Childhood Memories
By Ovi Catanescu
During my childhood, I spent most of my time at home in Brăila, which, back then, was a wonderful city.
Most of my childhood memories are connected to my brother, Adi, but also to the countless neighbors, playmates, and school friends who were part of our lives.
We rarely traveled away from home. When we visited relatives in other cities, we always went together as a family. Going somewhere on my own, surrounded by strangers, to a place I had never seen before, was something quite unusual.
Still, I remember going away to summer camp twice.
The first time was with a classmate, Augustin Brăileanu, and the second with my friend Ovidiu Pintiliescu.
My mother was not particularly enthusiastic about summer camps. Sending her child away from home, among strangers, to unfamiliar places was not something she accepted easily.
There was also the question of money. Education was free in Romania, but summer camps involved transportation and accommodation expenses. I don't believe the amounts were particularly large, but I remember that this was one of my mother's arguments against sending me.
The First Camp. Or What I Thought Was a Camp.
Augustin Brăileanu was one of my classmates and, to put it mildly, a bit of a troublemaker. He had a reputation for mischief at school, and my mother knew something about it. She probably didn't consider him the ideal traveling companion for her son.
Augustin's mother was a nurse at a hospital in Brăila.
One summer, Augustin suggested that we go together to a camp somewhere near Galați. He had been going there every summer and always returned with wonderful memories.
I kept asking my mother until I finally convinced her to speak with Augustin's mother.
Eventually, she agreed.
Two arguments probably helped considerably: the camp was completely free, and Augustin had returned home unharmed every single summer.
On the day of our departure, I encountered my first surprise.
Instead of going to the train station or bus terminal, we had to report to the hospital.
From there, an ambulance picked up Augustin, me, and several other children.
I thought it was a little strange, but I didn't ask too many questions. What mattered was that I was leaving home for an adventure.
When we arrived, I experienced communal living for the first time: a shared dormitory, shared bathrooms, and a dining hall where everyone ate together.
But the biggest surprise was still waiting.
This wasn't a summer camp at all, at least not the kind I had imagined.
It was a sanatorium for children suffering from pulmonary diseases.
Apart from Augustin, me, and a few other healthy children, most of the youngsters there were patients receiving treatment for various illnesses.
I still don't know exactly how we managed to qualify for this unusual vacation, although I suspect Augustin's mother's position at the hospital had something to do with it.
One thing was certain: the two of us enjoyed considerable freedom.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much we could do with it.
We couldn't play soccer because there was nobody to play with. Activities were limited, and we spent most of our time having pillow fights in the dormitory and occasionally venturing outside the sanatorium on little expeditions.
All things considered, my first summer camp was not exactly the adventure I had dreamed about.
But at least I learned that not every summer camp is what it appears to be.
The Second Camp. Năvodari!
My second experience was entirely different.
This time, I went to Năvodari, on the Black Sea coast, together with my friend Ovidiu Pintiliescu.
Ovidiu was the son of a well-known teacher in Brăila, whom we called "Babacul." His father taught at a different school from mine.
Ovidiu and I had something in common right from the beginning: our first name.
Back then, Ovidiu was a relatively uncommon name among children in Brăila. And there we were, two boys from the same city, both named Ovidiu, heading off to the seaside together.
But the similarities didn't end there.
Ovidiu was an extraordinary athlete. He loved practically every sport and excelled at almost everything he tried: ice skating, swimming, soccer, and track and field.
Whatever the sport, he was remarkably good at it.
Summer camp at Năvodari was a genuine adventure.
First of all, we were at the beach!
Second, unlike my previous experience, this was a real summer camp, organized by people who knew how to give children a wonderful vacation.
There were children from all over Romania, organized activities, games, and sports competitions.
I particularly remember the soccer tournament.
Ovidiu and I played together on the Brăila team, and as far as I remember, the two boys with the same name did a pretty good job representing our hometown.
But among all my memories from Năvodari, one still makes me laugh today.
The Secret Weapon Inside My Pillow
Like any respectable summer camp, ours had frequent pillow fights in the dormitory.
I don't remember who started them, but once they began, they turned into full-scale battles.
During one of these battles, I noticed something peculiar.
Every time I hit another boy with my pillow, he complained that it hurt.
At first, I couldn't understand why.
After all, it was just a pillow!
The other boys were hitting one another with pillows too, but nobody seemed to be suffering quite as much as the unfortunate victims of mine.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of me, and I examined my pillow more carefully.
That's when I discovered the mystery.
At the dining hall, I particularly liked the end pieces of bread. Whenever I could, I collected a few and saved them to eat later.
And where did I keep them?
Inside my pillow, of course!
Unfortunately, the bread had been sitting there for quite some time.
And it hadn't just dried out a little.
Those innocent pieces of bread had turned as hard as rocks.
Without realizing it, I had been participating in our pillow fights with a weapon considerably more powerful than anyone else's.
Now I understood why everybody was complaining!
Where Am I Supposed to Send the Money? To Ovid's Statue?
At some point during camp, I needed some money.
So I sent my mother a postcard featuring a photograph of the statue of the Roman poet Ovid in Constanța.
I wrote asking her to send me some money, but I forgot one rather important detail.
I didn't give her the camp's actual address.
Back then, there were no cell phones, electronic transfers, or any of the modern conveniences that allow us to send money almost instantly.
To tell the truth, even today I'm not entirely sure how my mother could have sent me the money.
But she would certainly have tried, if only she had known where to send it.
When I returned home, she told me that she had received my postcard but had no idea where to send the money.
Then, referring to the photograph on the postcard, she asked:
"Where was I supposed to send it? To Ovid's statue?"
For those unfamiliar with Constanța, there is a famous statue of the Roman poet Ovid in the center of the city.
And so, three Ovids — two boys from Brăila and one ancient Roman poet — somehow ended up playing a part in the same story.
The only difference was that the poet was the only one with a known address!
Two Camps, Two Different Worlds
Looking back, the two experiences couldn't have been more different.
The first camp had been a sanatorium where two healthy boys enjoyed plenty of freedom but had very little to do with it.
The second had been a genuine vacation, filled with the sea, soccer, organized games, new friends, and dormitory adventures.
At Năvodari, I met children from all corners of Romania and discovered how wonderful it could be to leave home, meet new people, and learn to manage on my own.
I don't know whether my mother ever changed her opinion about summer camps.
But I returned from Năvodari with memories that have stayed with me to this day.
A Childhood Friend, Rediscovered After So Many Years
Recently, I reconnected through Messenger with my old friend Ovidiu.
In fact, he was the one who reminded me of our summer camp at Năvodari and the soccer matches we played together for the Brăila team.
He also reminded me of other events from those days, but unfortunately, our older messages have disappeared, and I can no longer remember all the details.
I also learned that Ovidiu had become a physical education teacher.
That didn't surprise me at all.
The boy who had loved sports so passionately and excelled at almost everything he tried had turned that passion into a profession.
I like to believe that he found happiness in his work. After all, when you spend your life doing something you love, going to work every day doesn't really feel like work.
For him, sports weren't simply a subject to teach. They were his childhood passion, transformed into a career.
After all these years, there is something truly special about reconnecting with a friend who remembers the same places, the same people, and the same adventures from a childhood that now seems so far away.
Sometimes, the memories we have forgotten continue to live in someone else's mind.
And after all these years, I still wonder whether any of my former dormitory companions remember that boy from Brăila who attacked them with a pillow full of rock-hard bread.
The Owl Never Forgets. But Sometimes, Even the Owl Needs a Little Help From an Old Friend!