Black, Grey, Ginger - Part 1

I took the plane to Bucharest on a Friday morning. My head heavy with memories from the past two years, my luggage hardly carrying clothes for a very short 72 hours. Memories of break-ups, decisions, vows, tears and kisses. Clothes for a rainy beach and for a dressy work-do.

From Bucharest I took the train to Constanta, a brief 5-hour-train ride down to the Black Sea. Rain beating hard against the windows, broken roofed cribs rushing past as parts of a lead-heavy countryside.

Seaside. Sand. Shells. Salt. Storm. Shades of black, shades of grey, shades of ginger.

The skies were heavy with thick clouds. They could have fallen down any minute. The beach deserted, visited only by stray dogs. There is a stray dog to every 11th person in Romania. 2 million to 22 million people to be exact. They are everywhere.

You picked me up at the train station. Your ginger hair was like sunshine against the infinite block-flat background. Your smile said you couldn't have been happier to see me. Despite the break-ups, decisions, vows and tears. And your lips didn't say a word. They just kissed. Gavin, my sweet ginger Saffa giant of an on-off boyfriend. And Dora, you know who. Dora, the one that can't define herself easily.

The beach was deserted. The cane parasols amputated and laid to rest on their sand beds. Holiday homes locked until next year. Scarves and hats wrapped closely on salty skin to protect from the bites of the wind and of stray dogs.

We walked on leaving our footprints behind. Beautiful they were in the grey sand. Yours deeper than mine, but then you are a giant and I'm just you Lil Squeeza, as you say. We walked on and the greyness lifted. Somehow the kisses, the cuddles, the salt on your lips, the sand between our toes and even the stray dogs made it alright. We were together and we only cared for the following 72 hours.