Bucarest, Rumania, Noviembre de 2006

The Paris of the East, museums, streets of centuries of medieval court history, baroque architecture, my ears listened to a language that, as a self-taught person, devoured with a book in the distance, without success, but listening to it was a beautiful music that I never felt , but wanted to dance, a Déjà vu. For some reason I understood it, although everyone knows that a Romance language is legible when someone who speaks another understands it. I always found an exquisite pleasure in walking along the railways, anywhere, as I walked in Puente when there were them, when they hadn't been erected yet, letting go of memories of the Chapel train (I never knew him but I always imagined him with his railway lines) Walking along the railway is to evoke other times that here in the capital of the Carpathian and Danubian country is a reality. In the distance I heard some bells and I liked their sound, although the strange thing is that it was getting closer and closer. As if the bell towers of the churches moved looking for the faithful. Someone yelled something at me at first an incomprehensible (Duteeeee Duteeeeee ce dr@/&/$•/)= face-ţi nebunnnn nebunnnnn) was a tram driver who, from behind and sticking his head out the window of the old tramvaiul șapte (seventh tram) yelled at me and wanted to warn me with its bells that it would be a sight if I didn't get off. There I listened to the first words in Romanian, addressed to me, which were not exactly prayers or poems. After autumn left without saying goodbye, I never felt so cold on a day when at five in the afternoon, it was already night and lasted until past eight in the morning, apocalyptic and long shadows, than with ten or twenty under zero, it made us dream of spring all year round. For everyone with whom I spoke, it bordered on the absurd and strange that someone like me, coming from a spring place twelve months out of twelve, would dream of coming to this icy hell, as some called it, and even more, to make "come" a reality. to this land full of legends of wolves and vampires, where the night is so long in the "iarna". I saw the hope and illusion in the eyes of a country woman, whose facial lines were like waves in a sea of porcelain-white skin, like the unknown wake that mercilessly fell from the sky in future days and contrasted with a deep blue of his eyes, if he didn't listen to his breathing, he would think that his skin lacked any life; when I told him that there was no snow where it came from, only on the high peaks, that it could be cultivated all year round, that it never snowed. He reproaches me for leaving that land and leaves with a smile. The boiling water came out of the faucet and instantly froze in the coffee cup, which rested on the triple-glazed window frame of the old Soviet building where I took refuge. I felt happy for the new sensations and the people, incomprehensible, undressed their habitual face of little illusion and rejoiced at my happiness. Soon I joined this collective wave of hatred for winter and without realizing it, I was already a friend of a bad mood, back pain and constant muscle tension. Cold when the beautiful autumn dies, cold that kills the chromatic range of everything visible and transfigures it into a terrifying and biting infinite white, which makes it difficult to distinguish the sky from the ground, a total absence of any horizon. That made me fall more in love with the old București, born by the initiative of a shepherd many centuries ago, according to the dusty and incomplete Lexis 22 that stopped resting in the old bookcase of my house, when I reread with enthusiasm, while waiting for the night to look for the shortwave radio that brought me listening and learning, the waves of Radio România Internațional, with the beautiful voice of Victoria Sepciu, who reminded me how beautiful the land of Transylvania would be, Bukovina, Nadia Comaneci, Eminescu and Emil Cioran. Even returning to the country, where you can always grow and harvest, I long to return to that omnipresent white, to the city of "Bucurie" (Happiness)