I Believed I Could Fly

Did you ever sit down on a plane intrigued by whom you might end up sitting next to? Especially on a long haul flight? I certainly used to. I didn’t obsess about it, but it always intrigued me. It was always the thrill of one last possible treat after trying out all the perfumes and lipsticks in Duty Free. I am not going to lie to you and pretend I was after an interesting conversation with an academic lady from Nepal. When I was single ( to get things straight for Amore) I fantasized about maybe meeting the man of my dreams on a plane. What a great story that would have made for our grandchildren! Grandpa and I were sitting next to each other on the way back from Sidney and we’ve been sitting next to each other ever since. Get it? I am as cheesy as it comes.

+ B does not =

Few people I know get on planes as often as I do. No, I am not boasting about it, it’s a fact. I get on a lot of planes and actually go to a lot of places a lot of times. Some call it great luck, I call it something that I would get very bored without.

Inspite of all that, I have never ever started a somewhat promising conversation with an eligible guy on a plane or in a waiting lounge. I did catch glimpses of good looking fellas walking around airports in casual manner, but not once was there a conversation with view to keeping in touch later on.

For example now, I am on a plane flying back to London sitting next to a studious looking man completely immersed in his book. I just glimpsed at the book and it must be one of those things that come with a womens magazine. Where else would you get a book that says ” I just love it when men throw their eyes back and say mea-yaaaaoooww”…. ?? Bad! Bad! Bad!

To my left there is a handsome man reading The Economist. Don’t these successful business types ever stop?

The list of indifferent people on the plane can continue. Also, I have had the other end of the spectrum when conversations would start and never end. But never that romantic touch. Which is ok. Or it would have been had I not known at least two people who have found love on the plane. Is it me then?…Hmmm. Just as good, ‘coz I’m not interested. ;0) I met Amore while dancing away one night and we’ve been together eversince…

Just as I mentioned the conversations I’ve had over the years, I am going to point out the most interesting ones that will maybe one day become a story on this very blog. There was:

* the 75 year old Englishman who was going to Habana to marry his 25 year old Cuban pen girlfriend and believed it was out of love (call me a cynic!); he was sad at his 45 year old daughter’s ageist attitude towards all this…

* the Jewish slightly nerdy 30 year old who was going to Kiev to meet the Jewish man of his dreams

* the insurance salesman from Suffolk who was friendly and sweet and kept me engaged in conversation all throughout the flight from Sidney, even held my hand tight during the worst case of turbulence I’d ever experienced and then – upon seeing his wife and kids in the airport literally ran off without even saying goodbye

* the Turkish man who didn’t speak a word of English and- deceived by my Mediterranean (good) looks – made several attempts to converse in Turkish throughout a flight from Istanbul; to this day I wonder what it was he was saying, he looked like a kind person

* the guy whom my friend and I had left behind in a rather unladylike manner in Ibiza ( we did a runner on him because he talked too much) and then re-surfaced in the airport getting us acquainted with an un-necessary pang of guilt

* the dashing German young man who befriended me on a flight from New York to London, took my number and called me to ask for my advice as to how to tell his father he was gay

The list of such examples is long. A few years back I had a bit of a fling with a pilot in Madrid. Not DURING the flight, as one friend of mine thought in horror ( “Is this the type of people we put our lives in the hands of?”). I suppose that redeems my lack of success on the actual plane.

Unless the Turkish guy was declaring his undying love to me, you can tell that the plane was not going to spark a romance in my life. Not even a lasting friendship. Why I ever expected to build a rapport with someone on a plane, when that never occurs to me on my daily trips on buses, I can’t say. But there was a time when I did. Not anymore.

Have you ever met someone on a plane?

Nostalgia?

I try to go home to Bucharest at least once a year.

Anybody who lives away from their home town will know what a typical visit back home is like: staying with mum and dad and seeing as much as possible of grandma; doing a different friends’ round every day; attending at least one big family gathering around a table full of yummy food ; walking around to take in the ever so familiar yet now transformed places of your childhood.

Not only is it a trip from London to Bucharest, it is also a trip from 2007 to the late 80’s and early 90’s.

Last time I went back was in August 2006. My lovely grandma handed me this small transparent plastic bag containing a red piece of cloth. “I thought you might be pleased to see this” she said. What on earth could it be? I quickly took it out and was hit by a rush of nostalgia. I had discovered my equivalent of Proust’s Madeleine! The object in question was this red scarf we used to wear in primary school. It was a symbol of the former PCR (Romanian Communist Party) and I remember being ever so chuffed when chosen to be what they used to call a “pioneer” (term for young communist).

This particular scarf is from the end of primary school which would explain the emotional hand written messages from long forgotten classmates. I wonder what they all got up to? What are their stories?

This finding prompted me to write a post about life as a child in communist times. Those of you who know me and have heard the stories look away now.

I was born in 1974 when Nicolae Ceausescu’s regime was starting to become increasingly dictatorial. He’d been president for just under 10 years and the obsession with power was getting the better of him. But I was a child growing up in a loving family and never really felt I was missing out on anything at all. Funny thing, human nature: you just adapt to whatever is thrown at you as long as you’re surrounded by love and care.

Rather than unfolding pages and pages of autobiography, I’m going to reveal the 10 things that I feel would help you get a bird’s eye view of what growing up in communism meant. Some of the patterns will not sound unfamiliar to those of you who went to Catholic schools. Just worshipping a different Big Guy.:0)

1) Every day we went to school between the ages of 7 and 14 we had to start the day by singing the national anthem. TREI CULORI CUNOSC PE LUME. We then got on with the classes. And we were blessed with a level of education which I am yet to encounter anywhere in free schools around the world these days. It’s only fair to give credit where it’s due.

2) We were not allowed to communicate with Westerners which would probably explain why I now boast with travels the world over and a considerable network of international friends. You spoke to a foreigner and you were in danger of some infiltrated Securitate plain clothed officer catching you.

3) We would sometimes be summoned to go stand in the city’s big parks for hours on end, so that when Ceausescu passed by our coreographed mass of pupils, we would be asked to clap and cheer. I remember at the time we didn’t see it as exploitation but as a welcome break from normal school routine.

4) We would be entitled to limited amounts of oil, sugar and meat per family per month. Knowing Mr. Costel from one of the state butchers was a great bonus as he would sneak extra chicken out the back door in exchange for a bribe.

5) Most of us studied Russian, which I loved, but many of my colleagues wouldn’t have chosen. I was fortunate in that I later on got a job in Moscow for a good few months and had a ball, making all those hard Russian lessons worthwhile.

6) We had two hours’ TV programmes a day from 8 to 10pm during which we would have the privilege to watch Ceausescu and his wife visiting some heavy industry monster plant; or – if we were lucky – we’d get a North Korean film about young communists and their fight for their utopian views.

7) We were told capitalism was evil yet we all looked to the USA in awe and many of my friends’ parents immigrated in those days in almost life threatening conditions ( on ships, backs of trucks, etc.)

8 ) We saw beautiful churches moved from the front of the street to behind the big tower buildings. They stood for a culture that clashed with Ceausescu’s views of contemporary Romania. Similarly, we saw amazing old buildings brought down to the ground. They were a sign of the past glory of Romanian aristocracy, so they were replaced with grim 10 storey towerblocks instead.

9) We even had our folklore adapted; the vaguest references to old times would be swapped with fresh new ” I like to work in the factory” stock.

10) We were HAPPY. Yes, maybe living in blissful oblivion of what we could have had access to, but as strange as it may sound, I wouldn’t change a thing.

This will put things into perspective. The country’s come a long way and is flying high at the moment. Looking at my shabby red scarf I cannot help smiling at its significance then and now.

If you’re still awake, thank you for reading! :0)

Il Postino & Pablo Neruda

This may come like an obvious one to many of you, lovers of good film. Today’s recommendation / reminder is IL POSTINO. Bear with me, though, as I’m making it a double one. Let me explain.

We watched it on Friday night and what a wonderful film it is! Simple, sweet, sensitive, set against the background of beautifully picturesque Procida island in the south of Italy.

Not only is the film an utter pleasure to watch ( I did have to wipe away a couple of tears…), but I have made a discovery: Pablo Neruda’s poetry. IL POSTINO is about the friendship between a local postman and the exiled Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. Throughout the film and in the extra features, they quoted Neruda’s lyrics and I was hooked! I’m heading down the library and I will take out his 20 POEMS OF LOVE. And I will read poetry again for the first time in over 15 years. I am going to tempt you, too, with a couple of lyrics, maybe I can bring poetry back into your lives.

What can I do? I am a hopeless romantic. Enjoy!

IF YOU FORGET ME

Cogito Ergo Sum

Saturday evening. Nice quiet evening in for amore and me, cooked up a quick pasta with red pesto (you can never go wrong with that) and sat down to watch some TV. Not much on, but eversince I’ve discovered the magic box called Freeview, if nothing else, I managed to broaden the choice of not-so-good films/shows.

So far so good. Ad break comes on and all of a sudden I feel enlightened. “The Sunday Times in collaboration with Mensa brings you the chance to challenge yourself with this interactive DVD quiz”. Hurrah! I love challenging myself with quizzes of the Trivial Pursuit, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire or University Challenge variety. I have this strange tendency to get the so-called difficult questions right and fail on the ones that are considered to be basic.

Before you think I’ve fallen deeply in love with the image in the mirror, let me explain: being foreign, I get questions to do with language, foreign culture, politics, etc. But I know nothing about things like children’s nursery rhymes, the detailed geography of England, the order of the English kings and queens, and so on.

Overall, though, I get above average results. According to the results of my last IQ test I could be an architect or a teacher. Not bad, better start studying for either…

Anyway, this morning I sent a reluctant amore to brave the rain ( “It is good for your cold to get some fresh air”) and get me a copy of The Sunday Times with the promised interactive DVD. It’s called BRAINPOWER – EXERCISE YOUR MIND.

Ladies and gentlemen, you are reading the blog of a person who got 11 out of 25 right. I am depressed. I mean, yes, I got it right that Mandela was released from prison in 1990. And that George Orwell wrote 1984 in 1961, but the rest was a disaster. I could not figure out what number was next in a chain of completely random numbers. Ditto for the letters. As for geometrical shapes that were supposed to come in some sort of logical chain, you can forget about those. The result: I was declared a middleweight brain. A middleweight brain??? Moi? I got so depressed and declared this morning’s purchase of the paper the worst £2 ever invested. Honestly, who do they think they are?

Anyway, I have now calmed down and I am not using all the intellectual words I can think of to impress amore, who was laughing his head off hearing the “wrong answer noise” one too many times…I will have that noise in my head for a while yet….My door buzz sounds a bit like it, maybe I should change it…
Are you into IQ tests?

Neighbours

This was going to be a post on resolutions. As timely as it might have been, I’ve seen the topic treated to death. In quite original ways, might I add. And resolutions – I have plenty. Just think they are too boring to share. What are they going to be if not about weight loss, finances, holidays, being a better human being….?!

I was then tempted to talk about Saddam’s hanging and ask for your views, etc. It was news that shocked everyone I’m sure, on more levels than one. I am not however going to talk about that either.

What I would like to talk about briefly is a rarity in London: I actually know and (shock horror!) LIKE my neighbours.

This is the city in which many turn their newspaper away from you on the tube if you try to read over their shoulder. This is the city where if a spotty fake Burberry-clad teenager shouts super-human decibels down the mobile or bullies the bus driver, nobody would even acknowledge it happened. This is also the city where my previous next door neighbours got married and had a baby and I hadn’t even known the wife was pregnant!

And now, all of a sudden, I am in this unbelievable position of actually counting the people I share my house with amongst my amigos! We watch movies together, we chat, we even go out together. I’ve just come from a dinner downstairs with my lovely neighbours A-L and JC. What a great pasta JC cooked! Bolognese with an exotic touch of cinnamon and cloves. Yum, thanks again, guys!

And E. and P. I’m sure will be lifelong friends. We clicked from day one and I wouldn’t even get mad at them if their washing machine leaked onto my living room ceiling (again). Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you that speaks volumes. I am usually the note-writing type: “Please refrain from leaving my garden in a state after using it for your BBQ!”..”Please do not slam the main door. There are enough cracks in the walls already. Moving your bike out of the main entrance hallway would also be fab! Thank you!”

Come to think of it what a jewel of a neighbour I am….!

I know to many of you this is going to come across as normal, but believe you me, it is not the norm in London. Neighbours are a rare commodity and if the Londoners amongst you have good ones, you, too are lucky.

So, here’s to E, P, AL and JC! A bunch of great guys, please don’t move out of Number 9.

Do you know/put up with/like your neighbours?