At the age of 31 I moved into the same house as my 91 year old grandmother. I found her alone, almost mute. Days, if not weeks, would go by without her speaking to anyone. Thus she had lost the ability to articulate words naturally. I felt guilty. I could have visited her more often.She had a lot to tell. Her tongue "untied" and she spoke. At the slightest challenge from me, she would begin to tell her personal history. With a simple question, I could determine the moment I wanted to know about: the childhood in which she dreamed of becoming a teacher, the way my grandfather courted her and the marriage at the age of 16, the displacement north of the Danube after the surrender of the Cadrilater territory and the wanderings throughout the country, where the authorities were sending them, the coincidence of transiting Ploiești by train at the very moment of the bombing, and the way she and her mother took shelter, each with a child in her arms, in the craters left by the bombs, thinking that another bomb will not hit exactly where another one fell, the way she dried the children's diapers on her stomach, under her clothes, or how she untied her doilies to make them socks. Moments when the men in the family didn't know about them, my grandfather being at the war front, and my great-grandfather around the country, trying to get food.

​I wanted to film her talking. To do a kind of interview that was to show collective and personal history interweave. Under the false impression that she was immortal, I delayed until it was too late. She gave me a generous ten-year break. I didn't use it.

​After she died, I took some photos in her house. A kind of portrait in the absence of the model, composed of the personal space, which can outline a mentality: that of the one accustomed to earning his bread from the work of own hands, of the one whom poverty shaped to be frugal but not stingy, to recycle for reasons more intimate than saving the planet, to always show good decency, to hold destiny in one's own hands regardless of what is happening around, not to be naive despite poor education, to put family above everything else, not to whine, to always be ready for any trouble, but to live intensely the moments of joy, to survive.

More than 17 years ago...

I had come on foot from Hala Traian and arrived at Foisorul de Foc. I was waiting for the trolleybus in front of the Orthopedic Hospital, leaning on a newspapers kiosk. The type like you can't find anymore, simple, made of tin, like a table with a roof. The kiosk was empty, probably because it was the weekend, so I leaned against it and started looking through some postcards that I had just received. Something with Byzantine mosaics, as I recall. When the trolley came, I got on, wrapped my arm around a bar and continued browsing the postcards.

- Hey, are you a journalist?

I look up confused and saw in front of me a solid man, dressed in a sweat suit, with a gold chain around his neck and a face full of scars. He had the appearance of someone who had just been released from prison. What struck me the most about his appearance was his beard. Unshaven for days - the same length as the hair on his head, probably also shaved on the same occasion - it seemed like a forest of needles that were all heading towards my eyes, like projectiles that his face muscles were just about to launch at me, in a stinging explosion.

- It seemed to me that you were a journalist, he continued, that you were sitting there, at the newspapers.

The association left me perplexed, but he continued quickly:

-Listen! Do you remember when we used to fight? And you took me by the belt and did that? Then I realized I was surrounded by his companions, about 3-4 in number, and he, probably the chief, grabbed my belt and began to menacingly and rhythmically bring his knee closer to my genitals, lifting, at the same time, my pants belt (pants following the move) with the same rhythmicity, while I was sitting in the oranta position with my hands clasped by the postcards.

I admit that I didn't feel anything at the moment his companion, who was behind me, on the trolley ladder, "operated" on me. But I figured it out. I passed the postcards from my right hand to the left, and stuck my palm to the back pocket of my pants, where I should have my wallet. It was missing. I turned and said to the "surgeon", with a boldness that I still can't explain to myself today:

- Dude, give me the wallet!

He was playing stupid and stared at the Boss. I also turn to him and said, without lying:

- I only have about 20,000 on me.

Boss nods and the kid takes out his wallet and hands it next to me. I catch it on the fly, put the postcards between my teeth and open the wallet where he could see the two blue-green bills that would barely have been enough to buy two tram tickets.

The trolley is approaching the next station, at the intersection with Mosilor. At that moment, I feel a hand pulling me out from the middle of the hooligans circle.

- What are you doing? Why are you talking to them? I thought you knew them. If you don't know them, why are you talking to them?

A little woman, around 40-50 years old, with bags in one hand, was pulling me among the trolley chairs on which men were sitting, concentrating seriously on contemplating the landscape from the window. We both got off the trolley, with the jailbirds after us.

- C'mon, leave him, ma'am, he's a big boy!

The woman took me by the hand, up to the stairs of her block. He closed the door, that had an intercom, behind us and said to me:

- You wait here until they leave and go home. I thanked her, I realized that I could at least carry her bags, and we parted ways. I could see the punks on the opposite sidewalk spinning around nervously. In a short time they left, but I stayed in the staircase for a long time. I abandoned the postcards on a radiator in the hallway, untied the laces of my sneakers to tie them tighter, put my wallet in one of the stockings, tightened my belt at the next hole, timidly opened the door of to the block, and  took a step outside, holding it with one hand to ensure a possible retreat. When I saw that the danger had passed, I let go of the door and started a sprint towards home, which lasted until I felt that I could no longer hold my lungs.

My mind then devised a naive "protection plan" to make me feel safer in future situations like this: the next day I went down to the basement of the building, where I polished this object from a piece of iron:

(knife on the wall)

which I recently found. I remember carrying it in my pocket for a couple days and then throwing it in a drawer. I don't know what I would have done with him in a "special" situation. I hope nothing. But now I realize that it looks like an object that my ”fighting comrade” could have made in prison.

A month ago ...

​

I thought of walking again the route from that day, with the camera in hand. I would have liked to photograph the house near the Traian Hall from which I had left, the newspaper kiosk, the trolley, the staircase of the building where that woman may still live, etc. I photographed the house near the hall. Then I drove the car to the Foisorul de Foc, parked and went for a 10-minute walk towards Calea Mosilor, with a scheduled stop at the Orthopedic Hospital in front of which I had boarded the trolley 17 years ago.

I haven't found anything. Instead of the newspaper bin at the hospital, there was an aluminum kiosk with insulating glass, the trolley looked different, and instead of the staircase of the block on Calea Mosilor where I took shelter, I found a Pizza Hut restaurant. Probably now the tenants enter through the back.

After such a failure, I take it back to the place where I left my car. I crossed Mosilor Street and took a last look at the intersection. I liked how the checkered pattern on the facade of the store I was next to continues with that of the block opposite, freshly painted after the insulation works. I took out my camera and shoot. I am not pleased. I turn to the left, to the right, I trigger. I hear a voice:

- What are you doing? Why are you taking pictures of us? I take the device from my eyes and see three individuals about 20-25 years old, heading towards me at an alert pace while pulling their clothes on. Yhey surround me.

- Why are you taking pictures of us bathing in the fountain? Are you from the Town Hall?

- I'm not taking pictures of you, I'm taking pictures of that block. Want to see?

I show him the only picture I had taken.

  - Look, I'm zooming in so you can see that you're not in the picture. I zoom in, move the frame to the bottom right where the fountain could have been. Somewhere you can see a small brown spot - the fountain, and above it a brown dot, a little lighter.

- Look! This is me, he says. And he ordered me: Delete the picture!

I try to reason with him:

- My friend, who can tell that it is you in this picture?

He negotiates:

- Bro, you're from the Town Hall. Delete the picture and do it again without me in the fountain.

It seems like a common sense solution. I delete the picture and prepare to redo it. I turn towards my subject, but notice that his other two companions are back in the well. I turn towards the individual with a wide smile and draw his attention to what is happening. He shrugs his shoulders and says:

- I don't know brother, you don't take pictures with us at the fountain.

I feel a tension and decide to withdraw. I tell him that I will come to take pictures on another colder day and I lie down on the way back to Foișor. After ten minutes of walking, I approach the car and the moment I unlock it, two other individuals that I had never seen before overtake me on the sidewalk, pushing a scooter with the engine off. They turn both towards me and one throws me in the face:

- Won't you take a picture of us too?