Iasul de altadata

Un lucru pentru care sunt recunoscatoare Internetului e ca te duce din punctul A in punctul B doar printr-o serie de click-uri.

Asa, de pilda, am aflat azi despre istoria Cofetariei Tuffli, despre Richard Tuffli-proprietarul evreu care a venit cu ideea de a amenaja o cofetarie la parterul fostului “palat sturzesc”, despre unul dintre hobby-urile lui Alexandru Ioana Cuza, lucruri despre Gheorghe Asachi si despre Junimisti.

Acest palat s-a aflat chiar pe locul actual al Casei de Cultura a Studentilor, pana in anul 1960, cand a fost demolat. Atunci a inceput comunismul. Aceasta cladire a fost proiectata de Gheorghe Asachi si pe parcursul propriei istorii a adapostit la parter diferite localuri si restaurante printre care si Cofetaria Tuffli, cofetaria cofetarului Constantin Vladescu-cofetarul Curtii Regale, Restaurantul Corso. Suna cunoscut?

Etajul a fost folosit ca hotel-Otel d’Angleterre, apoi inchiriat de societatea Jockey Club, care intrunea pasionati de curse de cai. Iar presedintele acestei societati a fost…Alexandru Ioan Cuza.

Ce e atat de special in toata povestea asta? Ei bine, e vorba despre bucatica de istorie pe care noi, ca romani, ajungem sa o pierdem ori sa nu o aflam niciodata. E vorba despre faptul ca de un lucru, cum e fostul “palat sturzesc” care acum nu mai exista decat in carti si mentionat in articole culturale, s-au legat atat de multi oameni, care au reusit sa ii insufle viata si sa il lase posteritatii ca amintire.

Amintire ratacita, de altfel, sub toata dezordinea de zi cu zi, ascunsa sub campaniile electorale,  superficialitatea mult prea raspandita si  lipsa de curaj a tinerilor.

Stiam deja, de la unul dintre profesorii universitari, ca Gh. Asachi a fost cel care a infiintat prima scoala de inginerie si hotarnicie din Romania, stiam de la profesoara de romana ca a fost primul roman cu ideea de a reforma invatamantul pentru ca noi, studentii si elevii de astazi, sa invatam in limba romana.

[Cat de util ar fi sa se introduca in sistemul de invatamant un obiect numit Istoria ta si a orasului tau?]

Dark Carnival

Sophie..

The young woman was in the kitchen, not able to find her peace. She was drinking from a bottle of sour yogurt, and grimaced with each sip. It didn’t taste right. And yet, the girl forced herself to take another sip. From time to time, she remembered the piece of soft bread waiting in her hand, and then she would quietly and unwillingly take a bite. What was it that bothered her? What wasn’t?

“It’s not love…” a thought occurred in her mind. “It can’t be. I barely think of him, and only when I remember. Which is not often, as love is supposed to be.”

She lifted her chin from the chest and tried to snap out of this state into which she had been diving for the past two days. The girl practically isolated herself from the outside world, not being capable to stand for all the crap that was happening at work, university and in her family.

“This sucks! Everything sucks!” A deep sight left her bosom.

Sophie got up from the chair at the table and started walking just like she was always doing when a very proximate nervousness threatened to overwhelm her. Her bare feet were almost purple from the cold of the hard floor, but Sophie didn’t care; she didn’t feel any cold.

Her eyes rose from shadows and she looked like a stranger at the queer little room that purported to be a kitchen. It was small, smaller than a peanut bag, cold, damp and always smelled like eggs. She hated it and yet somehow whenever she felt lost came here, sat on a chair and think, or measured the room in small steps. It helped her gather herself up.

A thought crossed her… “What am I doing with my life?” and sobs began to emanate from her throat. Sophie’s brows furrowed in a vicious embrace and her eyes poured salty tears on the pale cheeks. Sophie crouched on the damp floor, hugging tightly on her knees, afraid that the slightest hush of wind could break her.

Minutes passed. Sophie was still on the floor.

Eventually she got up, and with trembling hands  lit herself a cigar. She violently puffed and in less than a minute it was over. Where was the ash tray? Fucking ash tray!

Sophie started looking desperately around her, when she heard a crack behind. She could  not breath for half a minute, until she finally rose, wiped the tears forming in the eyes and took a little teacup plate, lit another cigar and moved her place from the table to the tiny balcony that looked more like a prison window.

It was spring; it rained but now there were patches of blue sky among the roofs and sparrows were cheerfully twittering about. One could almost smell that better times were coming. Sophie could not.

[to be continued...]

No title

Moon river, Audrey Hepburn

Have you ever thought how easy it would be if you were  something else than a human being? Perhaps a bird or another animal,or perhaps a tree?

Once, I imagined I was a little rock on the bottom of a stream. I would have moved from side to side if the waves were stronger and maybe I could have been the shelter of a little fish, during a storm. At least, then, my life would have a meaning. I would lead a selfishless life, spared by  pride or vice and would find myself thousands of miles away from wickedness.

I sometimes despise my human existence, this form so unpredictable and contradictory, thought to be so mighty when one needn’t step away from the house to find his end.