Nomad: Happily Claustrophobic

Maybe it’s just me, but I believe that us, Romanians (Bucharestians especially), have a certain adversity to getting their hands dirty in an honest day’s work. Cutting corners and finding the easy way out seems to be written in our people’s genes. Even across the borders, most of us seem to have this reputation of rather street smart individuals who ”make it”, in some way or another, which usually means they can immediately find loopholes to some important rules or remorseless evade them altogether.

“How could anyone choose to leave their comfort and security, a lifetime of study and a cosy desk job to start over as a nobody in a foreign country and having to constantly prove themselves worthy to a bunch of – often younger, less capable and rarely appreciative – strangers?” I often get asked by relatives and friends who have also been raised not to pay much attention to vendors, waiters, receptionists, garbage men, postal clerks, manicurists, salesmen, cleaners, hairdressers, seamsters, handy men unless they needed something from them.

  

And I am not implying that my friends and family are horrible individuals, I am just saying that, to most people, these workers are to be acknowledged for brief moments in time and only for their immediate services.

I myself used to be rather dismissive towards some jobs considering them to be something anyone could do and having no idea how mentally consuming and phisically challenging they were, how much stress and frustration came along with the signed emplyment contract and how much learning there was to them.

Until I came to London and met Benjamin, Elsa, Bartek, Am Rashid, José, Marilisa, Shahin, David, Antigoni, Abi, Marcia, Linda, Abdullah, Am Sobhi, Shahin, Souaad, Ryan, Chubby, Miriana, Bia, Yvonna, Rana, Adams, Ejaz, Moaad, Emam, Tesh, George, Nasir, Mouhammad, Amrita and became one of them.

  

The sad part is that prejudice is still one of the biggest flaws in our deeply damaged society.

The beautiful part of all this is that, in most civilized countries, the work experience subject is far from being taboo. On the contrary, most of the amazing people I’ve met here have all worked in  retail and hospitality at one point in their lives to be able to afford rent and maybe tuition for uni. And what I found absolutely fascinating was that not only were they not ashamed of their past, but fully embraced it and made the best out of it.

I myself wanted my life to mean something and it turns out you can’t make it meaningful to others until it starts being meaningful to you. So now, when I look back, I can’t recognize myself. I’ve lived a thousand lives, regardless whether they believe it or not. I tried everything, at least once. I gave up battles I knew I couldn’t win. I gave everyone a chance.

They said I was much too old for self experiments and that I should settle down. So I went as far away as I could from my perfectly fitting mattress and the hundreds of dresses I haven’t had the chance to wear, the late night Mega Image nibbles and settled in on an island ruled by reptilians desguised as the Royal Family, moved in with complete strangers in temporary houses, shared kitchens, fridges and toilets with Polish and Lithuaninans, Romanians, Slowakian and Ukrainian (but mostly Polish). I lived in confined spaces (and by that I mean a space smaller than a jail cell that was initially designed as a dressing room), I could only afford precooked rice and tomato sauce. I visited a friend in jail and witnessed Moroccan wedding. I got hired by Harrods, the world’s oldest, most famous and extravagantly luxurious department store (twice, two years apart), a fairytale-like place I used to watch documentaries and fantasize about as a child – the two experiences couldn’t have been more different from each other. Whenever I feel uninspired I take the DLR and go to my favourite place, my secret harbour. I’ve been to the Dorchester and woke up in a Rolls Royce parked in Little Venice. I’ve learned to put love in everything I do. I smoked shisha and didn’t care for it that much – besides, some studies have shown that one shisha is the equivalent of two hundred cigarettes. I felt abandoned and broken in the outskirts of the city. I’ve gained some love and respect around here. I went to the emergency room of the Westmister Hospital. I was offered crack and refused it. I was never offered weed and refused it. I made friends with Anita and Stanislaw who didn’t make it together after all, then I met Bartek, Anita’s rebound, but that didn’t work either. I’ve never been a fan of asking others for help, so I decided I would climb the ladder on my own terms, in my own way and discovered there is no feeling like it. I’ve built character. I proved everyone wrong.

I’ve learned never to follow their money, but my soul.

I have come to understand what draws me to Bukowski’s writing so much.

To be continued…

Green Eyed Kisses,