She was like me, I was like her, we could understand what the other one was saying.
Moving to Sweden I met Lenka, a Czech. She also knew it all and we instantly became friends. She was the only one I dared to ask to borrow me some money. She was the only one who travelled across the town to bring me a hot meal when I was sick. That may be because she is a noble human being, but also because she is an ‘Easterner’ like myself.
20 years have passed since the Iron Curtain ceased to exist and we are still the ones behind it, understanding one another without words and enjoying each other`s company with a discreet complicity. As children, we`ve been through things that are hard to explain to our friends from the West. There is nothing to explain about queuing for 10 hours in harsh winter just to get a frozen chicken. Probably the only one for the whole family that month. There is nothing to explain about taking off from your month the chewing gum you chewed for hours and stick it to a clean plate, to chew it again tomorrow. You see, chewing gum was rare and precious, especially when you are a child from the East.
We are running from our sad memories  but we surprise ourselves silently looking for somebody else who could understand. We are like bats, blindly avoiding and at the same time awaiting our kin. Us, behind the Iron Curtain, stuck in our sad, secret brotherhood.

The Tower

A few days went by before I got the meaning of  ‘Welcome here. Welcome home’. I was hoping to have a home in this city, but in the end isn`t it what all immigrants hope for? Because yes, this is what I am, an immigrant. If I were some famous writer or misunderstood artist, it would have been called ‘an exile’. So I must settle for the immigrant tag for the moment. Isn`t it funny how many tags we got stuck on ourselves during our miserable existences? Thank God they are not actual paper or carton tags, like the price ones, otherwise we`d all look pretty funny but also more interesting. No one would get bored during a long bus ride: we`d read our neighbors tags, thinking ‘wow, that old nice man was once called a pervert or a bullheaded moron, or maybe… Let`s ask him to raise his arm! Oh yes, on his elbow there is a ‘heartbreaker’ tag.

You can now  understand why I am looking forward to getting old. Sins are forgotten, people are nice to you, try to be helpful and never think in their innocence that you might have been a jerk in your good old days. You can scream from your lungs: No! I do not deserve this consideration! Age is just an accident, I am the most despicable person ever existed! People would still smile with deference and say: I know growing old is  hard to bear, but we all are sooner or later, so let us help you and care for you, grandpa.  And so you end up being cared for and loved or at least have the chance of some clean diapers in an old mens home-that, if you are living your last days in a civilized country. That`s another reason I moved to Sweden. I think I know myself all too well and I do know that witches are not loved anywhere for what they are, except when they grow old enough to be called grandma.

Well boys and girls, it looked like I found my home in this city- in theory at least. And I also moved to my actual ‘new home’ after those days at the hotel I told you about. The apartment was nice and cozy and the previous tenants left some things behind. And a note: ‘Everything in the apartment is yours’. Good, so all of a sudden I had some more things apart from what I brought from my home country. It was a peaceful Saturday afternoon and the city was quiet. I was doing tours around the house, trying to get used to the new space. Imagine a cloudy day, an almost empty apartment and a thick silence covering your ears like a warm hat. So it was. And I opened a kitchen cabinet. They were there. Both of them: the Turkish coffee pot and a brand new-still-sealed Turkish coffee jar Mehmet Efendi brand. I froze.

I went to Turkey many times and never bought a coffee pot for myself. I bought some as souvenirs for almost every friend or family member, but for myself, although I love Turkish coffee. No wonder, since the part of the world I`m coming from is a melting pot of Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Russians, Ukrainians, Hungarians, Mongolians and God knows what other ‘ns’. Occasionally, they pop up from our now Romanian-called DNA taking the form of strange preferences. We find ourselves enjoying the spicy food of the Hungarians, the unbearable sweet ‘baklava” of the Turks and the long chats on lazy Sunday afternoons of the above mentioned.

I always got the things I longed for. So what`s so strange in getting the Turkish coffee pot I wanted? In Sweden, from a portughese-romanian family. Nothing strange at all.

The pot was nice, but the coffee jar was scary. About a year ago, I was chatting with my good friend and, after a few hours of complaining about men, life and human fate, we started to discuss our funerals. Yes, our own funerals. She wants to live forever and never grow old.  So she opted for a mausoleum-style crypt and maybe a long-lasting-Stalin-style embalming. I am not scared of death, so I was oscillating between a Jewish funeral and a cremation. Ultimately, I chose the cremation and I decided that my funerary urn should be a Mehmet Efendi coffee jar. I really hope someone would remember this and please, play Ishamel Lo`s ‘Tajabone’ when you flush my ashes down the toilet. I have a taste for grandeur, you know…

So there it was, my urn in my new home from Sweden. For those who are still wondering: yes, I`m planning to die here someday. And then I understood: the “Welcome here” sign was not just a simple courtesy of the Uppsala Kommun, but  my Tarot Tower.

‘No card scares a Tarot reader like the Tower - or the person they're reading for if that person knows anything about Tarot cards. It is however one of the clearest cards when it comes to meaning. False structures, false institutions, false beliefs are going to come tumbling down, suddenly, violently and all at once. Seeing the Tower again, the Fool feels as if lightning has just flashed across his mind; he thought he'd left that old self behind when he started on this spiritual journey.’ (excerpt from ‘Tarot Meanings’)

The Fool

'In Tarot, the Fool is the card with infinite possibilities. The bag on the staff indicates that he has all he needs to do or be anything he wants, he has only to stop and unpack. He is on his way to a brand new beginning. But the card carries a little bark of warning as well. Stop daydreaming and fantasizing and watch your step, lest you fall and end up looking the fool.'

So there I was, staying for a few days in a youth hostel and wandering around the city I had previously visited just once, 10 months earlier. I wasn`t feeling lonely or lost, but a little confused about my own apparently inexplicable decision to move to a land I had nothing in common with. Humans develop this resistance to change even if they longed for it, expected it or planned it in detail. Humans do not like changes , but somehow they feel change is necessary and fill their lives with small decisions and sometimes major changes. I must be a gipsy at soul, since I never felt I belonged someplace and could adjust pretty much everywhere. I must admit, this ‘citizen of the world’ state of mind always makes things easier for me. Indeed, freedom is comfortable when you are The Fool and everything you own you carry with you. Inside, mostly.

I started to doubt about my decision to change countries when the previous tenants of the apartment I was about to let announced me that it had been some sort of misunderstanding. They were not to leave but two days later than the agreed date. No big deal actually, but it can become a huge deal in this city packed with tourists during the summer. The picture was like this: a goofy woman with a toddler son in an unfamiliar city, without friends and facing the possibility to sleep under the great blue sky for two nights. A sky like this:

I went back to the hotel praying that someone canceled its reservation. Bad news. The blond lady at the reception informed me shortly that it was impossible to stay for two more nights: ‘We are packet’ she said. Somehow fascinated of her cold beauty and her British-flight-attendant English, I insisted: ‘Maybe you can still find a room’. She glanced at me for a second and decided to be professional, in spite of the irritation I obviously caused her: ‘I can check one more time’. This ‘one more time’ lasted maybe for 20 seconds but felt like a plain fat smelly hour to me. With a steady voice as if announcing that we are approaching our final destination and sit belts must be bucked up, my flight attendant said: ‘Unbelievable, someone just canceled its reservation 10 seconds ago, so yes, you can stay for two more nights’. My heart almost burst with joy. I am so honored to receive this room, I must thank ProfilHotels chain, my parents, my friends and everyone who supported me in this endeavor. I am proud to be the chosen one who sleeps for two more nights in this shitty hotel, in room 212.

‘Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?’ asked Glinda, the Good Witch of the North.

‘I'm not a witch at all. I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas.’

But as you all know, Dorothy was wearing the witchy shoes. I kind of felt like her on that day, except my Converse trainers and the lack of the yellow path which is usually a good indication that you are heading to the Great City of Oz. So I headed to the Central Station.

I`ve always liked trains and train stations. When I was about two, my grandfather was taking me to the train station, spending there hours and hours looking at the trains coming and going. I can still remember and feel the same excitement and trill when a train approaches the stopping point. Trains are magic. So are planes, but that was a later discovery in my life, since most of the people never traveled by plane during the ‘70s in Romania. I always lived close by a train station. My grandparents were living just opposite the Central Station, my parents were living in a different town close by the train station, later on I bought an apartment from where I could hear the trains coming and going to and from Bucharest North Station. It wasn`t a choice, it was a sign. Central Stations from all over the world are my home, so I headed to the Uppsala Central Station on that turbulent day.

The sign I previously ignored was there. It reads: ‘Welcome here. Welcome home’.