In 1907, Irish Ernest Shackleton, set on Nimrod expedition to the South Pole, using ponies for transport for the first time in the history. Unfortunately, they didn’t resist in the cold weather and ended up eaten but the expedition’s members.

 
            The bag with the two pairs of shoes bought from a discount store from Belfast dangled on every curve the bus was taking. Narrow and wet, the road to Dublin lay ahead of us in the night. On both sides of the road, on the green hills covered in fog dark little houses were waiting for Christmas.

When I opened my eyes, Army was still sleeping with the head on my right shoulder. I hadn’t time to do anything. A black leather shoe named “Poker” because of the double seam in the shape of a heart fell out of the bag and hit him in the head.

- Oh, did it hurt? I ask him while petting the spot where the enemy-shoe which I insisted to buy hit him.

- Who are you? He asked me back in confusion.

- Ha, ha, what a joke. I’m the same, you know!

Army wrenched away from me, smoothed his clothes and repeated the question looking straight into my eyes.

- How can you ask me this question? I’m your Pony! I said, thinking this was just a game he invented to make the journey shorter.

- I am really sorry, but I don’t know you! He said as seriously as a man could be.

- Army, don’t be mad, it’s me, the Pony. That’s how you’ve been calling me for the last 4 years of our relationship. We are lovers; we came together to Dublin to celebrate my birthday. We a have a dog called Nero who is waiting for us at home.

- Sorry, but I really do not remember all this. But I can tell you for sure I don’t like dogs, I am a cat fan. And I am living and working in Dublin. I was to Belfast because I had some work to do. So, it’s obvious I cannot be the person you think I am.

The bus was moving emotionlessly into the night. I started looking out of the window.

A milestone grinned at me: “40 km up to Dublin”. Inside the bus the heat became overwhelming. “To hell with it, it’s the first time I’m not cold in this country.”

I continued to look silently through the window, waiting for a sign that this stupid game was over. “He is just giving me a bad time. He is pretending to experience amnesia to see my reactions. But how should I react? What’s the right answer?” As usually, when I found myself in a situation like that, I couldn’t think of anything. And it seemed that my natural reaction was not enough. He was expecting something else from me. But what? The more I thought about it, the more palsied I was. I felt I should have said something, but I didn’t know what. And I was angry because I knew he found my silence very convenient.  I found it more and more difficult to focus on my situation, I was tired. I sank into a deep resignation.

Behind us, two old Saxon exchanged some money. From their conversation, I understood that they were on a trip that day; they had some Guinness in a pub and had a great time. Good for them! The problem was that one of them owed some money to the other. And now he was calculating the sum. When he got to a result, took it over again: once, twice, three times, and then once again…

In the end, he reached the final amount of 57 euros. The debtor took 60 euros out of his wallet and gave it to his friend. The latter hunted his pockets for the change, but he couldn’t find anything. He told his friend to give him back only 50 euros.

- Out of the question! Shouted the debtor. I don’t do such deals.

And he began calculating again hoping he would get another result. In vain, the sum remained of 57 euros.

-          Search better, it’s impossible not to have 3 euros! I cannot believe you are one of

those who don’t’ have change on them! He insisted

-          I hate coins, replied his friend.

The IPod music of a couple of teenagers sitting on the back seats of the bus prevented me from hearing the final old men’s agreement.  

The bus stopped for a few moments at the Dublin airport. I looked fearfully at Army, but he didn’t show any intention of getting down. I suddenly felt very angry at me: “Of course he doesn’t go anywhere, for God’s sake! He is your boyfriend” I said to myself.

Only a few elephant like maneuvers on crowded streets and the bus reached the final destination: Busaras Station, in Dublin.

Army got up hastily, put his jacket on, took our backpack and the bag with the two pairs of shoes and rushed out of the bus. I remained in my chair watching him through the bus window.

In the station, a good looking red wavy woman holding a little boy was waiting for him. Army hugged them both, kissed the woman and took the boy on his back before the three of them went away.

Behind them, the kid’s question hung in cold and damp air of Dublin: “Daddy, daddy, can we go to the game shop?”. Army said something, the redhead laughed. I found myself thinking he bought two Xbox games from Belfast but they were not proper for such a small kid.

Pe ultima suta de metri, reprezentati importanti ai generatiei ”78 marcheaza schimbarea prefixului. Din trio alcatuit adhoc intr-o noapte de bere si unit de un cintec lalait “ge-ne-ra-tia ””78″ si un dans simplu (balans picior drept/picior sting si minutele in aer), primul a fost  Costin. L-am sustinut in vara, in Vama Veche.

Si acum, in decembrie, in ordinea numerelor de pe tricouri: eu si apoi Miruna. Eu am ales sa merg la Dublin si a fost cea mai inteleapta decizie pe care o puteam lua la virsta mea. Totul s-a asemanat cu o actiune chirurgicala de succes: anestezia totala, operatia in sine, trezitul. A existat si momentul clasic de cumpana si soc, gen “we are losing her”, atunci cind intr-un dintre cel mai vechi pub-uri din Dublin, O’Briens, ma asteptau, fara stiinta sau banuiala mea citiva dintre prietenii mei: Robi, Pisica Alba (zisa si “linga primarie”), Ghidul  Maria si Vera. 

Dura treaba! Dar medicul a fost bun, m-a resuscitat. M-am trezit din operatie, m-am recuperat si am revenit (in tara, in viata, la munca, in circiumi). O sticla de Midleton – 50.000 de euro, ce am trait eu – nepretuit!<!–more–>\r\nPina una alta, niste poze si mentiunea ca aparatul de fotografiat a marcat bucla timpului in care ne-am aflat cu totii. Deci, concluzia e ca n-am nici o dovada ca am facut 30 de ani. Voi reveni si cu povesti, bineinteles.

Bine, eu eram cu atit mai penibila cu cit amindoi erau oale si ulcele de demult si chiar nu datorau nimic fanelor. Dar am mai observat eu ca unele domnite se mai oftica atunci cind afla ca actorul sau cintaretul preferat e gay. De parca ar fi fost vreo diferenta daca n-ar fi fost…Sa fim seriosi!

 

Am fost la fost la cabana unui motan. Motanul Mircea. Am ajuns vineri noaptea, dupa patru kilometri de mers prin zapada, gheata parsiva si noapte. Am traversat un fir de apa, m-am udat si am inghetat rau. Aveam turturi pe burta si toata pielea zbircita de frig. Am ajuns la cabana cu chiu cu vai, dupa ce imi pierdusem si rabdarea si citeva grade bune din temperatura corpului. Urechilor, nu imi mai saltati, faceti curent in pavilioane!!!!

Am ajuns si cabanierul nici nu a catadacsit sa iasa din singura camera din cabana unde era facut focul. Pur si simplu, nu l-a interesat nimic. Noroc cu prietenii mei, care au ocupat o alta camera, au bagat lemne in soba si s-au apucat sa faca mincare. M-am invelit cu un prosop si o patura si am inceput sa ma gindesc la incalzirea globala. Pina au terminat de facut ciorba, m-am dezghetat, dar nu m-am incalzit. Nu stiu cind am adormit, dar cu siguranta as fi observat daca Mircea ar fi intrat in camera sa ne salute…

A doua zi, in timp ce prietenii cu care am venit isi beau cafeaua, observ ca in dulapul cu mincare ceva nu era in regula. Cutia cu icre era pe jumatate golita, iar pe resturi am observat o fina urma de gheara in forma de M. Ospitalitatea inexistenta se transformase in sfidare. Un catel n-ar fi facut niciodata asta….Situatia m-a intristat un pic, dar m-am fortat sa uit repede totul sa nu-mi stric week-endul. Mai ales ca stapinii mei se distrau ceva. Am pornit cu totii intr-o mica excursie catre locul unde ne lasasem masina ca sa luam carnea (iupiiiii!) de gratar. Drumul merita tot efortul pentru ca, daca nu o sa fim luati ostatici de Mircea, cabanierul malefic care va minca tot si apoi, pe rind, pe fiecare dintre noi, o sa avem un ospat pe cinste. Si unde e un ospat cu oameni veseli si un singur catel pentru toti, ghici cine se scoate! Am pornit voios pe acelasi drum pe care-l facusem si cu o zi inainte. Ce peisaj, cite mirosuri, cita libertate de exprimare!!! Am topait tot drumul dus, intors nestiind ca la cabana avea sa ma astepte o alta surpriza neplacuta care, nu avea nici o legatura sau, dimpotriva, avea toate legaturile cu cabanierul.

Cum veneam noi bucurosi pe poteca, la citiva metri de cabana observa o silueta suspecta. Din departare parea un lup, de la apropiere…tot un lup. Dadea din coada la stapinii mei, rinjea rautacios la mine si era prieten cu prietenul lui Mircea care ajunsese si el la cabana intre timp. Rinjea, eu dadeam din coada, el rinjea, eu dadeam din coada… Incerc mereu sa fac primul pas atunci cind intilnesc pe cineva necunoscut, dar individul asta isi dorea ca eu sa nu fiu acolo. De fiecare data cind avea intentia sa arate chestia asta, prietenul lui Mircea intervenea si-l striga “Caraimane!!!!” As fi putut sa fiu cinic cu el, sa fac glume de genul…”ce cauta Caraimain in Muntii Iezer?” sau si mai rau…”hei, singurel?”, dar m–am abtinut. Stapinii au stateau in jurul focului care perpelea carnea ce ar fi fost buna si cruda din punctul meu de vedere, iar eu am stat pe linga ei. Era clar ca acest Caraiman era mina dreapta a lui Mircea care, culmea tupeului, ii impusese si interdictia de a intra in cabana. Paradoxal, felul lui Mircea de a se purta ma facea ma simt bine: pot sa ma plimb nestingherit prin cabana, sa fac ce vreau eu mai putin sa-l vad la fata. Dar nu de asta venisem eu la cabana Cuca. Friptura a fost delicioasa, iar oasele de vis. Nu-i de mirare ca la putin timp dupa ce am mincat m-a cuprins un somn dulce sforaitor. In camera era cald, stapinii rideau, felinarele ardeau, lemnele in soba trosneau iar asternuturile lincezeau de atitea mirosuri necunoscute. Am adormit fericit, intii singur in tot patul, apoi profund, lipit de cei doi stapini ai mei.

Duminica dimineata m-a trezit primul. Pentru ca nu bausem deloc alcool, bausem mai putin de cit oricare dintre ei. Gata cu week-end-ul, gata cu Mircea si Caraiman. Haideti acasa! I-am trezit pe rind pe toti, mai putin pe cei doi care dormeau in paturile suprapuse si la care nu puteam ajunge. Si-au baut cafeau incet, au facut poze, apoi am mincat prinzul impreuna. Resturile i le-au pastrat lui Caraiman. S-au pregatit de drum, si-au facut bagajul, prea incet, dupa parerea mea. I-am lasat lui Mircea mincarea mea pe care nu am mincat-o, pentru ca eu in excursii maninc cu stapinii. Am vrut sa-l avertizez pe prietenul lui Mircea sa-i lase cabanierului apa la discretie pentru ca boabele mele sunt sarate, dar m-am abtinut. Daca i s-o usca gura sa dezghete apa cu gheara lui fina….

Am plecat, fara sa ne luam ramas bun de la Mircea. Nu am fost nici pe departe atit de uimit pe cit am fost sa vad ca domnul Caraiman venea cu noi. Primul gind a fost ca l-a trimis cabanierul, sa ne spioneze, sa ne faca drumul mai greu, sa ne pacaleasca, sa ne rataceasca…Dar ziua era atit de frumoasa, incit foarte curind am uitat toate aceste ginduri. Caraiman mergea in fata noastra, se gudura si pentru prima data m–am uitat la el. Era dragut, bine facut, bine proportionat. La fiecare miscare, muschii i se zbateau armonios sub blana deasa si sura. Stia drumul, stia in fiecare secunda unde sa calce, stia cind gheata tine si ocolea fara ezitare o pojghita prea subtire. Mirosea exact locurile strategice, si le marca in cel mai masculin mod posibil. Se vedea ca este un adevarat barbat care se simte bine in teritoriul sau. Eu il urmam si incercam sa ma simt la fel de confortabil. Si la un moment dat, nu m-am mai putut abtine. L-am mirosit sub coada pe insusi stapinul muntelui si i-am arat afectiunea mea in cel mai vadit mod cu putinta. Caraiman a innebunit instant si s-a repezit in beregata mea. Din vinovatie, orgoliu si instinct am facut la fel. Intr-o secunda, eram acea contopire de corpuri pe care la catei o vezi din violenta, iar la oameni din pasiune. Ne-au despartit stapinii, iar noi ne-am continuat drumul sub supravegherea lor, ca si cum nimic nu s-ar fi intimplat. Bineinteles, ca toata lumea stia ca totul pornise de la mine…

In masina, pe drumul spre casa, am fost mai mult tacut. Miine e luni si o sa ma intilnesc cu prietenii mei, Mosul si cu Dixie, si o sa le povestesc totul, asa cum se intimpla mereu cind ma intorc dintr-o excursie: <em>”Frate Dixie, Mosule, am fost in week-end la o cabana tinuta de un motan, Mircea. Un incompetent. M-a enervat din primul moment, cind ajungind inghetat bocna si asta nu facuse focul. Motan chitros! I-am zis ca nu mai pupa nici un ban de cazare. A incercat sa-mi cistige bunavointa prin servitorul lui, unul, Caraiman, care mi-a adus platouri cu oase la pat in fiecare dimineata. Mi-a fost mila de el, era un biet catel pripasit pe la cabana. L-am intrebat de ce il cheama Caraiman in Muntii Iezer si pentru ca l-am vazut atit de fisticit, i-am lasat la sfirsit toata mincarea mea………”