It was a rather beautiful Monday morning of March: many clouds during the night, a bit chilly & windy atmosphere along the few stars that didn't forget to show their faces, but what a morning, what a morning! Slowly leaving the grey or the weird colored apartment blocks of the big city, the clarity of the noise fainted in the big space of the fields coming up in wide angles. Speeding up on the highway, everything turned into a reddish painting while the sun was making its way into a beautiful morning. March was blossoming into a wonderful sky that showed some lost essences hidden the winter whites. What was indeed different? Nothing, nothing at all. It was just a glorious morning with a wonderful sun smiling upon the still grey emptiness of the future to be green.
Today I was at one of the stores close by and passing by the local school I'd amaze some frightened first and second grade school boys that would say: "Now, that's a big man with some long long hair. What is that and who is it?".
I'd pass by some local people, would salute them - some responses in return that shows a sign that the old ways are probably only for the books to deliver, not for the real life. Somehow, the fear of something new would make some people cross over the road, go back to their nest and not interact as much as you'd think; besides the natural curiosity, the family education or rather the lack of it would tell the people where and when to do something, one might ending up on a roadside without any help whatsoever.
It's my instinct that tells what's here at ~ 100 km away from Bucharest, rather than being what it actually is.
People are different and I can feel them pretty instantly when they would be around me. Here, in this region of Muntenia, where 800-1000 years back would lie a big big forest, people might still have the coldness or the suspicion that would reside in any veins regarding a foreigner stepping on their lands. Somehow, besides the gossiping part, I'd find the Moldavian people much warmer than these people much closer to my home. Who am I to tell the difference though? Nobody or just any other somebody who'd have a step into a foreign land that's not my land per se, but my dad's.
The silence here might seem intact as the origins of the sound would be lying here above and under ground. The clock ticking from another room, birds chirping in the morning, a bicycle bulb horn here and there, an old and very noisy tractor, the crazy dog barking at anything that moves beyond the yard fences or at my presence when I walk around, the dry wood burning inside the stove. The sound of the ancient voices coming from the cemetery few steps away completes this stillness of time that surrounds the house at the end of this village.
