Free

In my passion to outline a clear and unequivocal value circle, with the help of brief but vivid scribbles, the blog started resembling a boutique edition of “Who’s Who”. And as I am gathering the courage for two great persons, but really great, I need to gain power. It will be best through joking and with self-irony. I will tell  several funny incidents from my recent private life. I have a private life now, because I have been Free for some time, and those took place during my family life.

I have had a few happy marriages, and each one of them follows three distinct periods. The first period is the closet with the jam. One day it ends with the mechanical feeling that you are a vibrator at night and an ATM at day. There is then a relatively gray period of slight but polite friendship, both of you however with a knife clenched in the pocket. Finally, the patience achieved at this incredible price creates, no one knows how and why, friendship, reciprocity and mutual support, precious as a gift. This gift however, leaves a slight metallic taste in the mouth, because you are already Free. And there is nothing in you, you cannot make a joke with.

1. We are waiting at the customs at the border of Rousse. A crowd, boredom and dirt. Your country reminds you of a robbed watermelon field – we are back from Western Europe. We are not the typical couple – she doesn’t look any more like a school girl and I am a not so tall, having-put-on-weight, gray-haired, unshaven and tired man, who pays loans and debts. While she is wearily observing the dirt, a few moustached men come to me and slyly offer me in broken Bulgarian what is a not-so-bad according to them deal. I sent them away, not convincing enough for them. It is clear what they are thinking, apparently I am bargaining for the price. We were orthodox puritans and that was the worst joke we had ever experienced. What a joke! I didn’t presume that we appeared like that from aside. Now keep your confidence of an artist!

2. The Istambul Biennale. The Center. The European part of the city. September. A dense crowd, in which we stroll all in sweat. They had let me go ahead to rip the flooding mass of people, which I find to my surprise and content is not needed – people carefully draw back for me to pass, look at me reservedly but with undisguised confidence and go by. They don’t even look at the young woman, walking a few steps behind me. What a multiple silence!

  - What was that Erdinc, why do all those people behave like that? We are common tourists! – I am telling my friend Erdinc Guner, the then chief architect of the city. Later he was Director of the Cultural Heritage. One of us.

 - They have taken you for a hodja from…. I forgot which religious society. How could you not love the pashaluk way of thinking in Istambul!

3. Berlin Biennale was so far successful, we were living in Charlottenburg and if we were not swarthy and with poor German, I think we would have been “just like at home”. She thought I was wrong and sought proving it to me. She entered a croissant bakery shop, she adores croissants, waited for her turn to come, chose the croissants and when the lady put them expectantly in front of her, she got her purse. Started rummaging. She rummaged through it completely and ransacked it worriedly several times. The polite smile was frozen on the face of the seller. A clear, steel blue-sky look.

She finally took out a 5 euro note, the lady seller smiled warmly and wrapped carefully the croissants. We went out. The artist in her was looking at me with a triumph, she said:

-         -  You see, everywhere there is a place for your 5 euro. But there is no place for you.