The American Dream
March 25, 2009
On September 11, 2001 I was nineteen and a half, I didn’t pluck my eyebrows, I had 20 extra-pounds and a million dreams well kept inside me. I would keep my head mostly down and I would strictly refuse to rebel; I would go to church every Sunday, I would wear my hair long and I wouldn’t wear earrings out of bigotry. But the inside was boiling with rebellion, I felt a crazy courage and an unspeakable appetite for adventure; I felt that this was the beginning; I felt that finally my life would start like a 600 hp engine. I was angry with my father because he didn’t believe in me, I was hurt and highly frustrated; by all means I wanted to show him that I could, I promised myself that’ I woldn’t let go the offense and that it had to be the moment to reveal my true force.
On September 11, 2001 I woke up at seven o’clock in the morning in my aunt’s 4th floor flat in Bucharest. I ate although my stomach refused anything. I sipped the warm coffee at the kitchen table , on the little cushioned chair in the corner by the door. When the old pendulum clock, the most precious object in my aunt’s living room stroke 8, we closed the door behind us. We went down the stairs, me with shaking feet, and we headed towards the bus stop in silence. It was warm, muggy and raining. I didn’t know too much about Bucharest. Lots of people on the street. .
At eight o’clock in the morning, the bus stations in Bucharest, and this one in particular, are swarming with people going to work and kids going to school. And when it rains it becomes a nightmare. I got up a 368 filled with people, wet umbrellas and poking backpacks. Old people going to the Marketplace. They always do that. Old people go to the Marketplace. The doors hardly closed. The spaces between the stops seemed endless. There was a steamy, muggy, humid and sticky atmosphere inside the bus. I was afraid I would pass out. It took forever to reach Tricodava. After endless minutes at Razoare, when it finally reached Eroilor I felt like in heaven. Half of the swarmy, sweaty cargo got down here to take the subway.
At nine twenty we finally reached the Roman Square taking a detoured route. I remember it was during the George Enescu International Classic Music Festival and half of Bucharest was blocked. We didn’t know that at the moment. We got down the bus in a Roman Square completely hidden by the heavy rain. My aunt’s umbrella didn’t do much. It was sticky, hot and very wet. You couldn’t see 6 ft ahead. My aunt, who, after forty years was supposed to know the city by heart, couldn’t figure it out where we were. Instead of heading to the Univerisity on Macheru Bvd, in order to make a right after Scala Theatre on Pitar Mos, we went the other way, and we found ourselves on Dorobanti, near the British Council.
I was wet to the bone and very impatient. My aunt had water in her sandals. I was quiet. Then she asked me what I would do if I got in to this faculty, this foreign languages thing. What can I become after I finished it. I told her I had several options.
Finally, after another half hour of groping in the rain, we reached the door of the Foreign Languages Faculty. I opened the heavy door, I felt so tiny, my heart was about to explode in my chest. The hallway was filled with soaking wet people, all gathered in front of the results panels. I finally reached them after several minutes I used to elbow my way to them. My aunt waited outside the impatient crowd. My emotions made it very hard for me to find myself on the list. But I was there. It said admitted, under number 70, English Major. I got back where my aunt was. My feet were shaking. ‘I’m in, auntie, I’m in! English Major, I’m in!’ ‘ And what can you do, dear, with this English of yours? You think you can get to America now?’ ‘Oh, I don’t think so auntie, I didn’t even start. It’s hard to get to America anyway.
I got out that heavy door as a winner this time, the same door a year earlier I had closed as a looser. My dream had begun. I had finally left my jail behind. It stopped raining but it was still very wet, water allover, the sewage system in Bucharest is such a mess. My clothes stuck wet to my skin. I kept smiling. I guess I looked dumb with that big smile on my face. I didn’t care. ‘Look at me! My feet all wet! I have water in my sandals. These are my good sandals. I only wear them for special occasions! Now, if you’re gonna go to America, you should buy me a pair of sandals. Like these. All leather. Good quality.’ ‘Yes, auntie, like these’. And we both started laughing. We were near the Roman Square subway station.
Later I watched how a plane hit the second Tower at the World Trade Center. I called home to tell them about the terrorist attack and how America was hit, forgetting that they waited for my results. That was the day America entered my life. Now, after 8 years I guess is finally the time to send my aunt the sandals I’m sure she’s waiting for.
