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!