Maria Grigorescu Blog

My Novel — Character Builder Exercise

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Tue, 23 Jul 2024 13:46:55 GMT

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Remember Myrameda the Dacian Princess? You can check my previous articles if you want a catch-up.

Let’s bring in a scenario where my Main Character is going to meet someone famous in a social situation and they engage in a meaningful conversation.

The purpose of this ‘conversation’ is to reveal the sort of person my main character is.

This article is purely a writing exercise and has no intention of criticizing any person or mocking the American political scene.

I shall remind you that Myrameda is a princess who lived around 107 AD, which means almost 2000 years ago, and she is put in a simulated hypostasis of socializing with a famous person from the twentieth century.

Here it is.

The light was not to her advantage. It made her face look orange, but the smile was contagious, wide, showing nice white teeth and lifting her whole face. Hillary Clinton knew how to put on a good smile.

“The world is a nasty place these days. Too bad you lost the election,” Meda said in one breath.

The former US Secretary of State fiddled with her necklace, a beautiful piece of golden, grey, silver, and dark pearls. If only she hadn’t worn that impossibly orange pantsuit, the eye-searing one.

“It’s not like I did it on purpose,” Hillary said when her hand left the pearls. The blue eyes got darker. The façade of her smile cracked a little.

“Oh, I did not mean it that way.”

“It certainly sounded that way. Do you think you will be able to find the tablet and save your people?”

Meda smiled and picked up a glass from the table. She sniffed it and took a long sip. Hm, she thought, I must use my words wisely. She may not understand my abilities. She was still smiling when she turned to face Hillary again.

“It all depends on my own will, and yes, I can do it. Or I can die trying. My people depend on me.”

“So, you do not believe that you need help from friends, spies, and loyal soldiers?”

Hillary glowered, and Meda held her gaze.

“I need all the help I can get, and I am ready to use all the means at my disposal.”

“Including your sword.” Her chin pointed to Meda’s waist, circled by the wide leather belt that would have carried her dagger and sword. She had to leave them with that powdered man at the entrance and right now, even though they were the only words she was fighting, she felt unprotected. It was not the place or the moment to make a point. She had to be more tactful.

“I can use my sword, and I admit it. Others use big words and make up big lies to deceive their people. Then they use their position and speak more big lies and cause rifts between countries and then make them take out their swords and fight.”

Hillary looked the young princess up and down. “In our world that is called manipulation.”

“In my world that is self-doubt and weakness, and sometimes foolishness. The words are not always taken as intended and — ”

“We are more peaceful.” Hillary sat up straighter. Discretely, she unbuttoned her jacket. It didn’t seem to relieve her of her nerves.

It was Meda’s turn to show her thoughts in a grin. She lifted her palm to hide it. Her companion was immediately distracted by the glimmer of the jewelry.

“Your people must be very happy because you hide behind words. They manipulate others to pick up fights while the great States remain peaceful.”

Ms Clinton chose to remain silent. Her eyes watched the serpent in gold with emerald eyes that encircled Meda’s lower arm.

And this was my character-builder exercise.

Traveler in Ireland — Cliffs of Moher

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Fri, 01 Mar 2024 08:27:11 GMT

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Sometimes when I watch the sun fading away I think — OK, this beauty will never end. But then is gone, and I sigh — oh, well, tomorrow is another day and another sunset. For these sunsets, I like to travel.

One famous tourist attraction in Ireland is the Cliffs of Moher. Of course, we put it on the list of things to see in our tour.

Just to be clear, I did not go to see the Cliffs of Moher because I wanted to get married and take a photo with the majestic image of the cliffs as a background, nor because I wanted to try bungee jumping from the Cliffs of Moher.

I went there because I wanted to see what it was about.

Is it outdated? No, I wouldn’t dare to say that or I will be lynched by all my readers in love with the famous cliffs.

But it’s an oversell.

It was our second week in Ireland and it was so far a perfect trip. The rented car behaved, all the booked accommodations were nice and rooms were clean, the weather was a bit cloudy and occasionally we had some light rain, but it was September — autumn in a country situated in Northern Europe. What could you expect? The pussy rain was good. We did not need umbrellas and we could walk around easily enough. Lots of tea and scones go well with that weather.

Cliffs of Moher.

We arrived at the location and spent 15 minutes going in circles in the huge parking lot until we found a spot to park. That made me wonder, where all the others who rode behind us are going to park. It was really busy and felt like not enough parking for the expected crowd.

The cliffs were surrounded by a network of alleys that could take you above the cliffs and on the sides of the cliffs.

We walked 10 minutes to the ‘cliffs’ moving together with floods of people as if afraid the cliffs were going to disappear. We see the cliffs. Wow! That is something. We turn around. The ocean. Wow! Nice. And we keep walking in another alley, taking pictures, and making sure that we catch every angle. We see more cliffs. Oh, no, they are the same, just from the next alley. We go up and then back down. Fifteen minutes later we are done.

Should we go to the other side as well? What for? The same cliffs from a different angle. We go up towards the tower and we learn that the tower was built on the cliffs in 1835 by a local landowner and politician Sir Cornelius O’Brien as an observation tower for Victorian tourists.

The man was a visionary and believed that the view of the cliffs deserved a special place. On a clear day, one could see so far as 20 km into the ocean to the Aran Islands. The view must’ve been magnificent. We did not have that clear day.

Some say that he wanted to impress the women he was courting. So, here we are, perched on these cliffs with the winds in our faces because Sir Cornelius O’Brien built this tower. I think that his tower was the beginning and the creation of a huge magnet for tourists.

O’Brien Tower is the highest point of the Cliffs of Moher in County Clare of Ireland.

Ivan loved the cliffs, he was in awe and impressed by all the numbers and figures. I mean, what?

Sand and mud carried down the river for 300 million years?

The sand eroded into small particles and then deposited bit by bit until the cliffs were built up to 214 meters tall. Yes, amazing figures.

I am sure there are many cliffs all over the world that for one reason or another are… unique. Or wonderful. Or very old. Or build-up from lots of sand eroded and carried down.

And you can see very far on a clear day. Yes, beautiful views. As any other view from any other tall coastal line.

Yes, but, can you imagine what a view from a ship when you see a stretch of 18 km of tall cliffs?

Well, I am not on a ship, aren’t I?

I mean yes, nature at its best, but in the end … they are just just that — cliffs. For me it was like, OK, been there, done that. I saw it and visited it and the lesson from it is: Build a tower on top of some big cliffs, get a story connected with them, put together some numbers and figures and that’s it , you can put it on the list of ‘things to do’.

So, I’ve seen Cliffs of Moher. And such beautiful cliffs!

PART 3 - The End of Summer A story of the untold childhood

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Thu, 22 Feb 2024 23:06:24 GMT

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Let’s return to the story and find out what happened with Ala. Is she going to be free?

Here it is the final part of The end of summer, a story from my first collection published under Feelings in Staccato: the book of stories.

‘No, I want only Ala.’

I was suddenly wide awake. I leaned on the wall hoping to become invisible.

‘I still do not think that is right.’

‘I am sure you do not, Marcela, but I don’t care what you think. It is the child’s right, and that is all what matters.’ His voice was raised when he added, ‘If you keep insisting, I will stop sending you the money for the house.’

There was silence as I lowered my body to the floor. My back felt the coolness of the wall through my nightgown. I was afraid to breathe.

‘I did not know that you would come back for her,’ my father said tentatively.

‘Before I arrived, I was not sure what I wanted. But I need somebody to live with me. I am old, and I cannot be alone in the house. I know now that Ala is the right one.’ He paused and I sensed the humour in his tone. ‘I thought that you, Marcela, would be pleased to hear this. I feel that you are not very happy with Ala.’

The silence was complete from my mother.

Uncle Albert added, ‘There are servants to keep the house clean and cook, so Ala would only need to keep me company. I still want to read books and newspapers, but my eyes are not the same anymore. And that house is too big and too empty for one person.’

‘Well, we could talk …’

‘Marcela, I do not wish to discuss this matter further with you. All the previous arrangements were made with Nick. As far as I am concerned, your only role in this affair was to spend the money. Now, I want Ala back.’

Another silence, this time so long that I was afraid they would find me crouched on the hall floor, eavesdropping.

My father spoke again, his voice etched by regret.

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow, with me,’ Uncle Albert added softly. ‘Nick, you must know that I value your help. I did not know what to do when both your cousin and aunt lost their lives. But this is the right thing to do.’

My mother changed the subject. ‘I need to prepare your bed, Uncle Albert.’

I tiptoed back to my bed. The silence in the house was ringing painfully in my ears. My night became a sleepless time, tossing and turning in bed with their words in my mind.

When the exhaustion finally caught up with me, I fell asleep and welcomed my dream. It was always the same. In my dream, I was surrounded by the smell of freshly baked bread. The woman was there, smiling at me, with her blue eyes and wide mouth, her grey hair in a bun. I always dreamt her so vividly. She was a fat old lady sitting like a ball, round and dropped on a sofa. You could not see where her torso started or ended. Her shoulders sagged, her back bent — just any woman, a stranger sitting on a sofa. The sofa was a French seater, somehow, I knew that. It was covered with a beige plush, with nice curves on the back rest and hand rests and gilded in gold. The seater looked ugly because of her, and yet there was a tenderness that made me want to join her. In my dream she was not alone. Another silhouette, a thin person, was sitting next to the ball lady: on the edge of the sofa, back straight, head held gracefully, hands resting on her lap. Her face looked delighted. She was beautiful. I could not see her face in my dream, but I knew that.

I shook off the image of the two women in the cold of the night. I wrapped myself in the blanket and warmed myself in its woolly cocoon. I wanted to go back to my dream, but it was too late.

‘Ala, are you going to waste all your morning in bed?’ The indignation in my mother’s voice wiped away the last remnants of my dream. She stood next to my bed and glared, then puffed indignantly and left the room. A few moments later I heard her laughing.

I sat up and hurried through my morning routine. They were all around the breakfast table; when I entered the parlour, my parents and Uncle Albert exchanged looks.

‘Boys, since you’ve finished with breakfast, you should go out and play.’ And out they went.

Uncle Albert had my little treasure in his hand, and I stared at it.

‘Ala, what would you think if I told you that you could come and live with me?’

He looked me in the eye. My father was holding his breath and my mother was covering her mouth with her tanned fingers. They were all waiting for my answer, but all I wanted to know was how Uncle Albert came to hold my bell.

‘I gave you this bell when you were born. It belonged to your great-grandmother. I am happy that you kept it.’

He smiled at me and I smiled back. Was I still dreaming? I sat on the chair next to Uncle Albert and stared at a coffee stain on the starched white tablecloth. I held my palm out and he gently put the bell in my palm. Like so many times in my dreams, I closed my fist around the bell.

‘Yes,’ I said suddenly.

‘Yes what?’ It was my mother.

I looked her in the eye.

‘Yes, I want to go and live with Uncle Albert.’

All hell broke loose. Everybody was speaking: my father asking me if I was sure, Uncle Albert reassuring me that it would be all right, and Lina hiccupping at the door. My mother started to cry — for effect — and then my father hugged me and kissed the top of my head.

In the next hour, Lina prepared a small suitcase for me, as if I were leaving for a week. She was crying all the time and kept coming to hug me. I was holding my bell; I did not let it go for a second. My palm was already sweaty and slippery around the warm silver.

At noon, a big black car stopped in front of the house. The driver did not get out of the car until Uncle Albert called him. He bowed to Uncle Albert and to me, and for a few seconds his eyes hesitated on my face. My mother showed him where our luggage was. He put it in the car then got back in and waited.

I was just standing there looking at a row of ants finding their way across the path in a neat column. It would rain soon; the ants were restless.

My brothers were still out playing. Apparently, nobody bothered to look for them.

Without a word my father pulled me into his arms. When he let me go, my mother came closer and started to wave her pointing finger at me.

‘Now, young lady, never forget where you left from.’ Again, the hoarse voice of Uncle Albert stopped her.

‘Of course, she will not. This is why she is going back now.’ He smiled and grabbed my wrist gently, knowing I was still holding the bell in my hand.

The goodbyes were cut short. We climbed into the back of the big car and Uncle Albert asked the driver to go.

I looked back through the window. I could see my father standing in front of the gate, and he looked somehow stooped, his face ashen. When I could not see him anymore, I turned to Uncle Albert.

‘Will I see them again? My brothers and my father?’

‘Only if you want to and when you want to.’ His voice was soothing.

‘And my mother?’

His face darkened and his voice swished the air.

‘She is not your mother. She never was.’

‘Oh.’ That was the only sound I could utter. And then everything was clear, everything was in its place. Tears of relief poured down my face. She was not my mother, not my mother.

❤❤︎❤︎

Thank you for reading.

I am back with Part 2 of my story 'The end of summer'

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Tue, 20 Feb 2024 13:23:29 GMT

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Let’s see what happened next with Ala.

I dropped the glass back in the sink and ran through the corridors, trying to wipe my hands dry on my summer shorts. They were late, but finally here. As soon as I got outside, I saw my brothers skidding their bicycles next to the car. They just let them drop in the dust and ran to my mother who was already out of the car.

She was the same: pretty as a picture, with a summer hat and a ribbon, as I’d imagined her. She was wearing a flowery dress with straps and she looked thrilled to be back. She hugged both my brothers, one in each arm, and started to cover their faces with kisses.

‘Oh, my boys, I missed you so much. Let me kiss you.’

And they let her. I was standing there, waiting for my turn, my breath caught in my throat.

‘You’re here, Missis and Sir. How was your holiday?’ Lina asked.

My mother waved her hand in a quick acknowledgement and finally saw me. I moved myself, ready to run into her arms, but her eyes lost their sparkle. She smiled a frozen smile, and her dreamy eyes looked right through me.

‘Hey, Ala. Have you been good?’

She was still holding my brothers close to her bosom. Her golden chain was dangling over my younger brother’s head. My arms fell and Lina came closer, putting an arm over my shoulders. Was it to support me or to protect me from making a fool of myself? But I was too stubborn for my own good. I shook her arm off and stepped determinedly towards my mother.

‘Now, now, enough hugging and kissing. We have a car to unpack, and we have presents.’

And she turned away.

‘Yes, yes!’ My brothers were clapping.

I was vaguely aware of the children watching us and Lina’s hand squeezing my shoulder. That was what stopped me turning around and running to my room. I swallowed away the tears. If she won’t hug me, at least she won’t see me crying.

Then I saw my father. He was standing near the car, talking to a man through the window. In the back of the car, a Panama hat like you saw in old photos, half covered a long face. Strands of milky white hair and wide sideburns as white as the hair. His chin rested on both hands, supported by a walking stick. He just sat there motionless with his eyes fixated on me. I blinked away the tears.

My mother went to open the car door and held her arm to help the old man out. My father let himself be hugged by the boys then came to me and hugged me quickly and kissed me on the head. I smiled, delighted.

The old man fumbled for a while with his walking stick. When he straightened his back, I had a glimpse of my father in a much older version. Tall, wide shouldered and a grand manner about the way he carried his body. The old man left my mother standing there without giving her a single look or accepting her offer of help. I could see out of the corner of my eye a twitch on my mother’s face; her lips tightened and mine lifted in a cautious smile.

The old man’s eyes kept staring at me and I stood there with a sudden feeling of apprehension. He ignored my brothers and shuffled towards me. I felt a pain in my neck trying to look up at him. A crooked smile and his voice instantly wrapped around me with kindness.

‘Hello, Ala. I have heard a lot about you.’

His big hand with blotched skin stretched to me and I dared to move mine. He touched my hand with his dried lips, and I felt overwhelmed by his chevalier gesture.

My mother came next to him and, before I knew it, she grabbed me by the ear and lifted me.

‘Open your mouth, Ala. Introduce yourself and welcome our guest. This is Uncle Albert.’

The old man placed his hand on my mother’s.

‘Marcela, this is totally unnecessary.’ At the sound of his hoarse whisper my mother let me go.

I could already feel the smack that I would receive after the guest’s departure. My ear was burning, and my face felt hot from shame. My father was calling my mother to the car. I sighed when she was gone, and the old man rested his hand on my shoulder.

‘I would like Ala to take me inside.’ He guided me through the door. He seemed to know the place because he went straight to the parlour.

The next hours passed as in a dream. All of us sat in the dusty living room which was lit up by the late afternoon sun when my mother drew the curtains. Lina was sent out to cut a chicken and prepare the dinner. Uncle Albert was on the sofa and us children were around him where my mother had put us, like in a display. She kept talking about my brothers, how strong and healthy they are, and then apologising for the dust all over the place, then telling us how nice the sand was and how warm the sea was and how many foreigners were holidaying at the Black Sea this summer. Then she told us excitedly about their stop at the old family house to pick up Uncle Albert. He had shown his interest in coming to see the children.

Uncle Albert asked me to bring him a glass of water, and my mother shouted after me not to break something and apologised to him for me being so clumsy. Then, after the suitcases were taken to my parents’ rooms and only one big duffle bag was left next to the table, we knew that the moment had arrived. All kind of presents started to come out, like from a Mary Poppins bag: water guns and games for my brothers, a seashell necklace for Lina, handmade tea towels, foreign liquors and cigarettes, a small Turkish coffee pot … and then my present.

‘This is for you, Ala.’

I jumped up happily and started to peel the paper from my gift. Emotion surged over me. I reached the plastic photo frame, the size of a copy book, and at first I thought there must be something else underneath. I kept searching in the torn paper and in the back of the frame. I think my face was showing a lot more than I wanted to.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ my mother chirped.

I smiled back at her, a wide forced smile, and I lifted my eyebrows in mock surprise.

‘Yes, it is. So beautiful. Thank you for the present, mother. This is exactly what I wanted.’

‘See, I know you very well.’

Despite my defiance and our polite exchange, she was the one laughing last. Tonight, I was going to bed with a cheap meaningless photo frame in a dirty white with some golden lines. I sat back on the sofa staring at the frame on my lap. How could I imagine even for one second that something — anything — would change?

Lina finished the dinner and father asked her to set the table for the children in the kitchen and for the adults in the parlour. He was trying to send us out of the room to settle the air. I was aware that the old man next to me was keeping me from a belt smacking.

Lina took care of our dinner, showered us, then sent us to say goodnight to our parents and Uncle Albert before she went home.

‘But surely either of her brothers is more suited …’

‘No.’ His voice cut short my mother’s words.

‘Uncle Albert …’ My father stopped when he saw us standing in the door.

After we said our goodnights, we went to the children’s room. We were exhausted after the excitement of the day, and we fell asleep as soon as we put our heads down. Later in the night, a sudden noise woke me up. Half asleep, I pushed the blanket away and guided by the moon rays on the carpet, found my way out of the room. In the corridor I could see the light coming from the living room.

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Thank you for reading. See you next time for Part 3.

When you dream for the best End of a Summer - Part 1

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Sun, 18 Feb 2024 04:23:53 GMT

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Life is not always a nice wallpaper with bright flowers, nor a ceiling skylight that allows you to see the night sky and millions of stars watching over you while you are asleep. You can get that wallpaper and the skylight only if you pay for them.

Otherwise, buckle up and ride it as it comes.

As a child, you dream to be someone famous, and you can also dream to be… a child.

This is what this story is about.

It was previously published with my collection of short stories Feelings in Staccato: The book of stories.

I will give it to you in three parts.

Life, memories, people, and a good chunk of imagination are bound together in this story.

The end of summer

I was about to learn how one could lose their whole life as they knew it. I was about to lose ten years. That summer I was just a bit older than ten years old. That summer was almost finished; school was supposed to start soon.

We had just returned from holiday and the servant was arranging our clothes in the wardrobe. The wardrobe was not tall, but she had to use a stool to put some clothes on the top shelf. She had to raise herself on her toes and the skin on her thick thighs stretched — dark from spending time out in the fields. The smell of her sweat was strong in the room.

I could hardly hide my excitement; they would be here any time. I left Lina there, struggling with all the suitcases and went for a wander in the other rooms.

The furniture in the living room had lost its shine under a thick lay of dust. Instantly, I knew my next chore. ‘Ala, do you really need to be told everything that needs to be done around the house? Are you blind or something?’ That would be the usual way of being asked to dust.

I stepped over the thick Persian carpet and took in the familiar things. The hand-crafted tablecloth was covered in dried petals from the roses left in the crystal vase more than a month ago. The water was long gone, and a brown smudge had dried on the vase’s side.

This was my mother’s ‘good’ room; she liked to call it a parlour. Fancy that, in a Romanian communist country, inviting friends over for coffee and tea like her heroines in the English novels, or like the rich people between the wars.

I relished the familiar look of the mismatched family heirlooms on the top shelf in the curio cabinet: a china bone cup and two saucers, two golden teaspoons, antique and ornate, and the silver plate that my great aunt had bought in Paris in 1936. The red geometrical design was faded on the hand-painted Czech coffee and tea set, a present from a big family wedding, and on the bottom shelf I saw the white dinner set with the missing dessert plate.

I was the one who broke the missing plate. It happened when we had visitors once and my duty was to clean the dishes. My mother prided herself on how strict she was with her daughter’s education, especially with the learning of the household chores. In her posh ways, my mother liked to change the plates and cutlery for every dish on the menu, and all the plates were brought into the kitchen and piled up on the table for me to wash. There were so many dishes for an eight-year-old. I nipped one plate with my elbow and down it went and into ten pieces. She was behind me in no time. Even the fact that there were guests in the house did not stop her. A quick smack on my bottom burnt like hell, and between her teeth, ‘Are you trying to ruin my evening? Break another piece and I will take out the belt.’ She had turned around and gone back to the guests with a smile and a reassuring joke. She hated that her set was incomplete, and I had created another drama in the family because that plate would be mentioned for years to come.

I touched the glass panel slightly and my face came closer until I left my breath on the glass. Right there in the back was my most precious little treasure: a tiny bell with a handle crest darkened by time. I knew by now that it had no value; my mother had told me so many times. ‘Stop ogling it. It’s just a trinket from a fair. Worth nothing!’ The little bell looked so delicate and tiny, and my neighbour had said that she recognised the crest. It was an imitation of an old boyar family crest and these bells were gifted at births. This bell was the seed of my daydreams ever since I laid eyes on it. In my dreams I liked to imagine that it was made of silver and related to my birth, that it belonged to my other parents, my other mother. I imagined that out there somewhere there was this sweet and gentle woman, a mother — my real mother — who always hugged me, kissed my cheeks, brushed my hair, read me stories in the evenings, and liked to play with me. I loved horses and I was sure that in my imaginary world, my other mother loved horses too.

I had come to the realisation that I loved the little bell mostly because my mother hated it. I mean, this mother, from the real life. She argued quite often with my father about me. ‘She has her nose in those books all day long. She must learn how to keep a house, to cook and clean and do gardening. What will those stories give her in life?’ My father disagreed; he wanted me to read. She was also against extra school activities. ‘Why do you need choir or guitar lessons? You only do it so that you can stay out late.’ Last summer I had spent long hours learning how to iron a man’s shirt; no creases were allowed. ‘You are so lazy. You refuse to learn, and this is why you cannot do it right. And you are disrespectful.’ She did not have the patience to teach me, and the iron felt too heavy. I ironed some shirts several times. I did master it in the end, but after how much shouting? In turn, my father fought for me to keep my books — my excessive reading was never discussed again — and I could learn the guitar. It felt like a victory.

One day I came home from school and found my mother sobbing in her room. My brother told me that she had wanted to throw away my bell, but my father had got mad and said some bad words. Apparently, he had also threatened to cut off her allowance. My tiny bell — the same as me — could create such big problems.

I wanted to slide the heavy glass door of the display case, but my palms would leave marks in the dust. Instead, I just looked at it and felt content that it was still there. When we did the cleaning, I would be able to take it out and feel its warmth, closing my fist around the inscriptions.

‘Ala, where are you? Come and help me with the shoes.’ Lina’s rough voice seemed muffled in the parlour room with its shut curtains, but I followed the order and went to help her.

I loaded pairs of sneakers and sandals on one arm and headed to the dark hall where a tall shelf covered an entire wall. Lina was humming her folk song about a young girl crossing the river to see her lover.

Once finished, I ran out before Lina — now busy in the kitchen — would have the chance to ask me to do something else. I was lost in my daydreams. My mother would come out of the car, tanned, and smiling, probably wearing a fancy summer hat with a ribbon, and she would open her arms. I would bury my face in her neck and smell the soap and cream on her soft skin.

‘Ala, you are back!’ The shrill call snapped me out of my daydreams. It was my friend Amelia, with a few blond curls coming out from behind her red scarf. ‘Come out and play with us.’ She carried a huge purse on her arm and on her feet a pair of oversized scuffed high heeled sandals. She came into the small garden.

‘I think you’d better wash your face.’

Her blue eyes opened wide, and she covered her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘Can you still see it?’

‘Yes. There are smudges of lipstick and green eyeshadow.’

She limped next door in a hurry, losing one of her grown-up shoes on the way.

I was immediately surrounded by the children in the courtyard. All the voices were excited to see me, coming closer to touch my hand and asking questions at the same time.

‘Are you back now? When are your parents coming home? Did you go fishing with your grandfather? Do you know any new games?’

Gabriella, Amelia’s younger sister, grabbed my elbow.

‘Do you have to clean? Or can you come out and play?’

She had the same blue eyes as her sister, but her hair was a few shades darker. She pouted and the freckles seemed to come together around her nose. All her face was round: round eyes, nose like a button and a face like a moon. She was the cutest child in our neighbourhood and the youngest one.

‘Come on, come and play with us.’

‘Where is your house?’

‘In your shed.’

‘What? Are you crazy? Gabriella, my parents are coming home today. You cannot make your house there.’

‘They only need the garage to put the car in. Your father won’t mind if we play in the shed.’

‘Yeah, but you do not know if my mother is in a bad mood. No, sorry, we cannot play today.’

I did not want my mother to get annoyed with the children playing in the shed, especially the sisters. I had heard her a few times complaining to my father. ‘Girls can only bring problems. They are nasty. You need to watch them all the time, and when they grow up you must always watch out for their honour. I don’t like them playing with Ala.’

I was in the kitchen washing glasses when I heard the car. Amelia peeked from outside through the curtains with a hard whisper.

‘They are here!’

❤❤︎❤︎

Thank you for reading. See you next time for Part 2.

My Novel — The Tag Game with the Great Sphynx of Giza

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Sat, 10 Feb 2024 09:33:22 GMT

Her name is Myrameda, but I like calling her Meda.

Remember Myrameda? She is the Main Character in my work-in-progress historical novel. I talked about her before.

Her name is Myrameda, but I like calling her Meda.

Her passion is Astrology and I am doing everything I can to get to know her, and for this, I start a conversation with her. Of course, it’s an imaginary conversation, just in my head. Hmm, I don’t know why I feel that the additional explanation does not sound better. Anyhow, I asked Meda how old was she when she started to feel that special way about astrology and how it came about .

In the end, this could be an essay about how we all discovered something that we are passionate about. We can write an essay about how we stumbled upon a book, or about a mentor who guided our hand and a parent who was there all the way. Or not. ��

So, it is up to you to ask yourself — how did YOU discover YOUR passion?

❓ How did you know that you wanted to write at 12?

But I am back to Myrameda, the main character in my novel, the Dacian princess.

She told me how she discovered her passion, astrology.

And this is how she discovered her passion:

My passion for the stars began in the ancient temple in Sarmizegetusa, the ruin left behind by our ancestors. That is where I had my first ‘dreams’, even though their purpose and meaning were a mystery to me.

I was about ten years old when the Costoboci builders came from the mountains up North and started working in the citadel. They were stonemasons, famous for the Big Carved Head in the Bucegi Mountains, which they built it in the shape of the Great Sphynx of Giza. Because of their artistry, the priests asked them to rebuild the temple.

We children were attracted to the commotion the building caused. We chased each other on the terraces where builders were hard at work. We screamed and laughed among noises of stone against stone, warning shouts, surrounded by the earthen oil lamps in which Zamolxes’ fire burned continuously.

One evening, I lay down on the grass in the old temple. I hid, so other children wouldn’t find me. As the night grew older, my friends forgot about me and I lay there and watched how the stars rise one by one. I didn’t know if I was awake or dreaming. I watched the stars and I saw people in unfamiliar places and I heard them speak. They spoke words heard by the Old Thracian and they were places he saw, and somehow I saw them too.

He had traveled far and he met the magicians of the Celts on their big island, and he lived with them for a long time.

Then I saw him and the Celts, moving huge stone pillars. Then I saw the Thracian return to his people as a great teacher, showing them how to find magic places and how to build temples from stone.

I saw that when his time came, the Old Thracian went into a cave under Kogainon and no one ever saw him again.

Then I saw the Dacian tribes warring amongst themselves, and destroying the temples. My dream was a story from the past.

But it was also a story of the future: I saw that a new temple would reunite the Dacian tribes around one great king. I saw that our mountain would be a Dacian sanctuary.

That night, amid the plinths of old columns, I saw my first story in the stars. I did not understand what I had seen.

Vezina interpreted the visions for me and gave them certain meanings.

Afterwards, I wanted to know more about the stars and I wanted the power that Vezina had.

When I looked at the sky, a story began to unveil itself in my mind — a story that revealed unsuspected answers and secrets to me. Secrets that came from the stars.

The main photo on this post is the Sfinx in Bucegi Mountains Romania, photo taken by author

The last photo on this post is Sarmisegetuza the circular temple, photo taken by author.

Story: The 1979 sugar beet harvest

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Fri, 09 Feb 2024 09:52:19 GMT

This story is part of my first collection of short stories Feelings in Staccato: The book of stories.

This story is a memory from my school years. Flashes from that day kept coming at me for a while. I don’t know why but I ended up writing this story.

I hope you’ll enjoy it.

The 1979 sugar beet harvest

During communism, school years were defined by the farming practice. That day was about harvesting sugar beet. The sun gleamed on the autumn dew; the fog hovering over the ground hid our boots. We breathed steam out of our mouths, ready to warm up with the work ahead. The field of dark green leaves as far as our eyes could see lowered in the wind with a deep hush.

We teamed up. Our competition was who could finish their rows first. The first line pulled the beets out and threw them in a pile, the second line chopped the leaves off the roots.

To chop the roots, we created our own routine: positioned around the pile to easily reach the beets, we picked up a root with the left hand, then dropped the knife in a ready move where the leaves came out of the root. The leaves were left on the ground and the roots were thrown into the truck. Our bodies were in concord, dancing like the old clocks’ ballerinas with lifted arms and twisted heads. After only a few hours, our dance was properly memorised.

I had a brilliant knife — extra big and sharpened by my brother. From an old bag, he had also handstitched a sheath with a nice clasp. The four of us stood around the knee-high pile of beets left behind by our classmates; the sugar beets in this pile were silenced, and no wind rustled their leaves. We became machines: pick up, hold, lift the knife, lower the knife, swish, chop, throw.

I lifted my nice-looking knife. Next to me, Carmen was singing By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. For a moment there, my mind drifted. I started bringing the knife down. Its blade was honey-coloured from the sun. I liked Boney M, and Carmen’s baritone voice sounded warm in the air that was permeated with the sweet smell of the chopped roots. My elbow, for the nth time that day, moved back, then front, up and ready to complete the same motion as a coupling rod on the wheel of a train.

Near my beet, on my thumb, I saw an ant crawling. A big red ant. Should I blow it away? No, I didn’t want to break up the routine. My heart was flooded with a warm intuition, in contrast to my ice-cold feet. The beet in my hand was muddy, my thumb was captive on the beet, and the ant was moored on my thumb. Was the knife on the way to chop the ant? The knife moved down.

And then I screamed ‘My finger!’ Was it in my head or out loud?

The knife reached my finger. The knife slid through it. I felt hot even with the chill wind on my back. My face went pale joined by immediate nausea. I dropped the beet and the knife as if they were burning.

And I stood there, holding my hands out like a blind man finding his way, with my fingers spread. All but one.

With the nice-looking knife that my brother had sharpened for me, I had chopped my finger off. Carmen was singing Yeah, we wept, when we remembered Zion.

Work On My Novel — A princess talking about her family

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Fri, 26 Jan 2024 03:26:04 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

In this article, I will try to further introduce Princess Myrameda to my readers.

If you don’t know who is Meda — she is the heroine of the historical novel that I am working on now.

If you feel the need to catch up, have a read (30 seconds if you will �� ) to my previous blog article where I ‘fleshed out’ my heroine:

Here, the princess recounts a day out with her family, and the purpose of this recount is — for Meda to present to us her parents and her sisters.

******************

We – my parents, my sisters, and I – were in the mountains, traveling from Sarmi to Blidaru on one of the few days when Father wasn’t busy fighting or being a king. We didn’t know how long peace in the kingdom of Dacia would last, so we enjoyed every moment of it.

The forest had been washed by a storm the previous day, a storm that had left fallen trees in its wake and broken branches with leaves already wilted by the new day’s heat. The narrow path, almost invisible among the trees, was well known to our horses. Up in the green canopy, birds squabbled and whistled; ahead of us, foliage rustled as small animals scuttled away from our horses. The king’s stallion not yet three years old, was black as the night and had two white stars on his forehead. He was young and difficult, but my father’s strong hand easily kept him reined in.

I could only glance at my father timidly – as always, I was afraid that if I caught his eye, he would see into the depths of my soul. On that day, he seemed carefree but in the bright sunlight, I noticed white hairs had started to show in his thick beard.

From the clearing we rode into, we looked across the valley to the mountain where the citadel was, and that’s when it happened: a shadow glided across the sun. Dochia, my younger sister, screamed fearfully. The animal that was the shadow passed over our heads and disappeared in the forest ahead of us. We rode among the trees again, Dochia spurring her horse to ride close to Father and Andrada following suit.

We all saw the bird of prey, an eagle ready to attack. It easily glided again above the treetops for a few moments, then pulled its wings close to its body and dove straight down, as a spear aimed at the ground. It was huge – the biggest eagle I had ever seen – and its flight was odd: the bird of the mountains wouldn’t risk hunting among the trees. It stopped short of landing, however, and flew up again.

Decebal left the path, driving his horse towards the spot the eagle wanted to reach. Our curiosity also won over the fear we felt, and we followed our Father. As we slowly moved through the undergrowth, we found an eaglet in the branches of a tall shrub. We realised that the eagle had been fruitlessly trying to reach its young.

Andrada began to cry when she saw the eaglet’s legs and one of its wings bent in unnatural angles. She asked that we take it with us so we could nurse it back to health, but her tears didn’t persuade our Father. The eaglet appeared to be dead, and the king didn’t want to give her any false hopes. He made it clear that we had to return to the path and continue our trip to Blidaru. Andrada made a face at him as soon as his back was turned, but then she and Dochia spurred their horses into following his stallion. The alternative, Father said, was that he would send guards after us if we didn’t pick up the pace, and my sisters didn’t want that – they always got embarrassed whenever guards had to rescue them from the trouble they usually got themselves into.

My mother and I stayed close to the shrub, though, our eyes following the eagle that still made attempts at rescuing its baby.

Somehow, I knew that if I could just hold the eaglet, I could help it. I drew nearer to the shrub, but I was too short to reach the bird. My mother stood in her stirrups and wordlessly picked up the eaglet then placed it in my hands. It was heavier than I expected and was rapidly cooling even as I held it. Its head hung heavily and under the fluffy down, its skin was rough. I glanced up and saw the eagle make another attempt to dive down among the trees. For a moment, I caught its eye as it stared at me, and I felt pain.

My mother watched out for the king and my sisters, and eventually moved her horse to block the pathway and keep me hidden from sight.

Holding it gently in my hands, I lifted the baby bird to my lips. I blew softly over its beak, and then I touched the crown of its head with my lips. I caressed its broken wing and legs.

Almost instantly, the eaglet was revived and when it shook its wings out, they were all right. It started to struggle in my cupped hands, so I lifted my hands towards the sky – towards the waiting mothers. When the great shadow of the eagle descended upon the trees again, my mother stood up in her stirrups again and gave the little bird a nudge to get it flying. The eagle finally reached it, using its strong beak to securely grasp at the eaglet. Once more, the eagle ascended but this time, it carried its invaluable burden.

My mother and I watched it fly away, and then she smiled at me warmly.

She put her finger to her lips to signal silence and secrecy.

I nodded and said nothing.

Words were unnecessary between us.

************

About My Novel — Fleshing out a character

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Wed, 24 Jan 2024 12:54:42 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

You might be already familiar with the fact that my next writing project is a historical novel.

One of the stages when working on a novel is Profiling The Characters.

Isn’t that purely delightful? As a writer, you have the chance to create something new, exciting, and a new person altogether. With honesty and willingness to pour your beliefs into it.

The purpose of this ‘fleshing out’ exercise is to explore what I know and what I understand about the main character that I have already profiled.

Fleshing out must be done in one page, that should keep me on the straight line and get to the core points. It should be like a ‘telly’ narrative, a block of description that won’t go in the novel itself, it’s in sentence form, and I let the character speak to me.

That’s the Muse at work, and I shall not feel limited by the profile I have already created for her, I can bend it, tweak it, and add to it.

I’ll do my best to make my character delightful.

Meda grew up as a princess and she knew early that she was different. There were things that she could do, hear, or see, that nobody else could. The heat in her hands could heal and take away the pain. She never dared to explore her powers too much.

She learned how to hide them, and it helped that she trained in all kinds of weapons since she was a little girl with her brother. She became a fearless princess.

She has an inquisitive mind, she loves knowledge and searching for answers. She is equally satisfied with the search and the result. The stars hold a magic world; she believes in signs and nature’s power.

She loves nature, and she has the strongest sense of belonging in places like the top of a mountain. Another part of herself that she hides from everyone else is her sentimental nature; she follows the clouds hanging in the sky, and the smell of rain over the forest makes her happy. The horse, wolf, and snake are her favorite animals, as she believes they each represent a precious quality.

The legends and war stories of her people, told to her by her nurse, her mother, and Zoutula, created a world in her head. The deep respect and pride for her ancestors’ bravery brought a strong will to serve her people. She knows she must help her people, it’s a duty; she protects the weak and feels the need to repair wrongdoings, she has a strong sense of justice — and she takes advantage of her royal status to achieve justice and right wrongs in the ways she sees fit.

After Cotiso’s death, she became the ‘first’ born in the royal successive line and she automatically had to assume some of his roles and responsibilities. The king trusted her, but only because she managed to hide her pain when Cotiso died. She showed no more than what the king wanted to see in his daughter.

A young woman, a warrior princess, a sorceress, with an overflowing conflict between her dominant strength and dominant weakness, and her weakness is the strength taken to extremes.

She can make mistakes and make bad decisions. Through her actions self-confidence and courage become overconfidence and foolhardiness.

She sometimes imposes her decisions on others due to her stubbornness and quick temper, both of which lead to even more great errors of judgment.

For any situation, Meda can always come up with a bolder solution that seems impossible until she makes it happen. She feels she has nothing to lose and that she just has to go for it.

This is Myrameda, a Dacian princess and sorceress, and I hope she already sounds like a great character that readers will want to follow.

Let me know what you think.

Anna the Russian Widow

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Wed, 17 Jan 2024 11:20:14 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

Today, I give you a story, after all, I am a storyteller.

The story was written because I found a lonely piece of furniture on a dry lake bed. That was my prompt.

I hope you will enjoy my story. Here it is.

***

Anyone walks around Anna like she’s a cup of fine china. She is tiny and with a full head of shiny silver hair. That silver that makes you think of wisdom and knowledge.

The wrinkles get together at the corner of her eyes because she always smiles, and whoever locks eyes with her, finds themselves smiling back. Inadvertently.

Anna lost her husband about a year ago, and she goes to his grave every morning. Then she comes to the soup kitchen at the homeless hub. Every day of the week, without fail.

At about 8 o’clock she comes in. By then morning rush is gone and there is no queue at the breakfast counter. She first takes her s eat. Always the same seat in the middle of the cafeteria where she has a full view of the kitchen and the office. The best view in the house is to know where are the main pawns.

Her black beady eyes check the office. She watches the staff to see who is on duty, then the kitchen. She greets everybody with her smile with chapped lips. She fumbles in her black purse, a cheap leather imitation that had seen better days.

Then she gets up and makes her coffee. Always black and very sweet — two tablespoons of sugar. With arthritic hands, she searches in the cutlery tray for a narrow spoon that she can hold easily in her crooked knuckles. Her hand tests the spoons while her chin lifts to check if any cakes or sweets are out for breakfast, but she still smiles, into her coffee, to the volunteers, in the air, as if fairies are dancing atop the counter.

Most of the kitchen volunteers know her. The crying voice whenever she begs for a banana, the harsh accent from her native Russian language, and the gentle tilt of her head when she is asking what is for lunch.

I’ve heard a lot about her. Only in spring though, I’ve seen her using her amazing talent for the first time. Jay, a young man who just started to come to the hub, joined Anna at her table one day.

They spoke for a while, Anna in soft tones, Jay with anger. And then he started to cry. Anna stood and went around the table and put her hand on his shoulder and she stood there whispering comforting words until Jay stopped crying. With the back of his hand, he wiped his eyes, and like a child ready to please a parent he ate his breakfast while Anna went to speak with one of the staff.

Jay had been sleeping on a park bench for the past weeks. They chatted with him in one of the cubicles, they helped him with his application for government help, they registered his details for a shelter and job search, and gave him clothes, and a red sleeping bag.

'Are you OK?' I asked him.

'I lost my job a month ago and I couldn’t afford the rent anymore.' He swallowed hard but he could talk about it now with less anger. And he pointed to Anna. ' She told me about her husband. She is very lonely. Do you know the story?'

I nodded. A homeless bashed Anna’s husband in the head with a beer bottle. He died in the street.

'Yes, I heard about it. Fortunately, she found here at the hub another family.'

'She said that she knows a nice place where she usually goes when she is sad. It is so peaceful and quiet that you can feel the pain seeping out through your skin.'

'Oh, did she say that? It’s so poetic.'

'I thought so too. She said she would show it to me one day.'

His eyes followed Anna as she went to the veggie box and started to search for something to take home.

'I mean look at her, she also smiles at the vegetables!'

In an eerie way, she lived in a different world, and yet with her kindness, she was there every day, befriending every hurt soul. The homeless were embarrassed to ask for help from the staff at the hub, and it was easier to open up to Anna. The staff were grateful for that. Anna was one of those clients who wanted to give something back.

In winter they found Jay a job. Jay stopped coming to the hub, and for a few weeks, Anna waited to hear from him.

They usually don’t like to come back to be reminded of how bad it was. Maybe he found a place to stay somewhere.

Anna was sad and she refused to believe that Jay could be so forgetful. He is a good lad, he will come to see us, I know he will.

Time flew and pretty soon Anna forgot about Jay as she was occupied with another protégé. In a few months, he also stopped coming.

Everybody was abandoning Anna and we did our best to take her mind off it, but we could see her usual smile fading.

The drought that summer was worse than any year before. Some curious hiker went off the beaten track and walked on the lake bed.

He spotted a flicker of color in the bush. A piece of furniture partially sank into the mud and some fabric draped around it; looked like a red sleeping bag and a bedsheet. As he came closer he also saw the body. He called the police.

The police searched the exposed lake bed and soon found two more bodies in various stages of decomposition.

Detective James watched the forensic team at work, but when they struggled to load one of the bodies into the body bag it was a bit too much. He walked away towards the lake, and the loud quacks appeared to be a good diversion. The ducks eventually took flight leaving the detective with his shoes stuck in the mud and filled with amazement at the shades of the dusk.

This place is so peaceful and quiet , he whispered in the wind, wanting so badly to replace the other images in his mind.

Our Scotland Adventure - The Psycho of the Highlands

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Fri, 05 Jan 2024 23:46:45 GMT

In September 2018 we toured for 4 weeks in Ireland, Scotland, and England.

In each of the countries, we rented a car and then we drove around on a well-planned route. For each country, we had certain places that we wanted to see.

This story is about our visit to Loch Ness, Scotland.

We left Stirling in the morning after spending two days roaming the medieval old town and the castle and we started our journey to our next objective —Nessie Land as they call it.

It should’ve been a little over a 3-hour drive, but we stopped a couple of times for photos, as you simply could not only drive away from that beauty.

Scotland is such a handsome country! Its castles are true historical jewels, and nature is simply breath taking! To drive in Scotland, you can forget about cities and busy life, for long stretches you only see the natural world with little or no human interference.

The weaving road among those lively greens, and the rivers, and the fresh chill air. Wherever you turn the high grounds come at you and you wait at any moment to see Mel Gibson with his face painted in blue streaks and running down the hill in his green and brown tartan skirt.

On our next stop, we planned to see the Urquhart Castle and take a cruise on the Loch in search of the monster. Who knows? Maybe we are the lucky ones to spot it.

A day before, while in Stirling, we booked our B&B online. September is out of season and rooms are available at the last minute.

There was a small print on the page when we booked and paid for the room. They did not allow on their property pets or children under 17. This is exactly how they put it — ‘Not allowed on the property.’

With these kinds of people, I don’t need to be a writer in search of a comparison to describe them. Weird, huh? I get it — no pets, but children under 17?

We arrived at the property early afternoon when a light rain started.

Wowsie! Should I describe our open mouths, stretched necks through the car window, and our excitement at the sight of the narrow long alley that took us to a beautiful house surrounded by orchards and green fields? I couldn’t believe our luck! A relatively cheap room in such a house!

The front of the house was covered with gravel, and a conservatory on one side of the house showed its glass walls with lots of greenery behind.

As soon as we pull the car into the parking, a little lady holding a register under her arm and a pen in her hand runs out the door. Her hand with the pen waves as if we ran over her cat. She came to the driver’s window and tapped with the pen on it until Ivan lowered the window. She insisted on directing Ivan in and out of the parking until he parked at a perfect 30-degree angle (or was it 40 degrees?) as she wanted.

Ivan is a bit tired and confused about the angle thing but follows her commands : ‘turn the wheel to the right’, ‘too much’, ‘reverse a little’, and ‘stop’.

‘Maybe she is OCD or something,’ I whisper, because once she started to wave I did not dare to get out of the car without Ivan.

Finally, the angle was right, the engine was off and she waited for us in front of the big door hugging her register, holding the pen this time like a cigarette, and on her waist we can see now she’s got one of those walkie-talkie things. She looks very much like a modern matron, without the keys to the cellar. Her walkie-talkie cracks. She speaks into it.

‘Yes, arrived. Room ready. Good.’

She turned back to us, no hello, no welcome, she sharply opened her register and started immediately.

‘If you go out, when you return you don’t knock at the door, you must ring the bell. Always! The door is locked at all times. Don’t ring after 10 pm.’

My eyebrows shoot up. That means we have a curfew? She pretends she did not see it, but she did. And went on with the list.

‘Clean your feet when you enter, take the shoes off if they are wet.’

She opens the door for us and waits for us to wipe our shoes. Considering that the rain just started and we just come out of the car, and she had gravel around the house…, hah, did not work. She had not budged.

Her head jerked a few times towards the floor, her eyeballs pointing to the little carpet outside, while her figure blocked the door.

I try to make a joke, stupid me.

‘Uh, I forgot my slippers back home.’

Face immobile, she said nothing and she also did not move until we cleaned our shoes. As soon as she was content she turned on her heels in the hall, which we can see now is covered wall to wall in a beige thick carpet, and trotted up the stairs.

Ivan followed and asked her.

‘We want to see Urquhart Castle. Do you happen to have any touristic brochures?’

‘They are closed to visitors.’

Short and sharp.

Ivan sighed disappointed. She unlocked the door, with a key that was in the door, she walked in and showed us the room. Beautiful, big enough, a cute tiny window, as it looks good on these cottages slash mansions, an immense bed with a thick mattress. She showed us the door to the bathroom and then the small tray on the snow-white desk.

‘You have a kettle, coffee, and tea. You can make yourself a tea or coffee. No food allowed in the room.’

Bluntly, she then let us know:

‘There is no breakfast’.

I pull a face.

‘You are disappointed.’

‘No, I am not.’

‘I can see it on your face!’ And she points with her pen as if ready to stab my chin.

‘Well, not disappointed, surprised! I am surprised because on booking.com it was advertised as ‘breakfast included’.’

‘But you did not read the conditions.’

The pen is again under my nose.

‘Ah, you mean that whole page of ‘small print’ with no children under 17 and no pets? I wish I were 17 and we have no pets, but I paid for breakfast included. I ticked for breakfast and I was charged for it!’

‘Maybe you forgot?’

I point to her register.

‘I only booked yesterday!’

My annoyance was not hidden anymore.

‘You did not read everything. We don’t serve breakfast here, there is no kitchen. How can we prepare anything without a kitchen?’

‘How can you charge it then?’ I took my phone out and I was ready to pull up the booking for her to show her what I paid for. But before I could even connect to the internet somebody called her on the bloody walkie-talkie, she turned on her heels and she was gone!

I am a hundred percent sure what I booked for and I was fuming.

‘Let her be,’ Ivan says. ‘It’s not worth it.’ Then smiles cheekily. ‘We have food in the car, hell with her ‘no food in the room’.’

I was still pissed off when we inspect the bathroom. To our horror, it was fully carpeted with the same thick carpet. Now is Ivan’s turn to be shocked.

(In the photo below Ivan is looking for an escape route!)

‘How are we going to shower without making water on the carpet?’

‘We don’t care!’ I answer determined not to let her ruin the day. ‘Let’s get out of here and see what is this Loch Ness about.’

We drove into the village, since Urquhart Castle was closed we thought we might drive by and see it from outside.

The small Loch Ness village would’ve been missed by anybody on the map or otherwise, if it weren’t for the Loch Ness monster; everything is located alongside the main road — a museum with all the ins and outs of the Loch Ness monster, a hotel, a restaurant, another hotel, another restaurant, a tiny souvenir shop, and a cruise office for boat rides organized daily in ‘search’ of the monster. We drove further down and out of the village and we found the Urquhart Castle.

As we expected, it’s an impressive medieval ruin on the shore of the lake, from which a tower still kept its shape. As we did not expect, it was open! We took a tour of the grounds and we were happy we had the chance to see it. On the way out we mentioned at the admission office that our host believed they were shut down. The ticket lady looked surprised.

‘We were never shut down. We are open every day until 6 pm.’

By now we were so miffed by our host that we concluded she was loco.

On the way back we stopped for a pizza, which was a first-class pizza for Scotland and when we a rrived at the house we took from our car the bag with food. Nights were rather cold and we usually left the food in the car overnight, it was like having a fridge.

Ivan hung it casually on his shoulder and tried to hide it, pushing it with his elbow towards his back.

We rang the bell. A loud ding-dong reverberates from inside. That’s why she wanted us to ring the bell. The posh sound of the mansion bell.

Our psycho opens the door with a pouted mouth and knitted eyebrows which relax when she sees us dutifully rub our shoe soles on the front carpet, just to show her how good we are and to distract her from our food bag.

The crack of a smile on her face disappears when I tell her in an excited tone.

‘Oh, we had such a great day! Lucky us! Did you know they opened the castle? That was so cool!!’

Her face dropped and without a word, she turned and went off into a room downstairs that looked very much like a dining room.

Overnight the bag with our food stayed on the outside windowsill.

In the morning we had a half-cautious shower in the lovely carpeted bathroom and had our breakfast in our B&B room with ‘no food allowed’. We set up the table on the show-white desk for our breakfast: cheese, salami, bread rolls, and tomatoes, and we snacked on some chips and chocolate. We made coffee, and we packed up with us the rest of the tea, coffee, and sugar sachets available on the tray.

At exactly 10 to 10, we were ready to leave, so we grabbed our bags and got out of the room leaving the key in the door.

As soon as we reached the landing a smell of freshly brewed coffee and fried eggs wafted to the top level.

‘WTF?’ Ivan grunts. We go downstairs, Ivan not even trying to hide the bag with our food anymore.

Our landlord comes out from the dining room donning a red apron. Behind her, we can see a few tables with people buttering their toast and sipping coffee.

As soon as she sees us, and she is aware that we see the other guests having breakfast, her face opens up into a huge smile.

‘How was your staying?’

I grind my jaws together, and this time I hope she sees not only the disappointment on my face but my thoughts, since I did not say a single word.

But Ivan replied cheeky.

‘Very nice carpet. Thank you.’

We headed out without any delay as she followed us and waved goodbye, but we ignored her completely. Something told me she was used to that, and she did not care.

‘What on Earth is wrong with her?’ I ask Ivan.

‘Maybe now she wants a nice review.’

‘W hen I see the Loch Ness monster.’

We spent the rest of the day with the cruise on the Loch, listening to the guide trying to convince us he had once seen the monster. We visited the Loch Ness museum. Quite interesting. There are so many ways you can milk a story like Loch Ness, from all the sightings to history, books, stories, photos, lies, and souvenirs.

That lady was by far the weirdest encounter in our travels. Actually, I think she stole the show!

I thought for a while to leave a shitty review on booking.com, but I was so bitter that I could not be bothered.

I can still do it though. Leave a review. If she is still alive and she was not murdered by one of her guests.

Or maybe we go back to Scotland. But I don’t believe there will ever be any sightings of the Loch Ness Monster, Loch Ness now has a Psycho.

Do you remember where you were and what you did exactly on 17 February 1984?

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Thu, 04 Jan 2024 10:16:57 GMT

Hell, for all I know you were born right on that day. Then you win! :)

Or you had a child, or got married, or won a contest, or took 10 bucks from your mother’s purse and went out for a beer and she never forgave you for that, or your dog had a litter of fresh cute white-with-black spots puppies (I love Dalmatian), you lost someone you love, your best friend came out, you broke your trapezium roller skating, or you simply don’t have the foggiest.

But I know! I know exactly where I was and what I did that day.

I was in my senior high school year. It was on a Friday, and I had to google it to figure that out.

I do know a lot about that day because I randomly opened one of my old journals to a page and it was on 17 February 1985. I know I had Chemistry and French that day, in addition to other classes. I guess we must’ve also had Romanian class that day because my philosophical digressions were triggered by the genius of Eminescu, the greatest Romanian poet. He was unhappy, he suffered from everything — because of lost love, because of life as a genius, because of the human condition of a poet. I loved his poetry, but that day I was annoyed at the heaviness of his verses. The literary analysis of his poems was madness.

Heavy like sorrow, he was, when talking about the genius poet in comparison with the rest of the world. I think he felt the pain of not being recognized or somebody pissed him off, or he was venting. Even though he was quite famous during his life, his real fame came after his death.

I have translated below from my journal, some of my musings on that day, of 17 February 1984 when I was 17 years and 3 months old, and some change.

So many useless things in this life! But we cannot escape them. We have an entire life ahead with plenty of time for the chance to play its role, and inevitably at one moment or another, we will stumble across something that looks senseless at first but that will prove to affect us in one way or another. Either to help us or be against us. It’s a shame senseless things can have such power.

Eminescu wrote about humans they are ‘One-day moths upon a mudball’. He reduced us to ‘one-day moths’. Yes, it was in comparison with the big world but still, he sees the humans as insignificant nothing.

He then wondered in his “First Letter” if the geniuses were still humans. I think geniuses are like a ‘rock’ that can… move.

The human being — has a soul, heart, and love for beauty and truth.

The ‘moving rock’ — a philosopher who suffers because he is in love and he is not loved in return, and if he were just a ‘human being’ with heart and soul the entire universe would be at his feet but as a genius, he’s got nothing.

What is the purpose of being a genius if that doesn’t bring you happiness but the opposite — misery and heartache?

Let’s take Eminescu for example. (again)

He was a genius in his poetry, with his poetry, and I feel he was a genius that deserves our compassion as he sounds like something in between — like a ‘moving rock’ with a human heart, and boy what he suffered! You can read the pain in each syllable of his poems.

He didn’t deserve that. He was too sensitive, and he was born as a human being and not from the sun and the sea like the Gods . (expression taken from his poems)

Shakespeare said — “ When we are born we cry that we come to this great stage of fools. ”

Another genius that sees humanity as a bunch of fools.

They can be pardoned though for the insults as they used the plural — ie they included themselves in the bunch of unhappy geniuses or fools.

It’s rather suspicious to call yourself a fool. Or was it intentionally - as a self-praise?

I submitted on paper some philosophical thoughts during school classes (chemistry and French).

H. thinks it’s funny, so I gave her to read it.

Bye, LMG

Wow! If you understand my philosophical musings at the age of 17, then you are happy. Even for me, it was difficult to translate this from the Romanian language.

I cannot stop being amazed at my naivety and yet the struggle to get it out and write it down. Why keep it in my head? Why worry about my existence, and question the status of genius only in my head?

I could look up to these poets — Eminescu and Shakespeare- like they were Gods.

1984 was still in communist Romania. The revolution will come 5 years later and I would need ten days and buckets of coffee to sit and explain to you what the communist regime meant to us or how was it.

Restrictions upon restrictions, shut your mouth or go to prison, limited and forbidden connections with foreign countries, travel abroad restricted for risk of becoming a defector, limited TV programs, censorship and bureaucracy, and schools with severe and strict attendance, truancy was swiftly punishing your parents, forced to be a communist party member, all life checked and controlled by security service, and I can go on and on about it. They preached democracy and freedom, but it was more like Yes, you can have a Union, but you can’t discuss pay and work conditions.

But I loved school, I was in my element there. I was introverted but loved watching others, and criticizing (of course in my mind), judging, dissecting.

Romanian literature, philosophy, foreign languages, and history were my favorite subjects.

I hated maths, physics chemistry, and anything that was related to technology. So what? I ended up studying engineering, and I am a bookkeeper.

So much about following your dreams.

Strongly related to what I was doing almost 40 years ago, on 17 February 1984, I am ending with some inferences.

H. was and is still my best friend, even if for about 20 years we lost contact on and off as she married and moved to the UK and I was trying to survive my own life. Then I moved to Australia.
My journal was there not only for my inner thoughts, and my life musings but also as a way to be away from the communist restrictions. It was an escape to a place where I could ‘talk’ politics between the lines, and complain about everything that upset my day. Today we go to see a shrink. But I can tell you, I was afraid to write honest opinions about the country leader or the party. You never knew who could read. I used innuendos.
I could not discuss these topics with anybody but H. My family, would not understand me, or others would think it was dangerous to have such conversations. Usually, the ideas hard to comprehend were taken as subversive. This is why literary analysis was a favorite ‘sport’ of mine, we were venting without any risk of being jailed.
The communist regime did not appreciate philosophy and all the subjects that we studied in school were carefully censored. Gods and free thinking/speaking could instill ideas of a revolution.
Nowadays we do not appreciate what we have and too many things we take for granted. Freedom of speech is one of them.
I know I was annoyed by the idea Eminescu was trying to bring with the ‘Letter’. I didn’t agree with him. I couldn’t understand at that time why was he so unhappy. I can see it now, the lost artist, trying to express in rhymes and metaphors his views and feelings and doing it so beautifully.
I used my life lessons to bring up my children, teach them about the truth and fairness, and tell them that they can use their voice, there is no political regime to restrict them. But it is not a freedom to take lightly or abuse.

As pointless as it all seemed at that time, it was a learning curve, and today I can see that Medium makes it easier for me, it ‘gives me wings’ like Red Bull.

And so, I do the same — I use the power of the pen.

It almost feels as if time froze in one moment, on 17 February 1984.

Traveller in Romania: K O M P U S 3, a crowd of Bucharest

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Tue, 02 Jan 2024 12:42:14 GMT

I am in search of my niche.

I don’t like to be restricted by a niche.

I don’t like that the niche makes me lose my focus and my thread of thoughts.

I cannot find my niche.

I like to write freely about people and places that left a mark on me.

I can only write when I am inspired and about what touches me.

Niche is not what I know, even not what I am good at.

Niche is what my followers or readers decide for me — in that day, month, or year.

Anyhow — I want to share with you my travel notes on meeting the KOMPUS group.

THE PARALLELS of the creative world — this was the image and the strongest feeling I had while being there . This is why they left a mark on me.

Traveller in Romania: K O M P U S 3, a special crowd of Bucharest, October 2023

This year, the highlight of my holiday in Romania was KOMPUS. I was pleased and honored to ‘rub my elbows’ with a unique bunch of people at the 3rd Edition of KOMPUS.

What is KOMPUS?

KOMPUS is a group of artists, former and current students of Bucharest UNARTE (National University of Arts) of the Painting Department.

Every year in October, the artists meet up by organizing their own (KOMPUS group) exhibition and showcase their work: to each other, to art galleries, to friends and family, and to the public.

I was sad and a bit jealous in the previous two years because I could not travel and I was not there for KOMPUS 1 and 2, but this year I cleverly planned my holiday to Romania especially to be in Bucharest, at least for the opening days.

The exhibition is usually open for a couple of weeks, and the artists had to work themselves to prepare it, from moving furniture, panelling, exhibiting decorating, drinks, and catering, plus the advertising and marketing, preparation of catalogues, the social media, interviews, and newspapers articles.

It’s not an easy job, I can tell you that! Not because I did it, but because I was there ‘behind the curtains’ and I saw them at work, getting ready for the opening.

But many hands make light work and they split the tasks and got it done.

That is the background of the event; now about the artwork!

Each of them had to introduce one piece from their work and exhibit it for the KOMPUS 3.

The variety and the volume of the works presented took me by surprise. There are four rooms at the ground level of an 18th-century house in the Armenian Quarter of Bucharest. I was able to take a few visits all by myself and take my time with each work, and with each view, I found another detail and a new connection.

When the artists and their guests arrived for the opening, it suddenly turned into a crowded place where at first you can feel alone and overwhelmed by all that talent and beauty.

You’re lost, you’re confused, you’re timid, feel as if you do not belong there, you have no place among the artists. That mass of artistry creates humility, you are small and insignificant.

But just when you feel you’re about to fall, they catch you and lift you back up, with a word, a smile, a story, a painting, a glass of wine, or a coffee.

I was lucky to make acquaintance with some of the artists and we talked, and I could drill into the reason, the how and why, the meaning, and mostly the feeling of the painting. I mingled with them and listened, and some were quite young and shy, but they all had a strong love of art, a passion, and a flame that got through their reserve and they all turned out to be a bunch of funny, dreamer people.

Most of them expressed to me that fear of their work being unfinished, or the insecurity of the final work not being ‘quite right’. The artists were unhappy with the result, but me and, I believe the other visitors as well — we could only see the talent and brilliant imagination.

They succeeded in sharing their vision; I am sure of that!

Artists today are doomed to live in their worlds. It is not easy to promote their work, there is no art industry as such, and when a group comes together and has this beautiful initiative and creates events like this, it only proves their beliefs and passion are worth it.

Their paintings and works presented at KOMPUS, as well as information about the artists, are posted on social media as well.

You can find them on Facebook and Instagram. On their Facebook page they also posted the paintings and the works presented at KOMPUS 3.

They had quite a lot of visitors, and apart from me (and my other half) from Australia, they also had visitors from Canada, America, and South Africa.

So we can say that this October, KOMPUS became ‘international’.

Another first for KOMPUS this year was that before the end of the exhibition, four of the exhibited artworks found a new home.

I am sure they will be back in 2024, so don't be a stranger and look them up, and I hope the stars align so I can go to Bucharest in October, and I’ll have KOMPUS on my list of ‘things to do’.

Everyone had a great time, including myself, and I was sad when I left for home, not only because my holiday was finished, but also because of those wonderful people I met and because of that feeling of peace and joy that art can produce in one’s soul.

I’ve been marked.

Thank you crowd of K_O_M_P_U_S !

Ivan, Ivan, Ivan! I made 6 cents!

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Mon, 01 Jan 2024 08:17:38 GMT

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-Ivan, Ivan, Ivan! I made 6 cents!

You can see I love Sheldon Cooper, huh!

-Where, what?

-Somebody read two of my stories on Medium and I got paid 6 cents!

-No way! Which story?

Didn ’t he ask just the right question? Right there I had yet another confirmation that he is the right one for me.

Before I answer I had to make another call.

I was beside myself with excitement, I picked up my phone and called — from Australia to Romania. While Ivan is watching me expectantly, I speak with my friend. She is an artist, a very good one. I write and she paints and we often ask each other — do you sell anything? What is wrong with us? There you are, I had to call her, to tell her that I am still worth it — a whole of 6 cents.

-Cristina! Cristina! Cristina! I made 6 cents on a writers’ forum for a couple of stories.

-Oh, wow! What a success! Congratulations!

-It’s just 6 cents.

-Yes, but it’s a start! Well done and wish you more cents to come!

I finish the call, but Ivan is not finished. He is looking at me and he asks again.

-Which story was it?

-The story The Truth Behind the Fear!

-Ah, that’s a good one! Right, Sammie?

He asks our mutt which looked completely disturbed, at first by my animated shouts and now by Ivan’s question. Ivan is excited and his arms are waving trying to create a picture for the ever-cautious Sammie. That’s your story Sammie, you wild mutt! Those guys on Medium have great taste I can tell you that. What was the other story?

-The one with the ‘power of pain.

-Oh, yes.

His eyes are sad remembering our friend. Grieving, I wrote a story about him. He passed away on a different continent, and we couldn’t be there for his family or say goodbye.

I stare at the screen with a huge grin that starts hurting my cheeks. I keep repeating myself.

-I can’t believe it! I made 6 cents!

-Well done sweetheart! You can put those towards the mortgage.

This is my man, happy with my big victory because he knows is not about the money, is about recognition, about being heard.

Two weeks later, Ivan still talks to me about the excitement of the 6 cents, and he is so enthusiastic about my new Medium adventure that my writing now reaches a new level of sharing.

I read once that sharing can happen on three levels: sharing thoughts, sharing emotions, and sharing leads. We went through them.

Ever since I spent hours writing every day and he is OK with that. This is the only thing that we can both think about. My obsession is his obsession.

My man is happy with me for 6 cents and I agree with him that we shall put them against the mortgage.

Ever since he started helping more in the kitchen and around the house, so I have more free time to devote to my writing. He has always been supportive and willing to lend a hand, always asking what he can do to allow me to spend hours and hours on my books and stories.

For my Medium articles, I never tell him beforehand what the story or the article is about, I want to hear his words and feel his first reaction. He is my first reader, and I can see it on his face — the sadness, the moist eyes, the hmm, huh, oohs that come out with the lines.

We are definitely sharing leads too.

He comes up with ideas of what topics I can approach, and what story to say.

He is asking me every day — what do you write about today?

Ivan is my happy place and I know this is not the last time I will write about him. He can be funny, and he makes me laugh, and I thought — why not talk about happy things too?

We should find stories in happy moments, not just in sad ones like lost friends, abuse, sadness, depression, and addiction.

So, this is my today happy story.

My son told me a few months back that Sammie-Our-Mutt stares at me with the same eyes as my husband. With adoration.

And when you feel the love around you like this it’s much easier to go over the not-so-nice things and the lower points in life.

We do it together. There is a shoulder, a hand, a word, and a gesture.

Right now — Medium is our ‘together’ challenge as he knows and agrees that I must publish a story a day.

It already sounds like ‘A story a day sends the doctor away’.

And is so wonderful to share beautiful things.

I wish you all A wonderful New Year 2024 with blessings and your loved ones around you — that is all I can wish everyone.

Happy New Year!

Does the Keto diet mean NO PIZZA?

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Sat, 30 Dec 2023 07:15:02 GMT

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Since YOU are here and I WROTE this – the answer to that question is NO.

Keto diet does not stop you from having a pizza.

Whoever said that the Keto diet is sad, that you cannot miss on bready foods, that you cannot miss on pizza – well, he was right.

You cannot and you shall not miss out on pizza, simply because you can make a Keto Pizza!

I give you, my Keto Pizza!

I must confess, that I had a few tries before I dared to present it to you.

INGREDIENTS!

Approximative 80 grams of flour which is a combo of:

- 10 grams of whey protein (about 1 Tbs)

- 10 grams of flaxseed grounded in a coffee machine (about 1 Tbs)

- 50 grams of almond meal

- 10 grams of almond flour

I mean really! Don’t stress to be too exact. If it’s 8 grams, 12 grams, 56 grams, and 12 grams – as it actually happened to be the exact measures on my last try – I swear I will not come and check up on you!

For this 80-gram-flours you need the following wet ingredients

- 3 eggs at room temperature

Other liquids:

- 2 Tbs olive oil

- 60 ml water

Other staplers – the flavor part:

- Pinch of salt (duh!)

- Pinch of baking powder

- Pinch of guar gum (or any of the ‘powders’ that usually hold together a keto dough which has NIL gluten)

Toppings:

- Cheese 1 cup

- Salami ½ cup

- 1 tomato finely sliced

The world is your oyster – you choose your favorite toppings, as long as they are keto and no sugary fruits.

It will be a rather liquid-ish batter, as it should be.

PREPARATION:

1- Start the oven at 180 degrees, it should be hot when you get the pizza in.

2- Prepare your tray sprayed with coconut oil and lined up with baking paper.

For the above quantity think about a tray 20 cm x 30 cm, or even smaller if you like a thick pizza.

3- Mix the dry ingredients and make sure you sift the baking powder.

4- Mix the wet ingredients.

5- Bring together the dry and wet ingredients and pour the batter into the lined tray.

6- Place it in the oven for 10-15 minutes until you can feel the surface slightly baked. That will ensure your ingredients do not sink!

7- Take it out, spread the toppings, and put it back in the oven for another 10-15 minutes or until the cheese is as you want it!

Eh voila! Who said that no flour means no pizza?

Even Ivan gave it a ‘not bad’ and my man hates anything made with almond or coconut flour.

MAKE SURE you follow the tips:

This is not the moment to 'customize', just do it as it says.

-eggs at room temperature (or pizza will taste eggy)

-sift the keto baking powder (or will stay in lumps)

-line up the tray (or batter will stick)

-preheat the oven (or it will not bake fast enough to rise a little)

-don’t use a big tray (or you’ll have a pancake of a pizza)

I love it!

7 invaluable tips I have learned over the years to help you save money

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Fri, 29 Dec 2023 08:31:32 GMT

With great power comes great responsibility, they say. Your power is your hard work that was paid in hard-earned money. Now, it is your duty to acknowledge the power the money gives you and respect that!

Not by wasting it away but by looking at it as an asset you must manage.

I know that I can make a conscious effort to avoid throwing away excess food. Why not do it?

I can take responsibility for my impact on the environment. Why not do it?

I may not be the best one to advise on the Google algorithm, but bookkeeping?!! Now — THAT is my job and I know what I am talking about.

You know all those labels — ‘crunching numbers’, ‘guru numbers’, ‘make every bean count’ — yeah, they are all over my T-shirts, one sticky label on my forehead and I am that close to getting a tattoo!

I add to that being a wife twice — and both of them husbands useless with money — and a mother, and a single mother.

As a single mother, you learn how to make a whip from shit, and … it also cracks!

What can you do to manage your finances with a few easy money-saving tips?

1. Constantly check all your bank accounts.

Make sure to check the balances and also the transactions.

Two reasons for this:

first, you have the chance to catch in time if any scammer is using your card details and spending your money;
and second, you are aware at any moment how much money you have, you are abreast of the details of how often and what for you spend your money.

Be aware of any movement of your funds in and out and inform the bank immediately if something is not right. On several occasions, I spotted when my bank account was used fraudulently, and I could stop it before it got much worse.

2. Identify the strictly necessary items in your life and the ones that are not quite necessary.

Since you already follow up on your bank transactions you can also spot if you really use EVERYTHING that you purchase.

k your memberships and subscriptions — do you need all of them?

I found myself with an Amazon Prime subscription that I never asked for.

My gym subscription was $150/month when I realized that I only went 3 times/month. It turned out it cost me $50/session. By then I had replaced the gym with long walks and yoga.

3. Compare the market for cheaper options on everything that you purchase.

For example in Perth, petrol is cheaper on Tuesdays, at even 18% cheaper! It must be something like this everywhere — there is a cycle created by purchase-stock-sale, so fill up your tank every Tuesday — I mean your ‘local Tuesday’.

One of the most expensive necessities is food, so check prices at different supermarkets to find the cheapest option.

You may find that for the same amount of money, you can shop for more items in Aldi than at Coles or Woolworths. Look for the cheaper vegetable markets, some of them are located in local shopping malls, and prices are significantly lower than the farmer’s markets. (these are some of our Australian supermarkets, but you get the gist of it)

I am happy to shop in a cheaper place even if that means that I don’t have so many options for meat cuts for example. But I can easily see how for the same amount of money I filled four bags with food from Aldi but only managed to fill two bags from Coles.

KidSport sells the brand sport shoes like Nike, and Adidas at half the price of what you pay in their store.

If you have the chance to install solar panels, it is one investment that will save you lots of money in the long run. Our power bill went down from $280 to $25. What, more than 10 times less? Yes, really. 10 times less!

As far as I am concerned solar panels are the best discovery after coffee!

4. Don’t buy in bulk unless you know that you will use it, otherwise, it will be just a waste.

It may sound good when you can buy three items for a better price, but do you need three or just one? For food, if you buy bulk and it expires before you get the chance to use it, you waste the money and send food to the landfill. On fresh fruit and vegetables buy only what you know you will cook or eat in 7 days, otherwise, it will go off in your fridge.

It will not only save money but you can do your bit to save the planet!

Don’t leave all the work to Greta Thunberg.

Do you have any idea about the amount of food that gets dumped in landfills every year?

Do you know what that does to the economy (it costs money to get that garbage sorted out) and to the environment?

I know that in Western Australia is more than 4 kg/week/family. And I know for sure that is not from my family .

Can you try to estimate 4 kg of food a week — how much is that in money that you spent on food you did not eat and wasted? Even if I average to something lower like $5/kg food waste x 4kg x 52 weeks = $1,040 / year

These are the money that you paid for the food and you put it in the bin!

Give yourself 30 seconds and check in your city what are the statistics, and the numbers on the wastage.

5. Cook instead of eating out or ordering in.

For the minimum of $40 that you spend for a two-person Uber Eats order (this is the local version), you can buy meat and vegetables to cook healthy soups and stews, or meat and veggies for at least three meals. There is also the advantage that you eat healthier, as you know what exactly you put in your food, and cooking can be great fun.

You don’t have to be Gordon Ramsey or a Michelin household to good healthy.

We also use the indoor compost buckets to collect the food scraps and we use the compost in our little garden vegetables.

6. Once a month, check the expiry dates on the cans and jars and use any vegetables that you have in the fridge.

Create new recipes of stews and stir fry with the leftovers in your veggie box. With a side dish of rice or pasta, you can cook what you have in the fridge and the pantry until you empty all the shelves.

We call it “clean up the fridge and pantry”.

I find that we can cook sometimes for more than a week with various stocked items and we only shop for bread and milk. More money saved.

7. Create your own savings system.

ALWAYS save something , $20, $50, $100 per week. You decide what is easier and you change the amount as you need higher or lower as per your income. Ultimately set up a weekly transfer into a savings bank account for which you don’t have a card, so you cannot spend it, and forget about it. In no time the balance will grow.

Most of our holidays happened due to money that we saved by following these tips.

Here’s to saving more money, maintaining a clean environment, living a healthy life, and enjoying wonderful holidays!

Lessons that taught me about Empathy — 3 of them — and then they were 3!

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Thu, 28 Dec 2023 10:44:44 GMT

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… and so I am back with the third lesson that led me to empathy

My volunteering at a soup kitchen is no 3

I should start with the beginning about 19 years ago. One evening returning home, I was attacked by a hobo in the hall of the building block where I used to live. He walked up to me as I entered the elevator and his first fist punched me straight into my face. I heard my front teeth crack while his fist punched again. Hot blood came out of my mouth and nose, and he tried to steal my bag. My bag in which I had my work laptop. I did not let go of it. He dragged me out of the elevator and he hit me until I was out of breath and I fell to the ground. He kicked me. I could see his boot faster and faster coming at me.

I curled up into a ball, holding the bag and covering my face.

Between my shattered teeth, and coughing blood, I cried for help, more like a horrified howl, from deep inside my throat — this is what I remember most. My animalic howl.

Nobody came.

I begged him to stop, and I gave him all the money in my wallet. He took the money and ran.

And this is the short version of the ‘incident’. Regardless of how cathartic this might feel writing about it, I prefer not to go into more detail. The trauma of it all marked me more than I ever wanted to admit.

It took me half a year to heal physically and almost a year to be able to get out of the house. I was afraid of the dark, crowds, and people. I forced myself to pretend I was alive for the sake of my children.

I had to move on with my life.

Eventually, the fear of crowds was gone, as was the fear of darkness, and I required long and costly medical treatments. But that was not all.

The worst part was that I felt stripped of who I was.

I lost something else that night. My essence as a human being was violated and taken away, by another being, one of my peers. I howled like an animal for help because somebody who belonged to the same race as me harmed me and my sanity so badly. I begged for mercy as I was reduced to something insignificant. I lost faith and trust.

They never caught him.

I never had that closure.

The incident changed me, and I always held up a wall of abruptness and shortness that was mostly perceived as rude. I didn’t give a toss about what people think about me and I was not willing to explain a thing! One of them — the people did that to me.

Even though the time healed most of my body and mind, I carried with me all these years — a fear of drifters (or hobos, homeless, beggars — name them as you want). They remained for me the symbol of danger. I could see one of them from afar and avoid him. Turned around or crossed to the other side of the street. When a beggar would come up to me I would back up in horror, wrap my arms around my body, trying to protect myself from them. And ran.

My mind was made up.

For me, they were all the same and they all meant violation and fear.

During the years like most people everywhere, I contributed to various charities, for children in need, hoping to save the forest or the koala, or find a cure, sending money for the disadvantaged; I volunteered to make support hampers during COVID-19.

As my life became more secure and I was safely settled in a new country I wanted to do more. I love cooking and I have been looking to volunteer at a soup kitchen. This year I found a soup kitchen at a homeless hub. But I did not know how close I would be to them — the homeless and I was a bit apprehensive.

I signed myself in.

After all, they are almost 20 years since the incident. I should be OK, right? In my mind, I thought I would be in the kitchen, cooking and serving from behind a huge counter that would be my protection wall. But that was not the case. When you are in a homeless hub with up to 400 people coming in for a shower and food, there is no time to find distance. From 7 am to 2 pm a group of volunteers help the staff to prepare and serve meals, hand out food, clothes and towels, and so on. There is human contact.

The first day my heart was in my throat. I threw myself into work, cooking, washing dishes, cleaning, and serving food. I could not tell if it was fear, but I wanted to stay away from them. I could not look them in the face when they asked for something, I am sure I seemed aloof and a stuck-up bitch. I was afraid to go out of the kitchen and clean the tables.

I chose to ignore them, to avoid making contact — eye or verbal — and I focused on doing the work that I was there to do. I was never an idle person, I am alive when I am busy, so that went well with me. By the end of the first day, I was so tired of being on my feet for 5 hours that I could not process what I felt. All the time the heart stayed up there in my throat like a most unwanted lump.

But I went back for more.

I was still fighting to detach myself from everybody, I was cautious and still fearful. It took me a few exhausting shifts until I dared to start looking them in the face when they asked for something.

I had been shouted at, I had plates thrown at me, or coffees spiled in a tantrum, and most of them don’t speak nice, they argue and they order us around.

One day a lady came in, and she seemed out of place.

She looked in her fifties, her hair neatly under a headband, lipstick on, she was dressed nice and clean and on her arm, she had a nice purse which she held rather elegantly.

Her eyes were down. She only looked at the trays with the food. I had never seen before in my life the hunger, and the shame like this.

One of the staff greeted her with a smile. Hi. You are having some rough days, are you? The woman nodded. The staff put food on her plate and handed it to her.

No matter how much I stared wanting to make eye contact she did not raise her eyes. She muttered something, took the plate, and went to a table.

The staff told me. She has a house but sometimes they can barely live from one day to the other.

That was when I broke down.

I went in the back and cried. Not sob my shirt off my back, but allowed my tears to come down, and then I wiped them off quickly and went back to work. My knots in the throat were not fear, were pity and shame for their shame.

Some are ill, and others are in a bad spot, some lost their homes or jobs and try to survive and get back on their feet. People who once had a life and a house and a family now had nothing and slept on the streets. Some of them are not OK at all. They even don’t know if they need help or what help they need.

They were not angry because they were mean!

They were angry about life, angry about their situation of having to be at our mercy, and angry about their embarrassment.

They cannot be happy and cheerful when life sucks, and they need to gain some control back. Raising voice and throwing tantrums is one way.

Who am I to judge them? How they behave, they eat, they throw away food and things, so what? My fears were swept away by their misery and despair. There was no time to feel sorry for myself and no place to look for perfect things in a homeless hub.

Acceptance is the first thing that comes to mind, but not for me to accept them — but for them to accept us!

Don’t be kind because others say so, because it’s the woke movement, be kind because you can and because you accept that others are not your mirror image.

It gets easier with every day, I am less frightened by them and I start to see them.

And they are not angry - all of them. Some good things happen too— rarely — but it happens! One of them would come up to the kitchen to drop the dirty plate and stop to talk.

Thank you so much for the food. You are a very sensible cook. Thank you for doing this.

and he smiles at me. and I smile back.

maybe this IS called empathy, no?

Lessons that taught me about Empathy — 3 of them — and then they were 2!

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Tue, 26 Dec 2023 05:18:20 GMT

I am back to talk about another lesson that led me to empathy.

My Yoga Practice is no 2

The power of words is in our hands. There are so many ways to say what you don’t like without making others feel they only belong in a ‘hated’ box.

The harshness of a truth may sound like something we need sometimes but when is too much is exactly that — too much!

Quite often I hear people making extreme statements: ‘I hate when people ask to be followed’, ‘I don’t like immature people’, ‘I run away from people emotionally unstable’ ‘I hate it when I see grammar mistakes’, and other strong wordings that make me feel bad and inadequate.

Does it mean that if I ask people to follow me, I am a lesser person, I cannot be a kind person and I cannot be in the run to save the world and that is bad? Nobody is asking us to ‘like’ everything, that would be silly! But do we need to make a strong wording statement to express our view?

We are all different in one way or another, we all have our quirkiness, faults, or defaults. At the end of the day, we must learn to be happy within ourselves, and accept who we are and what we are and once that happens we succeed in accepting others as they are as well.

This is where yoga comes in.

At one point a few years ago I decided to take my personal yoga practice to a different level, ie — get certified and be a yoga teacher. That was a new journey that showed me some facets that I could not make out before.

Quite often my minutes of meditation ended in stress-release tears followed by a deep peace. That was a feeling I wanted to share.

The first sentence that sounded strange to me as I heard it from my teachers was:

It’s not about being good at something, it’s about being good to yourself.

It took me a while to get the idea. I pushed myself at 50 yo into intense yoga practice wanting to perform certain asanas. It was the ego, can I do a split at 50? I succeeded with the cost of some injuries and I realized that with or without that asana I was still me and being angry at myself for not being able to do it and hurting myself, it was not helpful.

Each physical body is different, we are not the same and we can’t perform the same.

As I was about to find out when I started yoga classes for beginners they all had a problem, an illness, an ailment, they all had an ‘imperfection’. Each person has a weaker point (or stronger for that matter), which could be flexibility (or not!) in the hips, pain in the knees, difficulty breathing, and so on.

As I learned from my own body, I had to open my eyes, get out of the teacher mode, see what that was, and be able to show it to them in a nice way, so they could let go of the ego that pushed them to practice against what their body tried to tell them.

If we think a little about our life, it is made of imperfections, the perfect things are not quite real life, are they?

Increasing your body awareness is by far the most sought benefit of yoga. Being aware of how your body feels, and bringing your mind inside your body to investigate and find new things, is what yoga is - a unification between mind and body. It is something that we can all use off the mat as well. When you walk, when you eat, when you read — whatever you do if you are aware of it it means so much more .

I stopped looking at my students in a judgemental way.

In my first classes as a teacher, I looked at my students critically. How they choose their place in the class, how they sit, how they dress, how they practice, how they try to cut corners, how they look at the person on the next mat.

Then I understood, that was my first job — to accept them as they are and help them be good to themselves. My focus changed to the right place — teaching and helping.

How many of them rejected the breathing exercises? Or the meditation? I cannot meditate, it’s not me, I cannot stay still, my mind is racing, I cannot stop thinking about my kids. So many reasons and excuses for not doing it or to tell why they are not good at it maybe?

And I judged them.

Then I let go.

And showed them how to.

Months later I had them in a 10-minute meditation. I only guided them at the beginning then I remained quiet, and they stayed still, completely silent, and as I watched their breathing and watched their stillness I kept checking my watch. I had tears in my eyes.

After the meditation, I told them how long they meditated and they could not believe it! And they were grateful for their bodies. That was the real victory!

A good word can go a long way. And if it’s in your mind why not say it out loud?

As a yoga teacher, quite often I feel happy for their progress, I want to hug them, help them feel more comfortable in their bodies, and gain the strength and peace they deserve and I have to share with them when they improve.

And I shall stop here. I can talk about yoga until the North Pole and back. (note that I am located on the opposite side of the globe).

I feel the need to conclude how I touched empathy with my yoga journey:

loving myself as I am, and accepting others
taking care of myself, so I can be strong enough to help others
accepting my limits, and it’s ok that we are not all the same
understand that we all need a different kind of support
each pained soul or body is hidden behind different shields
by helping others, and thinking of others first — I am happy and they are happy

I close with the famous words from The Bhagavad Gita:

“Yoga is the journey of the self, through the self, to the self.”

Lessons that taught me about Empathy — 3 of them

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Mon, 25 Dec 2023 05:13:02 GMT

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My dog Samwise is the first lesson

I realized the other day when I caught myself in search of kinder words and against my usual abruptness.

Three things taught me about empathy and helped me be less judgemental. They all took place in the past five years.

My dog Sammie is no 1

He is a rescue, an early litter, we got him when he was 6 weeks old. Even though his age was a wide estimation. At the shelter, they told us he was found together with his brothers… somewhere on the hills, and his mother was presumed… somewhat killed. They were all (pups) sick with some disease and malnutrition and whatnot. He was the last of the pups to survive that ordeal, and we took him home. He was so clingy from the very beginning.

We named him Samwise. Yes, well-spotted - the Lord of the Rings fans.

But that does not mean he is a soft and domesticated dog! Don’t be fooled!

His DNA test showed a 10% split between Australian Kelpie, Whippet, and Bull Terrier, and the rest of the 90% is so split between other dog breads (each less than 3%) that is not worth mentioning. We call him our Kelpie or Wolfie sometimes when he has his wolf eyes.

To me that says that a whole line of generational hatred is summed up in this pup.

On the walks, he was cautious in windy weather (his ears flat on his head), jumpy at plastic bags and garbage rolling on the street, and flinched at sudden noises, he sniffed the bloody autumn leaves for years until he stopped running away from them, and hated the postman; he barked at knocks on the door, he got scared of a sale house signage and at cars on the street. Hey — the other day he barked at the inflated Santa on our neighbour's lawn!

Soon enough he started to growl at our hugs, snap at our hands when rubbing his belly, and turned into a forcefully pulling dog, that never listened. He grew up bigger and bigger, he is over 25 Kg now. He was always boisterous and full of energy — which made his aggression even worse and misunderstood.

He jumped and attacked other dogs, and did not like any other people except the known family or close friends we got him used with. People could not touch him so we were extremely cautious with socialising.

Constantly watch and learn! Don’t make sudden gestures, warn him when you step closer, don’t corner him, don’t look him in the eyes, don’t hug him tight, and reach from a side so he does not perceive it as a threat, or offensive.

We trained with a professional for obedience, commands, and games with food hidden in toys and towels, and he is such a smart dog! Like a little soldier, he executes everything, he sniffs to find everything, and he is eager to please us. We read a lot and tried so many ways to help calm and relax. He bit dogs and people and we were close to losing him.

The doctor said he was ‘not quite alright’ and ‘he is very anxious’. (does this sound familiar in the world of the humans?)

I refused to put him on medication. Our focus was to keep him and others safe with hard training with heel walk, with the muzzle and mainly keeping the distance.

Why would you expose him to a situation that we already know he hates? How many times do we use this advice for people?

We tried desensitizing exercises, and games that would make him use his paws, and brain to get to the food, and play soccer (until he got his ligament surgery).

The trainer told us that Sammie is a frightful dog, and right now ‘you have a boisterous stubborn teenager on your hands’ that fights you and tries to get his way.

Why would he be afraid? I do everything I can for him, I play with him, feed him, and shelter him.

Well, showing love to a pup is like showing love to a teenager, he said, and that did it for me. It finally clicked.

I was a single mother to not one but 2 strongly opinionated high IQ kids and boy they made me work hard on the single parent part.

It seems that the anxiety keeps him frightened, so much so that he feels the need to constantly be alert and protective, mostly with me - his owner.

My dog was afraid for my safety! (we would do the same for our family!)

During the Covid, I worked from home. I set him up with picnic blankets on the living room carpet (he sheds lots of hair). He stared at me for long minutes, wanting something, asking something. A treat (too many already), a toy (they were around him), but he stared.

And I stared back (so I was making a gamble here) and I stared for long moments until we locked eyes.

His eyes were suddenly sad. No, they did not ‘turn into’ sad eyes, I was the one just perceiving it at that moment!
His eyes were filled with a feeling of sorrow and despair that I had not seen before. That brought tears to my own eyes. Behind Sammie’s look, I did not see his anger, aggression, or his wolf-eyes anymore, I saw the pain. A pain that cut through me.

How much pain are you hiding behind those eyes, my love?

It was a revelation I did not expect. There is a big difference between being an aggressive dog and being a dog in pain. You figured by now I do not mean physical pain.

Ever since that day, I changed my way around him, I speak with him as if he understands my words, and in an extremely caressing tone, motherly and soft. I am not exaggerating, if you hear me speaking with him you’ll think I am mad. I put all my love in my voice, and I whisper close to his ears.

Whispers of words like Sammie-my-boi, my-lovely-boi, I-love-you and I-know-you-love-me-to. Dogs don’t understand words, I think you know that, but they can associate repeated words as being a command or with a feeling.

Now I am convinced he can ‘hear’ me and when his tail is wagging slowly in the rhythm of my words, and he comes and places his chin in my palm and lets me kiss him, that is when my heart is so warm and the soul so fuzzy and filled with love for him that I think — right now, this is when is going to happen — Sammie is a magic dog and in the next instant he will speak and will answer to me.

I showered him with words of love and that did the trick. He gets better by the day. He is still protective and cautious but he is more relaxed and now he comes to us for the pat and sits there and listens to the words.

So, you see, it’s easy to label people as emotionally immature , and judge them in a self-centered way — why are they, not the perfect human beings that you do not have to walk on eggshells around? It’s so easy to throw at them words about insecurity, lack of confidence, weakness, and judge and criticize and criticize and judge!

Not because we know better, not even because we are better, but because we are also in pain.

Maybe is not the same pain as my dog, but something raw from deep inside is hiding away behind a show of words.

And this was number 1. Ah, unfinished post? I am such a liar I promised 3 things in the title. Well, everybody promises all kinds of miraculous solutions and you’ll have to come back for the rest of it.

After all, it’s Christmas and I don’t have time now.

Merry Christmas to you and your family and look into the eyes of the others and behind the sadness and insecurity and you’ll see that maybe they only need a bit of love instead of being judged.

I am Lola-collector-of souvenirs for my Doc Martens boots box

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Sat, 23 Dec 2023 07:26:29 GMT

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Do you have a little something, a negligible object, a trinket, that you hold dear because it reminds you of somebody or it’s connected to a beautiful memory, an event?

The Trinket of Love Just Because!

Like a souvenir —

a pebble picked up on a hiking in Bucegi, a piece of marble (pebble size, of course!) from Apollo’s temple in Delphi, a boarding pass to Japan from the very first trip to Australia, the high school emblem, a ticket stub from an art exhibition, the entry ticket to Versailles, a postcard from 1983, a letter from an ancient aunt, a bookmark with a scribble on it, a lost baby shoe found on the street in Singapore, a napkin from a café in Venice where you paid 50 Euros for 2 coffees, a lucky coin — lucky just because you found it on the pavement, and so many more!

There you are 50 years later you fill in a shoe box with these little things (God forbid we get a statue next time from Athens!), and you seriously consider in the near future to hold on to one (or more) of those Doc Martens boots box.

I am closer to 60 than I ever been in my life, and I still collect these little objects and I cherish them.

I confess I started to get the new type of boxes. The big ones for presents, sturdy and nice coloured, but they can hold souvenirs and brochures. These are the special boxes for our trips - Romania, Greece, France, England, Scotland, Ireland, and I must stop here or this article will be just about that.

During holidays and rainy days we sit on the floor and rummage through our boxes of memories.

However! After a long winded introduction I came up to the point of my article.

One of my latest souvenirs is a pen!

And this pen is the new kid on the block of my souvenirs! Close to my heart, this is my trinket of Love. My heart goes faster and I sigh deeply when I take it in my hand.

On our trip to Romania I met up with a very dear high school colleague, we haven't seen each other in over 9 years. We spent hours remembering, sharing stories from school, and catching up with about 10 (or twenty!) years worth. When I say hours I mean hours. We must’ve sat in that café for 3 hours and we went to a restaurant and there we sat 3 more hours. The food that we ordered arrived too quickly and even though the steak was as hard as a shoe sole, we did not care. The night came way too fast on us and the time flew painfully.

In that day it happened that I needed a pen to sign a couple of books, and my friend gave me her pen.

She did not want to take it back and yes, it will be the new resident of my shoe box.

This pen is now my most loved souvenirs! I did not put it in the shoe box, yet! and I use it everyday. It’s a proper pen. The perfect ball point, not too hard on paper and not too slippery, the ink is not running like in those new gel ones, it moulds in my hand with its velvety smooth surface, plus the end is touch screen! What more could you want from a pen?

Each time I use the pen the memory of that day flows to me, and it makes me happy and it fills me with hope to meet again soon.

This pen and it’s power is now beyond the symbol of a meaningful souvenir. A functional-pleasant-cherished-artwork-souvenir.

Do you agree?

Some places have a way of collecting things as if giving them a new home, and some people too — I am Lola-the-souvenirs-collector for my Doc Martin boots box.

Do you have a little something, an object, a trinket, that you hold dear because it reminds you of somebody or is connected to a beautiful memory?

I am not a writer! Yes, you are!

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Sat, 23 Dec 2023 04:42:55 GMT

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I am not a writer! Yes, you are!

Journals of a writer — how it all started with a hobby

News flash! A writer has a journal! So much of stating the obvious!

How it all started?

Long ago. I believe I started when I was twelve, with every page in my diary, as it was a way of putting together my thoughts. If I look back now, I was surprised how natural it felt to write, compared with speaking. That first memory of me under the blanket with a flashlight and smiling to myself at the wonderful sensation of being inside a world that I knew it was only mine. It was so uncomplicated and trouble-free to let the words go on the paper. The more I wrote, the more I left behind worries, as if once trusted to the paper they disappeared. Even now, writing this piece I smile to myself like I just discovered America.

We need so little sometimes to be happy. So very little. Paper and pen. Or, well, nowadays the keyboard and glasses, as the age progressed over me.

Writing was also easier because of my fear of rejection. I was terrified that I would be laughed at if I tried to speak what I think.

When I was a child for me it was interesting to dissect (in writing) my philosophical ideas, which I will then thoroughly apply to all those that upset me. Writing was also a good way to deal with sadness and pain.

Today I know it was my good friend — the instinct — that showed me how to build up my resilience, mainly by acknowledging and assessing what I feel, by taking responsibility and writing it down. Once on the paper I made it real and true.

We fear the unknown, start labelling and analysing and the mind travels sideways, focuses on the matter and the unknown is not an unknown anymore.

My very first journal (at 12 years old)

was a bit of a personal pour-out that started with:

‘Dear Journal, I talk to you because I need to talk to someone.’ (how many millions in the world are doing the same thing, writing exactly the same first words?)

Ah, well, my hand wrote that, but secretly my mind had other reasons… like, ‘you are the perfect friend because you will not criticise me, and you will stay quiet while I talk all the nonsense in my head. And you will not laugh at me either!’

So, I was not very truthful in my journal-writing since I did not admit that I need a ‘silent’ friend about which I could imagine that is nice to me, understanding and friendly.

Turned out it was not easy to be honest with my own journal (and even myself).

Wanting to have a journal but still afraid to write the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

Yeah, something along those lines, because later I discovered that some things are better left unsaid and unwritten all together.

Anyhow, that was the start. After I finished school, I started working and a family, and some writing ideas started to take shape. Ambitious love novels, historical novellas and, in time (and I mean over decades) I became an ardent collector of my journals and manuscripts.

My writing has taken many forms across the years both in Romanian and English:

handwritten journals, letters and loose pages, then I used a mechanic typewriter, then an electric one, and, moving with times, the last two decades I went through various generations of computers, laptops and tablets. I still use cards and notebooks. I always have a supply with me just for jotting down any ideas that come to mind.

My writing was rarely shared, and when I did share it, it was only with a few people close to me.

My dream of publishing a book had been there for all these years, but it always felt like a faraway and impossible dream.

Making money out of it, also a dream.

But, I used to tell myself — it’s a hobby that I enjoy more than anything. I have the same feeling today, since I am here writing for free, just because I like it. Aren’t I lucky?

Few years ago on an unrelated discussion, my son springs on me ‘As a writer, you should know that.’

‘I am not a writer,’ I answered back, and the original topic lost its meaning.

‘Yes, you are!’

‘No, I am not, I did not publish anything!’

‘It doesn’t matter! You write almost everyday, you write stories and novels, create plots and characters, hence you are a writer. You need to publish to be an author, but you are a writer.’

And so it was that I learnt in my forties that I was a writer.

J Edgar - the man who stole the memories

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Sun, 17 Dec 2023 15:35:54 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

This is about the way I experienced the source of inspiration for my writing.

It came a moment when I was not happy with the progress on my novel. I felt like I was going in circles. At first, I thought it’s a writers’ block – that is the word I also use when in fact I procrastinate, or I am too busy with my job.

Writing was and is a hobby which is currently entirely supported by a day job.

I already know I am not the only one in this situation.

But then I had to admit that my heroine was not ready to ‘talk’ to me as I wanted her to. I love that project too much to just abandon it, so I thought it might be a good moment to take a step back from it and just write a few stories. While doing that, I could keep learning about the craft and maybe find out what I need to move away from or deal with the issues I had with my novel. As they say, you only get better with practice.

Be ready to admit there is a hindrance and be ready to give up (at least for the moment!).

So, I was ready to put the novel on the back burner.

How many of you did the same? And, what next? I could not stop writing, so I needed to do it differently.

As planned, I started to write stories and I used every story as a new chance to work on a new smaller project.

I always thought that finding ideas was the easiest part, but just a few stories down the line I noticed that unless it was about me and about my own life experiences, it was very difficult to write. Maybe this was the problem with my heroine? I did not want her to be me, and I found it difficult to create a new person from the beginning?

Don’t we all tend to create heroes/heroines that are our spitting image?

The newfound febrility took me on a new path, and this was a walk through the process of ‘creating’ a story.

A step back on one level can open another door someplace else.

Once identified the roadblock, I also recognised something else. I needed help and I had to go back to school. Studying in a class environment is always an amazing experience!

So, I took the next step and I enrolled in a short story writing course at a local university, and over a semester I discovered how to find topics for stories, the ‘inspiration’ as they call it, and to use prompts: a sentence, a memory, a newspaper article, a person, a word and all the other little things that make a story be good.

Each story now had its own world: the beginning and the end, generate new descriptions and create new characters, build the inciting moment, delve into the story arc, find the characters’ goal, and so on.

I take my work on my collection of short stories as a professional development process, as a row of webinars about how to develop a story and I thoroughly enjoyed the process.

Supported by the course curriculum I further challenged myself to create stories only from imagination, pure fantasy, with completely new and even fantastic characters, weird and strong, funny and weak.

Each story had to have a different setting, a different theme, a different prompt, and an elegantly twisted end that could potentially make the reader ask for more.

It’s never too late to go back to school.

And then I remembered my dreams. I occasionally have some bizarre dreams, baffling and creepy even, dreams that turn into nightmares.

I always interpret my dreams, but I never ‘used’ them before.

In one of those dreams, I met J Edgar. I call him the man who stole the memories, because in my dream, this is what he does.

My first dream with J Edgar was about a young man, who I call ‘a boy’, and went something like this:

'He wanted to kill himself, he was up on the bridge’s parapet. A tall bridge with an arched structure and a parapet painted a chalky white. He shivered standing on the parapet with one arm hooked around a pole and eyes cast into the dark waters. The morning light rain was blinding him, and the cold wind was sending chilled droplets through his sleeves.

Somebody walked on the bridge and watched the boy. The walker was a memory reader, and a memory thief.

He spent a few minutes with the boy, slowly picked up on his memories and released the pain in his head.

There was only one drawer in the boy’s mind that he could not touch; it was red-hot.

He explained to the boy how he was reading the memories, and the boy was really interested. The stranger was nuttier than he was. He knew he was telling the truth because the walker did not utter a single word, but he perfectly understood his thoughts, also the latest one. ‘There must be first a touch, a hand touch at least. To make a nerves connection. The forehead is even better, but not necessary. I must read that drawer. Please.’

A flood of images came to the boy’s mind. He saw himself working on his memories and sort them all in drawers. They will spend many days together and read them.

The boy spoke first, out loud against the rain and the wind:

‘Hi, I am Jacob.’

‘Hi Jacob, nice meeting you. I am J Edgar.’

The boy gave him his hand and as the red-hot drawer finally opened Jacob stepped off the ledge.'

And yes, I had more than one dream with J Edgar.

Spot an opportunity and use it!

I had a few other dreams with other ‘people’ and ‘things’ that happened, and I have stories created from them, and in my view, they are the best, and definitely they are my favourite ‘children’.

And about J Edgar? I wrote few drafts of various adventures of J Edgar and they are still drafts, as I wait to have a few more dreams with J Edgar. I know I will. When I am ready.

Instead, I agreed that I can already use J Edgar as the driving force into a story if I make use of a bit of subtleness.

How many people have a personal journal but have never been fully honest in it?

Maybe some bad things happened, or they have secrets they are afraid or ashamed even to trust them to the paper.

Bad things that are best forgotten and as we get deluded that if we do not speak of or write about, they might vanish, we relieve the memory and the pain and the shame. You know what I mean?

This is when it clicked that I could use my new secret friend J Edgar as the weirdo talking about these things.

Does it make sense?

So far, I managed to use J Edgar two times, meaning in two stories. And it can be quite cathartic.

My dreams are the best source of inspiration.

Maybe I will share with you next time one of these stories.

I love J Edgar! The man who stole the memories is now my best friend.

Shadow - a story about sorcery, tradition and dreams - from "Feelings in Staccato: the book of stories"

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Fri, 15 Dec 2023 09:20:25 GMT

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SHADOW

The Romans had doubled the guards and her raid in the fortress took longer than she had expected. She searched the temple for the Queen’s burial, but it was not there.

She escaped the enclosure, but centurions were following her and getting closer. Shadow, her horse, was nervous.

She passed the Lake of the Fairies where the priestesses gathered for the festival of the Goddess Bendis. They danced under the moonlight, dressed like brides. The one who would see their beauty would be blinded, the one who joined them in their dance would die. She remembered the strong smell of the goldenrod wreaths in their hair. It was so long ago! The weight of time felt heavy on her shoulders. All the things that had happened since: the war, the death of their King, and Dacia becoming a Roman province.

Snapped branches interrupted her reverie. She dismounted, whispered in Shadow’s ear, then set him free. The horse galloped in the woodland and a few Romans chased after him. The horse would find her when it was safe.

Agile in her leather sandals, the Dacian sorceress climbed towards the peak. From the top she could see the whole valley. Seven well-hidden forts were built in these mountains. The Romans had burnt most of them down. The Queen had been killed and buried in one of their temples.

She heard hooves behind her. Hunkered on a rock, she pulled the hood over her head. Her eyelids lowered over the light of her eyes. With a low voice she conjured the winds.

Seven winds like seven brothers — Her limbs got smaller, shoulders dropped and back hunched. She felt pain in her fragile bones.

Good to know, good to others — Her skin wrinkled, her hair greyed and twirled like dirty sheep fleece. The time clutched around her heart.

Flesh to make, years to take; The old Chira-maid to get — Her mouth became toothless, and eye sockets hollowed. She felt bewildered.

Each verse-spell transformed her body.

‘You!’ the Roman called.

When the crone turned to face him, the soldier flinched. Her crooked fingers with long black nails held a cloak around the decrepit body. He wanted to ask if she had met a rider with a horse. Her white clouded eyes looked through him. The question was senseless. The soldiers surrounded her suspiciously, but then pulled away. Hastily, they returned to their pursuit of a young Dacian rider.

Left alone, her body struggled to grasp the change. She sat there. Long hours.

She will soon forget where to return, what her other shape was. She will need help to bring back her body from its meander.

She started to forget. She could not remember who she was and where she was.

She could only remember Shadow. Shadow will know. He will find her and help her.

She found a cave nearby. She hobbled to the safe lair and waited for Shadow.

The Truth Behind the Fear

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Thu, 14 Dec 2023 09:42:02 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

You saved my life that day, and I will always be grateful to you for that. I did not trust you before, but that day you proved me wrong.

We never know what the truth really is, do we?

It was an autumn day, perfect for a walk. Your face soaked up the sun and your eyes gleamed. You have this thing — everybody can see it in your step — about how you carry yourself: you exude joy.

My Fitbit showed that I needed two thousand more steps to reach my target. It was one of your good days and it was my chance to show you that it’s all right. So, I suggested a stroll in the park.

Once in the park, I talked about my dream, and you listened. I blabbed, and you listened. My dream was about a woman who moved her belongings around in a dark alley. Something weird. What else? You know, one of those dreams from which you wake up with a bad feeling. But my dream was just a way to distract you.

I knew about your fear of the dark, so the more the sun went down, the more I talked. When the dusk started to settle, I was nervous for you.

I struggled so much in the years since you came to live with us. You lost your mother and your brothers; I knew there were some things in your past that you wanted so badly to forget and things that you could not express.

I was so frustrated with you. I wanted to dispel the fear that made you lash out then hide away for hours. I felt hurt by your recoil when I hugged you. I thought that love did not need a book, did not need words … surely everybody could feel and understand love?

I was taken aback by your anger. I tried all I could.

I smothered you with love, with kind words, then I shouted at you, and I punished you when you were mean. I gave you nice things, trying to buy your love. I wanted so much to see you happy that I refused to see that bribery was not the right way. I failed each time.

Then your fears shifted to me. You jumped when there was a sudden knock at the door, and I jumped with you. You hid when there were steps outside on the street late at night, and I hid with you. You had a nightmare and cried in your sleep, so I went to wake you up. I wanted to comfort you and reassure you that you were safe. You looked at me with blank sleepy eyes and I sometimes saw hatred in there. I know that you did not believe me, and it hurt me. I cried in frustration, not understanding what I’d done wrong and what I was supposed to do to help you.

I am sure I dreamt about lonely, frightened women because of you, because of the pain I could see in your eyes. Will I ever be able to find out what it is, the heavy pain in your soul?

So, we walked in the park next to each other, and I kept going on about my dream. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw that you were not there anymore. I looked back and I noticed you were hiding behind me, as if away from the dark.

Your eyes were narrowed, your neck stretched, your chin lowered. In your fear, and how you held your breath, I could almost see in you a lion prowling.

Then it happened.

From behind a tree, a man jumped out and attacked me with a knife. Before I had the chance to process it, he grabbed my arm and brought the massive blade under my chin. I smelled on him alcohol, and filth. I forced my head back; I struggled to create as much space as possible between his knife and my neck. I froze and I did not dare to draw breath.

‘Give me the—’ was all he had time to say.

You jumped from behind me, and you snatched his wrist. Your quick movement pushed me back, and I lost my balance. You growled with a rage like I had never seen before in you. You bit his arm hard and you shook it in your jaw. The man screamed. He dropped the knife, but you still did not let go.

‘Call off your dog!’ my assailant shouted.

I stood up and took the time to clean my trousers, then I touched my neck to make sure that his knife hadn’t cut me. And then I watched you, and I smiled, and my heart grew amazed at the beauty of your strength and the loyalty of your heart. You were still on top of him, and there it was, I could see it again. Your ears were pulled back, your body tensed, your neck lengthened and your head hanging down. Your teeth held on to the man’s hand. The hand that had tried to hurt me.

That is when it clicked. It was not fear for yourself that I saw in you.

You were prowling — prowling for the dangers that could hurt your master. It was not fear that pulled you back, it was you getting ready for attack. You were in full protection mode.

So, yes, that day you saved my life. From now on, my dear dog, I will always trust you.

Another 5 stars review - by Nino Lobiladze for Readers’ Favorite

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Tue, 12 Dec 2023 13:11:21 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

Review Rating:

5 Stars - Congratulations on your 5-star review!

Reviewed by Nino Lobiladze for Readers’ Favorite

A shepherd went missing in the Transylvanian mountains in 1920. A hundred years later, a woman bought an old typewriter on eBay and started to receive strange messages. A desperate mother makes a life-changing decision. The town of Exmouth desperately fights with a carnivorous plant in the not-so-distant future. Australian animals face the horror of being burned alive in a wildfire. Mia counts her misfortunes on her way to her ailing father's hospital bed. Estimation of an art collection in a haunted cabin becomes a survival game for an art realtor, a buyer, and the heirs of its late owner. Laura confronts a priest regarding the fundamental principles of faith while mourning her father's death.

The Catalogue: Family Affairs by Maria Grigorescu is a collection of short stories for fans of suspense, science fiction, fantasy, crime drama, social issues, and short stories with a paranormal element.

The Catalogue: Family Affairs offers us subtle, psychological prose elegantly written by Maria Grigorescu. The stories are wise, witty, and thought-provoking.

The book is illustrated with the vibrant artworks of the gifted Christina Maria Grigorescu.

Gone to the Stars But Always in Our Hearts is a touching story, implying that everything happens for a reason. It starts with intrigue that gets tighter until the surprising ending of the story.

Maria speaks about the hardships of motherhood in post-communist Romania. The White Coat is a heartbreaking story relatable to many who went through similar struggles in the post-communist era.

Maria touches on the topic of our responsibility for the environment and wildlife in Booboo the Koala and The Dusk of the Unpeople and the Red Flowers (or Close Encounters of the Plant Kind) . The notes of dark humor complement the fascinating Potions Inc. and Stirring the Pot with Your Mother’s Neighbour . These two short stories warn us to be more careful with our wishes and choices. The Late Bloomer , my favorite story in the collection, appeals to our empathy for those in need.

Overall, The Catalogue is an imaginative mixture of many genres that won't leave pensive readers disappointed.

Traveller in Ireland – 2018 Cork, in search of the Irish stew

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Sun, 10 Dec 2023 12:33:58 GMT

Cork town. We are in Cork because we want to see the Blarney Castle. It’s famous for the Eloquence Stone. They say that if you kiss the stone …, but no, I already talked about that… Check the Blogs section if you missed it.

Cork, a place that seemed to have grown big a bit too fast and the old got swamped in the new.

We are on the road since morning. We check in a cosy B&B, but in town are strong smells from the garbage on the streets. We want local food, the famous Irish stew. We are close to the pub-strip, the host tells us, so we head out in search for a pub for warm food (me) and a cold beer (Ivan). A short walk and we find the street. Burger, fish and chips, pub (no food, just alcohol and a cigarette smoke that comes all the way out), a pizza place, a hotel, Chinese restaurant, Italian restaurant, fish and chips again. Finally, to the other end, oh, bingo, another pub. Decent, and smells good food. But people are queuing to be seated. We wait for a while, but nothing happens, the hostess is somewhere in the hollows of the pub trying to seat some punters. Fifteen minutes later we give up.

We go down the street and we spot an Italian restaurant. Looks really fancy and clean! But no, we want Irish.

Down the street again. Yes, here is another pub. Loud Irish music. Fast and yet soothing Irish folk music.

This must be it! We go in. No food. Beer, whisky and music, all strong in the air. We turn around and go back to try again the pub with the queue. We are the first ones now, but no waiter in sight. He shows up. Yes, I can find a table for 2 but (he looks at a couple by the window), it may take about… half an hour? He finishes the sentence with a question mark. Does he want me to confirm if the couple are done in half an hour? No, we cannot wait, sorry. And we move on, again. Ivan thinks he spotted another pub the other side of the street.

Soon we find it, and there is also a menu on the door. Wide variety of sandwiches. Somebody seated at a table outside tells us there is also Italian food inside. We are hungry and tired. We give up our search and we go in. A traditional Irish pub, the usual pleasant hum, lovely style and indeed – a huge menu with Italian food. We order a beer, a coke and Italian pasta. We are so hungry we completely forgot about the much-wanted Irish stew.

He brings us the drinks, the cutlery and 2 big plates. And we wait.

After twenty-minutes I feel ready to faint and I tell Ivan – they went to Italy to bring that pasta.

Ivan tries a joke, but a man stops to our table. Your pasta orders? We nod happily. And he drops a paper bag on the table. He must have thought that we are rude, we even did not thank him! We were left with open mouths. But the smell? Divine! We take out from the bag two plastic boxes with hot and lovely pasta, one with tomato sauce and one with cream and mushrooms.

Ivan (after he managed to close his mouth) –

-I thought you were joking with going to Italy for the pasta!

-So, did I!

Only now we read the fine print on the menu. ‘Serving Italian food in collaboration with such and such Italian restaurant.’ We recognised the name of the restaurant; it is the fancy Italian that we declined more than an hour before.

We decide to eat straight from the boxes and Ivan is proud to inform the bartender - we saved you the washing!

I did not enjoy the bill, but the food was SUPER!

And this is how we find out that best pasta and sauce are cooked in Ireland.

Note de calatorie 2018 – Irlanda, Cork, in cautarea tocanitei irlandeze

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Sun, 10 Dec 2023 12:33:45 GMT

Orasul Cork. Suntem in Cork pentru ca vrem sa vedem Castelul Blarney. E vestit pentru piatra Elocventei. Cica daca saruti bolovanul devii…, dar nu, despre pietricica am vorbit deja. Poti sa citesti celalalt blog daca te intereseaza.

Cork, un oras ce probabil s-a industrializat prea repede. Un amestec de vechi si nou, in care vechiul e sufocat de nou.

Suntem pe drum de dimineata. Ne-am cazat intr-un B&B confortabli si frumos decorat. Orasul e cam poluat cu un miros sufocant de gunoi.

Vrem mancare locala, faimoasa tocana irlandeza. Gazda ne spune ca putem merge pe jos, ca strada cu (se pare) multe pub-uri si restaurante cu o varietate de optiuni culinare, este chiar aproape. Asa ca o pornim hotarati cu speranta (eu) de o mancare calda si (Ivan) de o bere rece. Si gasim strada cu pricina chiar repede. Si localuri sunt - unul dupa altul - burger, fish and chips, pub (dar servesc doar bauturi si un miros the whisky si tigara ne urmareste pana afara), o pizzerie, un hotel, restaurant chinezesc, Italian, apoi burger din nou. In sfarsit, la capatul strazii inca un pub. Destul de dragut, aici miroase mancare. Dar lumea asteapta sa fie asezata la masa. Asteptam si noi putin la coada. Nu se intampla nimic, nu vine nimeni, nici chelner, nici receptionera. Sunt plecati undeva in strafundurile pub-ului probabil ocupati cu clientii. Renuntam.

Cativa pasi mai departe, un restaturant Italian dragut, curat, simandicos. Nahh, vrem mancare traditionala irlandeza, mai exact - tocanita!

Continuam sa mergem. Iata, inca un pub. Muzica irlandeza folk, ritmica si placuta. Asta trebuie sa fie.

Dar nu servesc mancare. Bere, whisky si muzica. Toate puternice in aer. Ne intoarcem sa incercam din nou la coada la pub-ul aglomerat. Suntem primii acum dar tot nu vine nimeni sa ne intrebe de sanatate. Apare un receptioner. Da, pot sa gasesc o masa pentru doua persoane (si arunca o privire catre un cuplu asezat langa fereastra). S-ar putea sa dureze cam… o jumatate de ora? Intrebare suspendata. Vrea ca eu sa ii confirm ca cei doi termina de mancat in jumatate de ora? Dar ne pare rau, nu putem astepta. Si continuam sa mergem. Ivan crede ca a vazut un pub pe partea cealalta a strazii.

Si il gasim, si are o lista cu mancare lipita de usa. Sandwichuri – o varietate de te ameteste. Cineva sta la o masa afara si ne imbie, cica au si mancare italiana inauntru. Si e buna de tot. Deja ne e prea foame, si suntem obositi. Intram. Locul e curat si frumos, o crasma traditionala irlandeza si au intr-adevar o lista uriasa de mancare italiana. Comandam berea, o coca cola si paste. Barmanul ne aduce berea, cola, tacamuri si 2 farfurii goale pe care le lasa pe masa. Si asteptam.

Dupa 20 de minute simt ca lesin de foame. Ii spun lui Ivan – astia au plecat in Italia dupa paste.

Langa noi poposeste un domn cu o punga de hartie. Comanda de paste? Ne intreaba domnul. Facem ochii mari, dam din cap ca mutii si punga poposeste pe masa. Ala a crezut ca suntem prost crescuti, din cauza de soc, nici nu am apucat sa ii multumim. Incercam sa inchidem gurile, dar ce miros venea din punga! Divin! Scoatem doua cutii de plastic cu pasta comandata, una cu sos de rosii si cealalta cu un sos de smantana cu ciuperci.

Ivan, imediat ce reuseste sa-si inchida gura cascata, zice:

-Am crezut ca glumesti.

-Pai, si eu am crezut ca glumesc!

Citim doar acum cu litere mici la subsolul meniului – ‘In colaborare cu respectivul restaurant Italian’. Si recunoastem numele restaurantului Italian la care am renuntat sa ne oprim mai bine de o ora in urma.

Mancam direct din cutii si Ivan e incantat sa il informeze pe barman ca l-a scapat de spalat farfurii.

Nota de plata a fost cam piperata, dar mancarea a fost SUPER!

Omul cat traieste invata. Asa am aflat noi ca cele mai bune paste cu sos se fac in Irlanda.

5 stars _ Reviewed by K.C. Finn for Readers’ Favorite

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Fri, 08 Dec 2023 13:31:21 GMT

The manuscript of "The Catalogue: Family Affairs" received its first review!

The Catalogue: Family Affairs is a work of fiction in the short story anthology and interpersonal drama subgenres. It is best suited to the general adult reading audience. Penned by author Maria Grigorescu, this is a captivating collection of short stories that delve into human nature, behavior, and reactions to extreme circumstances. The book showcases the complexities of human relationships and emotions, weaving tales that range from childhood memories to fantastical dreams and apocalyptic events. Grigorescu takes readers on a journey through time and place, from Victorian London to a dystopian Western Australia in 2045. These diverse settings serve as the backdrop for exploring themes such as inheritance, abuse, change, death, and the human capacity for making difficult choices.

Author Maria Grigorescu's storytelling skill is evident as she confidently leads readers through each narrative, leaving them with a thought-provoking twist and a sense of wonder. What struck me most about this collection is the incredible diversity of stories and settings, with a descriptive sense that goes beyond the cinematic into a multi-sensory experience that is vivid and visceral. The characters in these stories come to life on the pages with similar vibrancy; even when surrounded by fantastical elements, they manage to remain emotionally grounded and realistic to relate to. I was especially impressed by the speech and thought presentation, the individuality of the different characters achieved through their attitude and dialogue, and the dynamics of how they relate to one another. Overall, I would certainly recommend The Catalogue: Family Affairs as a rich and emotionally charged collection that offers something for readers from every walk of life.

Traveller in Ireland – 2018 August, Blarney experience, Cork, Ireland

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Thu, 07 Dec 2023 13:37:47 GMT

We go to see the stronghold of MacCarthy clan. (God, I love the sound of it!) which is for the keen tourist – the Blarney Castle and the famous Stone of Eloquence.

(which was more like a stone wall, we will find later).

We arrive early, about 20 minutes before opening. The advantage? We found parking. At 9 when they opened the tourist reception, we are just a few of us. The tickets are expensive – the castle and the gardens, plus kissing the stone (Yup! You must pay extra and separately for the kiss) and plus the House. We decided we lived our life until now without eloquence, we do not want to run for prime minister, so, we can do without suddenly becoming smooth talking. No kissing stone, no mansion visit, let’s see the castle!

We take photos left and right while walking, posing on and off the bridge, with the castle, selfies, usies, and we are now keen to explore the 14 ^th century castle built in tower house style, which means a vertical line of a mass of stone.

We feel playful and optimistic, that is because after one week into the holiday and we have the first day with sun in Ireland. Chilly morning but with sun. We try to enter the castle in few parts, with no success. A bit of a mazed enigma. Narrow stairs and corners with no end or direction. Ivan says “This is the way to protect the castle – make it hard to find the entry! How can you kill the guards if you cannot find them?”

Finally, we go around and find the entry.

Warning, there is a one-hour queue here for the stone… we did not pay for the stone, but we decide to go that way, since there is nothing to tell us which other way we should go.

We start climbing the narrow stairs, until the first level with a top terrace-balcony. Feel proud of ourselves we did all the steps without stop and no panting either. We are up, people go for the kissing stone, we do not know how to bypass the crowd. We decide to go back the same way but it’s not possible. People are coming up those extremely tight stairs. It seems there is only one way. So, up we go. As soon as we are on the top level there is a queue to the right for the stone (and they are photographed in the process and receive a certificate for it, sic!) This is how I missed my chance to receive an Irish certificate.

Do we have to queue for the bloody stone? To the left there is a chain stopping us to go towards the stairs.

Ivan says, " Lets jump it!"

I don’t agree: “It says here <No passing>”.

Ivan says, “I don’t want to kiss the freaking stone, nor to wait for all these people to do it! So, we jump the chain, and we go to Exit.”

My strong embedded fear of authority from my life during communism fades away when his long arm pointed angry to the big green Exit sign above the stairs few steps away.

We jump the chain and leave behind the ‘kissing-of-the-stone’ queue.

We continue our exploring through the castle.

More narrow stairs with various levels and rooms. Among others, the garderobe (fancy name for the toilet) and the murder hole! There is a hole in the floor to put fire through when under attack, and whoever is below is seriously fried. Few young Canadian ladies discuss. One of them explains in detail how she would attack, chop, and slice the enemies instead of waiting for them with fire. We feel that the room becomes too dangerous for us, and we decide to move on and keep going down. More photos.

The Canadians are behind us and the ‘dangerous’ girl offers to take us a photo together. We have to agree, after all she has so many ideas how to slice people.

This is us, with frozen faces in fear.

The Blarney Gardens. Now, this is new!

‘ Poison garden’ or the ‘Physician garden’ was populated with plants used in medicine and cooking in the medieval time. From tobacco and poppy to cannabis. Sign warnings – do not smell, taste or eat any of these plants. It was such a beautiful garden and the nice fragrances in the air (which one is it?)

Outside we soak up the sun and we start investigating, checking the brochure. How about that Blarney stone? The story of the stone comes from the descendant of the builder of Blarney Castle. More precisely, Cormac MacDermod and his actions during the Nine Years War when the native Gaelic aristocracy come together in open defiance of English crown. The queen Elizabeth I emissary was trying to persuade the Irish chieftain to abandon his ancient rights and accept the authority of the English throne. The Irish lord responded with flattering letters, outlining the sacrifices he had made and the battles he had fought for the Queen, and about his loyalty. He signed his letters ‘from my house at Blarney”.

After a while, the Queen got fed up and declared that his letters are “All Blarney! What he says he never means!”

The new word was born – blarney it is!

The stone – eh, they say kiss it and you will become eloquent and convincing, like smooth talk, flattering.

(As in lying through your teeth, maybe?)

It seems the Irish chieftain had some talent spinning the yarn.

Hey, even Winston Churchill, Ronald Reagan, Mick Jagger and Stan Laurel kissed it!

I wonder if the stone became famous because of the lord of the house eloquence, or he became such a smooth talker because of kissing the stone. Or was it because of that ‘medicinal’ garden?

The brochure says, ‘Whatever its origins, the powers of the Blarney Stone – The Stone of Eloquence – are unquestioned.”

Really? Wow! Are we the only ones? I would say the ones that wrote the brochure did kiss the stone and they are determined to smooth talking us into going to kiss it for an extra 6 Euro.

Well, it did not work on us. For me, this statement alone, sounds rather… blarney!

It was a nice castle and with beautiful gardens, and we spent few lovely hours in fresh air and with scents of interesting ‘medicinal’ plants, and… la piece de resistance: tea and scones!

I have to admit, they make wonderful scones in Ireland. And this is not blarney!

Calator in Irlanda - 2018 August, Castelul Blarney si Piatra Elocventei, Districtul Cork

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Thu, 07 Dec 2023 12:51:03 GMT

Mergem sa vedem cetatea clanului MacCarthy (imi place cum suna!), adica Cetatea Blarney si faimoasa piatra.

Ajungem cu 20 de minute inainte de deschidere cu avantajul clar ca avem loc de parcare. La 9 cand se deschid usile suntem doar cativa. Biletele sunt scumpe. E un pret pentru castel si gradina, adaugi cativa Euro daca vrei sa saruti... piatra si inca mai multi euro daca vrei sa vezi si conacul. Suntem de acord ca am trait bine pana acum si fara darul special al elocventei, nu ne intereseaza sa candidam in politica, si putem trai fara sa devenim peste noapte extra dulci la limba. Deci, luam bilete fara pupat de bolovani si fara conac.

Facem poze stanga – dreapta in timp ce ne indreptam spre castel, pe pod si fara pod, cu cetate si fara. Acum suntem gata sa exploram castelul construit in secolul 14 in still turn etajat. Ne simtim bine pentru ca am avut ploaie de o saptamana si e prima zi cu soare in Irlanda. E o zi rece, dar un senin albastru.

Incerca sa aflam pe unde e intrarea in castel. Incercam cateva gauri dar fara success. Scari inguste si tunele infundate. Un labirint enigmatic.

Ivan spune: “Uite asa se protejeaza o cetate: faci intrarea secreta! Cum sa ucizi paznicii daca nici macar nu ii gasesti?”

In cele din urma urmam o poteca ce ne duce in spatele castelului si gasim ceva ce seamana cu o intrare. Un semn ne avertizeaza ca se sta la coada o ora pentru sarutat bolovanul. Nu am platit pentru asta, dar ne decidem sa urcam pentru ca nu vedem nici un alt indicator care sa ne spuna cum altfel sa intram in castel.

Urcam scarile inguste pana la urmatorul nivel, si suntem mandri ca nu ne-am oprit deloc sa ne odihnim si nu gafaim. Aici e inghesuiala mare. Vrem sa ne intoarcem pe unde am venit dar nu e posibil. Altii urca pe aceleasi scari inguste.

Trebuie sa stam la coada pentru afurisita de piatra. La ultimul nivel coada la dreapta pentru piatra (unde turistii sunt fotgrafiati in ipostaze caudate sarutand piatra si primesc si un certificat, sic!) Uite asa am pierdut eu ocazia sa primesc un Certificat Irlandez. La stanga un lant gros cat bratul ne opreste sa o luam spre scarile de iesire cu un semn INTERZIS.

Ivan zice – ‘Hai sa sarim peste lant!’

Eu zic – ‘Nu, ca zice Interzis.’

Ivan zice – ‘Nu vreau sa pup nenorocita de piatra si nici sa astept pe toti astia sa o pupe! Sarim lantul si iesim!’

Cand bratul lung al lui Ivan arata determinat catre semnul verde de iesire doar la cativa pasi, frica de autoritate adanc inradacinata in mine din timpul comunismului se evapora.

Asa ca sarim peste lant si ne indreptam spre scari. Nimeni cu fluiera dupa noi, si ne continuam vizita. Si mai multe scari inguste cu alte nivele. Toaleta in vechiul castel este numita ‘garderob’ si facem cunostinta cu ‘groapa ucigasa’, pe unde se arunca foc si alte chestii fierbinti in capul inamicilor care intra in castel.

Asta e un loc pentru tinut oamenii afara nu sa-i lase inauntru.

Cateva tinere canadiene discuta animat. Una explica in detaliu cum s-ar lupta cu inamicii, taiat, spintecat si intepat. Ne retragem din camaruta, de vreme ce fata are astfel de ganduri ucigase e mai bine sa tinem distanta. Continuam sa coboram si canadiencele ne urmeaza aproape. Curajoasa razboinca se ofera sa ne faca o poza impreuna. Nu putem sa refuzam, are prea multe idei despre cum sa toace oameni.

Astia suntem noi, cu fetele inghetate de frica.

Ne continuam vizita pe domeniul castelului cu Gradinile Blarney.

Ahh, si ce gradini frate! Le numesc Gradina Otravita sau Gradina Doctorului. Cultivate cu plante otravitoare! Se pare ca erau adevarati maestri in folosirea plantelor otravitoare in medicina si in gatit! De la tutun si mac, la cannabis si alte minuni. Semne avertizante peste tot – “nu mirosi, nu gusta si nu manca” nici una din plante! E o gradina asa de frumoasa si cu toate aromele ce plutesc in aer ne intrebam care din ele miroase asa puternic? Si nu avem curaj sa ne apucam de cules.

Stam la soare si scoatem brosura ca sa citim ce e cu piatra de la Blarney.

Povestea vine de la unul din descendentii celui care a construit castelul Blarney. Mai precis, de la Cormac MacDermod si actiunile sale din timpul Razboiului de Noua Ani. Aristocratia gaelica a refuzat sa se supuna Angliei, si in secret s-au aliat pentru a lupta impotriva reginei. Emisarii Reginei Elisabeta I incercau sa-l convinga pe MacDermod sa accepte autoritatea tronului englez. In schimb lordul irlandez a raspuns reginei cu scrisori magulitoare, si amintindu-i reginei de sacrificiile pe care le-a facut luptand pentru regina, si de loialitatea lui. Isi semna scrisorile ‘de la locuinta mea din Blarney’. Si scrisorile erau desigur un tertip, ca sa amane momentul cand trebuia sa accepte suveranitatea reginei. Bineinteles ca regina a inteles tactica si exasperata de scrisori, la un moment dat a folosit o expresie: ‘Toate astea sunt vorbe goale, nici el nu crede ce spune. Sunt doar vorbe de la Blarney!’

Si uite asa s-a creat un nou cuvant in dictionar ‘blarney’ care inseamna, ‘lingusiri’ si expresia englezeasca ‘All Blarney’ care s-ar traduce ‘vorbe goale’.

Iar piatra? Se spune ca cine saruta piatra devine elocvent si bun la vorba, convingator, lingusitor.

Daca e sa ne luam dupa scrisori, se pare ca seful clanului galic avea ceva talente la vorbire.

Fapt adevarat: pana si Winston Churchill, Ronald Reagan, Mick Jagger and Stan Laurel au sarutat piatra!

Ma intreb daca piatra a devenit faimoasa datorita elocventei stapanului casei sau Cormac MacDermod si-a imbunatatit talentele de lingusitor prin sarutatul pietrei.

Brosura noastra turistica spune: “Oricare ar fi originile sale, puterile Pietrei Blarney – Piatra Elocventei – sunt de netagaduit.”

Chiar asa? Suntem chiar singurii care nu vedem puterea pietrei? Eu cred ca cei care au scris brosura au sarutat piatra si s-au convins singuri ca mitul functioneaza. Si au tot interesul sa convinga pe altii ca e adevarat, ca sa ne faca sa platim inca 6 Euro ca sa mergem sa pupam piatra. In ceea ce ma priveste, cuvintele din brosura sunt… blarney.

A fost on castel frumos cu gradini minunate, legenda si istorie deopotriva, si am petrecut cateva ore in aer liber si am inhalat arome de tot felul de plante ‘medicinale’, si la final ne-a izbit o foame de numa, asa ca ne-am oprit la cafenea pentru briose si ceai.

Fac niste briose in Irlanda, sa te lingi pe degete! Si nu spun vorbe goale.

Traveller in Romania – Museum Little Paris, Bucharest October 2023

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Wed, 06 Dec 2023 10:47:15 GMT

I don’t know why I thought I know everything, but I definitely did not know this place even exists!

In Bucharest, relaxing, sitting at a terrace and having a refreshing juice, we noticed a sign across the alley. Museum Little Paris.

So, here we are, travellers, and me, a tourist in my own country, discovering other people passions and a fantastic museum.

The museum is exactly what it said – a Little Paris.

We know that in the period between the two World Wars, Bucharest was nicknamed Little Paris. The reason for this was the architecture of the buildings in that period as well as a certain sophistication of the people in Bucharest, anything from art and fashion to theatre. Elegance and beauty, novelty and grace.

It was not uncommon for Bucharest to copy European trends and during the centuries Bucharest was influenced by Byzantine, Ottoman and French cultures.

You can find these influences, as our guide explained to us, in everything from furniture, household objects, to fashion and jewellery.

This little museum started as a personal collection of a private person with a big passion for what once was an elegant era which was breathing through all its pores history, vintage, and glamour.

As the wars crossed over Europe and its Empires and Kings were changed, Bucharest was swept by ideas and influences.

So, we were ready to explore a new place, and what a delight it turned out to be!

In the big apartment, one of the rooms was furnished in the Ottoman style, and in the next one with a French influence. Then more rooms fully packed with thousands of objects tastefully dropped on furniture, shelves, hangers and small tables, from tea sets to toys and clothes: thousands upon thousands of objects from the interwar period.

The address of this Little Paris Museum is on 41 Lipscani Street in the Old Town of Bucharest. This is the name of the historical centre of Bucharest.

There was also a little shop with objects for sale, if you wanted to take a ‘piece’ of Little Paris home with you.

The place is just amazing!

Hey! Did you know Keto lunches are easy?

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Mon, 04 Dec 2023 06:01:59 GMT

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TWO KETO Lunch ideas - Quick and Easy

I like quick-and-easy cooking and only-few-ingredients recipes.

I always know the food that I cannot eat in a ‘keto’ diet, so, I steer clear from those foods, and I build my recipes based on the leftover items in the fridge or the pantry that are Keto-friendly.

For these two lunches I only used: ghee for cooking (can replace with butter or olive oil), sour cream, parmesan and cheddar, mushrooms, cauliflower, tomatoes, chicken.

As condiments, just use what you like, which usually is what you always have available: salt, pepper, garlic, chilli flakes, thyme, dill, oregano, and so on.

Sounds easy, is it not?

Lunch 1: Oven Baked Chicken breast with cauliflower mash

- 1 chicken breast (or 2 chicken tight fillets)

- ½ cauliflower

- 2 Tbsp. parmesan

- 1 Tbsp. butter full fat

- 1 Tbsp. full fat sour cream

Place the chicken in a tray, season with salt and pepper, garlic and thyme (this is my flavour for the day); add oil or ghee. Bake it for 18-20 min at 220 Celsius.

Cut the cauliflower in few pieces and boil it in water with salt. Once boiled, make sure you drain the cauliflower completely - because it does absorb a lot of water and the mash will turn out rather… mushy. Mash it really good, then add some salt, pepper, the parmesan (or other grated cheese) and the butter (or even olive oil).

Eh, voila! Simple and easy.

Lunch 2: Cheesy Oven grilled mushrooms

- 10 button mushrooms (or whatever you have)

- 2 TBS butter

- ½ cup cheese (whatever is in the leftover in the fridge)

- Tomatoes

Place the mushrooms straight in an oven tray (I use a pizza tray), and start stuffing them with butter, cheese and tomatoes, and season with salt and pepper.

It really doesn’t matter how you do it. I prefer to put the butter first, so the mushroom absorbs it while cooking, then the cheese and tomatoes.

If you have the flat mushrooms (which are the same family as the button ones, only that they were grown longer and got … bigger) then cut the cheese and tomatoes in slices and make them as sandwich on the mushrooms.

Place the tray in the oven and roast them for 15 minutes. I roast them at about 190-200 Celsius, I like the cheese to get a but crispy-burnt.

Be generous with the salad as a side dish, with any of the k eto friendly ones: tomato, capsicum, kale, lettuce, cucumber. Feel free to use sour cream for dressing your salad.

Eh, voila! Simple and easy.

In a yoga class, as in any other places that are part of our life, there is a so-called etiquette.

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Tue, 28 Nov 2023 07:47:21 GMT

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These are things that you should not do that are inappropriate in a yoga studio or class and are disrespectful towards the fellow yoga students and teacher.

Most of them are common sense for a yoga practice, and others are connected with the spirit of community and if somebody wishes to be part of and participate in an activity that promotes the community, it is only right that certain rules take effect.

I hope we can all learn from this and if you have any suggestions or comments on these etiquette rules, I would love to hear from you.

1 Do not be late.

This is a big ‘no’ and apart from the fact that is disrespectful towards the teacher and the students, any late arrival is completely disruptive, and it stops the flow of the class.

2 Do not step with your shoes on the mat and remove your shoes when you enter the studio.

Imagine the mat as being your clean safe space. It may not be clean-clean, but it’s your place.

3 Do not step on others’ mat, with or without shoes.

The mat is a personal item that deserves proper consideration. So, love your own space and respect the others’.

4 Do not set your mat without checking with the instructor.

Believe it or not, the instructor does work to prepare for the class and always has a setting in mind with places assigned, either based on visibility or the way the instructor can walk between students. The instructor would need to know where everybody is and how to check the flow in the class.

5 Do not bring your child to the class unless the class stipulated is for parent and child.

There is always a place and a time for children and that should not be in an adult yoga class. If the child loses his patience, if the parent takes the time to speak with the child – these are noise and commotions that will impact the rest of the class. In a yoga class focus and awareness are important, and any disruptions will ruin the class and it is disrespectful towards the other students.

6 Leave your ego at the door.

You should not make comments to provoke a competition in class, things like ‘look what I can do’, ‘this is easy’, or comments that might discourage others. Yoga is for everyone, and ego has no place in a yoga class.

7 Don’t come to the class if you are sick

or you have symptoms of cold or flu. The other participants in class don’t need you to share your germs. Check with your doctor if you are contagious.

8 Make sure your phone is on silent.

Yoga class is a place for meditation and reflection. A phone ring can be interrupting and frustrating.

9 Refrain from chit chat before the class

if the studio is quiet and meditative. It is polite to follow the studio policy.

10 Don’t allow bad personal hygiene to affect the class.

Strong body odours either from unwashed body or from a strong deodorant or perfume can be displeasing for the others.

11 Do not leave the class in the middle of savasana.

If you need to go earlier for a further commitment, do it before savasana. The others should not be interrupted in their last pose because you need to leave earlier.

HOW to think outside the Box in a Submarine – visit HMAS Ovens at WA Maritime Museum

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Sun, 26 Nov 2023 11:43:27 GMT

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We honour them – the soldiers past, present and future, we honour them because they protect us and our country, and they keep us free from threats.

And we appreciate what they do for us, we respect their commitment, and we know that life in the military means so much more than just another job. It means that their lives, and all their strength and resilience - are placed into the service of country and us. It means sacrifice.

There was a sense of duty that drawn them towards the honourable job of serving the country. At first, they just wanted to serve, and later they’ve been taught how.

I had the chance to be closer to understanding what that means for the submariners when I visited HMAS Ovens.

With everything else they had to learn, they had to fit through the hatch to go down into the submarine,

they had to acquire the skill of how to sleep on the purposely designed shorter bunks, how to breathe and live in close proximity to explosives and missiles, how to wash and use a toilet in a confined space, to sleep when they are told to, how to find their passage to the galley and pick up their food and reverse to their bunk, to become experienced in bringing on the submarine the right amount of supplies and how to safely dispose of the waste packed into caps via the TDU (which is fancy name for the Trash Disposal Unit, the garbage chute); and learnt how to live their daily life and do their duties by slithering through the narrow spaces and the bulkhead openings.

For them that was and is just a way of life, a life almost incomprehensible for us - without all the other things that we take for granted: breathing space, walking corridors, privacy, sight of the blue sky, smell of the wind, just to name a few.

I discovered the real meaning of if from an alternative point of view, which is - by going inside a submarine-turned museum and … trying to step through the doors.

And I guess, this is how we learn new things in life.

For me, well, I will always look outside the box whenever submarine and his submariners are mentioned or next time I watch one of those movies with submarines.

I definitely learnt to appreciate even more their sacrifice.

Traveller in Romania: Day trip re-discovering Sinaia on foot in a freezing day, the ‘Mount Sinai’ of Bucegi PART 3

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Thu, 23 Nov 2023 11:11:56 GMT

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Elena suggested we go and see the Museum of City Sinaia, and after a quick walk back to town centre,

there and then we discovered another gem. We were definitely in the Australian mode of ‘digging for gems’.

Museum of City Sinaia is located in the ‘Stirbey Castle’, the name does sound rather pompous, but it is actually the oldest civil building in Sinaia and quite appropriately is hosting the Museum! It used to be the summer residence of princess Alina Stirbei and was built in a German romantic style architecture during her second marriage. They call it a Castle but it’s more like a glorious villa.

The entrance was through the back of the building, and we took our time inspecting a dozen of rooms with thousands of items about Sinaia history, culture, mountaineering, communism, and famous people from Sinaia, with a few of the rooms still furnished in the 18 ^th century fashion. Inside the museum there is also a café, and the exit was on a terrace which is in fact the front of the villa. When we turned back to look at the majestic building, we understood what they called it ‘castle’.

We needed a break for some sustenance. In Sinaia options to eat are plenty.

There are many restaurants which offer everything from pizza and burgers to traditional Romanian food. We opted for traditional, and my husband had beans and smoked pork and I had duck leg on a bed of cabbage – perfect fit for my keto and that’s just to prove once again that keto is not a diet. Food and coffee can be a bit pricey in Sinaia. We paid a bit over $25 AUD for each of our plate and when we ordered the cappuccino, we made a terrible mistake. It was just a double-priced coffee with milk.

But during the meal break I compiled my travel notes, and we warmed up for the rest of the day.

We took another walk up and down the main street and as a final treat we allowed our inner child to take control and we booked a ride with the little touristic train which took us all the way on top of Sinaia and gave us one last amazing view of the mountains. The ride takes about 30 minutes, and we could enjoy it, kitted with hat and gloves.

A last walk in the park and then to the bus stop for the bus to take us back to Pietrosita.

And that’s it! It was a wonderful day with place and time for new discoveries and for me it was one of the highlights of our holiday.

Reader, I hope you will have the chance to visit Sinaia, you won’t regret it!

Traveller in Romania: Day trip re-discovering Sinaia on foot in a freezing day, the ‘Mount Sinai’ of Bucegi PART 2

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Thu, 23 Nov 2023 10:31:41 GMT

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We picked our first target: the Sinaia Casino. There was a Medical Conference in town that week, and the event was held in the Casino and the adjacent Royal Art Gallery, and the Casino was closed for visitors. So that might be also closed if you plan a last-minute visit of the town.

Instead, we took our time to walk through ‘Dimitrie Ghica’ Park with an 18 ^th century feel.

The music pavilion, the fountain, and wide alleys with old benches and statues of writers and poets. The park was created in 1881 by a Swiss architect and the best bit of it is by far the old Royal Hotel built in 1880. During the World Wars it served as a shelter for the Greek refuges then a spa centre and today is the oldest hotel in the resort.

We walked back to the centre and since the Information centre was still not opened, I used Google once more and we headed towards our newfound objective. On the way we located a small souvenir shop where we bought gloves and woollen hat. A bare necessity in the freezing air of Sinaia.

Immediately from the main street we took a side street and in a fifteen-minute light walk we found the Cultural Centre “Carmen Sylva”.

Carmen Sylva is the pen name of Elizabeth, the first Queen of Romania and the wife of King Carol I. She was very artistic - pianist, singer, prolific writer, painter, strong-willed and, overall, a very nice lady. She took care of the wounded during the Romanian War of Independence; she was interested in higher education of women in Romania, and she was the first Royal patron of the Romanian Red Cross - among others. Carmen Sylva is a name that I suggest you look up for more information.

People are so friendly and helpful and so willing to share their knowledge. At the cultural centre, Elena, one of the ladies working there, gave us a tour and few facts about the centre.

We learnt that the building was in 1898 the guardhouse for the Peles Castle guard,

then later was set up and it became the Primary School ‘Carmen Sylva’, the first co-ed school, where His Majesty King Mihai also studied. It functioned as a school until in 2008 when it was turned into a Cultural Centre that is used for… cultural activities (you wouldn’t guess it!) various clubs (chess among others!), piano lessons, workshop, concerts, exhibitions. The lobby and the main concert room were decorated with paintings and drawings of local artists and about Carmen Sylva and scenes with famous actors, and going up the stairs the walls were fully covered with photos from all activities they held during the years in the centre. And there were plenty!

La piece de resistance was the library in the building! An amazing room with an extra level that had that unique pleasant and formidable smell of books and not any books, the old books, loved and read and re-loved and re-read. The library was in process of restructuring but the look of it, the feel of it, just gave me goose bumps. I think I was grinning to my ears in awe. It’s incomparable, I know, but that feeling of belonging, of shared universe, I only sensed it in the Bodleian Library of Oxford.

Traveller in Romania: Day trip re-discovering Sinaia on foot in a freezing day, the ‘Mount Sinai’ of Bucegi - PART 1

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Thu, 23 Nov 2023 04:49:55 GMT

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It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen one place, there is always a chance that on your next visit you find new things and you create new memories.

Isn’t this the purpose of travelling?

If holidaying in Romania, it might be a good idea to spare one day in Sinaia. One day is all you need to fall in love with the town. Sinaia is a mountain resort in the Bucegi Mountains and people go there for hiking and ski, and for peace and quiet and fresh air. The town was named after the Monastery Sinaia which in turn was named after Mount Sinai.

I have visited Sinaia many times before and already dug into its history and culture. I’ve seen the Sinaia Monastery, the Peles Castle, Pelisor Palace, and I’ve been with the cable car to Cota 1400 and Cota 2000. Cota means ‘altitude’, and yes, you get that high.

These are all a ‘must see’ in Sinaia. But if you don’t have too many days, a one-day visit is always welcome.

We were in Pietrosita, a village about 30 km from Sinaia, and we decided to take the bus for a one-day trip to Sinaia.

We arrived in Sinaia at 8 o’clock in the morning. With the distance we went to a higher altitude and the 9 degrees Celsius in Pietrosita turn to 3 degrees in Sinaia. As they say, 3 degrees which felt like minus 3. On the streets, the windows of parked cars were frozen.

We Googled things that we can see in Sinaia, determined to have a packed day. Our first stop - the Information Centre, which was closed, as everything else at that hour. We resigned ourselves with a walk in the cold mid-October.

At 8.30 when the Tucano Coffee opened, we were thoroughly frozen,

and we gladly thawed ourselves over a cappuccino and a quiche. The coffee place, lively with walls covered in images of South American scenes, is located in front of the Carpati Shopping Centre. More than the coffee and breakfast, they have…a small in-house library! You can pick up a book and read over your coffee. Plenty of classics there, Romanian and international authors – and, no, my book was not there. Maybe next time. The windows had a full view to the main street.

We watched the Dog Woman, a reminder of the Mary Poppins Bird Woman as she arrived with a small parcel and instantly was surrounded by a pack of stray dogs. She gingerly produced polony from the parcel – one slice at a time – and calmly fed the dogs for a long while, as they waited patiently for their turn.

Ready to start our tour and back on the street,

we realised that we were not prepared for the cold. When I felt my skull crushed in the freezing air, and my hands numb, it brought back memories of the cold winters of Romania.

We walked back to the Info Kiosk. Well after 9 and it was still closed. So, it might not be always open, but there was a map on the door, I took a photo of it, because we had a whole day ahead of us.

Healthy eating, My KETO jams – Strawberry OR Blueberry! NO Sugar LOW carbs!

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Tue, 21 Nov 2023 09:02:33 GMT

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A Keto diet says NO to sugar

and one of my favourite snacks in the pre-keto time was bread, butter and jam . Now that I found a bread recipe, it is time to work on a keto jam.

The keto friendly fruits are the ones low in sugar, which are BERRIES, and so I will write today about my keto-berries-jam.

A few tips:

- The quantities don’t need to be exact, you (hopefully) won’t prepare industrial quantities, but merely 1-2 jars. If you like it, you can do more next time, but I strongly recommend you do a small batch at first.

- Don’t use Splenda or Equal as sugar replacement, they have a chemical sort of aftertaste.

- You can use fresh or frozen fruits.

- You can reduce the quantity of ‘fake’ sugar depending on how sweet you want the jam, less is OK. After a month of eating keto, I noticed that I don’t crave as much sugar anyhow.

- Store the jam in the fridge at all times.

Strawberry OR Blueberry Jam

§ 3 cups of strawberries (approx. 500 gr) which you cut in halves or quarters depending on how big they are.

o For BLUEBERRIES variant you can use 4 punnets (also about 500 gr) blueberries.

§ 50 ml water (just at the bottom of the pot to avoid burning the fruit until it releases some juice). You don't need water if you use frozen berries.

§ 3 tablespoons of the ‘fake’ sugar: erythritol or xylitol.

§ Juice from half a lemon – this will return some of the acidity lost by adding the fake sugar, and the pectin in the fruit will activate with the acid in lemon.

§ ½ teaspoon xanthan gum or guar gum; make sure to dissolve it first in a couple of spoons of already cooked jam to make sure it will mix completely.

Cooking the jam:

§ Mash the strawberries (or the blueberries) with a fork (or a potato masher), just to break them a little and release some juice.

§ Add them to a pot with the water and boil them together for 10-15 minutes on a low flame for gentle and even cooking.

§ Add the sugar and the lemon and keep boiling and stirring for 10 more minutes.

§ Right at the end add the gum and boil for 2-3 more minutes.

That’s it! Pour it and let it cool in jars that you can close tight.

You can use the jam on bread, on keto pancakes, or with yogurt and nuts.

The ‘Mary Carroll Park’ as inspiration for my story ‘The Lake and the Ravens’

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Wed, 15 Nov 2023 13:54:46 GMT

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In my second book ‘The Catalogue: Family Affairs’ I have a short story.

It’s a really short story, just one page and a half and it has a lot of nature description and birds, until something happens in that story and spoils the beauty.

Quite often the nature descriptions are not of interest to many readers which maybe are more into action and adventure and love stories but for me the story is inspired by and strongly connected with one of my favourite places – the Mary Carroll Park in Gosnells. That is in Western Australia, for the readers from far away.

Don’t you have a special place of your own? A park, a field, or maybe a beach. A place where you can walk and take in the nature or sit on a bench and soak up the wind on your face and the sun on your shoulders.

This is Mary Carroll Park for me.

The park that makes me smile and where I can enjoy with easiness a meditative walk.

In my walks with my Sammie-boi or without him, when the silence is so complete, and the world’s agitation so far away, and the stress of the day so insignificant, I suddenly notice the creatures around me. Here and there I can hear the conversations between the nature and the birds, and I can see the birds arguing with each other, and feeding their babies or chasing each other with flapping wings.

Just like any other citizens of this world.

They have neighbours and friends, and they have babies to feed.

The story is called ‘The Lake and the Ravens’ and an excerpt here:

‘The wind whispered over the tall greenery and must have scared a small creature, because something crawled away almost silently. Ducks flew in circles around a bush, annoyed by the crawling thing. The ducks landed near the path and slid through the same gap, following the crawler. They all disappeared, hidden by the banksias.

A dead tree trunk with its roots still sunk deep into the shore of the lake towered over the water. Somebody had taken time to paint the naked trunk a buoyant light blue. A carved wooden bench next to it invited walkers to sit and take in the lake with its surface coming to life and wait for the houses across the lake to appear out of the mist.’

Is it 'yoga sport' or Meditation ? - Practice the connection between your mind and your body

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Tue, 14 Nov 2023 14:06:18 GMT

Recently I was asked if as a yoga instructor I do the ‘yoga sport’ or also meditation.

The quotation marks are mine because I do not want to use the ‘sport’ wording otherwise.

Yes, this was the exact expression used: ‘yoga sport’. I was confused and not quite sure if the person was asking me seriously or she was mocking me, so I asked, ‘what do you mean by yoga sport?’.

She explained to me that she really wanted to do mediation and not the ‘yoga exercises that they do when they meet in a group in a hall and do various exercises on repeat’.

OK, I thought, where should I start explaining what is yoga and about meditation and their connection with the ‘yoga sport’?

And yes, she was serious in her question and that made me realise how little people know about yoga and how easy they define, they label, and they express opinions about yoga.

That should not surprise me, though - the classification of yoga, I mean.

It is quite common and a human trait to jump to conclusions, especially when you don’t have all the facts. Yoga is something relatively new, that only in the recent decade started to gain some interest. And people, unless they have practiced it, still only see yoga as either religion or a sport.

I was shocked, and a bit hurt by the mundane and incorrect definition and probably I showed my feelings on my face.

Quickly I reminded myself that THIS is part of being a yoga teacher.

I did not want to hurt her feelings by being too abrupt or rash, so I took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, winning some time to gather my words for a calm and clear answer.

I was lucky enough to have this conversation with someone who was ready to listen and eager to accept my explanation. We talked for quite a while, maybe longer than an hour, and I loved every second of it. I could see her eyes watching me, as she was taking in my words. She did not speak, she did not interrupt. I even noticed rolling her shoulders and straightening her back when I explained about alignment. I knew she was taking notes mentally.

In very few words, the so-called ‘yoga sport’ is a ’practice’ which can include meditation, breathing exercise, and the practice of postures. The best case is for all three elements to be included for an all-round practice. Hatha yoga is the practice of asanas or postures, and pranayama is the practice of breathing. It doesn’t matter if you are a beginner or unfit, or if you’ve practiced yoga before or not; anybody can practice yoga. You don’t have to be perfect at it, you don’t have to be bendy or flexible, and you can still benefit from it.

I usually like to include in my class a few minutes of meditation and a few minutes of breathing exercises, followed by the practice of asanas which are still infused with mindfulness of breathing and awareness of alignment.

We can talk about this for hours, but right now I will talk about meditation, because that’s what my acquaintance was interested in.

There is this misconception that you can meditate only if someone guides you ...

or tells you what to do; that meditation is a transcending from a place to another, moving into space, emptying of brain, lifting of spirit and many other fancy, complex ideas and definitions, which I personally don’t agree with.

Having tried it myself, I can speak from experience.

I had the same impression many years back, when I believed it’s hard to meditate. When I studied to become a yoga instructor, I slowly understood the meaning of meditation beyond definitions.

You can meditate in any posture: seated on the mat or on a chair, or in a seated position with a gentle forward fold, or standing , or with the back supported against a wall, or even lying on your back like in savasana. Whatever you feel that your body wants to do, as long as your spine is straight (remember your lungs are behind it) and you control your breathing and your thoughts.

I was teaching for almost a year before I realised that I could settle in and meditate. Before that I was not able because I had built it up in my head as this impossible goal to achieve, so I kept delaying it.

I learnt to meditate together with my students. By guiding them I guided myself. By pushing them, I pushed myself. By asking them questions, I asked myself the same questions. And in the end, I had a big grin on my face as I learnt to travel inside my own body and find the place of peace and quiet.

I reached a simple conclusion, which I explained to my very good listener – meditation is simply a way to control your mind, and not by pushing it to lift objects in the air, but by telling your mind what to think about.

By controlling your thoughts, you mediate.

Whether that is simply your mind travelling inside your body and investigating what you feel in each of your parts and where are your sore bits, whether your mind is following your breath travelling in and out, whether your mind is focusing on the smells and noises around you, whether you visualise having a stroll on the beach and the heat of the sun on your skin and the cool breeze on your face – whatever you do, as long as it is YOU are the one telling YOUR mind what to think about.

Because it is then that you make a connection between your mind and your body.

You create your own narrative of your mind – that means you are meditating!

Certainly, you may notice in the process that you won’t have the time to think about the blunder you made a day before, nor to worry about the next day. That means you acquired a relaxed and stress-free mind.

Isn’t this what we all want? You stay in the absolute present, and it is all yours. Quiet, relaxed, simple and unique.

There are a few things to consider in preparation for the moment when you want to meditate.

First, find a quiet place. Second, sit comfortably and yet aware that your sitting bones are both in contact with the floor or chair, your back and spine are straight. Third, find a slow and long soothing breath.

In time you can learn some controlled breathing, like counting to five (or longer) for each inhale and same for each exhale, or learning the belly breathing when you actually focus on each inhale and exhale to lift and reduce your belly by control of the diaphragm. There are many more breathing techniques, and if you have any questions about this or you need any help, don’t hesitate to contact me, I will gladly help.

Your eyes should be closed, or – if that doesn’t work for you – slightly open them have your gaze aimed downwards. You can also place a lit candle in front of you and focus on the flame.

Prepare your moment and place and allow your body to sink in it and enjoy it.

You may find out that you cannot stay motionless. You keep twitching, fidgeting, you have an itch and a scratch, suddenly your body explodes in discomfort and annoyance. You cannot focus the first time you try. Fine, stop doing it. You cannot focus even the second time or the third. The secret is not to give up. Try again and again, prepare your space, make sure you are warm enough, think about the reason you are fidgeting – find that important awareness - and focus on the breathing mindfulness, and slowly it will come to you.

Each time will be better, you must trust this.

There will be a moment when you open your eyes and realise that actually, for five minutes there, you were in your own mind and only for yourself.

And that moment my dear yogi, is when you meditate.

I promise it will come to you!

And coming back to my acquaintance, after discussing the ways to achieve meditation, at the end, I asked her, “Do you think you can try to meditate now, without participating in the ‘yoga sport’?”

She nodded happily.

And I was happy too.

New Paragraph

A new chapter on the keto adventure of healthy eating: baking a keto bread

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Mon, 13 Nov 2023 09:33:03 GMT

Keto bread is something unique

... and I have tasted and baked several recipes and I can say that my Almond Keto Bread is quite OK.

They say that ‘When life gives you lemons, make lemonade’ and well, making the keto bread is more like making lemonade out of apples. Then let’s be real! Who’s to say that apple juice is bad?

They are few myths about the keto bread: that it can taste exactly the same as the ordinary bread, that has the same texture, that looks the same. And honestly, I don’t believe that is true, it’s not going to be the same, and if you accept this then it’s fine. The ordinary bread upsets my stomach, the carbs increase my blood sugar, and tends to create deposits of fat around my waist and on my hips, so, well, we all have a choice, don’t we?

Essentially, keto bread is an acquired taste, since you have a bread with a nutty flavour, weirdly crumbly and with an after taste, a lingering flavour of almond or coconut, depending on what you use, it is difficult to hold it together while is baked or used, it is moist most of times and definitely is missing the smell of yeast and gluten rising in the oven. But despite all these, I like keto bread because it’s a very healthy substitute and more than acceptable.

My family don’t like it, some might even call it ‘tasteless cardboard’, which is fine with me because it’s my ‘tasteless cardboard’. As long as I don’t try to lie to myself and pretend that is the same – it's all right.

We learn to appreciate the little things that make us Happy!

I was used to eat bread with everything, and since I follow a keto diet, I mostly miss the toast with butter and jam, the cheese sandwich, and the bread dipped in egg yolk. And now, with the keto bread, I can have all these!

One of my favourite breads in keto is the Almond Bread. I reached to this recipe after few trials and errors, ‘customizing’ quantities and tastings. For example, I don’t like to feel the taste of baking powder and I like it softer.

My recipe and how I do it is here:

The dry ingredients, which I combine and make sure the flours and powders are well mixed and aired:

· 2 cups almond flour

· ½ teaspoon salt

· 1 teaspoon baking powder. If you want it to rise more and be fluffier, use 2-3 teaspoons, but I prefer smaller bread and to avoid the overpowering flavour of the baking powder.

· 3 tablespoons of ground flaxseed

· 1 teaspoon guar gum powder (or Xanthan gum) which will help a little to keep the bread together, not to be so crumbly.

The wet ingredients, which I whisk together well:

· 4 eggs – I make sure they are at room temperature otherwise the bread will have a taste of an omelette.

· ½ cup melted butter

· ½ cup water

I mix the ingredients like for the muffins:

All the dry ingredients in one bowl and the eggs with the liquids in another one, then bring them together just before pouring the mix in the tin. I come to a relatively soft pouring mixture.

I lay with baking paper a narrow loaf tin (8 x 4 inch) or even smaller; the narrower the tin the better chance for bread to rise. If you use a tray the bread will remain flat. I warm up the oven to 180 degrees.

I bake for 50 minutes until dark brown on top and I check it with a skewer to make sure is baked inside. I wait for it to cool down before I cut it, or it will crumble.

I love this bread toasted, because in toasting is losing a bit of the weird texture and flavour and holds better for butter and egg dipping.

Stored in the fridge this bread absorbs moisture, and becomes sogging wet, so, I keep it on the kitchen counter, wrapped in a t-towel. But not more than 2 days, after that I cut it in slices and I freeze it in bags, about 3 slices in each. I always have it toasted after defrosting.

This is the way I get a healthy bread that allows me to use it in pre-keto ways of eating.

No sugar and low in carbs!

What more could you want?

The story behind the story; when my friend passed away I wrote ‘Gone to the Stars But Always in Our Hearts’

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Sun, 12 Nov 2023 11:25:28 GMT

This is about a story that was the reason for one of my stories.

The story behind my story happened two years ago.

In October 2021 I received a message on Facebook that a dear friend of mine in Romania passed away.

As he was driving home in his car, he had a heart attack. He must’ve felt something was wrong as he stopped his car in front of a house and he died there. Behind the wheel and alone. He was found dead in his car by somebody that lived in that house.

Before the end of the day, police went to deliver the news to his wife, that her husband was found dead.

It was such a shock, for her and for everybody, as it was no warning and no preparation, not for his departure and not for what followed. His wife spoke with him just few hours before, when he called to tell her know that he was on his way home.

For me, being twelve thousand kilometres away, sounded even more unbelievable!

I couldn’t understand how it was possible for that special man that always spoke in a soft voice and was so respectful and never raised his voice in anger; my friend that all his life loved being a teacher and had a passion for the village and he worked on a book, the history of his native village, and he just retired. A man of words, a man of integrity, a man of honour and decency.

Why? How?

It was hard to grasp the reality. The pain for his wife and his daughter, also dear friends of mine, as I wanted to be there for them, and even more - I wanted to be there to say one last goodbye, which I could not!

I called my friend, and as she told me what happened, I said to her words that came from pain and tears, as my words tried to swallow the distance and cross the oceans: “I'm so sorry for your loss… I cannot believe it… He was such a good man… I'm here for you if you need anything... My heart goes out to you during this difficult time.’

But they were just words. I don’t know what consolation they gave or not.

A friend of mine died and I was so sad, and I sobbed until the entire world was sad around me.

Then it was an awful soul pain because I couldn’t really mourn his loss. The space and distance ruined any possibility for any closure.

It is really hard to say goodbye for the last time but is even harder not to have the chance to.

So, I went to do what I always do when I am hurt. The next day I wrote the story ‘Gone to the Stars But Always in Our Hearts’.

The story is about a ghost that finds a way through a typewriter to make a connection between the two worlds and brings to the living a message from the dead.

Isn’t something that we would all want at one point in life – to have one last word with our departed?

To have the chance to say goodbye and make sure they are all right and to let them know that we will be all right. And yes, we are hurt, but we want to make them proud, and we will always remember them.

The story is part of my new collection of short stories, ‘The Catalogue: Family Affairs’ which I hope will soon be printed. In the book this particular story is accompanied by the painting ‘Flori de mucigai / Mildew Flowers’ by Cristina Grigorescu. This painting and its title are so fitting. But about that, maybe another time.

A dear friend of mine had died, and I wrote a story for him. I already knew he will always be in my heart but now I am sure that more hearts will think about him.

And here a short extract from the story:

‘'Click clack.

NO.

She ignored this response and leaned back in the chair, no longer typing. Her heart was pounding. She remained quiet for a few minutes. By itself, this time the typewriter took over and typed away, like it was having a hissy fit.

When it stopped, she took the sheet of paper out and placed it on the desk. She wanted to ignore the rows of words that filled half the page. But she could not keep her eyes away. She read the short sentences.

WHERE ARE YOU? TALK TO ME. COME BACK.

Then, again and again, the same sentences until the last lines, which were fully typed rows of Y, and the last row, one word:

PLEASE?

With trembling hands, Cristina rolled in another sheet of paper. A couple of times her fingers slipped and when she finally moved the carriage to the starting position, she froze. The bing echoed around the room – or was it in her mind? This time she pondered carefully, talked and typed at the same time, reassuring herself that it was her own will to type the words.

‘Are you…typing to me?’

A very quick answer.

Y. "

Roads of Hunedoara: October, Autumn Hills, Romanian villages, a symphony of colours.

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Thu, 09 Nov 2023 10:34:38 GMT

Roads of Hunedoara: October, Autumn Hills, Romanian villages, a symphony of colours.

These are the keywords for this blog, as I cannot forget the images, which most likely I will take them with me back to Australia and I will envision them each time I miss home.

For the traveller that will ever want to see Romania, and it happens to be in autumn, please do yourself a favour and go in Orastie mountains, or any Romanian mountains, the higher the better, as the colours vary so much more up there.

What do you want to see when you travel?

You make a to-do list for your holiday, and yet, sometimes you have a pleasant surprise that comes in addition to your meticulously planned holiday. The landscape opens for you in an unexpected way and you start making connections between what you have in front of your eyes and some of the well-known sayings. Yes, there is an exact explanation and a correct description for those amazing views.

For me, the drive from Hunedoara to the Marble Road of Alun village was a drive that took me into spaces I remembered from childhood, from years before I left Romania. In Australia, my new home, I remember fondly the hills in Romania - brighter and more colourful; the forest in Romania that is not a bush but an actual forest, the autumn in Romania that has its own unique palette of colours.

And this road trip reminded me about all these.

The meanings of some expressions suddenly become apparent.

“Rolling hills that reach to the far horizon” is one of the expressions and on this road, you could see the hills actually rolling in front of your eyes and out from the landscape, way back into the skies. So accurate - rolls and rolls of hills.

"Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.", as Albert Camus defines the autumn colours, and it is exactly that what you can see in front of your eyes the nature fills you up with hues and shades of yellow and green, so many that you lost count. Like a garden of flowers.

“Where the sun shines there is also shade”, as you will have a landscape peppered with long shades where the trees are in a darker green as the sun moves over the hills. This is something that I only found in Romania.

“Mountains cannot be surmounted except by winding paths’ as Johann Wolfgang von Goethe says.

The wandering road is indeed the only one that can go everywhere and can find its way. The road in the valley like a shoelace dropped between rolling hills.

A place where the colours are so strikingly ‘autumnal’ they scream ‘autumn’ at you. Nature in greens and yellows, varieties of greens and varieties of yellows, you can smell it, you can inhale the October day through the hues of green and yellow.

“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” — L.M Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

This is a drive that will take you in a place of dream, a place where you feel you are in another world.

A beauty that makes your heart grow and makes you gasp for air in amazement.

Ways to overcome the Writer’s Block: Take a stroll and walk it off

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Fri, 20 Oct 2023 03:21:03 GMT

Who said that nothing happens in this village?

We are in vacation in Romania and in a mountain village. It’s a cold-October evening and 7.30 pm. Most of the day I watched TV and I slept, only because I was overwhelmed by a writer’s block. I could not write a sentence for the past days, and the situation started to get on my nerves. I bounced ideas about a story about a magic dog, inspired by a painting at the art exhibition organised by Kompus 3, and I wanted to write that draft and create the first plot. Nothing worked, nothing came out of my mind, my fingers or my pen.

I decided to take a step back to help shake off the frustration and we go for a stroll in the village. If I change the life's goal for a few minutes and keep my mind on something else, then maybe something will click.

Just a walk to the coffee vending machine. It is dark already, and outside we use the flashlight to find the stairs, then walk the yard and open the gate. Alongside the main road the streetlamps lit our way pretty good. We smell the mountain air, frozen and fresh, that brings the cold in the nose and pinches the cheeks.

The coffee vending machines in the village are a real discovery in our visit. They are fun and that day we already tried two of them, just to test the coffee. We had the Irish Cappuccino, and the Irish Latte. The Irish coffee has a hint of alcohol and lots of sugar! Maybe that’s why we like it, and it is not at all bad for a vending machine. Plus, with my keto diet I haven’t had sugar in months! Treacherous me!

We walk until the closest coffee vending machine, which is located on the main street, in front of the general store. The store looks like a mini market, and the vending machine is next to the entry door, and it only takes 3 lei, that's about 1 AUD. On the ground someone smart placed a carboard box as a garbage bin, and invitingly, they are two wide benches against the wall. We insert the bills, as we come prepared, we pick the Irish coffee, we take our cups, we sit on one of the benches and sip.

So, we have the idiot coffee because there’s no other definition for that 3 lei coffee, and while we sit on one of the benches ready to soak up the silence and to talk about the story of the dog… everything starts to happen in a quick succession.

Suddenly cars, dogs, people and noises make the village alive!

The latest model of a black Volvo stops in front of the store. A woman in sports clothes comes out and leave the engine running. She goes inside the store. From the back seat a boy about 5 years old comes out of the car, slams the door, strips the wrap off a lollipop, drops the wrap on the ground and struts after the woman inside the store. We both watch the car as if something is brewing.

The empty car hums with its lights on, they are inside, we look at each other, ‘Shall we take it for a spin?’

Before we have a chance to take a decision, a black dog, slim on his long legs walks out of the shadows into the light, then goes around the car inspecting it and crosses the street on the other side.

They come out, soon enough, but they have empty hands, and with no words – nothing, they get in the car, and speed out, she drives straight ahead at first, then stops with a sudden break and reverse into a side street, turns to left and disappears in the night. What did they do inside the store?

We don’t have the time to even contemplate options. From the darkness across the street a silhouette comes out, I don’t know from where since all houses across the street are derelict and abandoned, she, because the person is a-she pushes a wheelbarrow and the screech of it echoes along the main road. A dark figure in the night. We look around, are we the only ones seeing her?

Two young boys come down the street, identically dressed in black jeans and white hoodies, including the hoods they pulled over their foreheads the same way. If weren’t for the white hoodies we wouldn’t see them in the night.

‘Evening,’ one of them mutters, and I answer ‘Evening’ but only to assure myself that I am not dreaming. I warm my hands from my cup of Irish Latte.

Ivan next to me, with his butt frozen on the cold wooden bench, ‘They must be twins.’ I know his butt is frozen because mine is too.

Then the action gets a bit livelier. A truck speeds down the road and a police car after it. Almost to hit the twins in white hoodies.

We look at each other and Ivan whispers while a huge trailer speeds up the hill from the opposite direction. ‘Who said that nothing happens in a village? We stayed in all day, and we missed the action.’

‘Or maybe the action takes place only at night,’ I answer, and my words are covered by the dark and the cars and trucks coming and going on the main road in a deafening noise.

A red Dacia pulls in front of the supermarket, its front wheels almost scraping at our knees. The man also leaves the engine running and gets in the store.

Again, we look at each other, ‘Should we take it for a spin?’

‘We missed our chance with the Volvo, but for this one, I bet even the heater is not working properly.’

‘Maybe this is why he let the engine running.’

Loud voices and loud music flow on the street from somewhere. The black dog comes back and sits in front of the car as if watching it, or watching us?

The man steps out from the store, wordlessly and also with empty hands. He gets in his car and off he goes.

We finish the coffee, and we continue our walk as we follow the noises. Another dog, a light brown one, walks in front of us. The other side of the street a woman talks to herself in front of a house, half in the dark, half lit by the streetlights. Across the square we find the source of the noise - three cars are parked in front of the village library, all lights on, music loud from one of them while the young men around the cars try to talk over. Among them we recognise the white hooded boys. We don’t have the courage to take our walk past them, usually night gives bad ideas, and we settle that our evening walk is complete now. We turn around and walk back home while both dogs watch us disappointed.

Before we are back to the house I have a story with Wayne the Dog, and I am over the writer’s block. I got it now.

I will always remember this night and this place as the moment when the story 'Wayne the Dog' was born. I am not sure if the title is final, but the first draft has a shape now.

Who said that nothing happens in this village?

Story The Boy in a Russian Hat from The Catalogue Family Affairs

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Fri, 13 Oct 2023 14:43:09 GMT

This is a subtitle for your new post

The story titled ‘The Boy in a Russian Hat’ it’s a story about a boy that can do things that nobody else can.

Today I want to introduce to you one of my stories in the new collection ‘The Catalogue: Family Affairs’. I will also tell you about the painting that I selected for this story from Cristina’s artwork.

The story titled ‘The Boy in a Russian Hat’ it’s a story about a boy that can do things that nobody else can. And he doesn’t know why he can do that, he fears that he harms people with his ability and while everything seems to be a game, he has nightmares by accessing the people’s thoughts.

He doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want to see their unhappiness and furthermore, he doesn’t know what to do with his gift.

The boy was marked in this way by one incident in his life, and he will carry that mark for ever. It is just a matter of learning how to live with it. Or at least, this is what my story says. You, the reader, can chose your own ending.

Now about the painting! The painting that I selected for my book for this particular story is titled ‘Footsteps’. For some reason the footsteps in the sand made me think about my boy in Russian hat.

Now, Cristina’s painting is entitled Footsteps, and I had to interrogate her about the meaning of her painting. Apart from the obvious explanation of the ‘Footsteps’, the painting was inspired by the idea of imprints. As people go through life, as people walk and live their life, they all leave marks behind. They leave a trail and touch other peoples’ lives, they leave footsteps, and I mean both literally and metaphorically.

Some left behind a great legacy, others not so much, some leave behind a positive mark, others some bad ones, but we all manage in a way or another to leave an imprint on Earth. Let’s remind ourselves about the ancient temples, the thousand years old folklores and myths. Even as a group – the human group, I may define it – as we mark our stay on Earth. As I pointed out just above – some bad ones.

The artwork has also been recently selected to participate in an art exhibition in Satu-Mare, Romania. The exhibition is organised by Union of Fine Artists Romania together with Art Museum of Satu Mare and the theme of the exhibition is Significant Sign/Meaningful Mark/Branded Token/ and I honestly struggle here to translate as accurate as I can the theme. I allow myself to relay the title in Romanian: SEMN INSEMNAT, INSEMN INSEMNAT, IN SEMN INSEMNAT – UAP

And finally, here for you a fragment from the story The Boy in a Russian hat:

"The snow came down harder and already the Boy’s boot prints were completely covered. For a while the Boy heard the men’s heavy boots crunching through the snow, until they were all on the stairs on the other side of the door. He could hear their thoughts now, asking each other which one should talk to him. In their minds, the Boy didn’t see nightmares and that made him feel better. Then their thoughts became muffled and their shuffles in the snow told him that they had retreated to the pub square. They debated for a while but from that distance, he was cut off. The Boy suspected they knew he could hear their thoughts. One of the men walked back up to the house.

He took a step on the stairs until he reached the door, and the Boy felt a sharp connection. It was the old man with white hair. Boy could see in the man’s mind an image of a house with a garden, a house that he had seen before. And more importantly, he also sensed no darkness or fear in the man – like the nurse."

The painting 'Footsteps' is Acrylic On Canvas, 60 x 80 cm, and do I need to remind you that all paintings included in the second collection of stories are on my website under Author - The Catalogue page. Scroll until you see the painting with the poppies, and there you can find out about Cristina.

Traveller in Romania: Find the doors to the skies, the spectacular autumnal hairpins and the barber of the forest

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Sun, 08 Oct 2023 12:02:19 GMT

Traveller in Romania: Find the doors to the skies, the spectacular autumnal hairpins and the barber of the forest

The road awaits us

We don’t want any delays, we have a quick bite on the side of the road, a cappuccino at a gas station and then we keep eating up the miles towards our destination, the town where I know I will soon meet the family that I haven’t seen in few years. And still, there is time to notice how our senses change to the views on our road.

The tight hairpins bordered by the trees with yellow and brown leaves telling us that autumn arrived in Romania. Then suddenly in front of us a weird machine, which we call ‘the barber’ of the forest, and it trims away the long branches.

The skies rolling down on the world and resting above the mountain and building a throne for the gods. Maybe the curious gods will search for a pass to step down on the earth and maybe they also want to meet us in our travel.

The medieval fortress as it stands there since the 13 ^th century. There is nothing much left of it but it brings memories of legends with knights in shinning armours. But the walls are not just a legend, the fortress is still here for us to see it, and it looks so proud in its complete separation from the rest of the world. I wonder if you can wipe away its seclusion by acknowledge it.

It’s not just a citadel, it’s the place where your soul feel can go and visit the long gone past.

The road from Bucharest to Targu Mures has everything that you need to enchant your travel, and you start paying attention to your breathing. The breathing along these roads becomes mindful without knowing it.

A deep breathe in, and the skies come down to you. Then the hairpin is so tight you can take a shortcut and step from one to the next one. And you let a slow breath out when that happens.

The hairpins that stick together, like the breaths in and out, and like the gods with the people and like the past with the present.

And that was the road from Bucharest to Targu Mures.

They are all there and if you want to find them – you can!

The Good the Bad and the Ugg. What are the happenings behind a migrant story?

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Tue, 26 Sep 2023 04:41:12 GMT

The Good the Bad and the Ugg. What are the happenings behind a migrant story?

One of my favourite stories from my first collection of short stories Feelings in Staccato: The Book of Stories is the story The Good the Bad and the Ugg.

I wrote this story on a whim. One day just walking between aisles in Coles, snippets of memory came to me and I remembered my first ‘arrival’ at a shopping centre, me getting lost on the streets in a hot day, and the confusion at ‘how are you today’. Do people mean it when they ask it?

I went home that day and started to put the memories on paper. By writing it down I remembered another ‘incident’ and then another one; things that happened to us during our first year in Perth, as ‘fresh’ as they come immigrants!

Then I let the story rest, like you do with the dough for bread, or in Yoga, the final pose Savasana. You allow your body to re-balance and re-assess how it feels after the practice.

Then another day, with my mind roaming while I was out shopping, I found the right tone, and how I wanted the story to sound – funny, moaning, grumbling, and a bit sad. There and then I had to sit in a coffee-lunch place in Park Centre in East Victoria Park. And I let it flow and I wrote it down. Later I pieced it together with the memories and the ‘Ugg story’, as I affectionately call it, was born. The story was in the making for a good year but when it was finally done its title came naturally.

It was meant to be part of my first book, and so appropriate to define myself as an author, since by coming to Australia I was an author of my own life.

Fun fact, that coffee place in Park Centre, does not exist anymore.

In free translation – The Good the Bad and the Ugg – means the Good things that I found immigrating to Australia, the Bad things that happened to us and the regrets of what we left home, and the Ugg! The word Ugg in itself, could be another story; Ugg boots and the flip flops and all the laid-back-easy-to-wear fashion in Australia. The Ugg is the symbol of new traditions and customs, like Xmas in a hot summer with prawns on barbie, like wearing shorts to the store, and like one of the Aussies saying Slip, Slop, Slap that sounds so brute and yet so healthy.

If you don’t know the meaning of it google it! The sun in Australia is worst than anywhere else and to Slip a shirt, Slop on sunscreen, and Slap a hat on you, it’s a way of life. Whoever came with this slogan was damn smart!

So, if you read this blog and you did not buy my first book yet, bwah, I am sad about it, but here it - a piece of it.

More to the point, the story was also published on the website Immigration Diaries.

Fragment from The Good the Bad and the Ugg – for your enjoyment

‘Coming to Australia was, at most, a dream: one of my first dreams as a young girl, when I was trying to resist the communist regime. We were not allowed to speak, so having these dreams was a rebellious way of saying ‘I detest communism’. I imagined that one day I would defect. I would run away from that life of ration cards, of soap and deodorant purchased on the black market, of restricted news. A life cooped up in the cage of the Communist Party.

I came up with two options: Canada and Australia. Australia was my favourite option because I wanted to go as far away as possible. As a girl I had heard a lot about ships coming from Australia to our Black Sea ports. Early on I became committed to English classes at school, both because of a natural talent for foreign languages and because my instinct was telling me that one day I would need English.

But how was I going to travel to the Black Sea? How could I find an Australian ship to hide on? How much food and water would I need to survive hidden for a few days? How far would the ship need to go before I came out of my hiding place without risking being sent back?

Then life started to take my dreams apart.’

Welcome to my Keto world. Ready to unlock the secrets of Cloud Bread?

maria.grigorescu@gmail.com (Maria Grigorescu) — Tue, 26 Sep 2023 01:58:31 GMT

Today is about the Cloud Bread and that only because I liked it so much that I baked it for the third time.

With this Keto diet, when you need to remove everything in your diet that is bread or made of flour, learning to do the bready stuff (bread good for toast, pizza dough, bread for butter and Keto-jam) – that is the most complicated part. Not only because you learn new recipes and new ‘ways’ of getting that bread to rise, but also because of the secret tips, and the secret ingredients that are not always known or available for you.

It doesn’t matter how much somebody tells you ‘It tastes just like bread’, don’t believe it, it will never ever taste the same.

But if you are on Keto, you have a reason, you are determined, and you should know by now that keto is an acquired taste. You must get used with new textures, flavours, new consistencies, new smells.

I can only say – like I say to my yoga students: make it your own practice, in Keto I can say very much the same: make it your own ‘practice’.

I am ready to cook, bake and taste almost everything, and new things.

And generally, when I try something for the first time, I am happy to be honest and admit: Yeah, one time, fine, I tried it, I tasted it; BUT Nah, not again, not for me, not my taste.

But the Nah thing, did not happen with the Cloud Bread.

The first batch tasted like a baked omelette, really eggy, and the tiny breads were floppy, because I did not know at that time that you need to use eggs at room temperature, and because I did not have the cream of tartar my egg whites were really down.

Second time I got adventurous, and I replaced stevia with xylitol, the natural sugar which looks like the white granulated sugar, I got the cream of T and I prepare it with eggs at room temperature. It looked and tasted good.

Third time I was a master in disguise. I even had the time to take photos. Luckily before I ate them all!

Ingredients: eggs, cottage cheese, the infamous cream of tartar and stevia (or xylitol) or your favourite fake sweetener. And lots of love! Remember that when you love something it’s already perfect.

Conclusion: If you fancy a certain taste don’t be afraid to try again, and for this Cloud Bread use the cream tartar, use eggs at room temperature and let them cool down in the oven!

Do it for yourself!

My own very first blog and other words on a string

Tue, 19 Sep 2023 02:39:33 GMT

For everything in life there is always a beginning and a struggle and so it was my very first blog which I posted on Goodreads as the honourable author of my first published book – Feelings in Staccato: The book of stories, affectionately named Feelings.

So, my first blog went like this.

This must be free writing because I have no idea how to blog.
I just learnt that blog comes from 'weblog'. There is always a start.
My first scribbles/journals/letters are dated more than 40 years ago. I have a wooden chest and a chest of drawers filled with copybooks, notes, ramblings.
And a dream. I once had a dream, since I was a young girl, playing barefoot in the yard from early spring until late autumn, enjoying an easy childhood, yet somehow disfigured by the communism.
I did not know what real life is until the first time I went abroad.
I thought that streets and cars and people in the movies are just that - in the movies.
Through it all my dream remained, I wanted to be a writer. Little I knew, I already was a writer. At that time I did not know the difference between a writer and an author.
I had and I have something to say.
The fact that I think in a mix of Romanian and English, and I write in both languages, it was at first an issue.
Then I discovered editors.
I am now an author, and I have a sense of achievement.
I had a dream and I fulfilled it.
What next?
I am not done.
I want to be an author 'again'.

Maria Grigorescu Blog

My Novel — Character Builder Exercise

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Traveler in Ireland — Cliffs of Moher

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PART 3 - The End of Summer A story of the untold childhood

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Let’s return to the story and find out what happened with Ala. Is she going to be free?

Here it is the final part of The end of summer, a story from my first collection published under Feelings in Staccato: the book of stories.

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I am back with Part 2 of my story 'The end of summer'

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Let’s see what happened next with Ala.

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When you dream for the best End of a Summer - Part 1

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The end of summer

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My Novel — The Tag Game with the Great Sphynx of Giza

Her name is Myrameda, but I like calling her Meda.

Story: The 1979 sugar beet harvest

The 1979 sugar beet harvest

We teamed up. Our competition was who could finish their rows first. The first line pulled the beets out and threw them in a pile, the second line chopped the leaves off the roots.

And then I screamed ‘My finger!’ Was it in my head or out loud?

The knife reached my finger. The knife slid through it. I felt hot even with the chill wind on my back. My face went pale joined by immediate nausea. I dropped the beet and the knife as if they were burning.

And I stood there, holding my hands out like a blind man finding his way, with my fingers spread. All but one.

With the nice-looking knife that my brother had sharpened for me, I had chopped my finger off. Carmen was singing Yeah, we wept, when we remembered Zion.

Work On My Novel — A princess talking about her family

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We – my parents, my sisters, and I – were in the mountains, traveling from Sarmi to Blidaru on one of the few days when Father wasn’t busy fighting or being a king. We didn’t know how long peace in the kingdom of Dacia would last, so we enjoyed every moment of it.

I could only glance at my father timidly – as always, I was afraid that if I caught his eye, he would see into the depths of my soul. On that day, he seemed carefree but in the bright sunlight, I noticed white hairs had started to show in his thick beard.

My mother and I stayed close to the shrub, though, our eyes following the eagle that still made attempts at rescuing its baby.

My mother watched out for the king and my sisters, and eventually moved her horse to block the pathway and keep me hidden from sight.

Holding it gently in my hands, I lifted the baby bird to my lips. I blew softly over its beak, and then I touched the crown of its head with my lips. I caressed its broken wing and legs.

My mother and I watched it fly away, and then she smiled at me warmly.

She put her finger to her lips to signal silence and secrecy.

I nodded and said nothing.

Words were unnecessary between us.

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About My Novel — Fleshing out a character

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Anna the Russian Widow

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Our Scotland Adventure - The Psycho of the Highlands

‘They are closed to visitors.’

‘There is no breakfast’.

By now we were so miffed by our host that we concluded she was loco.

‘How was your staying?’

Do you remember where you were and what you did exactly on 17 February 1984?

But I know! I know exactly where I was and what I did that day.

Strongly related to what I was doing almost 40 years ago, on 17 February 1984, I am ending with some inferences.

It almost feels as if time froze in one moment, on 17 February 1984.

Traveller in Romania: K O M P U S 3, a crowd of Bucharest

Anyhow — I want to share with you my travel notes on meeting the KOMPUS group.

Traveller in Romania: K O M P U S 3, a special crowd of Bucharest, October 2023

Ivan, Ivan, Ivan! I made 6 cents!

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I finish the call, but Ivan is not finished. He is looking at me and he asks again.

-I can’t believe it! I made 6 cents!

And when you feel the love around you like this it’s much easier to go over the not-so-nice things and the lower points in life.

Does the Keto diet mean NO PIZZA?

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Since YOU are here and I WROTE this – the answer to that question is NO.

Keto diet does not stop you from having a pizza.

INGREDIENTS!

PREPARATION:

MAKE SURE you follow the tips:

This is not the moment to 'customize', just do it as it says.

7 invaluable tips I have learned over the years to help you save money

Not by wasting it away but by looking at it as an asset you must manage.

What can you do to manage your finances with a few easy money-saving tips?

1. Constantly check all your bank accounts.

2. Identify the strictly necessary items in your life and the ones that are not quite necessary.

k your memberships and subscriptions — do you need all of them?

3. Compare the market for cheaper options on everything that you purchase.

4. Don’t buy in bulk unless you know that you will use it, otherwise, it will be just a waste.

5. Cook instead of eating out or ordering in.

6. Once a month, check the expiry dates on the cans and jars and use any vegetables that you have in the fridge.

7. Create your own savings system.

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