When Dreams are Calling (2 page)

I should have listened to him. Instead, I did
it my way. Curious to
find out what it felt like, I experienced my first kiss on the bench
near
school with a gypsy boy. When I came home, like a good girl, I kept my
dad up
to date and informed him of my latest adventure. Much has been said,
but to
keep it simple, I’d just say he was not happy. After the storm passed,
having
secrets started to sound like a good idea. In time, I learned that with
parents, secrets become scolding opportunities, which later on develop
either
in some kind of overbearing guilt, possibly shame or even worse in some
unjustified paranoia, while with the rest of the world, secrets become
just
weapons of mass destruction.  And so, the irony is that, the
most delicious
ones, the ones that define us, are usually buried deep inside us or
left on the
death bed to some estranged nephew in an old well-guarded journal. This
is when
I started my journal, Dora’s Journal.

Other than that, I remember the days of school
fondly. My parents
had a huge library where I used to spend countless happy hours with my
best
friends. Running my fingers down their spine, letting that powerful,
unmistakable smell fill my nostrils, carried me away into a different,
better
world: the world of imagination.

How many tears each book has seen falling? How
many laughs it heard
around it? How many dreams it made come true and how many others it
crashed?

I traveled with Jules Verne around the world,
fell in love with the
Australian outback and Ralph de Bricassart in
The Thorn Birds
,
I vowed
to see justice done with Edmond Dantès in
The Count of Monte
Cristo,
I
cried and I laughed, I paused and I marveled at the beauty of love, of
friendship,
of the whole world. Each day I lived another story, I traveled to
another
place, I followed another one’s destiny.

Books had healing, magic powers. They were my
spiritual retreat, my
beach hideaway, my log cabin with majestic mountain views, that
wonderful,
exciting place where I could escape when the world was a lonely or just
a dull
place.

I was taking a peek into others’ lives without
getting caught.

I was told secrets I did not have to keep.

I was traveling back and forth in time, without
getting stuck in an
inconsistent causal loop.

I was falling in love without paying the price.

“One day, my name will be on one of those
books, Grandma. One day, I
will be a writer. If nothing else, I will have a huge library with high
ceilings and big windows facing a peaceful garden with Lilac and Linden
trees surrounded by marigold and poppy flowers and bushes of lavender
and rose.”

“When we are born, we are a book, a
book with empty pages, my
child. Each day, we write one more page, each day we give a new twist
to our
story and each turn we take sets the kind of book we are to become.
Some will
be romance, others will be dramas, some will be religion, others will
be
science, some will be action, others will be philosophy.

Your name is already on a book, my dear. The
most important book you
will ever write: your book. As you keep writing, just make sure that
when you’ll
get to the end of it, you will want to read it again. Always ask
yourself: what
book do you want to be.”

“I want to be a travel book, an inspirational,
humorous travel book,
Grandma.”

“And you should not let anything and anybody
stop you.”

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• Each period of our
  lives might be
  better than the next one. Hang on to what you have, be merry, and start
  enjoying the present.
  
• More happiness can
  be found living
  incognito than being in the spotlight.
  
• Trust your
  instincts. Sometimes even
  the advice given with the best intention in mind can be wrong.
  
• Don’t think you
  know everything and
  don’t rely on others to know everything.
  

What soothes our
hearts when we are in pain?  What expresses our feelings when
we are in love?

My mom thought, for every educated girl, music
does. She loved
piano, while I loved guitar. This time I had to listen to her and so, I
started
to play the piano at the local music school when I was six years old.

Everyone was a musician on our floor and all
that was missing for us
to become famous was a conductor. But we could never decide who would
be the
one, and so, we remained what we were: amateurs.

Despite this obvious fact, my neighbors were
always supportive. Not
my dad though. He hated it. And Mozart was the worst.

“This is not music, this is noise!”

“This is the music of my time, Dad,” I replied
each time playing
virtuous louder and louder.

“Mozart? Sure…
Your
time,
smarty pants …”

After I left my parents’ house, I didn’t have a
piano and I stopped
practicing.  Over the years, I completely forgot how to and
all my efforts went
down the drain. But I can still remember the examination’s period when,
sitting
in front of a whole auditorium with my hands shaking and sweaty, I was
playing
three pieces of classical music by heart: Beethoven, Bach, and….I
forgot!

“Why can’t I play the composers I enjoy, Mom? I
like Chopin or
Rachmaninoff. They have a heart, it loves, it hates, it beats. But
Bach? I hate
Bach. It sounds so boring, so predictable, so baroque! You could fall
asleep
and still not miss much.”

“In life, you play by the rules.”

“Sure,
my
rules!” 

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• Everything that
  can be learned can be
  forgotten.
  
• Too much law,
  order, and care can spoil
  even the simplest of pleasures.
  
• Listen and learn
  from others’ criticism.
  It will tell you as much about you as it will about them.
  

2
Bucharest:
The Little Paris

Take
your chariot and go,

Leave
behind all that you know,

But
make sure before you do,

The
reasons you have are valid too!

When I was in
the second grade, my parents decided to leave behind the serenity of a
small
patriarchal city surrounded by mountains and move to the capital of
Romania, Bucharest.

I am clueless on how long it took them to reach
this decision, but I
can safely assume it was taken in the blissful state of haste against
everyone’s
wishes other than their own. Of course, they will never admit that.
Parents
know everything, they take all the decisions after careful
consideration and
always in the interest of the child. And dare to say any different.
But, you
can think differently, just not out loud. Same as with everything else
in life.
Until mandatory brain chips, thinking is still legally allowed.

Our arrival in Bucharest was exciting,
nerve-wracking, and, for a
moment or two, we all felt like we’d been thrown in at the deep end
with the
speed of a comet. But we were determined to hang on.

Through my eyes, the whole city looked like a
huge mental institution
with patients free to roam around and no doctors on duty to sedate
them.
Everyone was always in a hurry, parties were held in the middle of the
night
until the wee hours of the morning, and everywhere you looked, you
could only
see buildings and more buildings, trams and more trams, cars honking,
bus
squeaking and all the signs of a flourishing economy. I’ll refrain from
saying
flourishing civilization. This will be a challenge to find anywhere on
Earth
now.

You could not walk, you were pushed around. You
could not run, you
were stuck. You moved in the rhythm they moved and they moved as a
tortoise
ready to say its last prayers.

Fight-or-flight. Survive or die. Toughen up or
get crossed over.
People were coming out from everywhere: from the subways, from the
buildings,
from the malls. There was no escape. And no time to lose. Run. But
where? There
was nowhere to run, or to hide, to breath or to pause, no place to die
or live
in peace.

All those people seem to have one thing in
common and that was MSD: Mass
Stress Disorder.

No one talked, but everyone yelled.

The neighbors did not know or care about each
other, unless there
was some major broken pipe or some rent to be paid.

And I don’t deny it. Some might have
thrived in that noisy, dusty
chaos. Lucky them, when the world population will hit seven billion,
they will
survive. But not me. And to say I hated
it, it would be an understatement. I
vouched I will never live in big cities, be it Lima, New York, or
Bucharest. I vouched to be bored with silence, nature, and stories. I
vouched to have time
to breath, to pause, to think, to love, to listen, to care.

But for now, I was in the mad men city, the
modern European capital
of Bucharest, the little Paris of the East.

When we entered the building we moved into, I
felt like I’d entered
an Egyptian tomb: the hallways were filled with dim light, it was
quiet, and I
was waiting for a mummy to touch my hand at any moment and take me away
from
everything which was dear to me. I was terrified.

“From now on, you’ll go to school and come back
from school by
yourself! You’ll warm up your lunch, do your homework, and wait for us
to come
home. You are a big, responsible girl now,” my mom solemnly informed
me.

“When did this growing up business happen, Mom?”

“Today.”

“Wow! That was fast!”

For the following years, I could only think of
how happy I was back
in my small town, playing in my grandma’s backyard with my friends,
listening
to her happy voice calling me for lunch, breathing in the clean fresh
mountain
air, and sharing the fish that my grandpa had caught with the entire
neighborhood.
Back there, the days were passing slowly, people had time to fall in
love, to
read, to get together, to know and help each other. The houses were
beautiful
and tidy, the streets were clean and everyone took pride in the natural
beauty
surrounding them. Back there life had the same rhythm it had for
centuries. Sure
there was progress, but there was also life. And it was easy to keep
everything
in balance.

Oh, how I missed it all. Alone in the
big city, surrounded by
people too busy for their own families, all I could see around were
those huge
buildings which, like big monsters, were crushing my universe, my sense
of
belonging, my peace. Here, I was just a number, a name, and an address.
I was a
no one.

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• A big city full of
  opportunities that you don’t want values far less
  than a small city full of friends and laughter.
  
• Reality is less
  important than our perception of it.
  
• If we juggle
  everything at once, we might drop the most important
  piece and not even notice.
  

3
Puppy Love

When
you grow up and love a boy,

Your
parents might think that it’s a joy.

For
you it will be a tragedy in disguise,

Before
you know it, you’ll fall in love with all the
other guys.

If you are
neither precocious nor slow, your first love is always happening while
you are
in primary school. Some lucky ones will know when it happens, live it
to the
fullest, and remember the person all their lives. Others will realize
it
happened after it ends, and with time, will barely remember who it was
with.

I remember all my love affairs like they were
the ones and only. I’ve
always been hungry for a new love, for the hopes and dreams that it
brings, and
for how young it makes us feel no matter our age. As if I knew it would
be a
long list, I started to fall in love early in life.

He was blonde with blue eyes, daring, handsome,
charming, and
underprivileged. I was dark with green eyes, bouncy hair, beautiful,
and shy.
At the time, I was reading
Lady Chatterley's Lover
with a particular
interest on the paragraphs where she, rich, glamorous, sophisticated,
and
married, was giving herself to him, a poor, uneducated servant, totally
and
unconditionally, crossing the social class barrier between them, bowing
in
front of love and defying the strict norms imposed by the society
through the
institution of marriage. Although their love, instead of bringing with
it
the
security of a home was actually destroying it, she was utterly happy
experiencing pure lust in the arms of the one she loved. Away from the
reality
brought by each ray of sun, they were living their lives fully,
claiming their
right to happiness. In the name of love, would they find the courage to
leave
it all behind and run? Being romantically inclined, I was convinced I
would
leave all the riches and security in the world for the sake of true
love.

I was lying in bed, imagining how one night, my
dear blonde and me,
blue eyed boy, would passionately kiss and run away, have kids, and
live
happily ever after in a tiny, modest cottage far from prying eyes and
unfair
prejudice.

For him, I was willing to go till the end of
the world and back. At
that age this simply meant to play soccer with him and his friends on
rainy
days, all wet and covered in mud, but happy to be close to him, or to
throw
pebbles at his window, trying to get a last glimpse of him before going
to bed.
In just about each second of my life, my thoughts were with him. The
poems I
was writing were dedicated to him, the dresses I was buying were just
for him
to like me and my kisses were all kept for him. He was my inspiration,
my
reason to wake up and the permanent subject of all the discussions with
my mom.
Some might call it love, others might downgrade it to infatuation, but
whatever
you decide to name it, one thing was sure: I was all over him.

But one day, without any notice given to
myself or to him,
everything changed.

“I don’t love him anymore, Mom.”

“Don’t worry, you never loved him, you just
liked him. But how do
you know that?”

“I found out today when he told me he will go
to the worst high
school with all the losers.”

“And, what does this have to do with love?”

“Everything. I could forgive him for being a
terrible kisser and a
forgetful boyfriend, for his less than desirable origins, for his lack
of
manners, and for whatever other shortcomings, but I could never ever
forgive
his lack of ambition.”

“So, no tears, no pain, no sleepless nights and
no remorse.”

“None of it. It’s plain and simple. I’m not in
love anymore.”

“The mind conquered the heart. I just hope all
your breakups will go
as smooth as this one.”

“I’ll make sure to leave them first,” I
replied, giving her a wink.

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• You can always
  exercise just by running
  after guys.
  
• Love should stand
  first the test of the
  brain, then the test of heart, and only then it might pass the test of
  time.
  
• In books, love is
  overly romanticized.
  In reality, love is just complex. Enjoy both.
  
• People live in
  reality, but thrive on
  illusions.
  

When I was done
dreaming about all the handsome guys, dark or blonde, with green or
blue eyes,
shy or daring, I prayed for a real man: one with ordinary looks but an
extraordinary
brain, with ordinary eyes, but an extraordinary heart. However, I
forgot to
mention one little tiny thing: one ordinary in public, but
extraordinary in
bed. And this slip of the mind proved to be fatal.

I met him when I was sixteen. He was an
average-looking guy, smart,
and with a warm heart. He loved me to bits. To show it to me, he bought
me
donuts, roses, took me to opera, listened to all my fears, and chased
away my demons.
There was nothing he refused me.

After five years of a relationship, we finally
decided it was time.
We jumped naked into bed, full of hopes and longtime plans. Despite
him having
all the desires more or less obvious, I had no other desire except for
falling
asleep. Kissing him felt like a duty, touching him seemed a waste of
time, and
letting him to do all these to me was almost unbearable.

“The clothes are off, I got on top of you, now
what? How long until
it starts to feel good?” he joked.

“Not sure, but I have a headache already,” I
answered, joining the “happily
involved” women club, the ones whose answer is always a headache.

Our sexuality, instead of being a dream taking
us to highs of deep
pleasures, was bringing us to lows of deep sadness. Far from an
empowering
experience, it was humiliating and stressful.  We were great
friends, but
impossible lovers.

When all this physical intimacy became a
burden, causing grief and
threatening to break my otherwise perfect relationship, not knowing
what to do,
I mustered all my courage and asked my mom about it:

“Mom, why do I always get a headache when he
wants to touch me? Is
there anything wrong with me?”

“In life, my dear, there are two kinds of men:
one who give you a
headache and other who make all the headaches go away. Headaches are a
good
sign to know which one you’ll choose.”

“What do you mean? Should I leave him because
he’s a bust in bed?
Will I ever find another sweet soul to be there when no one else is, to
love my
mistakes just because they are mine, and on top of that, be a skilled
perfect
lover?”

“Who knows? But should you let fears to rule
your world?”

“I wish there would be a way to stop thinking
about it, to stop
wanting to feel how it is to make passionate love. He’s such a
wonderful guy.”

“Just remember, no amount of food will ever
replace a drop of
water.”

And right she was. Like a flame, my strong
sexual desires were
burning everything in their way waiting for that moment when weak,
tired, or
maybe just wise, I would stop fighting them.

While our friendship got stronger every year,
our romance never
blossomed.

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• Only by being
  faithful to love, not to
  your lover, you will find happiness.
  
• Sexuality is a
  gift that should never
  be denied.