The Show Must Go On

My love affair with the circus started as a child in Romania when a caravan coming all the way from Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, or Hungary would set up the big tent in an open field not far from the concrete grey cluster of high-rise communist era apartments we lived in. We were so dazzled by the lights, the bright and happy colors, the clowns, the caged tigers and the lumbering giant elephants, the glittering costumes, the trapeze artists, and the magical sights and sounds of the circus, that we were hooked for life. We wanted to run away with the circus not because of the Bohemian, thrilling and fascinating travel life in cramped trailers, but because we wanted to see the world like them, beyond the heavily guarded and barb-wired borders where we could get shot even daring to approach it. We imagined beautiful and indescribable freedom beyond the frowning and heavily armed soldiers who were told to shoot on sight and ask questions later.

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