Weekend mood...

The Christmas sheep...

Don’t worry, dear reader, this won’t be a story ‘bout tiny Jesus, those sheep from the New Testament and the shepards and stuff…even if it’s Christmas Eve.

Well, don’t know if you guys know, but, since I was a child, I never slept alone.

I’ve always had that tiny fluffy special thing which French people use to call “doudou”. Either it was a simple puppet or a teddy bear…well I’ve always had to hug them and keep them close to my heart each evening when I’d gone to sleep. Did it the whole time I’ve lived in Romania, did it when I was in Belgium and still doing it when I’m in France. And yes, I know I am a 24 years old girl with a doudou. But who cares about what the others think here? No one could ever take away my doudou.

Anyway…I’ve noticed that people who care about me and expect love and respect in return buy me a doudou as well. I could start with one of my Romanian ex boyfriends who bought me a teddy bear which I still have and actually left under my sheets on my pink princess king sized bed from home. It has been laying there since 2010…and I won’t remove it soon.

 Afterwards, there were my best friends from college who bought me a cow which I still have here in Paris. Unfortunately the cow was pretty traumatised after a few car washings, but it is still alive and usable you know. I hug it from time to time when I miss Dooda or when I’m watching “Sex&the city”.

Once my mum noticed that these two doudous mean a lot to me I think she became a little bit jealous so she thought it could be a good idea to buy me herself another doudou which could replace the cow. So, one day, I see my mum coming home with a new doudou. Before I open the box and see what it is as animal my mum tells me “I’ve bought you a whale!!!” It was kinda deceiving to open the box and see that inside there was a shark :/ But still…I’ve appreciated my mum’s good intentions. In the end, we both agreed that her whale looks more like a daulphin and we’ve sticked to that ‘cause it sounded better than the shark. Really now…how could you have a shark as doudou to cherish and to love every night ?

So…I had now 2 doudous and I was sleeping with the cow. Never change this habbit like for…2 years or something.

Then, one day came when I’ve met a man. A nice one actually which I’ve met at the tourism institute here in France. And guess what? The guy offered me a sheep. I’ve felt in love, accepted the sheep and It became really fast my favourite doudou in the whole world. It’s a pretty cute sheep you know…with a retarded smile and all.

As you expected, the love story ended but I’ve kept the sheep. It’s all that’s left from a beautiful franco-romanian love story…and continued to sleep with it.

Guess my mum got jealous again and well, she was thinking that I couldn’t move on if I continue to sleep with the sheep so, do you know what she bought me for Christmas this year? It’s pretty obvious : a new doudou.

As the last time, I get home, receive the box and before I open it my mum tells me all excited “I’ve bought you a new cow! “ Ok, I told myself that this is better than a shark so I’ve seemed pretty excited about the idea. Then I’ve opened the box and…what do I see? A new sheep. My Christmas sheep. :/

Oh well, guess I’m gonna try to sleep with it tonight. Keep you posted if it has the same effect as the last sheep I had.

And Merry Christmas, guys!

Dad...best dance partner ever

Country roads...take me home

The usual track for this period of the year is..."all i want for Christmas is you" . I'm not a fan. It's selfish and fake. I don't want only one person for Christmas, i want several of them to be here and get all merry with me. Family, friends and the others i love and appreciate. So, in the end, no, i won't ask Santa for that. But i've asked him to take me home. And he did. Well...virtually, but he did. This morning, i've found several pictures from home in my mailbox. They've filled me up with happiness and joy and Christmas feelings . Guess Santa does exist and guess i'll always be that shy moldavian country 'gal with that odd country accent who loves the snow more than everything. And i miss my grand parents, and my amazing grandpa who watches over me from a place near heaven still doing crazy communist stuff . Have a merry Christmas, my young readers! Raise your heads up and follow your dreams wherever you are, however sad or lonely you feel!

I'll always remember September

French words

“Je pense souvent à toi tu sais…” I’ve been reading these words everywhere since i came in France…well, especially in books, heard them in the movies, in text messages while I was dating French guys, on facebook and so on and so on. Why? Well, it was hard for me to understand at first, but I suppose they really do mean something…never known what exactly but they keep on having the same effect on me you know. They kinda fill me with the hope that humankind isn’t entirely lost and that some people remain the same time after time. But there comes a time when this type of words could harm you or stop you from moving on and, like so many other French expressions and words they become forbidden. But they still sound nice you know. There are tons of words and expressions which just sound amaizingly well in French, you guys, that I could not make up my mind on which is my favourite. And if you’re telling yourself that this should be the “je t’aime” well sorry to disappoint you but it’s not true. Their “je t’aime” seems to be a fucking tabou here. You use it only in case of emergency, like in those moments when it seems to you that you are loosing the one you love and you tell yourself “For Pete’s sake, if I’m not gonna tell these words right now she/he ‘s gonna leave me forever “ And afterwards, well, you tell her/him “je t’aime” . But, as a foreigner here, I’ve never noticed if they really mean something when they tell it to you. It’s pretty hard to seese the difference between what’s real or not when it comes to their language God damn it. They do it all so smoothly that you get all charmed and stuff and you forget to look for a real meaning in all this. But still, when they do give the “je t’aime” bomb you do tend to get freaked out. Cause well…it’s not your “te iubesc” , it’s not what your mother have told you when you were a child, it’s another language, it sounds different to your ears, to your other senses too , to your brain and it doesn’t have the same echo on your soul. Personnally, since I’ve came here, I’ve used these words only one time…with the guys I mean. The rest of the time, I shove them in their face the simple and basic “je t’aime bien” which, well, for me means a lot of stuff. Like for example : you’re cute and funny and I like spending my time with you / you’re so cute that I’m always excited and happy to go out with you so that the other bitches get all jealous and kranky when they see us together / you’re a pretty nice guy, you have amazing blue eyes and you read good books / you have some pretty odd ideas and you don’t talk too much but daaamn you’re good in bed…etc etc. And I’ve never meant to hurt their feelings. The “je t’aime bien” works all of the time. And in the end, well, it’s a proof of respect as well, so I guess guys dig this. Few of them dared to talk to me about the “je t’aime bien” subject…and those were the guys who gave a shit. So, that one day came when they asked me why do I add the “bien” at the end. Didn’t know how to answer, started explaining some bullshit about the translation from my mother tongue into theirs and all the linguistic differences and then let it be… So, guess I’m the “je t’aime bien” type of girl. Loosing the “bien” from the sentence is loosing your pride and your prejudices and putting your heart and your life in the hands of one random French man who, well ,in the end, turns to be so damn different from the prince charming you were expecting that it hurts. And why the hell, you’d do that twice?

Back to black

Dear reader, As you can see very well for yourself, i only write on this blog only when i’m in love or when i miss my special friends…Sometimes, like, right now, i think it’s unfair to do that. So, for my own pleasure and your pleasure as well I shall continue to write even if theoretically, I’m not allowed to be in love no more and I’ve already seen one of my special friends recently. Starting from now on, I’ll write about me myself and I and my life here in Paris. Lots of you are envying me for living in such a beautiful city, for having accomplished my childhood dreams, but all I have to say is that this had took me lot of time, work, patience and tons of sacrifices and compromises. I wake up every morning and put my French make up and personality on, smoke a cigarette and go to work. It’s life’s big cliché which takes place in Paris, the land of my merry dreams. As days pass by, my Romanian conscience, principles, language and all which comes with it fade away and sometimes I can’t even notice it. Life goes on, we move on and that’s how it goes. I’m getting all emotional and nostalgic especially during the winter holidays and I remember my life back home…when I was younger and I miss those times. I miss the snow, I miss the smell of it, I miss the cold and the wind, I miss the smell of Christmas trees, I miss my family and my friends and it gets harder to keep the French smile always on. But in the end I manage to deal with it. I find beauty and happiness in all of the stuff which surround me right here. I find comfort in my tiny apartment where I have books everywhere and brand new shoes in my closet and of course, at work. I’ve always dreamed to see Paris and the Seine and cross it’s numerous bridges…well, now I’m working at an office right on the banks of this fucking river. What could I wish more? I see the Seine every morning and I cross it’s bridges with a cup of starbucks coffee in my hand… My life’s better here from so many points of view, but…it’s not home. That’s for sure. I’ll never forget my old Romanian house, my garden and my roses. I’ll always keep them a special somewhere in my heart and that’s what makes me different and special in this French world which I hardly understand. They all seem cold and fake, male or female, young or old…and they’re always smiling God damn it and they never get tired of going out and enjoy themselves every fucking evening of the week. And for a beginner like me seems exhausting even if it has been more than 2 years since I’m doing the same stuff as they do. The metro boulot dodo never stops there… It’s always a coffee in the afternoon, the apero in the late afternoon and the after work cocktails which get in between some way or another. And the smiles, all those fake smiles and fake politeness which sometimes pisses me off but once you get into their game, you cannot get out. And you play it till the end. Till the fakeness gets to you and you’re not able no more to distinguish the good from the wrong, the good guys from the bad guys, the true friends from the fake friends. And you find yourself in the middle of this daily fake tornado of people. This is the real French life. But they have pretty good cheese and good wine, you know, and all those luxurious shops and stuff where you can buy yourself some happiness whenever you wish so, yeah, in the end, you end up by loving this. As for your social life, it has never been richer than this. You make yourself new friends at every corner coffee shop, in the metro, in the pubs, in the restaurants, at college, at work, everywhere. This is how it all goes. But the only problem is that you can hardly find someone who could really give a shit ‘bout your own ass. Never seen a people more selfish than this one, guys. I do respect that but still, it’s hard to deal with it all when you know that in the huge amount of friends which you’ve earned through this two years and somethin’ you know that there’s only one person you can count on. And no, that’s not a guy, it’s a girl. Guys…especially French guys, well, frankly, they all come and go. Young, old, mature, immature, smart, weird, stupid, polite or big fucking bastards, they all come and go and never stay more than 6 or 7 months. Seems to me that they all have an expiry date you know, like the credit cards… And when you’re a blue eyed girl, I assure you that in 2 years you can see lots of them coming and going in and out of your life. In the end, you find yourself burying a lot of them ex’s , some weirder than others, some smarter than others, some richer than others, single or married or expecting to have a child…the examples never stop. But one thing is for sure, none of them stays at your side more than 7 months. Even if they start talking ‘bout children, even if they whisper at your ear in the morning the famous “te iubesc” in your mother tongue and that fills you with love and hope and stuff… But, in the same time, as a Romanian living here in France you always tell yourself that it doesn’t worth it to find yourself another Romanian guy, especially when you’ve already been disgusted by that specie…and you keep on screwing and getting screwed by the French. And it all ends the same screwed up way. And this is how you gain experience, my friend, this is how you become more French than the French, more selfish than you’ve ever expected. Welcome to my world !

How to put an end to a summertime sadness

Oh, well

Je ne sais plus quoi dire... Disons que le silence peut faire du bien parfois. Je ne sais plus quoi dire, du coup je préfère de ne rien dire. Je vous dis quand même "à bientôt!" mes chers bloggers... P.S. Dooda, November's approaching so, would you be my sweet November? I'll wait for you here, getting all fusy inside thinking 'bout our endless girly friendship.

Métro boulot dodo...

Le réveil sonne à 6h45 . Elle lui obéit paisiblement, sans rancune et sans remords et bouge son corps lourd de sommeil vers la salle de bains. Le reflet de son visage dans le miroir a l’air pensif et on voit des taches de tristesse sur le bleu de ses yeux. Puis elle s’abandonne sous la pluie chaude et apaisante de sa douche. Son corps reprend de la force sous les caresses de l’eau presque bouillante. En sortant de la douche elle enfile des habits toujours assortis et se met des chaussures qui vont avec afin de s’installer sur une chaise à côté de la fenêtre pour savourer le rituel café clope matinal. A sa droite, un « je t’aime » collé sur son placard de cuisine veille sur elle et lui rappelle qu’à l’autre bout du monde, il y a un « homme » qui remplit le même rituel matinal en pensant à elle. Un petit sourire s’échappe du coin de sa bouche pas encore vêtue du rouge à lèvres. Quelques minutes plus tard, elle quitte son petit appart et l’aventure commence. Le vent et la pluie, les feuilles mortes qu’elle écrase dans la rue, les regards vides des inconnus qu’elle croise sur le chemin, tout ça éveille complétement ses sens. Ses pas se suivent un par un, talon par talon, jusqu’à ce qu’ils se perdent entre les ruelles automnales. Une fois arrivée à l’entrée du métro, elle cherche son journal habituel afin d’y trouver l’horoscope. Son regard se penche vite sur la colonne des « poissons », deuxième alinéat « amour » …rien de neuf. Que des bonnes nouvelles. Et si c’est des mauvaises, elle se dit « Bah, faut jamais faire confiance à ce genre de truc, c’est que du n’importe quoi ce que les astrologues marquent là dedans » Le métro arrive, la foule d’inconnus fonce dedans avec un seul bout : aller d’un point A à un point B qui, d’habitude s’avère à être un bureau, une chaise, un ordi, un PDG / responsable aussi morose que le temps sur Paris. Elle a le même but. Il n’y a pas grande chose qui la différencie des autres mise à part sa vie intérieure qui tourne autour du même « homme » qui avait monopolisé ses pensées , ses soupirs et les tréfonds de son cœur. Elle l’aime…même dans le métro, elle l’aime. Et ce qui fait que son amour s’allume comme une flamme même sur la ligne M 1 , c’est que parfois , elle croise des petits vieux se tenant par la main, des jeunes femmes en train de textoter « Mon Mari » de leur liste de contacts, des couples d’amoureux dont les regards s’entremêlent avec soif et passion et, de plus en plus souvent, des hommes ayant les mêmes fossettes que le sien, le même nez que le sien, les mêmes yeux que le sien, les mêmes mains que le sien… Illusions d’optique. Elle l’aime encore…même dans le métro.

...presque une semaine

Bon…je me retrouve encore une fois toute seule dans mes 24 mètres carrés lorsque la nuit tombe et les gouttes d’une pluie parisienne harcèlent mon ouïe. Il y a rien d’autre à faire que de me préparer un thé à la menthe, démarrer mon ordi pour écouter en boucle Lana del Rey, serrer Tit Mouton dans mes bras et penser à mon Alexandre. Qu’est ce qu’il est en train de faire en ce moment ? Je sais jamais répondre à cette question surtout à cause du décalage horaire que j’avais jamais compris, même pendant nos cours de prod à l’IST …bref… Finis les questions rhétoriques qui ne servent à rien, je prends un bouquin et je me mets à feuilleter les pages avec frénésie. Je ne m’arrêterai jusqu’à ce que mes pensées se calment et reviennent de l’Australie sur terre française, jusqu’à ce que mes paupières deviennent lourdes et mes yeux se ferment , jusqu’à ce que le sommeil me rattrape et me porte loin de cette solitude, de ce vide, de ce désespoir et de ma tristesse. Ca fait plusieurs nuits dèjà depuis que je me force de te retrouver dans mes rêves ou plutôt de retrouver d’abord mes rêves et ensuite de t’amener dedans. J’arrive toujours pas faire des rêves. Tu me manques et j’essaye de me rapprocher de toi même si l’on est à 14h d’avion distance. Heureusement qu’on se retrouve assez souvent dans le monde virtuel des réseaux sociaux… Mais la réalité s’est vidée de ton image, il n’y a plus la forme de tes fossettes sur mes oreillers, tu n’es plus là pour qu’on se mette à bouquiner ensemble, cote à cote , moi en bouquinant pour de vrai et toi en me regardant. Il n’y a plus personne dans la maison pour me faire chier et peter des câbles pour rien. Il n’y a plus personne à la maison pour m’expliquer le vocabulaire de Colette, la seule femme auteur à utiliser le mot « kalmoucke » qui nous a suscite des fous rires hors du commun pendant toute une matinée. J’entends plus ta voix me répéter « Je t’aime, ma Cintia » Ca me manque tellement…et ta façon de raconter tout et n’importe quoi sur tes amis, sur ta famille, sur les places de parking, sur nous, sur les steaks et les haricots verts, sur les repas de famille etc etc . Les journées sont vraiment kalmouckes sans toi… Je t’aime encore.

Pensées de weekend...

Comme tous les matins depuis qu’on a adopté notre mouton, mon nez se réveille en reniflant la petite boule de peluche que les Français appelleraient « mon doudou » . Mais, même si le réveil de mon nez reste doux et agréable le mien ne l’est pas…on est déjà samedi et… Il parait que c’est le weekend pour ceux qui ne travaillent pas dans le tourisme. Comme ce n’est pas mon cas, j’ai le droit de me plaindre. Mon weekend c’est le mercredi ,le jeudi et TOI . Je sais très bien que j’aurai plus de weekend pour au moins 6 mois…Ce n’est pas grave, j’ai des petits cœurs sur mon placard et ça me suffit. J’ai ton petit cœur virtuel à quelques clicks de souris. J’ai des bleus tatoués sur mon cou, l’empreinte de tes caresses sur la peau, la saveur de tes baisers imprégnée dans mes papilles gustatives et un Tit Mouton. Tout ça et ton amour me suffissent. Mais ça n’empêche que mes lèvres soient assoiffées de les tiennes, que ma vue cherche tes faussettes et ton sourire, que mes mains cherchent tes mains , que mon corps cherche tes bras sous les draps et mon iPhone soit désertique sans tes textos . Je t’aime encore.

Our summertime sadness 1

Pour une dernière fois, l'amour leur a coupé le souffle. On sentait dans l'air un voile de tristesse que ni elle ni lui, ne voulaient point reconnaître. Mais tout était déjà écrit sur leurs visages, dans leurs caresses et même leurs mouvements étaient devenus tristes. Un silence de marbre pétrifiait leurs oreilles et leurs baisers soupiraient ici et là des "je t'aime" fondus néanmoins dans leur propre abîme d'amertume. Elle l'aimait. Il l'aimait. Ils s'aimaient.Elle restait. Il partait. Ils s'aimaient. Une histoire sans fin qui peut être la tienne, la mienne ou bien la leur. Et l'histoire continue. Elle va continuer à l'aimer. Il va continuer à l'aimer. Ils vont continuer à s'aimer. Et elle va revenir gratter ses peurs, ses angoisses, sa solitude et ses moments de tristesse tous les jours,avec la même passion, avec les mêmes mots parfois maladroits en lui rappelant qu'elle va continuer à l'aimer...