Hamburger ori franzela cu parizer / Hamburger or fresh bread with salami

POSTED IN Stories June 16, 2015

Hamburgher ori franzela cu parizer

Timpul ne mai da cate un ghiont din cand in cand, amuzandu-se: ”iti mai aduci aminte?!”. Imi aduc aminte bine toate cele…nimic nu am uitat, cum spune Darie.
In vara lui 2005 am venit acasa in vacanta, am lasat in urma avionului Finlanda occidentala si m-am reintors ”la portile Orientului”, sa-mi retraiesc amintirile copilariei, ale adolescentei.
Pe 4 Iulie, tocmai cand SUA isi sarbatorea Independenta, eu si tata am hotarat sa mergem o fuga la Iasi, doar pentru o zi. A fi acasa si a nu vedea Iasi-ul este pentru mine o blasfemie.
Iasi-ul ma astepta cu parfumul cald si lenes al teilor infloriti. Parfum familiar…ma simteam in siguranta, mergand alene cu tata spre bulevardul Lapusneanu.
Deodata, insa, imaginea s-a frant si m-am trezit in Matrix. Un alt Iasi isi oferea chipul ciudat, isi etala bratele vlaguite, ca o femeie batrana ridicol si inutil intinerita de prea multe operatii estetice.
Un frison de dezgust…primul. Occidentul isi pusese amprenta peste Iasii mei dragi. La fiece pas un alt boutique, un alt McDonald, atat de multe si inghesuite , incat nici nu mai aveau clienti. Larma si murdarie pe strada eminesciana.
Incercam, ma fortam sa gasesc ceva din Eminescu, o bataie de inima, in tot acel zgomot infernal, insa Poetul se ascunsese doar intr-o statuie.
Tata era si el derutat de prea multele masini, care forfoteau peste tot. Eram precum doi rataciti pe o planeta necunoscuta.
Intr-un tarziu, tot incercand si unul si altul sa simulam veselia, am hotarat, la insistentele mele, infometati, sa intram intr-un McDonald
(in Finlanda sunt multe si ieftine, oamenii nu se prea omoara sa-si cheltuie banii pe fast-food-ul american).
Fete tinere, moldovence neaose, se chinuiau sa copie modelul american, asa cum le ordonase probabil managerul inca din zorii zilei de 4 Iulie. Copie jalnica a Zilei Independentei USA.
Hamburgherul era imposibil sa fie mancat, cola era pe jumatate gheata , iara nota de plata m-a facut sa plang. Aproape 30 euro cheltuisem pentru o trista imagine jenanta, care nu ar fi trebuit sa existe. Iasi-ul meu si ziua de 4 Iulie nu au nimic in comun. Ma indoiesc sincer ca America stie cand este Ziua tarii mele.
Am parasit acel loc flamanzi, nervosi, frustrati…In Finlanda as fi platit pentru un hamburgher, cartofi prajiti si cola doar 3.50 euro.
Am incercat sa caut in mintea mea confuza un loc in care eu si tata ne puteam linisti sufletul. Si am intrat in Casa Cartii. Alta tragedie, alta surpriza trista. Casa Cartii era pustie. Carti far’ de gust, traduceri palide ale unor telenovele ori serii erotice, ori sfaturi practice à la Oprah si Dr. Phil cum sa te descurci in viata, se etalau hidos, cu copertile lor de prost gust, pe rafturile unde odinioara gaseam numai rare editii ale clasicilor.
Si am plecat. La fiece pas simteam cum Iasi-ul meu, batran ca timpul, insa cu fata reconstruita de botox, ma ruga sa nu-l judec, sa am rabdare.
Astfel, cu tot amarul in suflet, am intrat cu tata la Mitropolie. Acolo nimic nu ne putea atinge, zgomotele si mirosurile Occidentului isi pierdeau puterea.
Am regasit-o pe Cuvioasa Parascheva si, langa trupul ei, cu tot dorul si toata durerea, m-am rugat pentru tara mea.
Dupa aproape doua ore de liniste, lasand in urma lumanari aprinse si sperante infinite, am plecat spre un alt loc cu liniste: Copou.
Acolo l-am gasit pe Eminescu, stand pe o banca sub teiul lui. Ca din senin o briza a batut si a plouat cu flori de tei peste capul albit al tatalui meu, tocmai cand ii faceam o poza…Semn bun, am gandit, sunt totusi acasa, Occidentul nu-mi poate lua TOTUL.
Spre seara, osteniti, am pornit usurel spre gara, flamanzi, salivand la gandul mancarurile pe care mama le pregatise acasa, in lipsa noastra. Eram rupti de foame. Si, deodata, miracolul s-a intamplat. Tata mi-a spus sa stau cuminte pe o banca, pe peron(ca pe vremea cand eram doar un copil).
A venit repede cu franzela aburinda, parizer taiat felii si doua sticle cu bere proaspata si rece.
Si acolo, pe peronul Iasilor, eu, ditamai profesoara, am mancat cu o pofta de copil franzela rupta cu mana si parizer, band bere rece direct din sticla, fara fasoane si far’ de etichete.
Simt si acum gustul bun, gustul ca sunt acasa cu Tata.
Pana sa vina trenul, in jurul nostru se adunasera caini ai strazii si pasari flamande, caci noi impartiram cu ei festinul incropit de tata.

Si astfel am plecat din Iasi, fericita, alaturi de tatal meu, la ceasul cand in America incepeau focurile de artificii, iara in Iasii mei se stingeau luminile comerciale, si Poetul isi incepea plimbarea pe Lapusneanu.

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Hamburger or fresh bread with salami

Time gives us all a nudge every once in awhile, amusing himself: “do you remember still?”.
I remember everything very well. How could I not? It was the summer of 2005 when I came home for the holidays, leaving behind me the airport and Finland in the West, to return to “the Gates of Orient”, to my Romania, to my childhood memories, my adolescent years.

One day we decided, my Dad and I, to travel from dawn till dusk to the town of Iasi. To be home and not see my Iasi would have been blasphemy in my eyes.

It happened to be the 4th of July.

Iasi was waiting for me with the warm and lazy scent of the blossomed linden trees. Familiar perfume. Walking idly with my Dad towards Lapusneanul Boulevard, I was feeling secure, at ease, breathing the scented air so strongly missed by my soul.

Yet, suddenly, the image broke and I woke up in “The Matrix”. Another Iasi was offering me its weird face, as an old woman senselessly and ridiculously rejuvenated by too many plastic surgeries. A shiver of disgust. At first. It seemed like the West put its stamp on my beloved Iasi. Every metre another boutique, another McDonald, so many and cramped, that they did not even have clients any-more.
Noise and trash on the street where Eminescu once lived.

I started to force my senses to find the heartbeat of the Poet in all that infernal noise, but the Poet was hiding himself inside his statue.
Too many cars moving everywhere, too fast, like termites, confused me and my Dad. We were two lost souls on an unknown planet.
Later, both of us simulating happiness, pretending to be content, we decided at my insistence and both being hungry, to enter a McDonald (in Finland there were many and cheap and people were not in a hurry to spend their money on the American fast-food).

The waitresses, young girls, pure born Moldavian, were trying hard to copy the American model, as their manager perhaps ordered them to, in the early hours of the 4th of July.

Artificial, distorted fake of USA’s Independence Day in Iasi, Romania.

The hamburgers were impossible to eat. The Coke was half ice and the bill made me cry. We spent almost 30 Euro for a sad and pathetic image that should not have existed. My Iasi and the 4th of July had nothing in common. I was honestly doubting that USA knew the Independence Day of my country, let aside where and what Iasi was.

We left that place angry, hungry and frustrated. In Finland I would have paid 3.50 Euro for a perfect hamburger, French fries and a quality Coke. I was trying to find in my confused mind a place where my Dad and I would have been able to relax our tired and restless souls. We entered the book store named “The House of Books”. However another tragedy, another disappointment was waiting for us.

The “House of Books” was empty. Tasteless books, pale translations of soap operas or erotic series, or practical advice à la Oprah and Dr. Phil as in “how to make it in life” were exposing their idiotic hideous covers on the shelves where, in other times, I would have been able to find only rare, out of print editions of classic books.

So we left. With every step, I was feeling how my Iasi, old as time itself, but with a face rebuilt by Botox, was begging me not to judge him and to be patient.
With all the bitterness of this world in my heart, Dad and I entered the Mithropolia. There nothing evil could have touched us. All the noises and smells of the West were losing their powers: we were surrounded by “made in Romania” faith.
There we found Saint Parascheva and near her embalmed mummified body, I was praying for my country.
After almost two hours of silence, leaving behind burning candles and infinite hopes, we left for another place with peace: Copou, the great heavenly garden.
We found Eminescu sitting on his bench under his Linden tree. Out of the blue a breeze tenderly touched the blossomed trees and it rained down Linden tree flowers on the grey-haired head of my father, just as I was about to take his picture.
“Good sign”, I thought, “I am still home and the West cannot take everything away from me”.
With the coming evening, tired, we walked slowly to the railway station, hungry, longing for the food we were sure my mother prepared in our absence. We were as hungry as two wolves.

Then, suddenly, the magic happened. My Dad told me to stay still, on a platform bench. He left and returned quickly with oven fresh bread, salami and two bottles of fresh cool beer.
And there, on that platform of Iasi railway station, I, madam teacher, was eating broken by hand bread with salami with a childish appetite, and I was drinking cool beer straight from the bottle. No etiquette, no fuss, no “lady-like” meals or gestures.
I can still taste it – the taste that I am home with my Dad, in my country, free to be myself and not a western pretender.

As we waited for the train to arrive, lots of dogs and birds gathered around us, because we were sharing our feast with them.
Dad and I left Iasi happy. As the fireworks were starting in USA, the commercial lights were switching off in my beloved city and the Poet could start his lonely walk along Lapusneanul Boulevard.

Bielka