Autumn again
It’s autumn now. And it was autumn then, which makes me feel as if those 10 years had really just begun yesterday.
My first months in Oradea were like a wild rollercoaster of emotions. Seeing so many white people and feeling more mestizo, the language, the nostalgia of autumn quickly turning into a harsh winter… I spent hours soaking in the bathtub, listening to music, eating Snickers, and hiding from the world as much as I could.
Mehmet Ali
An Erasmus exchange student. One of several Turkish students introduced to me by a Romanian classmate. That night I entered the room in a very ceremonial way, shaking hands with each person—until I got to him. We smiled at each other, almost as if we already knew we would become as close as that “journey” would allow us.
His English wasn’t advanced, but it was enough to build a solid friendship.
We spent afternoons together: me with a coffee, him with a beer. Our conversations were about our imaginary trips through Western Europe. He had to visit Peru to meet my family and eat seafood. And I had to visit his mother and her garden in Hatay.
Mehmet Ali became my connection to his group of Turkish classmates. They often moved as a community. I remember once we went for some cheap cheeseburgers. After eating so quickly, one of them fed me from his hand. After I blushed, they explained how special it is when a Turkish friend feeds you like that.
Traditionally, men walk arm in arm in the streets. Something Romanian society often judges as not very masculine.
Kankito — a mix of kanka (best friend, in Turkish) and a Spanish diminutive. That’s what we called each other. We traveled together a couple of times to see other Romanian cities and, finally, to say goodbye.
The following year I met his family. His garden. We went to Istanbul. And I let my hair grow out, then a beard, and finally just the hair and mustache.
Snowie (Catalina)
I remember two important things. Someone once told Catalina that it looked like she had cut her hair. She replied: “I just washed it.” She seemed very outgoing and well-known by the rest of the class. At that time she was blonde and wavy-haired.
Once I raised my hand. Without knowing that half of the students had a background in philosophy, I volunteered to read and present a text by Immanuel Kant. Catalina wrote to me later to offer her help reading the text. Help? I thought. We divided it and presented it together.
“That’s trauma.” That was the first time I heard someone describe a situation with those words, so calmly. We were in a local café, talking about studies, how one can approach philosophy, about Peru, and about the Carpathians in Brașov.
For a while, we shared an apartment, around the time she went on exchange to Madrid and I to Ankara. That’s when I learned to use a longboard and a snowboard. Sometimes we went to the park with a friend. Other times we watched movies, sang, or I just watched her paint her nails while we chatted about anything.
Snowie is an incredible woman. We’ve had conversations so deep about ourselves and about the world. The kind that keeps you glued to the couch, with eyes shining like stars in the mountain sky, and makes you feel you’re not alone and never will be.
Oana, guapi
“Talk to me,” she said. We stepped out of the office, went to talk. In fact, to cry a little. And then we went back, with lighter hearts.
We met at work. She had blonde hair that was impossible not to notice. Oh, what times.
Back then we did invoices. And not to be arrogant, but we were the most dedicated there. We stayed overtime to finish what needed to be done—and then it was karaoke time.
Guapi has a beautiful voice. Even though she says it’s not good enough to be an artist, I know I would go to her concerts. I would always share her songs on social media. And even if she never makes her voice public, I love that I got to hear her interpret Amy Winehouse.
She has the kind of voice that makes you feel we only live once in this world. A voice that makes you feel it’s finally Friday and the workweek is over. A voice that makes you say: to hell with these invoices.
Guapi was always my accomplice. Once, when I was very angry, she came to confront me and said: “Talk to me, what’s wrong?” I felt good being able to tell her.
I remember when she fell asleep after eating fries, after a night out. I remember her red dress. And also her blue one. I remember the day she changed her look, from blonde to brunette. Always dazzling.
Oana is a sweetheart. Not just physically—she has a heart as sweet as Belgian chocolate, something truly special.
Manu del Río
That’s her drag queen name. We had to baptize her with one after watching so much Drag Race. RuPaul would be proud of our creativity.
Sometimes we dream about winning the lottery, but if it happens, we’d keep it low profile. Maybe buy a new car, or maybe a cow, a few sheep, and some chickens. We’d have more cats and more dogs.
We worked together; in fact, I was the one who trained her. Her quick mind and dedication to people management opened doors for her. And where life has taken her now, she takes care of a beautiful house that holds and hides memories worthy of being written into her family’s history.
Manucu can do math in her head before you’ve even opened the calculator app on your phone. And she can read several books while someone else is still repeating the same chapter.
She loves Freddie Mercury. One of her favorite songs is “I’ll be your clown” by Emeli Sandé.
Sometimes she checks ten times if she’s turned off the stove burners. And she drives at an average speed—as she puts it—barely 70 km per hour.
Other times she says she could have been a Nadia Comăneci, or maybe an Olympic sprinter in the 100 meters. I believe her (at the speed she drives, I imagine she would have run just as fast if she had tried).
One of her favorite flowers is the red roses her mother planted in the garden of her country house.
I’ve seen parts of Romania: the forest, the mountains, the valley, and the sea. And some of these people have accompanied me and shown me not only the beauty of those places but also the beauty of genuine, transparent, and good friendship.
Maybe another time I can tell you how I learned Turkish expressions with my kankito, or about my reunion with Snowie after she moved to Finland, or the time I went to a work dinner with my Guapi (with free wine), or when Manu del Río and I traveled to Peru.
Sometimes I like to take photographs with my memory. Like the ones I took of Mehmet Ali, Catalina, Oana, and Manu—who helped me start over.
It’s possible I’ve taken one with you too.
Thank you for reading.
Ave Migratoria 