Yesterday, a nice reporter from Radio Romania International came to interview me. We spoke about working with foreigners, studying abroad and travelling. I also told her about how I love stories and how much meaning they have to me.After the interview she told me that her grandmother was telling her stories that her grandmother told her and that would go centuries back, when instead of glass, the windows of the house were covered with pig skin and the young girls were hidden in the stove so they wouldn’t be kidnapped by the Tatars.
Afterwards, I met an American who lives in Romania, a Brit who lived in Canada and a Romanian who lived in the States and his wife. I heard stories of Jimi Hendrix’s concert at Woodstock, Pink Floyd’s concert in Berlin a few months after the fall of the Wall, a drive with Woody Allen and Mia Farrow, a rich Italian who after 50 years of living in the States didn’t speak a word of English and foreigners in Japan who “stick out like a soar thumb”. All that among controversies about languages, grammar rules and English idioms.
What do we do with all these stories? We pass them on, forget, remember, exaggerate, sing, tape, feel, share meaning, bring people closer.