Poetry (0.032s) Poetry, prose, essays, comments, poems - International Culture and Literature
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agonia.net 
· indigo
Article 
Despre Boierism: manifest si razie
Round Table
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2008-01-07 | | America smells of coffee. That was my first thought when I first set foot in JFK airport a couple of months ago. A strong, powerful sent for a nation of strong, powerful people, I thought. But all the strong and powerful people were in a hurry, eyes down, speaking on their cell. Or looking up, browsing through the electronic flight panels. It reminded me of North Station, Bucharest before Easter. Slightly more crowded. Some people had light skin and some other people had dark skin. But they were doing the same things. Everybody seemed to have something very urgent to do. Nobody looked at each other. Except for the group of flight attendants who were laughing and walking, with the pilot in the middle. He looked like a superstar. This reminded me of a similar scene from that movie where Leonardo Di Caprio was impersonating a PanAm pilot. After a few months at ETSU my eyes started hurting from too much technology. But I had friends to complain to. Nice people, from all over the US. The type you find anywhere in a country if you don’t barricade yourself behind the barb wires of international studentship. At first I liked hanging out with internationals. We had something in common. We were trying to adapt to a different civilization (at least that was what we were supposed to do). But some of them were stressing too much on how different this country is from their country. And I just couldn’t relate to that. Because from what I was experiencing, students were doing the same things as they would do anywhere else. Boys wanted to look cool for the girls (or for other boys), while the girls were playing hard to get. Teachers wanted to explain, while students wanted to complain. Students were trying to get a free meal at the cafeteria, while cashiers were trying to prevent that. Some smoked, some didn’t. Some were religious, some were irreligious and some didn’t know what to be. The freshmen were on another planet, while the seniors were bored of their planet and wanted to fly out to Graduate School. It was just like back home, in another language. All the so-called differences were only minor ones, no more than Transylvania is different from Moldavia. In the former people work harder and buy more stuff, while in the latter people don’t work so hard and buy less stuff. I liked to look at the big trees from my dorm window. And watch students hanging out, or smoking. I would follow one with my eyes and wonder what they will be doing in a few hours. Eat at the cafeteria? Be with their friends? Who were their friends? Were their parents divorced or were they still together? Sometimes I would go downstairs and hang out with them. He un-wrapped the cellophane, starting it up with his fingernail. The shirt he was wearing was rolled up over the elbows revealing a stylized cross on the inside of his right forearm. It was big enough to see from afar. Sitting back, with the sole of his worn out sneakers leaning against the railing, he popped open his pack of Marlboro reds. Carefully he removed the aluminum foil, crumpled it and threw it away. He reached in, drew out one and lit it with his clicking Zippo-style lighter. He took a big breath in, leaving some smoke floating around his nostrils for special effects. I knew from my own experience that only a qualified smoker could do this trick. For two or three moments that he retained the smoke his face was expressing all the features of a person who had no care in the world. This boy reminded me of myself in high-school, when I used to smoke. Every break, I would go outside and follow the same ritual. It was like smoking a peace pipe with me. It was also a cool thing to do. “Hi, how are you!” “I’m good. You?” “I’m good, too.” We were both now staring at the crowning of the big oak in front of the dorm. We stayed like that, with the back of our elbows resting on the black iron railing, for a good couple of minutes. A squirrel was carrying something between her paws and at the same time was climbing up a steep branch. From time to time she would suddenly stop and throw us an awkward glance. I wondered what she could be thinking. I guess for her we were just two monsters invading her privacy. “Hey, man! Want a cig?” “Sorry? Cig what? “ “You know… A cigarette.” “Oh. No thank you very much. I quit long ago” “So… where are you from, man?” “Romania” “Romania?” “Yes, Romania” “Cool”
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