I dedicate this book to my family, and most especially to my parents, whose unwavering guidance set me on the right path from the very beginning. Throughout much of my life, I chased perfection with relentless determination, never pausing to relax, never allowing myself to settle for anything less than my best. My mother was my role model in this pursuit of absolute excellence, her example constantly pushing me to reach higher. Yet, in my journey, I also came to appreciate my father’s wisdom—a reminder that contentment and fulfillment can often be found in making the most of what you have.

I learned to extract the good from every situation, to focus on the lessons, and to let go of the bad and the ugly. This mindset carried me through countless chapters of my life, from the bustling streets of major capitals to the rigorous halls of various medical schools. It shaped the way I interacted with the world, helping me find common ground with everyone I encountered—whether they were friends or foes.

Now, I find myself living a life of deep fulfillment, both in my professional accomplishments and the warmth of my family. I’ve even cultivated hobbies that once seemed unattainable, dreams that once felt out of reach. I’ve often thought of Elvis, whose journey from humble beginnings to stardom resonates with me deeply. Like him, the child from the ghetto who saw his dreams come to life, I too have experienced something even greater than I ever imagined—a life where everything I ever wanted has been surpassed, a thousand times over.

FOREWARD

I was born in Bucharest, a city rich with history and steeped in legend. Founded by Bucur, the shepherd, whose name reverberates through the centuries, Bucharest's roots stretch back to the ancient past. The city was first mentioned in 1459 by Vlad Dracul, or Vlad the Impaler, a ruler who found both refuge and solace here, just outside Târgoviște, which was the capital of the country at the time.

Bucharest, often referred to as "Little Paris," is a city where ancient tales seamlessly blend with the vibrant rhythm of modern life. It stands as a living testament to the resilience and evolution of its people, a city that has weathered the passage of time yet remains ever-changing. A crossroads of cultures, Bucharest carries the weight of centuries of influence, its streets echoing with the stories of the past and the pulse of the present. Our roots stretch back to the Thracians, a people whose legacy is intricately intertwined with Roman history. With pride, we call ourselves Romans, our veins flowing with the enduring legacy of two powerful civilizations—ancient and timeless.

My earliest memories take me back to a time when I was just a young child, watching my baby brother nestled in a pram as I rode my little tricycle down the quiet streets of Drumul Sării. It was a place that seemed to exist outside the hustle of the world, a peaceful residential area surrounded by the hum of military life. Drumul Sării, a small, tucked-away neighbourhood, was nestled near a military base and close to the prestigious Military Academy. The people who lived there were all connected to the military in some way—either through contracts or service itself.

We lived in a small house owned by my father’s uncle, a man named Tatianu. Our room, no bigger than 6-7sqaure meters, was a tight space for my parents, my brother, and me. It wasn’t much, but it was home. Despite the modest size of our living quarters, we had access to the bathroom, a kitchen, and, best of all, a beautiful garden where I spent countless hours playing. Tatianu was a soldier—like many others in the area—but he had no children of his own. Yet, there was something about being around children that he cherished deeply, and he made sure we always felt welcome in his home.

Though he wasn’t a doctor, Tatianu possessed an insatiable curiosity about medicine. His love for the field was evident in his collection of medical books, particularly anatomy atlases, which he treasured above all else. I vividly remember him introducing me to the world of surgery long before I could even walk. He would sit me down, flipping through the pages of his books, his eyes lighting up as he explained the intricate details of the human body. His passion for the subject was infectious, and it sparked something deep within me—a fascination that would remain with me through the years, long after I had outgrown the small room and the tricycle I once played on.

Tatianu promised me his collection of medical books, a gift that held more than just knowledge—it was a symbol of his belief in my potential. He encouraged me to become a doctor, not just any doctor, but one who could truly make a difference. He wanted me to be a healer, a kind doctor who could mend the wounds of the war-torn world and bring comfort to those suffering. He envisioned a generation of us, untouched by the ravages of conflict, living in a world free from pain and war. His dream for us was one of hope and healing, a vision that stayed with me as I grew, shaping my aspirations and the way I saw the future.

One day, back in the 60’s, Tatianu gave me something that would leave an impression on my young heart. It was a poster of a Cessna 172, a small aircraft that he thought might inspire me. I remember hanging that poster above my bed, gazing at it with wide-eyed wonder and a deep sense of awe. I’d stare at it for hours, imagining what it would be like to fly that little plane one day, believing with all my heart that somehow, someway, it would one day be mine.

At that age, I couldn’t know what life had in store for me. But in those quiet moments, as I drifted off to sleep under the gaze of that small plane, I dreamed. Little did I know that the very dreams I had as a toddler would somehow, in ways I couldn't yet comprehend, one day come true.

One day, Tatianu took me fishing, a passion of his that seemed to transcend everything else. He had an immense love for the sport, and his knowledge about fish species and their habitats was vast—almost encyclopaedic. Behind the house stood a large shed, its walls weathered and worn but full of life in its own way. Inside, it was a treasure trove of fishing rods, some of them carefully crafted by his own hands. The shed was covered with asphalt, and a towering black cherry tree stood guard over it, its branches reaching out like the arms of an old friend.

In the summer, when the cherries ripened, we'd return to that same spot, lounging on towels spread out on the warm surface of the shed, stretching in the sun, and indulging in the sweet, juicy cherries that dripped with the essence of the season. Those were the days when life felt like a soft, pleasant dream, a pause from the rush of the world. His wife, whom we lovingly called "Mamă Nașa," would prepare rose jam for us, a delicate, fragrant treat that seemed to capture the essence of those sunny, carefree afternoons. Surrounded by blooming trees, with the serene beauty of a summer day wrapping around us, life felt perfect—simple, yet deeply fulfilling.

Back then, the fishing rods were far from the polished, high-tech equipment one might find today. They were rudimentary, homemade from trestie wood, and built with the kind of care that only a person deeply in love with the craft could manage. Tatianu even made his own silk fishing lines and hooks, each one an extension of his own meticulous attention to detail. Despite his military background—discipline and strength carved into his very being—he was a gentle soul, too kind even to hurt a fly. Yet, when it came to fishing, he was resolute, a quiet determination in his every movement.

The family didn’t own a car, so our fishing trips always began with an early morning wake-up. We’d take a bus and a tram, the journey part of the adventure itself, each step a prelude to the quiet hours spent by the water. Despite the modest means, those trips, those days, were rich in a way that wealth could never buy. They were moments of connection, of simple joys, and the kind of timeless beauty that lingers in the heart long after the seasons change.

The first time I went fishing with Tatianu, I could barely contain my excitement. I was so eager that sleep eluded me the entire night. To pass the time, I grabbed an old newspaper and carefully folded it into a large paper boat, my mind already racing with thoughts of launching it on the water at Cernica the next day. I placed the boat gently next to my bed, imagining it floating along the river, and eventually, drifted off to sleep, my dreams filled with the vision of that little boat sailing across the water. The night seemed to pass in a blur, and before I knew it, Tatianu was waking me up before the first light of dawn.

I managed to fall asleep again, this time on the tram, lulled by the motion and the soft murmur of the city waking up. By the time we arrived at the lake, it was still early, the summer morning air warm and tranquil. The water was perfectly still, a mirror reflecting the soft hues of the sky, and there was not a soul in sight. It felt as though we had the whole world to ourselves. Amongst the tall reeds and grass, I carefully launched my paper boat into the water. I watched, mesmerized, as it began to float downstream, its tiny form moving gently with the current. As the boat drifted farther and farther away, it slowly faded from sight, disappearing into the distance. My mind raced with questions—where could it have gone? Did it travel to the big Black Sea we’d heard of, or perhaps, was it heading for the vast, mysterious ocean? How big was the ocean, really, and what kind of fish lived in it? My curiosity swirled like the water beneath me.

Tatianu, meanwhile, had already begun setting up his fishing rods, preparing the tripods, and carefully baiting the hooks with worms. After a short while, he pulled in a fish—a small one, but to me, it seemed enormous. I had never seen a live fish before, and it was a wonder to watch as it flailed and leaped, its body wriggling on the line. But the excitement was short-lived. The fish had swallowed the hook deep, and try as we might, we couldn’t get it out. We hadn’t thought to bring a pair of pliers, and there we were, stuck. Tatianu, ever the kind-hearted soul, was visibly sorry for the fish, and after a brief moment decided to head back home to retrieve the pliers.

He placed the fish gently in a water jar, and we packed up our things. By the time we made it back home, several hours had passed. I can’t remember now what happened to the fish, though. What I do remember is that back at home, Mama Nasa was waiting for us with a warm lunch, the smell of her cooking filling the house. We sat down to eat, and after, we forgot about fishing for a while, diving into other games and moments of childhood joy.

About a year later, or so, my father took us to see something that would stay with me for a lifetime—the rocket that carried the first cosmonaut, Yuri Gagarin, into space. It was the Vostok 1, a towering monument of human achievement, which looked colossal from another world. A small metal fence separated us from the rocket, and we were so close you could almost reach out and touch it. It was overwhelming—immense in size, its engines massive and intricate. If it had been standing upright, I imagined, it might have reached up to the sun itself. That’s how grand and imposing it seemed.

Yuri Gagarin, the man who had journeyed into the unknown, must have been the greatest hero ever, I thought. He was our Superman, a symbol of courage and wonder. I could hardly wrap my mind around the idea of someone traveling through the sky, leaving Earth behind. As a child, the sky seemed so vast, so endless. The thought that a person had actually flown beyond it seemed like something out of a dream.

Later, I saw Yuri's wax statue in Australia, and I was struck by how different it was from the image I had in my mind. My imagination had made him larger than life, grand and imposing, but in reality, like the statue, Yuri had been a small, delicate man.

I remember the cold, the chill biting at the air, but somehow, the significance of the moment kept me warm, as if the very idea of space was a fire that burned bright inside me. I wore a white hooded top that day, and I remember that clearly because my father took photos of us standing near the rocket. I still see those photos from time to time, the image frozen in time, a reminder of how young I was, how wide-eyed and full of wonder.

As I stood there, gazing up at the Vostok 1, my mind was a whirlwind of questions. Space was a concept I was only beginning to understand. How did people travel in the sky? Were there others up there, somewhere, in the vastness? Where did the sky end, I wondered, and could it really be possible to walk on clouds? The questions swirled in my head, each one more fantastical than the last. The mystery of it all filled me with awe, and in that moment, the entire world felt full of possibilities, as infinite as the space above us.

After our first winter, when we finally found a place, everything felt cramped. The only source of heat was a wood stove, and living in the constant haze of smoke became a part of daily life. We spent our days tending to the fire and cleaning out the ashes. Then, my father received a three-bedroom flat through his work. It wasn’t free—there was a loan attached to it—but the loan came with the benefit of being interest-free for twenty years. Back then, there was no taxation system, and whatever money you earned was entirely yours. The simplicity of it all made life feel a little less complicated, even if the reality was far from ideal.

In those days, owning a flat and a car was the dream of nearly everyone in Romania. It was a symbol of success, a mark of having made it in life. The car that everyone coveted was the Dacia, a Romanian version of the Renault 12. It was the only car available, the only one anyone truly wanted. There was also the Trabant, a cheaper alternative—a two-cylinder, air-cooled, cardboard-bodied car from East Germany. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was more affordable, and in a country where options were limited, it became a more affordable choice for many.

As for the Germans, well… I used to be a big fan of them—their culture, their efficiency, their way of life. But as I grew older, my perspective shifted. The more I learned and experienced, the more I realized how naïve I had been in my admiration. It’s funny how time and wisdom change the way you see things.

We also had a Romanian four-wheel drive, an ARO, and a Russian car, a Lada. However, these were out of reach for the average Romanian at the time, both in terms of cost and availability. The Skoda, a Czechoslovakian car, was more accessible, but it never held the same appeal as the Dacia. The Dacia was something special, something everyone desired. It wasn’t just a car—it carried with it a sense of national pride. The name itself had deep historical significance. It harkened back to the time of Decebalus, the great native ruler of Dacia, who fiercely defended his land against the Roman emperor Trajan in the famous Battle of Sarmizegetusa. The Dacia car was a symbolic echo of that ancient battle, a tribute to the strength and resilience of our people.

To own a Dacia wasn’t just about owning a car—it was about owning a piece of history. It was a connection to the past, to our heritage, and to the very roots of Romania.

My parents were both born in a small village called Băești, located in the southwest region of Oltenia. My father’s side of the family was well known in the village—my grandfather had been the mayor. On my mother’s side, things were quite different. My grandfather had spent nine long years in a work camp in Kazakhstan, and in Siberia, after the war. He was taken prisoner in the battle of Stalingrad. For all those years, there was no word from him. His family feared the worst, thinking he was dead, and in time, they had to move on with their lives, assuming he was lost to history.

Then, one day, he unexpectedly returned, surprising everyone. He had suffered a severe head injury during his time in the labour camps when he worked in the mines, and when he came back, he wasn’t the same man. His mind, forever altered by his trauma, struggled to find peace. But what followed was an even darker twist.

In his absence, my grandmother had found comfort with a neighbour, and she had a son. This revelation crushed my grandfather. In his madness, he gave the boy away to the neighbours for adoption, unable to bear the sight of him. The neighbours had no children of their own, so they gladly accepted him. It was a decision he would regret deeply for the rest of his life. He longed for the son he’d lost, and in his heart, he would have loved that boy as if he were his own flesh and blood.

We all make mistakes, often driven by impulse and emotion. But the damage caused in a single moment of madness cannot be undone in a lifetime. The consequences of those choices ripple through the years, shaping the lives of everyone involved.

After the war, life in Romania was incredibly hard. Many people were deported to labor camps, where they perished under harsh conditions. Food was scarce, and poverty was widespread. As if that wasn’t enough, the government abolished private property, seizing whatever little land people owned. They forced everyone to join the Communist Party, stripping away any remaining sense of personal freedom.

Though my grandparents were not wealthy by any means, they had their own land, their little ranch, and, most importantly, their pride. They had a history, a heritage they cherished deeply, and the imposition of the Communist regime wounded them to the core. They refused to join the Party, holding onto their dignity, even when it meant facing harsh consequences. Their refusal was an act of defiance—a stand for everything they had once known.

My parents, however, followed the line. My mother became a primary school teacher in the village, but her new position came at a cost. The villagers, resentful and fearful of the regime, would open their classroom doors and hurl rotten eggs and tomatoes at her, mocking her, and pressuring her to join the Communist Party. The atmosphere was charged with hostility—people were pushed to betray their own principles just to survive. It was a fierce reflection of human nature under duress.

Eventually, my parents made the difficult decision to leave the village, to break away from everything they knew and find a place where they weren’t bound by the oppressive eyes of the past. They became the first generation in our family to leave their natal village, seeking a chance at higher education and a future outside of the shadows of their birthplace. Their decision, their strength, represented the willpower that had carried this nation through thousands of years of war, occupation, and feuds—a force of resilience that could not be broken.

My mother pursued a Master’s degree in biochemical engineering and went on to become one of the leading research scientists in the country. She became the right-hand of the president's wife, playing a key role in scientific advancements. Yet, despite her achievements, she remained steadfast in her refusal to join the Communist Party. The Party membership would have brought her the fame, wealth, and recognition she deserved, but it would have come at the cost of her pride and integrity. Instead, she chose to remain in the lab, working tirelessly, mostly unappreciated, and often hated by her less competent colleagues.

Her story is one of quiet sacrifice, of a woman who stood by her convictions even when the world around her was willing to compromise for glory. It was a sacrifice that, though largely unseen, was deeply felt by those who knew her.

My mother was strict—unyielding in her belief that education was the key to a better future. Having lived through a harsh and often unkind childhood herself, she understood the power of knowledge, and she was determined that her children would not face the same struggles. Growing up, she was often belittled, told she was unattractive, and discouraged from dressing up or dreaming of attending a ball. Instead, she was expected to stay home and do chores. Those harsh lessons from her youth shaped the way she raised us, and she was adamant that we would not only excel but be the best at everything we set our minds to.

I started my first year of school in the village where my parents had been born. Mum was at university, and Dad worked to support us, so there was rarely anyone at home to look after us. As a result, we spent most of our early childhood in the hilly, remote area of Oltenia, surrounded by nature. It wasn’t an easy life, but it was one we made do with.

Despite the challenges, I managed to be one of the best students in my first year at school. But when Mum came home for the Christmas holidays, she was appalled by the state of my homework. She saw the mistakes in my writing, and in a burst of frustration, she tore my homework into pieces. “This is not acceptable,” she said, “you will spend the entire holiday redoing it.” There I was, surrounded by snow, the joy of Christmas, the scent of the Christmas tree, and the laughter of friends. Instead of joining in the festivities, I was locked inside, rewriting three months' worth of homework.

Of course, I didn’t manage to finish it all. By January, we were back at school. During the parents' teacher meeting, I was presented as an exemplary student. My teacher, Gheorghe Popescu, proudly held up my homework book to show the other parents. But when he opened it, his face fell. He stared at the empty pages, page after page, all left unfinished, awaiting my calligraphy lessons in the coming weeks. His face turned red with disbelief, and I could see the exasperation building up. As he turned to me, I blurted out in one breath, “Mum wasn’t happy, and I had to redo the whole lot.”

It was a moment I will never forget—the look on his face and the weight of what I had just revealed. I had learned the hard way that Mum’s expectations were not something I could escape. No shortcuts, no compromises. What she wanted was excellence, no matter the cost.

My father worked a variety of jobs throughout his life. He started in construction, then worked as an electrician, a welder, and a labourer. Eventually, he found himself working in telecommunications at the Telegraful Central on Strada Ștefan Cel Mare. Despite his many different roles, one thing remained constant—his ambition to do better. He was inspired by my mother’s success and, for a time, he also dreamed of going to university.

He tried to follow in the footsteps of his father, a respected leader in the community, by applying to a political university. Unfortunately, he failed the entrance exam. They told him he had passed the exam but there were no more available seats. In his typical light-hearted manner, he joked, “I can bring my own chair, no problem.” It was his way of dealing with disappointment—always making fun of failure and refusing to let it keep him down. He never let setbacks break him, and he’d always laugh and start again.

In hindsight, my father likely would never have been accepted into the university, regardless of his exam results, as membership in the Party was essential to getting in. He understood that quickly, more so than my mother, who was much more inclined to fight against the system rather than go along with it. My father, with his easy-going nature, was much more open to going with the flow—he didn’t waste energy fighting windmills like Don Quixote de la Mancha.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have principles or values. On the contrary, he was a man of quiet strength. But he knew when to bend and when to stand firm, a balance my mother often struggled with. His ability to adapt, even in the face of defeat, was something I admired deeply. In his own way, he showed me that resilience didn’t always mean fighting—it often meant knowing when to let go and move forward.

THE BEGININGS

THE TODDLER

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