Camping - morning observations

A colleague recently pointed out, while asking B if he had visited Piața Centrală in Chișinău, that markets like these offer a glimpse into the local culture—how people interact, behave, and speak, revealing their backgrounds and way of life.

This idea applies to campsites too. With little (to none) privacy, an early morning coffee outside your tent becomes a window into the lives of others. Each campsite is like a small household, reflecting how people manage their space and relationships. Most people here are couples or families.

I enjoy (maybe too much) observing and imagining their lives. Some operate like a well oiled machine: the husband makes breakfast, the wife tidies up, then brews coffee. They sit together on a mat, enjoying a quiet breakfast, exchanging small talk; they also pry on others (thank God, I'm not the only one!). They're in their mid-50s. Another family is packing up. The dad struggles with folding a beach tent but remains patient, while the mom feeds the kids and organizes their things. Everything moves slowly, calmly. There's no stress, no friction. The dad keeps trying, taking his wife's advice without frustration (I suppose one learns in time which fights are worth picking in life). Nearby, kids about seven years old make tea while their parents sleep. It’s such a lovely scene.

These moments mirror their everyday lives, their natural rhythm. There's apparent alignment.

I keep watching, typing, and reflecting. 

Camping story

Andreea &Doru taught me how to pitch a tent that chilly autumn evening. They then made a dark joke about needing a hammer to knock the ice off me because my sleeping bag was totally wrong for the weather. That was 11 years ago, and ever since, I’ve only camped in sunny spots—preferably by the beach.

I still remember their little Primus stove and how our meals were mostly canned goulash, some slănină*, onions, bread, and maybe paté. We didn't need more. And I think we were happy.

It didn’t cross my mind to mention this to B earlier when he was pondering how people camped in the "olden days," while gazing at our current setup: a full-on camping kitchen with a fridge and a proper gas stove. When we camp, the food is as fancy as it gets. If you’ve ever joined our (mostly his*) dinners, you can imagine we don’t mess around, even in the wild. MasterChef on tour...He won't compromise at all 😅

Of course, it helps that the campsite facilities are top-notch (or close to that). Four years in, I can proudly say we’re as organized as any German campers! 😂

Beyond the pines, the sea stretches out. You can hear the waves splashing and a murmur of different languages fills the air.

No time for "summertime sadness".

The impostor's hangover

2010 - 2017 I had the time of my life and that's not just a Dirty Dancing song. Wednesdays Karaoke, Saturdays - the regular night out in Oldies pub. You start off with a beer or two and you continue with tequila shots, Jagger shots and if someone offers, you'll take a whiskey too. 

You could catch me and Honey attempting some seriously questionable dance moves on stage, or if you looked close enough, you might even spot me busting a move on the tables.

Those days were pure freedom, with zero responsibilities weighing me down.

It goes without saying that we would return home long after midnight. Sometimes there was a feeling of guilt, especially when Honey's mom was around. I somehow suspected that maybe she was not my biggest fan because, seeing I was younger, she probably thought I was encouraging Honey to waste weekend nights out, keeping her away from her duties. I don't think I ever brought up the subject with her (so, Honey, if you read this, please confirm if my suspicions were correct).

2024 - I seem to always lose when I negotiate with my partner over who plays the dedicated driver when we go out. Living in the countryside has its perks, but the main disadvantage, in our case, is that there is no bus going to the top of the hill where we live. Therefore, we carefully strategize our outings. One of us has to pick the other one up or, if we both go out, either one has to drive or we take a taxi back. Last night we both went out separately and I offered to drive back. 

Even though I could legally sip on a beer or a glass of wine, thanks to Austria's laws (0.5ml/100ml is the limit), I choose to stay completely booze-free. I don't have the confidence of an experienced driver so why risk it?

Five or six ginger beers (*alcohol free) later, followed by picking up my partner and making the obligatory stop at McDonald's, I ended up going to bed at 1:30am. Add to that the hour change and here I am this morning, with an unexplained headache and hangover feeling. How can this be?? Am I getting that old? Have I lost my partying mojo? And most importantly, is it even worth to fight this? Oh, 39, I can’t even say you’ll catch me by surprise!

From parking purgatory to driving delight

I've got this daily commute.  Ten whole kilometers of highway, just to shuffle back and forth to work. But the real kicker is when I get past my little town and hit that twisty countryside road. Oh boy, the sights! It's like stepping into a postcard. I live for that part of the drive.

Every single time I'm behind the wheel, I'm counting my lucky stars. I mean, who would've guessed? Me, driving! After a lifetime of struggles, I finally snagged my license in my mid thirties. Talk about being a late bloomer!

Let me take you back to my first attempt at the driving test, here in Austria. I failed miserably from the get-go. First exercise: reverse parking. Parking?? HA HA HA...But hey, after a small fortune spent on extra lessons, I aced it on round two.

My driving school days? Oh man, those were the days. I fell head over heels for that manual transmission car. Somehow fate smiled upon me, because now I own the same car. Well, me and the bank, that is. But who cares? The universe had my back!

Fast forward to today, coming back home, whispering some sweet words to the "no indicator" car in front of me. Feeling important like a true driving queen as I elegantly take each turn. Out of the blue, reality check! My beloved car? Automatic. I'm no Formula 1 ace (unlike my "Nicky Lauda" partner). Oh dear, oh dear...My crown fell for a second!

But you know what? I'm absolutely rocking this whole "accelerate, brake, indicate" gig, and it feels fantastic!

Like the not so famous German song goes: Wie heißt die Mutter von Niki Lauda? Mama Lauda, Mama Lauda 😂

Silly aha moments

Behold the mystical phenomenon known as the "aha moment"! It's like the universe playing a game of peek-a-boo with your brain. You're just minding your own business, and bam - it hits you like a ton of bricks, or in my case, like a ton of "sh.t, I'm an idiot but... whatever."

I used to think these “epiphanies” would come to me during deep intellectual pursuits, you know, while pondering the secrets of the universe or decoding the meaning of life. But oh no, fate has a crazy sense of humor. It prefers to deliver these moments when you least expect them, usually in the form of hilariously absurd realizations that make you question your entire existence.

Forget about having deep insights while reading a profound book or watching the news. Nope, my aha moments prefer to crash the party uninvited, just to spice things up a bit. And let me tell you, they're more unpredictable than the weather in Salzburg.

Social media is a goldmine for triggering these "breakthrough" moments. Like today, when I stumbled upon an ad for a cleaning company on Insta. This guy was preaching about starting cleaning from the easiest (less dirty) surface to the heaviest, comparing it to taking a shower and starting with your face. And then it hit me like a ton of cleaning supplies – I've been doing it all wrong!!! I mean, who knew your face deserved more attention in the shower than just a quick rinse between brushing your teeth and slapping on some makeup?

But that triggered a memory! I remembered that time when I called my mom to complain about my ex washing my white bra with his colored clothes. Oh, the horror! I was ranting about it as if it was the end of the world. And then my mom dropped the bomb – at least he didn't toss the underwear in with the kitchen towels. 

Aha...hmm! Talk about a reality check delivered with a side of guilt.

So, my friends, embrace these aha moments. Laugh at yourself, shake your head in disbelief, and then carry on with life because at least it's never boring! 

Resolutions are not only for New Year's

They say that a big event can shake you to your core. But does it really? Do you truly lose a part of yourself when something significant happens in your life?

I guess I've been through my fair share of trauma, if you count being in a car accident. It was a dramatic incident, sure, but I came out of it with just a few bumps and bruises. I remember after getting out of the hospital, I slept for a solid 26 hours straight. Two days later, I was back at work, carrying on like nothing had happened.

But then, slowly, it started to hit me. I couldn't shake off the images of the accident – the man from the other car, the ambulance, the voices of the policemen and paramedics, the rumors about the trapped mother. And then, in the ambulance, it all caught up to me, and I found myself crying. The paramedic asked if I was in pain, but how could I explain that my tears were of relief? I remembered a radio ad about how ambulance sirens symbolize saving lives, and I felt grateful to be inside that ambulance, hearing that sound. Instead, I just nodded and said something hurt.

In the midst of it all, I realized I was alive, and that alone was something to be thankful for. I made plans to change, to be a better person – not that I was bad before, but we all have our flaws. I started reaching out to people, apologizing if I had ever hurt them. I made plans for self-improvement, trips I wanted to take, goals I wanted to achieve... it was like making New Year's resolutions. And like most resolutions, once my injuries healed and the pain faded, I forgot about them. Nothing really changed. I didn't go out more, didn't socialize more, wasn't a better friend, didn't read more, didn't better myself. I just stayed passive.

Then 2023 rolled around, bringing with it a new challenge that I would only conquer in the current year. Another event that made me reevaluate my life and ask myself some tough questions. Am I a good person? A good partner? Am I excelling at my job? Am I a good daughter? Am I focusing on the right things? Am I taking care of myself properly? What new things can I learn? What do I truly enjoy?

And amidst all this reflection, I realized something – I love telling and writing stories. So if I love it, why wasn't I doing something about it?

Fortunately, while I may not be certain about whether I am a good friend, I am certain that I have wonderful friends by my side. These are friends who uplift and motivate me, friends who encourage me to strive for more.

So this time I did change a little. I took a small step towards not living passively.

Challenge me!

I must confess, I don't hold the title of a culinary virtuoso, and it's no wonder why. My upbringing shielded me from the kitchen until I reached adulthood. Even then, as a young adult, I relied heavily on the convenience of student cafeterias. Later, I found myself employed in a hotel, granting me unlimited access to the kitchen, further perpetuating my culinary laziness. Upon relocating to Austria, I "acquired" a housemate with exceptional culinary skills. Oh, the marvels he prepares! His cooking skillfulness transcends ordinary dining experiences, whisking me away on sensory adventures. On our second date, he treated me to a lavish three-course meal, complete with a homemade cake. How could I resist such decadence? Once again, I found myself lost in indulgence and pampering. Regrettably, my own culinary ventures are sporadic at best. In the absence of someone attending to my needs, my diet revolves around an assortment of tuna sandwiches and frozen pizzas. Rice, of course, remains a steadfast staple; I have even been accused of being seen having Pringles for breakfast. But seriously, have you ever tried the Salt&Vinegar flavored chips? Anyhow, now that I am home alone, what would you challenge me to cook? 👀

Thirsty? Think again...

Moving to another country brings the joy of diversity, and sometimes, the hilarity of cultural collisions or associations. Case in point: WhatsApp groups with names like EuRoPol (because, you know, Romanian-Polish unity under the EU banner 😂) or Magyar-RO-UK (pretty self-explanatory, right?).

But the real fun starts at home, where my household is also a small melting pot of different backgrounds. 

Last night, someone went rummaging through the drinks cabinet, craving a Captain Morgan and ginger. Lo and behold, a bottle of rum appeared!!! But surprise, its contents leaned more towards Romanian schnapps than Caribbean delight. How that happened, we'll never know...

Suspicious, the thirsty soul pinged the Magyar-RO-UK group for "answers". Within seconds, a photo popped up: a classic Borsec bottle filled with none other than "țuică" or palinka. Then, as if by magic, my "better/worse half" unearthed our own little stash of Borsec bottles filled with "vișinată" (sour cherry schnapps).

Now, the burning question: how did this tradition of disguising spirits in water bottles come to be? I mean, who among us, Eastern Europeans, hasn't mistakenly sipped on what was thought to be innocent H2O, only to end up in a tipsy haze? 🤣 This bottle, a timeless enigma, transcending generations and borders... 

Do I dare carry on the tradition ?

6 years in (a) life

6 years today. 

I spent my last night in Sibiu at the hotel, with my parents. I was already renting out my apartment and my GM was kind to let me use one of the hotel suites. 

It felt incredibly awkward to be there for the last time. That hotel was my life. My only constant besides my friends. The only real, palpable thing. The place that fed me. The place that paid for my mortgage. The place that gave me sleepless nights yet Incredible satisfaction. Sheer joy.

I remember when we were finally opened for business and we were two F&B managers. I was the one with no hospitality experience whatsoever. The colleague who was training us told me: I see him dealing with the paperwork and you as the lady of the house.

And that's what I became. At least in my own eyes...

I had 2  fully packed suitcases. I had carefully selected what mattered most to me. The rest went away. In the end, my parents kept only my books. 

Fast forward 6 years, I yearn for my friends and family with the bittersweet guilt of having found other people who became my friends, my support in difficult times, my joy in good times, my confidantes... With the bittersweet guilt of living in a country that takes better care of me than the one I left behind...

I am slowly growing roots here. 

To many more!

Romance and gratitude

A couple of weeks back, I started writing down stuff in this gratitude journal. It's a pretty good one, makes you see life from a different angle.

Now, don't get me wrong, it's not like you suddenly appreciate everything and start imagining rainbows and unicorns everywhere. But you do notice the silver lining, and that's kinda cool!

Don't overthink it, though. My life's not falling apart; I'm still the same happy camper. This gratitude journal thing is a nice practice, even when you're already wondering what else to be grateful for. Somehow, you always find something new.

Now, usually, I'm the storyteller, but today I'm thankful for a colleague who shared how he proposed to his girlfriend on New Year's. It was a sweet, thoughtful, and low-key proposal—no flashy stuff or clichés, just genuine love for his partner.

Romance ain't dead, and I'm grateful just to know stories like that.

Mexico. Part 3. The naughty bit...

This is intended to be on the verge of scandalous. 

Here we are, round two in Mexico. Same spot, same sand, same crash pad. It's supposed to be eerie, and it is. Picture Zipolite beach: 2km of perfect blend between those who dare to bare and those who are wrapped tighter than a burrito. And at the end of this sandy heaven – Playa del Amor.

Now, you might think, at first sight, that Playa del Amor is exclusively for the LGBTQ crew, but if you squint hard enough, you'll spot some straight couples lost in the beachscape.

So, there I was, trying to chill under the shade of a massive rock on this scorching day. Truth be told, I wasn't on top of my game emotionally or physically. Yes, it was that time of the month, hence the burrito bikini. Let me tell you, that piece of fabric was more uncomfortable than a cactus pillow. It took ages to dry and on top of that, when I was laying on the sand, close enough for a wave to gently brush my body when I was elegantly performing no.1, I would get up with all of the Sahara sand in it. 

A million gloomy thoughts per minute, most of them crash-landed in negativity. I get those a lot lately, and I know their source. But airing it out is difficult. Long story short, I felt like a shipwreck. Joy was a no-show.

Across from me, lounging on a towel, was what seemed to be a woman. Long hair, tiny waist, fit as a fiddle. From certain angles, you could even catch a glimpse of her breasts. She rises, and surprise: she is a he. Or the other way round; they go for a swim, they return, plug in their headphones, and start to dance on their own. They kept at it, surrounded by a sea of people living their best lives. Joy, freedom, peace... all there. And I? I was in "Eastern European" shock.

I'm watching this human of pure energy, envying their zest for life. Meanwhile, I'm stuck in my sandy, grumpy bikini, afraid to strip down because of a tampon thread, the same one that shouted that I was the real deal – a prime, fertile woman. When did inhibition become my jam? Why was I wandering in the desert of self-doubt? Playa del Amor was screaming beauty, tolerance, and peace. It was time to rejoin that club... And I did. 

Bikini off.