This night,  as I was sitting at a table in one of my favorite rock pubs, a faint feeling of melancholy was almost about to get to me but it went off pretty quick as I realized that not all the people that found themselves sitting at my table are worthy of this consideration. As for those that are, it’s never the last beer.  This inspired me to write a new series about some of the people that I’ve bumped into during my high school years. I already have two episodes planned which I will probably post tomorrow.

The first part of my journey did not last long but it gave me plenty of time to fully wake up and by the time the bus finally reached the A2 highway, I was already doing the final test in my TOEFL book. That book, a set of clothes, a bottle of Cola and a pack of parlies were the only things that I was carrying with me in my back pack. I don’t remember ever packing so light for a journey to the other side of the country.

I had a feeling of freedom and excitement. That journey was the first potentially life changing decision that I had made for myself. Reconsidering an eight year old plan, I had that childish enthousiasm of change, change of which I could be entirely responsible of. The idea of studying abroad had occured to me many times but I had never thought of it seriously because of the many obstacles involved. However, a chat with a friend over a beer in my favorite rock venue had made me reconsider. Immediately after getting home, I registered to take the TOEFL test, the first step that needs to be taken in order to apply abroad. That was the last day of registrations. I got a place at a testing center in Craiova and that’s where I was heading that morning.

The bus dropped me off in front of the north train station. I grabbed my back pack, entered the building that remained unchanged for years and headed towards the ticket point trying to remember the number of the train that I was planning to take for the second part of the journey. I bought the tickets and made my way through the many beggers that had been eyeing me ever since I entered the ticket booth hall, striving for a part of my change.

After I got on the train, heavy rain started to pour, covering the dirty window with hundreds of small droplets.Inside the car it was nice and wram. People were trying to squeeze their oversized bags into the minuscule luggage compartments. Back in Germany, these trains were not made to travel 3 hours continuously as they were meerly built for commuters.  However, the Romanian government had brighter ideas and put them to cross the country – because it can. Detached, I watched the passengers as they stuggled with this inconvennience, enjoying the fact that the only bag that I was carying can easily fit under the chair.

As the other passengers were beginning to settle down and take their sits after managing to compress their luggage, a faded horn echoed from outside. I directed my glimpse through the window as the many droplets were now slowly transforming into horizontal lines. The train was catching speed as it was exiting the large station, leaving behind, to its side, segments of broken track, ruins of old monitoring cabins and abandoned platforms covered in vegetation. The station disappeared behind us at a turn taking with it the skyline of Bucharest with its cracked buildings blending in perfectly with the grey sky. The great mountains of trash flanking the main railroad marked the capital’s thick border line.

As I was travelling through the country side, I saw the sad ruins of a  mighty kingdom that has faded long ago and probably won’t rise again anytime soon. Abandoned train stations, piled up houses and segments of broken railroad track thrown carelessly were soaring past my window as they did 1,2,3,4… years ago. In this setting, only the track that I’m on, built over a hundred years ago by The Great King Carol I survived the indifference. I hope it will take me where I need to go.

This is part of a school assignment that I’ve had in Literature class four years ago.

–

It was half past seven in the evening  and the Sun was finally setting, casting a pale yellow light over the old windmill which was standing still, without a single breath of wind to give it a purpose. Its massive wooden structure, blackened by the many years that had gotten behind it dominated the hills and the nearby village which seemed frozen in time. In the distance, an old car was slowly making its way through the many bumps of the country road that was descending from the main National Road 87 towards the dormant settlement.

“God, you can feel every bump in this piece of crap” – said the driver grumpily after what had probably been an entire day of driving.

“Hey, cheer up…” – responded his passenger while trying to hunt for satellites with his  GPS enabled mobile phone, unbothered by the bumpy ride – “We’re the newcomers in the trust, we got here last so we’re only getting this Dacia for now. Live with it.”

“Yeah, either that or they don’t give a damn on our little story here… just a little something to fill in for the 5 o’clock news.” said Jack, the driver, to his cameraman, Michael.

Jack Darrington was a journalist, a reporter who recently graduated a renowned media academy with top grades but whose ideals prevented him to keep a job for more than a few months and kept him moving over from trust to trust. He and his partner Michael had been sent to this remote corner of the country by their TV station to investigate a series of unexplained disappearances among the villagers.

“Turn that thing on. If we’re lucky, it might actually work.” – said Jack, pointing at the radio while trying to steady the wheel after the left tire went over a slightly larger mound.

“Hey, Metallica!” exclaimed Michael after managing to get the radio to sound on the right speaker, the only one still functioning. “They rarely put this on the radio these days…”

“I saw them live back in high school. That was my first real concert, the first article that I’ve ever written.” – said Jack thoughtfully – “Hey, any luck with that?” – he added referring to Michaels GPS phone while the first chords of a lasting ballad, older than the car itself, were beginning to echo.

“Nope… and this thing never let me down until now” he answered.

“Never mind, I think we’re here” Jack said after the windmill appeared in their sight with its static reflection shining in the nearby lake.

Hmm… there’s nobody on YM anymore. I’m guessing not all my pears have the latest magic stick that gives one the power of mobile internet from RDS with only 3 EURO per month.

A few months ago I was going over my picture archive from the 2008 edition of InfoEducatie. I found one picture that captured me with its imperfection and mystery and I think it fills the current darkness that took over this small urban teritory.

There you go

It wasn’t taken by me. I don’t remember who took it. It’s a girl playing with a lit up branch at the camp fire last year. She calls herself “Ana from everywhere”, she’s an excellent guitarist and the proud owner of a beautiful voice, the voice of Hotel California. She’s a mistery, a an independent soul living through music and photography, living free unlike so many of us today.

Power back on