Hello. My name is Ionuka and I am a hypochondriac.
Oddly enough, it only started since I came to America almost three years ago. It may be the lack of my usual safety net (in Romania, somebody always knew somebody who could take you to a good doctor). It may be the bad health insurance that I have as a graduate student and the panic that if something serious happens I'm screwed. It may be the general hypochonria that defines the American society (you can read about a scary Hep C campaign here). It may be that I am growing up and experiencing bodily changes that I am not used to yet. Or it may be that I am too far from home and I need an emotional outlet...
Regardless of the explanation of my hypochondria, it led to positive outcomes: I stopped smoking and started working out regularly. The negative outcomes, however, may outweigh the positives. I often go to the doctor with my imaginary illnesses. Phrases such as "This looks like perfectly healthy tissue to me" , "It's just a piece of dry skin", "No, you're not having a heart attack", or "You tested negative" are not strangers to my ears. I am overly attentive to my body so I am aware of every little sensation in my tissues. A headache is never just a headache for me. It's probably the beginning of the end.
One of the worst things about being a hypochondriac in this era is that you can google your symptoms. Just enter "pain in left arm" and all the scary things come up. Of course, most webpages won't just tell you "You probably spent too much time in front of the computer bending your wrists and you pinched a nerve". They're telling you that you're probably having a heart attack and you should report to the emergency room IMMEDIATELY. "Are you also having a metallic taste in your mouth?" Probably. "Are you dizzy?" Of course. Reading all these symptoms would make anyone dizzy.
But yesterday I found a solution. Whenever I start fantasizing about illness, I just google "hypochondria" and I read about it. I read about how irrational I am being and I start feeling embarrassed about it. Basically, I have decided to become hypochondriac about being hypochondriac. Hope it will help.
vineri, iunie 30, 2006
luni, iunie 26, 2006
Augusten has a bloc
The highlight of my day was finding out that one of my favorite men in the world, Augusten Burroughs, has a blog. He only has three entries so far, but since I know his obsessive nature, I trust that he'll really get into it soon. You can find his new webpage here.
Close to being the highlight of my day was the creme brulee from Sweet Lime.
(Funny that the spelling check from Blogger.com doesn't recognize the word blog. It suggests bloc or blows instead.)
Close to being the highlight of my day was the creme brulee from Sweet Lime.
(Funny that the spelling check from Blogger.com doesn't recognize the word blog. It suggests bloc or blows instead.)
duminică, iunie 18, 2006
Two Worlds within Me
Michael asked me yesterday if my mother read to us when we were little. I told him that she did, but honestly I don't actually remember those moments. I definitely know I went through all the childhood books, including Aventurile lui Habarnam si ale prietenilor sai, Izvorul frumusetii, or Cuore, inima de copil.
What I remember though is that my mum didn't stop reading to us when we grew up. I remember being around ten years old, sitting in my bed and hearing my mum read to us excepts from Octavian Paler, J.D. Salinger, or literary magazines such as 22 and Romania Literara. I remember my sister Cata, who is three years older than I am, sitting on her bed, kneading a little pillow in her lap (the term that she invented for this very specific action was a puchini), and listening very closely to what my mum was reading. I, on the other hand, COULD NOT UNDERSTAND A THING. Literary theory, politics, social issues, philosophy - it was way over my lil'head. However, I kept listening.
Growing up, this was exactly my problem. I always thought I was as mature as my sister and I tried to emulate her in every way. I remember the pains she took to hide from me a book she really loved, in an understandable attempt to save some literary discoveries for herself. That is because I used to read most of the books she was reading. That's how I started to read the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, Theodore Dreiser, Thomas Hardy, Gustave Flaubert, Victor Hugo and other classics well beyond my teenage years. OF COURSE I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND MUCH. And I am not talking about subtext. Many times, I would not understand the basic plot. However, I kept reading. I am certain that those early readings and my inability to understand them greatly influenced the way I think now. Basically, I developed a high threshold for experiencing and acquiring things without fully understanding them. A sort of "Sa nu strivim corola de minuni a lumii" approach (yes, I enjoy that page immensely), that is probably much more characteristic of Eastern cultures. I was not understanding those books, but I was experiencing them, as one experiences some sort of ambient music while stoned.
These days I am being confronted with the conflict between this way of thinking (or rather experiencing) and the nature of my work: basic research. Three years ago when I began graduate school I fell in love with empiricism, with the power of the scientific method to answer questions about psychological processes. For a while, I avoided asking myself how this new approach would fit with my previous beliefs and patterns of thinking. However, the incongruities keep coming up and I will have to find a way to fix them.
...help!
What I remember though is that my mum didn't stop reading to us when we grew up. I remember being around ten years old, sitting in my bed and hearing my mum read to us excepts from Octavian Paler, J.D. Salinger, or literary magazines such as 22 and Romania Literara. I remember my sister Cata, who is three years older than I am, sitting on her bed, kneading a little pillow in her lap (the term that she invented for this very specific action was a puchini), and listening very closely to what my mum was reading. I, on the other hand, COULD NOT UNDERSTAND A THING. Literary theory, politics, social issues, philosophy - it was way over my lil'head. However, I kept listening.
Growing up, this was exactly my problem. I always thought I was as mature as my sister and I tried to emulate her in every way. I remember the pains she took to hide from me a book she really loved, in an understandable attempt to save some literary discoveries for herself. That is because I used to read most of the books she was reading. That's how I started to read the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, Theodore Dreiser, Thomas Hardy, Gustave Flaubert, Victor Hugo and other classics well beyond my teenage years. OF COURSE I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND MUCH. And I am not talking about subtext. Many times, I would not understand the basic plot. However, I kept reading. I am certain that those early readings and my inability to understand them greatly influenced the way I think now. Basically, I developed a high threshold for experiencing and acquiring things without fully understanding them. A sort of "Sa nu strivim corola de minuni a lumii" approach (yes, I enjoy that page immensely), that is probably much more characteristic of Eastern cultures. I was not understanding those books, but I was experiencing them, as one experiences some sort of ambient music while stoned.
These days I am being confronted with the conflict between this way of thinking (or rather experiencing) and the nature of my work: basic research. Three years ago when I began graduate school I fell in love with empiricism, with the power of the scientific method to answer questions about psychological processes. For a while, I avoided asking myself how this new approach would fit with my previous beliefs and patterns of thinking. However, the incongruities keep coming up and I will have to find a way to fix them.
...help!
vineri, iunie 16, 2006
The Image of Ionuka
I asked Michael to write a story which I can post on my blog. I love the way he writes and I would love him to get a taste of blogging. So he did. He emailed me the story today, the subject being: "Long, boring story to include on your blog (if you wish)". I wished:
The image of Ionuka’s temporary narcoleptic fits will linger longer than the crackling cocky performance by the Arctic Monkeys. I should have known that she wouldn’t be coherent enough to attend a late night concert after barely touching ground back in the New World, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Let me retrace her steps a little.
She flew home (and boy were her arms tired) Thursday afternoon after that tortuous 1 and a half day journey through the wilds of Hungary by bus and two flights to get to Atlanta. From previous experience I can attest that it’s exhausting. In any case, I bought a small bouquet from a tiny flower shop in Candler Park, drove to the airport and seated myself on a green bench in the arrival area. The processing bit takes time for international flights so I pretended to read some local free newspaper. The plethora of different faces in the arrival area prevented me from reading very much though. Spit-shined Iraq War soldiers swarmed all around. At various times the people waiting would clap loudly as large groups of soldiers marched by. I felt awkward. Should I go along with the crowd and clap too? Would sitting and staring without clapping label me a “traitor?” Should I give a lengthy pep talk to these young, newly shorn recruits? Possible utterances:
“Give ‘em hell, Poncho!” “Nuke those greasy A-Raaabs!” “Make ‘em eat sand!”
As usual I chose to sit and stare.
With the budding airport anxieties bubbling within my bones, I stood up and wandered around. I looked at the arrival board again for the fourth time, checked the baggage claim area and then waited with everybody else near the up escalators where all the travelers greet their receivers. I stood there a while without the hint of Ionuka. The eager embraces were fun to watch though. I felt content enough to eavesdrop on others’ worlds. Returning war veterans commanded the most enthusiastic responses and glittery signs. Daughters, moms, uncles, wives and girlfriends all showered their hero with aggressively wet kisses. Their sincerity was quite evident. Long lost relatives grinned and chatted with their loved ones. Hurried men in suits cleared wide paths to claim their baggage and rent cars. I still waited, flowers in hand, amongst the awaiting wives and girlfriends. Very near to where I stood a stern, Middle Eastern-looking woman with a toddler and a small baby boy in a stroller excitedly paced back and forth. She moved like a caged puma. Another woman of obvious Hispanic origin appeared quite nervous and kept standing on her tiptoes to get better looks above the crowd. She looked excited and happy. Neither woman exchanged glances or appeared linked in any way. Fate had other plans however.
Maybe 10 minutes had passed when the Middle Eastern woman charged in front of me, clipping my leg with the stroller in the process. That upset me and I considered having a word or two with her. She moved too fast though and intercepted a short, balding, bug-eyed Middle Eastern man who had just arrived on the scene. She snatched his wrist roughly. From the other side the Hispanic woman bounced over to lightly stroke the same man’s shoulder. A severe look from the Middle Eastern woman shot through the Hispanic woman’s soul. Something was afoot here and I had all but forgotten my stroller bumping incident. Foreign words flew from the Middle Eastern woman’s rapacious mouth. The man appeared intense and on red alert. He spoke to her and tried to wrest away his arm and go his own way. Before he had a chance to change direction she thrust her hand onto his wrist again. He motioned with his other hand that he wanted to go South, not North. The Hispanic woman attempted to soothe the puma-like woman with consoling words. Again, the Middle Eastern woman’s stare spoke volumes. She would get “her” man. He tried to wriggle out once again only to have this powerful woman grab ahold again. At this point you could see in his eyes that he had given up. He nodded his head defeatedly and made a move North. As the walking started, the Hispanic woman took the man’s left arm. The puma woman would have none of that. She left the stroller and the man’s other wrist to push the Hispanic woman’s arm away from the man. This created “battle” space. The Middle Eastern woman open handedly slapped the Hispanic woman across the face. I heard a loud “thwack.” Everyone near stared at the bizarre soap operaish or Telenovellaish scene. The man came to the Hispanic woman’s rescue. He grabbed the Middle Eastern woman’s shoulders. She charged however with flailing arms. Her sunglasses sailed into the crowd of waiters. With the man between these two women, the Middle Eastern woman couldn’t really lay a good lick on the Hispanic woman. He spoke to her emphatically, she gave up her pursuit and went back to her children. You could tell that he wanted to crawl under a rock. He walked ahead of the women and they followed side-by-side. After a few steps the Middle Eastern woman stopped and screamed, “That’s my husband!” To which the Hispanic woman responded, “He’s not your husband anymore. He’s your ex-husband!” Fierce looks were exchanged and the man backtracked to get between them. He only spoke to the supposed “ex-wife.” She didn’t listen to a word he said, but backed off and started to push the stroller with the now “balling” child. He picked his bag up and walked ahead again. The women followed side-by-side. With a juicy scene such as that, I followed a few steps too. I saw the Hispanic woman talking to the other woman. In front of the Hertz Rent-A-Car booth the Middle Eastern woman pushed the other woman against the wall and kept walking. They both walked down the hall with their silent little Lothario in the lead, headed toward baggage claim. End of episode.
I had nearly forgotten that I held a bouquet and was waiting for a loved one. Not long after the “chick fight,” Ionuka groggily stumbled up the escalator. About all she could mumble was, “I stink”. I took her home to our apartment where she fell open mouthed onto the couch and into a deep slumber. This slumbering lasted most of the evening and into the next day.
Friday breathed anew for her. She’d gotten caught up a bit on sleep and seemed fresher. She told me that she felt excited about that night’s Arctic Monkeys concert. She said, “I can’t wait to dance”. I wasn’t so sure.
Let’s fast forward a bit. We took MARTA (Metropolitan Atlanta Regional Transit Authority) to Peachtree Center station and walked to a bar near our concert venue. I had planned to meet a work colleague of mine and his wife there. He’s a little bit older than me, but has similar music interests as I do and we both got tickets for the night’s concert. We sat down, I had a Sam Adams and Ionuka stuck with water. She began to fade. Her eyes became milky and she had trouble focusing. She blinked slowly and loudly. Her languorous veneer belied an astute eye though. Upon seeing my work colleague shimmy into the bar she said, “Oh, he’s a ‘funny’ guy”. She was so right. He wore a loose fitting flowered silk shirt and shorts. His hands and arms pointed to us in a bop-to-bip-bop sort of fashion while his wife tried to keep up. He is fast-talking and clowny. Ionuka aptly did the small talk thing with people we had very little in common with. Things seemed fine and she appeared to have gotten out of her fog. We all ate some Cuban fare and then traipsed over to the Tabernacle, our concert venue.
We walked in and took our seats in the balcony. The heat and humidity wore us down quickly. The ventilation system in the old church didn’t work, so everyone suffered as the opening act, We Are Scientists, took the stage. They played fairly energetically, but they became annoying after a few songs. The sound system didn’t help matters. It was quite loud and muffled. They were the opening act after all, it’s never perfect. I know Ionuka at this point pretended that she was alive, alert and enthusiastic. She only wanted to sleep though. Her head rested heavily on my shoulder. I would have left it there longer, but I got too hot. I shrugged her off. She had now become a slightly irritated zombie. She glowered at me. That didn’t last long. She had to keep herself awake. She shifted in her seat, nodded her head and looked around. There was no way she’d make it. It was obvious as her eyelids gained weight by the minute.
The lights went out and the main attraction took the pulpit. They rocked like a bunch of cocky little punks. The balcony shook and we all literally rocked in our seats. At one point I glanced over at Ionuka. She appeared as if she were sailing on the open seas. Her eyes completely glazed over and focused on a distant island in her mind. The rollicking balcony forced her body to move back and forth. She didn’t fight. She was completely asleep on her feet. I dug the Arctic Monkeys, but had a difficult decision to make: Should I watch the stage or watch a goofily nodding Ionuka. Poor girl. She had no idea where she was or what she was doing. At least she looked at peace, angelic.
Near the end of the concert Ionuka gave in to her narcolepsy and retired to one of the rooms just off the balcony. I felt bad, but not bad enough to help her to a more comfortable spot. I’m sure she found a suitable place to get a few winks. I stayed with the Monkeys. They fittingly played just about every song in their arsenal then stopped- no encores. The lights came on, Ionuka came back and we shuttled out the side exit to the street below. As a fitting end to the night Ionuka proclaimed with her last bit or energy reserves, “I can’t wait to go home and floss!”.
The image of Ionuka’s temporary narcoleptic fits will linger longer than the crackling cocky performance by the Arctic Monkeys. I should have known that she wouldn’t be coherent enough to attend a late night concert after barely touching ground back in the New World, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Let me retrace her steps a little.
She flew home (and boy were her arms tired) Thursday afternoon after that tortuous 1 and a half day journey through the wilds of Hungary by bus and two flights to get to Atlanta. From previous experience I can attest that it’s exhausting. In any case, I bought a small bouquet from a tiny flower shop in Candler Park, drove to the airport and seated myself on a green bench in the arrival area. The processing bit takes time for international flights so I pretended to read some local free newspaper. The plethora of different faces in the arrival area prevented me from reading very much though. Spit-shined Iraq War soldiers swarmed all around. At various times the people waiting would clap loudly as large groups of soldiers marched by. I felt awkward. Should I go along with the crowd and clap too? Would sitting and staring without clapping label me a “traitor?” Should I give a lengthy pep talk to these young, newly shorn recruits? Possible utterances:
“Give ‘em hell, Poncho!” “Nuke those greasy A-Raaabs!” “Make ‘em eat sand!”
As usual I chose to sit and stare.
With the budding airport anxieties bubbling within my bones, I stood up and wandered around. I looked at the arrival board again for the fourth time, checked the baggage claim area and then waited with everybody else near the up escalators where all the travelers greet their receivers. I stood there a while without the hint of Ionuka. The eager embraces were fun to watch though. I felt content enough to eavesdrop on others’ worlds. Returning war veterans commanded the most enthusiastic responses and glittery signs. Daughters, moms, uncles, wives and girlfriends all showered their hero with aggressively wet kisses. Their sincerity was quite evident. Long lost relatives grinned and chatted with their loved ones. Hurried men in suits cleared wide paths to claim their baggage and rent cars. I still waited, flowers in hand, amongst the awaiting wives and girlfriends. Very near to where I stood a stern, Middle Eastern-looking woman with a toddler and a small baby boy in a stroller excitedly paced back and forth. She moved like a caged puma. Another woman of obvious Hispanic origin appeared quite nervous and kept standing on her tiptoes to get better looks above the crowd. She looked excited and happy. Neither woman exchanged glances or appeared linked in any way. Fate had other plans however.
Maybe 10 minutes had passed when the Middle Eastern woman charged in front of me, clipping my leg with the stroller in the process. That upset me and I considered having a word or two with her. She moved too fast though and intercepted a short, balding, bug-eyed Middle Eastern man who had just arrived on the scene. She snatched his wrist roughly. From the other side the Hispanic woman bounced over to lightly stroke the same man’s shoulder. A severe look from the Middle Eastern woman shot through the Hispanic woman’s soul. Something was afoot here and I had all but forgotten my stroller bumping incident. Foreign words flew from the Middle Eastern woman’s rapacious mouth. The man appeared intense and on red alert. He spoke to her and tried to wrest away his arm and go his own way. Before he had a chance to change direction she thrust her hand onto his wrist again. He motioned with his other hand that he wanted to go South, not North. The Hispanic woman attempted to soothe the puma-like woman with consoling words. Again, the Middle Eastern woman’s stare spoke volumes. She would get “her” man. He tried to wriggle out once again only to have this powerful woman grab ahold again. At this point you could see in his eyes that he had given up. He nodded his head defeatedly and made a move North. As the walking started, the Hispanic woman took the man’s left arm. The puma woman would have none of that. She left the stroller and the man’s other wrist to push the Hispanic woman’s arm away from the man. This created “battle” space. The Middle Eastern woman open handedly slapped the Hispanic woman across the face. I heard a loud “thwack.” Everyone near stared at the bizarre soap operaish or Telenovellaish scene. The man came to the Hispanic woman’s rescue. He grabbed the Middle Eastern woman’s shoulders. She charged however with flailing arms. Her sunglasses sailed into the crowd of waiters. With the man between these two women, the Middle Eastern woman couldn’t really lay a good lick on the Hispanic woman. He spoke to her emphatically, she gave up her pursuit and went back to her children. You could tell that he wanted to crawl under a rock. He walked ahead of the women and they followed side-by-side. After a few steps the Middle Eastern woman stopped and screamed, “That’s my husband!” To which the Hispanic woman responded, “He’s not your husband anymore. He’s your ex-husband!” Fierce looks were exchanged and the man backtracked to get between them. He only spoke to the supposed “ex-wife.” She didn’t listen to a word he said, but backed off and started to push the stroller with the now “balling” child. He picked his bag up and walked ahead again. The women followed side-by-side. With a juicy scene such as that, I followed a few steps too. I saw the Hispanic woman talking to the other woman. In front of the Hertz Rent-A-Car booth the Middle Eastern woman pushed the other woman against the wall and kept walking. They both walked down the hall with their silent little Lothario in the lead, headed toward baggage claim. End of episode.
I had nearly forgotten that I held a bouquet and was waiting for a loved one. Not long after the “chick fight,” Ionuka groggily stumbled up the escalator. About all she could mumble was, “I stink”. I took her home to our apartment where she fell open mouthed onto the couch and into a deep slumber. This slumbering lasted most of the evening and into the next day.
Friday breathed anew for her. She’d gotten caught up a bit on sleep and seemed fresher. She told me that she felt excited about that night’s Arctic Monkeys concert. She said, “I can’t wait to dance”. I wasn’t so sure.
Let’s fast forward a bit. We took MARTA (Metropolitan Atlanta Regional Transit Authority) to Peachtree Center station and walked to a bar near our concert venue. I had planned to meet a work colleague of mine and his wife there. He’s a little bit older than me, but has similar music interests as I do and we both got tickets for the night’s concert. We sat down, I had a Sam Adams and Ionuka stuck with water. She began to fade. Her eyes became milky and she had trouble focusing. She blinked slowly and loudly. Her languorous veneer belied an astute eye though. Upon seeing my work colleague shimmy into the bar she said, “Oh, he’s a ‘funny’ guy”. She was so right. He wore a loose fitting flowered silk shirt and shorts. His hands and arms pointed to us in a bop-to-bip-bop sort of fashion while his wife tried to keep up. He is fast-talking and clowny. Ionuka aptly did the small talk thing with people we had very little in common with. Things seemed fine and she appeared to have gotten out of her fog. We all ate some Cuban fare and then traipsed over to the Tabernacle, our concert venue.
We walked in and took our seats in the balcony. The heat and humidity wore us down quickly. The ventilation system in the old church didn’t work, so everyone suffered as the opening act, We Are Scientists, took the stage. They played fairly energetically, but they became annoying after a few songs. The sound system didn’t help matters. It was quite loud and muffled. They were the opening act after all, it’s never perfect. I know Ionuka at this point pretended that she was alive, alert and enthusiastic. She only wanted to sleep though. Her head rested heavily on my shoulder. I would have left it there longer, but I got too hot. I shrugged her off. She had now become a slightly irritated zombie. She glowered at me. That didn’t last long. She had to keep herself awake. She shifted in her seat, nodded her head and looked around. There was no way she’d make it. It was obvious as her eyelids gained weight by the minute.
The lights went out and the main attraction took the pulpit. They rocked like a bunch of cocky little punks. The balcony shook and we all literally rocked in our seats. At one point I glanced over at Ionuka. She appeared as if she were sailing on the open seas. Her eyes completely glazed over and focused on a distant island in her mind. The rollicking balcony forced her body to move back and forth. She didn’t fight. She was completely asleep on her feet. I dug the Arctic Monkeys, but had a difficult decision to make: Should I watch the stage or watch a goofily nodding Ionuka. Poor girl. She had no idea where she was or what she was doing. At least she looked at peace, angelic.
Near the end of the concert Ionuka gave in to her narcolepsy and retired to one of the rooms just off the balcony. I felt bad, but not bad enough to help her to a more comfortable spot. I’m sure she found a suitable place to get a few winks. I stayed with the Monkeys. They fittingly played just about every song in their arsenal then stopped- no encores. The lights came on, Ionuka came back and we shuttled out the side exit to the street below. As a fitting end to the night Ionuka proclaimed with her last bit or energy reserves, “I can’t wait to go home and floss!”.
luni, iunie 12, 2006
Back
I've been back in Atlanta for a few days. I am missing home more than ever and I feel sick to my stomach to be back in my office. My plans for the summer: research work, trip to NYC and upstate NY, conference in New Orleans, work out, read non-psychology stuff, get a decent tan, clean my desk and organize my files, move into a new house, start volunteering for an MS foundation.
Ugh, I need a hug.
Ugh, I need a hug.
miercuri, iunie 07, 2006
A Week of Love
The beautiful **** sisters went to Bucharest and Cluj to get a visa and visit their even beautifuler friends.
The week: 29.05.2006 - 04.06.2006
Cities: Bucharest, Cluj
Best hosts ever: Bogdan in Bucharest (because he was an understanding surrogate mom, because of the strong coffee in the morning, and because he worried we drank too much beer) and Cristi in Cluj (because he hurried back from Bucharest, because he brought strawberries in the morning, and gave us his bed to sleep in).
Friends: Bogdan, Stefan & Norbi, Marian (insert two throbbing hearts), Alex, Amalia, Anda, Ilie, Bigdi, Cip, Cristi, Ariana, Marius, Coco.
Bars and Restaurants: terasa Amsterdam, Chelsea, Cafeneaua Actorilor, Que Passa, La Mama, Casablanca, Genta, Outwear, un bar de unguri in Cluj, Maimuta Plangatoare, The New Croco, Insomnia, Roata.
Meals eaten: chicken liver in wine sauce, polenta with cheese and sour cream, stuffed mushrooms, pizza, pizza, pizza, potatoes with onions, pork tongue with olive sauce
Movies seen: Legaturi Bolnavicioase, Mongoloid Guitar, Oda do radosci, Rize, My Summer of Love, Aislados, Carmen (no link available, but I will summrize it: a lengthy independent French movie describing the love story between a young corporate guy and a bonobo monkey; the climax of the movie was when the two of them got a hotel room in Holland; no porn scenes).
Now: I am leaving for Atlanta in a few hours...
The week: 29.05.2006 - 04.06.2006
Cities: Bucharest, Cluj
Best hosts ever: Bogdan in Bucharest (because he was an understanding surrogate mom, because of the strong coffee in the morning, and because he worried we drank too much beer) and Cristi in Cluj (because he hurried back from Bucharest, because he brought strawberries in the morning, and gave us his bed to sleep in).
Friends: Bogdan, Stefan & Norbi, Marian (insert two throbbing hearts), Alex, Amalia, Anda, Ilie, Bigdi, Cip, Cristi, Ariana, Marius, Coco.
Bars and Restaurants: terasa Amsterdam, Chelsea, Cafeneaua Actorilor, Que Passa, La Mama, Casablanca, Genta, Outwear, un bar de unguri in Cluj, Maimuta Plangatoare, The New Croco, Insomnia, Roata.
Meals eaten: chicken liver in wine sauce, polenta with cheese and sour cream, stuffed mushrooms, pizza, pizza, pizza, potatoes with onions, pork tongue with olive sauce
Movies seen: Legaturi Bolnavicioase, Mongoloid Guitar, Oda do radosci, Rize, My Summer of Love, Aislados, Carmen (no link available, but I will summrize it: a lengthy independent French movie describing the love story between a young corporate guy and a bonobo monkey; the climax of the movie was when the two of them got a hotel room in Holland; no porn scenes).
Now: I am leaving for Atlanta in a few hours...
Abonaţi-vă la:
Postări (Atom)
