how I know

so I’m on an excuse to walk around the other day, admittedly availing myself of a few clouds which certainly softened the footfalls, because of the recent happening wherein I had the honor of being in a magazine based in and for Bucharest, my incredible wife adding the killer topping in the translation of my English into Romanian.

What makes it all so odd is that as I walked along the thought surfaced that made me consider it and it concerned the fact that where we are is actually quite nice. So many would die to be able to live where we are presently living.

And if I aspire to being a decent writer-poet, all the natural splendors around here should possess powers to absolutely conquer all memories of a recent history; should be completely taken in and where we were should cease to exist. Blog posts should be all about or inspired by where we are now.

Because as I walked I could not help but admit: there is very little that can be said is actually bad about where we are. The climate is not harsh. The layout is comfortable. It is hilly so all one needs is a dose of gumption and a daily walk or two could move a body closer to decent fitness. The people are generally really friendly. We’ve got great neighbors. I can’t say anything actually bad about anything or anyone.

But I then realized that might be what partly composes the withdrawal pains. Each time I encounter or experience something around here – say it’s food, like we’ve been out to eat a few times, and not just fast food, but decent restaurant food, and it’s so far been impossible to say the dishes were bad. Because they were not bad. But neither were they great.

And I can’t help but remember, or my taste buds reminded me of the afternoon we entered what they called a ‘push-the-tray’ establishment and to this day I can say that it was the absolute worst food I’ve ever eaten. And it looked like it wouldn’t. To this day we remember staring at the spread of plates and dishes we could not get halfway through, not because we were not hungry but because the food tasted so bad, and we wondered at this: how could such a thing be, how much work had to go into making food that was so uneatable.

Then again I recall some of those tomatoes we could grab from a little store so near our apartment – Romanian-grown, sometimes very locally-grown, tomatoes…. to this day I’ve not tasted better tomatoes. I’ve tasted tomatoes here, even tomatoes grown by loved ones, organically, and they only reminded me that I’ve never tasted a better tomato than the tomatoes I tasted in Bucharest that the shortest excursion could bring to pass.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in bucharest, geography, observation, romania, thoughts, travel, virginia and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to how I know

  1. yeoldefoole says:

    Hemingway had to move to Paris to write about home, and Joyce as well to write of Ireland. Funny thing, but distance seems to grant perspective.


    • wow I think you just hit on something

      Liked by 1 person

      • yeoldefoole says:

        I’ve been a nomad all my life and have found it to be true for myself. I think memory is a filter which edits out the minor annoyances…


      • this is the kind of stuff that calls for book-length examination

        Liked by 1 person

      • yeoldefoole says:

        ok, you inspired me – see latest post “Hi-Way Diner”


      • okay and I see what you mean

        I can say you are generally correct but in this case there are places I really went to almost every day. And there’s plenty about that land that is not so nice. Mainly about the ‘system’ which I was generally spared from feeling firsthand. So there’s plenty who would give anything to get out of there and be where I am now. But in that context, I almost never spent more than a fleeting couple minutes pining for what I called my home. So granted my lens was my lens but it was my lens and maybe sometimes it was rose-filtered, but all in all, I’d go back there tomorrow if I could. Except they’re about to elect a really evil snake to be their next president.That’s their worst problem – their politicians. It’s like they manage to find the worst people to run a really beautiful little country. Like that horrible food in that otherwise nice-looking restaurant.

        Liked by 1 person

      • yeoldefoole says:

        sounds like you were doing some “enchantment-based” filtering before you left. (like we all do when we fall in love…)


      • hm
        don’t know
        I know some of that went on before coming back here. Tried to remember pleasant memories of this place. Something to look forward to. And that’s the story. That’s what the article tried to get across: how everything around here is OK. But with every OK comes a memory of a related something from there. Of course there’s no way to compare the two. Two completely different worlds. This one is mellow and quiet and laid back while that one is… or this: this one is Norman Rockwell and that one is Jackson Pollock. I happen to appreciate both.

        Liked by 1 person

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