The realisation that I could not live without my mobile phone came fairly late. I’ve had one since college and was frequently mocked by friends and loved ones for my apparent incapacity to resist its mellifluous call, yet it was only a couple of years ago, when I forgot to take my phone to lunch, that I knew I was in trouble. As I realized that my sweet little phone was not nestled in my purse, but lying abandoned among the paper mountains on my desk, clammy hands of terror gripped my heart. What if my boss calls with an urgent assignment? What if a long-lost lover (actual lovers were not on my horizon at the time, and long-lost ones are so much more exciting anyway) suddenly realized I was the one and was desperately trying to reach me before getting on a plane to China (where he, obviously, would have no reception)? What if (the ultimate horror) someone called to invite me to the biggest party of the year (where I was sure to meet my new fabulous lover)? I could not eat, I jumped at every ring-like sound and I was only mildly disappointed when, having rushed back to the office an hour later, I discovered not a single missed call or even a paltry SMS. Ah, the joys of addiction!
Romania is a mobile lover’s paradise. In the US, mobiles are looked upon with a certain amount of disdain – a needed, but rather declasse tool. Mobiles are brutally banned from restaurants and meeting rooms, and the intrepid lawyers and stockbrokers brandishing their mobiles in supermarket aisles are made to feel like uncouth barbarians. But here in Romania, mobiles are given the worshipful deference they deserve. They are the ultimate status symbols. Romanian youths save up for the latest Nokia or Siemens the same way American teens save for a used Chevrolet Camaro. It will make you the envy of your friends! Things don’t change much as the teens grow up, only the phones do, becoming ever-flashier and more expensive.
Indeed, one of the best ways to spot a foreigner is by his mobile – it will likely be an older model, dismally utilitarian and utterly unspectacular with its black cover and monophonic ringtones.
Look around you in the poshest restaurant – there they are, displayed proudly on the tables, right alongside the breadbaskets and the ashtrays. Go to watch a movie – their melodic rings (oh the many voices of the mobile! I could write a book about you alone!) will intone through the tensest chases and the most passionate love scenes. More often than not, the mobile will not be turned off disrespectfully. Rather, the phone’s owner will whisper breathlessly “Sunt la film” and then, perhaps fearing that this will be the last she would hear from her caller, proceed to make plans for the weekend. At business meetings and the gym, at the theatre and in nightclubs, the music of the mobile is the soundtrack of our lives.
My friends are classified according to their phone habits. There are the Bad Texters – those who still type in words one at a time and limit themselves to the utilitarian “Da”, the Text Fiends (I am one of them), the Those With Answering Machine and the Those Without. Depth of friendship can be measured by the promptness in answering the phone and returning missed calls. I once had a boyfriend who often refused to text with me while dining with his friends, yet never missed a call or failed to respond to an SMS during our meals together. It was the ultimate warning sign: how could I think the man cared for me – I was too low on the phone totem pole.
Love can often be cruel and loving the mobile takes its toll. We walk around tethered to the daily grind and social commitments like guard dogs chained to a fence, unable to surrender constant contact for even a moment. Perhaps one day I will break free of this love. Perhaps I will quietly turn off my mobile and leave it on the dining room table before going for a solitary stroll in Herastrau, hearing nothing but the ringing of birds in the trees. But for now… I really should get that call.
* Lola Gusman is an U.S. attorney working for the Marco Group in Bucharest. She has lived in Romania for three years