latitudine si longitudine, un debate la amiralitate

In seara asta imi aduc aminte de aventurile lui huck finn. Citite din volumul rufos la bunica si explicate lui Costel, amicul din deal. Planul era sa plecam pe un rau la vale, si mai apoi mama a descoperit sub canapeaua din bucatarie, la Braila, un colac de sarma, un ciocan, doua pungute cu pesmeti si o bucata de pastrama mucegaita care ar fi trebuit sa fie pemmican. Nu a fost sa fie. Mama mi-a spus ca de atunci inainte Mark Twain era interzis. Am citit apoi despre becky thacher sub patura in dupa amiezile tarzii in orasul cu salcami. E un oras greu, doborat sub sensul indescriptibil al istoriei si sub parfumul grav al salcamilor in verile dureroase ce atarna periculos asupra dunarii iuti. Nu se intampla nimic, atunci, decat ce razbatea ca un ecou din cartile rufoase din biblioteca bunicii. Timpul astepta ca un graur flamand deasupra unui agud.
Ce voiam sa spun era ea. In seara aceasta, oarecum diferit de altadata, ea lucea deasupra unei constelatii fade de vin rosu si vorbea si se aducea pe sine dintr-un loc al discutiei in altul. Era, sincer va spun, un spectacol. Stateam adus de spate in lumina cruda de neon, si sorbeam din vinul crud de pe masa. Ea, era, oh, frumoasa. Delicata si fina ca o sculptura in gheata. Perfectata dupa milenii de munca de un artist autist intr-o zi care se repeta, groundhog day and bill murray. Ochii vedeau miscarile ei de felina domesticita, zanganind din lantul uns cu ulei si mirodenii. Ea este aici, incredibil, si miroase atat de aproape de narile largite in vant, in foamete mare de latitudine. Ziua de ieri si ziua de azi (cu insulele lor respective) se bat in continuare la marginea ghimpata a realitatii, in schimb ea se misca, vorbeste, vai, ce o plac. Cum este ea frumoasa.

Sfarsitul istoriei

In aceasta seara, in timp ce toate subiectele imi par de o nesabuita actualitate, dupa scufundari succesive in valuri spumegande de years purchase and investment techniques (ar trebui sa scrie cineva despre potentialul enorm de fantastic care se ascunde in literatura de investment), deci in seara asta vreau sa spun doar ca

1. Mos Craciun pare a fi castigat batalia media cu Iisus. Daca observati, Craciunul este sarbatoarea bradului si a cadourilor, nu am auzit mare lucru despre nasterea lui Iisus.

2. Imi amintesc sarcofagele de piatra de la British Museum, monumente simple si directe ale mortii. Nu alegorii, nu cartea mortilor, calatorii subpamantene in basoreliefuri etc. Nu, domnule, o chestie de piatra in care putrezesti. Vad ceva potential de meditatie aici.

3. Tot despre Bristish Museum, o statistica la prima vedere: in general s-au reprezentat (arta sau nu ramane de vazut) chestiunile urmatoare- victorii in razboaie si glorificari ale momentelor cand le-am tras-o la altii (destul de urat cel mai des), apoi femei misto calare, pe jos, cu cap de pasare, in marmura, imbracate, dezbracate, triste, furioase, lascive, indragostite, in fine, femei; si mai apoi zei care nu sunt decat metafore ale chestiunilor de mai sus. Aaa, uitasem, fapt deloc curios- cultivarea pamantului si cresterea animalelor sunt indeletniciri pentru invinsi. Ma intreb cum s-ar reprezenta, intr-un basorelief de exemplu, sa ramana - multiculturalismul. Si political corectness. Da, prietene Fukuyama, suntem la sfarsitul istoriei cand nu mai poti lasa in piatra urmele tale.

Sardanapal- incursie in puf ireal

usor clampa la ora tarzie visez transportat (transbordat?) la pulpa calda sculptata lucind in intuneric ca o dioda in pantecele unui LUX-S mare maroniu. Ma opresc dezamagit dupa ce fara voie musc din acest pishcot virtual, ma asez pe troscotul urban de la marginea shoselei lungi- asfalt mitic. Masina agai trecu alene holbandu-se suspicios, iar un politai hrisostom spuse ceva despre ordine, transformand prin simpla vorbire cerul jos al noptii intr-o chestie foarte hilara plina de intalesuri natange. Diana Laibar, intr-un contas tivit cu blana de nurca, imi oferi niste zaibar. Eram complet in pom.

Descalecari de duminica

Elena Teodorescu este un ghid ciudat al bisericii domnesti din Curtea de Arges. O istorie personala complicata si usor tragica- doamna Teodorescu este o umbra a Basarabilor ratacita la anul 2000, in biserica prost intretinuta (desi poate fi monument UNESCO mult mai potrivit decat altele).
Negru voda-Thocomerius tuseste infundat in intuneric (nu, nu este cuman, ne asigura dumneaei).
Acu, e clar ca meritul istoric al domnului Djuvara este mai degraba de a aduce in spatiul public de can-can (calificare ultima: talk-show la realitatea) teme aride dealtfel pentru oamenii zilei.. dara spune doama Teodorescu ca Giurescu, aflat in vizita, zice usor ofticat ca in ziua de azi toata lumea (adica vezi nechematii ca Djuvara) isi da cu parerea pe chestiuni importante.
Ce e bine e
1. ca doamna Teodorescu ne poate spune despre Basarabi cand venim de pe Transfagarasan si
2. Ca Djuvara mai aduce vorba de chestiuni din acestea, desi nu neaparat chemat.

Altcumva, cine naiba mai gandeste la Basarabi.

the short week end

So, it seams that there was a different, more comprehensive (hence interesting) account of one of our sorties. The text belongs to Les.

"Last Friday I met some friends for supper at 21:30 in an Irish Bar (of all things) in Bucharest, my Hungarian friends Attila and his wife Betty, my English colleagues, Rob, Alex and Ian, a young American chap I know then some friends from one of our competitors, it’s a close-knit business community here. Anyway, we finished eating at about 23:30 and the girls from EFG (the competition) ‘kidnapped’ us in their Mercedes and took us to a night club in deepest, darkest Bucharest. I should really have gone home, as I’d arranged with Mihai and Muller that they would collect me in the morning to go up into the mountains hiking, at 08:00… the night ended-up finishing just after 05:00 Saturday morning and we got a cab back to Herastrau, the area I live in, North of Bucharest. Got to sleep just after 05:30 then Mihai and Muller collected me just before 09:00 the same day. We then collected Maclean (the young American who was out partying with me) and we cruised up into Bucegi, near Saniai in the Prahova valley, deep in the Carpathian mountain range, in his SUV, arriving in the mountains late morning.
We got cash, and then jumped into a cable car for the trip to the summit of a local peak – about 9,000ft up! As we arrived at the top a different world awaited us, pure white, fog all around, and very, very cold. The phrase, bitter cold, does not justify the feeling.


I’d never experienced anything like it, but our local guides seemed confident, so we prepared our clothing and started the trek – after three hours sleep the night before, and a little too much to drink I confess, we began our adventure. The ‘guides’ pointed in the general direction and we headed off into the strangest landscape I’ve ever seen, ice cold wind tears any heat it can find from your flesh, fingers chill as soon as they come out of your gloves, face hardens and any moisture freezes in seconds. We had a false start as there were no tracks to follow, which didn’t do much for my hung-over confidence, but I trust the guys, so onwards we went. The snow soon crept into my boots, making the blood chill in my feet – I quickly stopped and attached the gaiters they’d advised me to buy. Then we found a way-marker pole and I sussed how to navigate – in a down direction watching out for avalanche-snow and precipices. Scary stuff, but very exciting and an excellent way to clear ones’ head.


We soon met a local climber who appeared to know the area, the local chaps exchanged navigation information and we carried on. I’ll spare you the details; needless to say we eventually arrived at a hotel half-way down the mountain – only to find a film crew making an amateur movie. We sat next to the actors drinking hot coffee to thaw out and made a few new friends. Then we said our goodbye’s and headed for the place we’d planned (but not booked) to stay in. It’s a pension, a kind of hikers’ guest house. As we arrived, a bunch of Romanian girls started talking with us and our American friend thinks he met the love of his life….as least until he sobered-up a little! We ate a hot, hearty meal then slept for an hour.


At about 20:30 we went back down from our room (complete with open, furnace-type fire) to the bar/lounge area to eat and we’re invited to an outside BBQ by our new friends. Maclean got persuaded to sledge down the hill by his new friend, while we watched and winced as he fell into the ice-cold snow. We ate and drank until the early hours (again) before a small ‘room-party’ finished off the alcohol and our hosts complained about the noise.


Got up Sunday morning, had breakfast and the owner of the pension advised that our route off the mountain was not achievable, winds were too high and we simply couldn’t get back. A few negotiations took place resulting in a hand-gun toting local arriving in a very dodgy old Lada four by four and agreeing to take us to a village on the main road, near the bottom of the mountain. Well, it seemed the only option to get back, so four grown men crammed into this vehicle which was really designed for two. We then trundled off down snow-covered tracks, slipping left and right, but moving none the less.
We soon met a few people from the night before, their Audi saloon car unable to climb any hills even with snow chains. Our new guide (with the gun, turned out to be a local policeman) helped them to move then we carried on. The conditions were quite scary with our friend sliding the Lada across the rutted snow inches from unyielding rock faces, sometimes with a 100ft drop into an icy lake the other side – we all caught our breaths a few times. On the way, we passed through another outdoor film set, this time much more professional with generators and lights etc. Cars were littering the tracks, stuck in the snow, but our new friend and his trusty Lada kept moving – most of the time. We had to stop and change the tyre at one point for puncture, and the suspension kept bottoming-out due the weight of five grown men on board (including the driver).

We persevered though and eventually arrived at the place we had left Mullers’ nice, comfortable, warm, air-conditioned SUV, the relief was palpable for all of us. We then ate a delicious meal, if expensive by local standards, in a restaurant and then we sped back to Bucharest tired, satisfied and alive. Another adventure for the record, and a couple of photos are on my facebook profile for you. "