<style scoped>

@font-face {
  font-family: 'AUTHENTICSansLight';
  src: url('../../../fonts/AUTHENTICSans-90.otf');
  font-weight: 100;
}

@font-face {
  font-family: 'AUTHENTICSansCondensed';
  src: url('../../../fonts/AUTHENTICSans-Condensed-60.otf');
}

* {
    border: 0px black solid;
    background-color: transparent;
}

.container_width {
  max-width: 100%;
  padding-left: 0px;
  padding-right: 0px;
  padding-top: 70px;
}

a:hover {
  color: hotpink;
  text-decoration: none;
}

a {
  color: gray;
}

.content {
  font-family: 'AUTHENTICSansLight';
  font-size: 18px;
  line-height: 24px;
  padding-bottom: 40px;
  color: black;
  text-align: left;
}

.controls {
  padding-top: 12px;
  height: 120px;
  z-index: 1;
  position: relative;
}

.title_story {
  font-size: 72px;
  line-height: 100%;
  font-family: 'AUTHENTICSansCondensed', sans-serif;
  padding-top: 96px;
  color: black;
  text-align: left;
}

.author {
  font-size: 36px;
  font-family: 'AUTHENTICSansCondensed', sans-serif;
  text-align: right;
  color: black;
}

.arrows {
  font-size: 40px;
  top: 48px;
  color: black;
  vertical-align: top;
  overflow: hidden;
  font-family: 'AUTHENTICSansCondensed';
}

.arrows p {
  visibility: hidden;
}

.arrows:hover p {
  visibility: visible;

}
.arrows a {
    display: block;
}



#leftarrow {
  float: left;
  color: black;
}

#rightarrow {
  float: right;
  color: black;
}

#onhover_right {
  font-size: 15px;
  margin-top: 24px;
  margin-right: 96px;
  text-align: right;
}

#onhover_left {
  font-size: 15px;
  margin-top: 24px;
  margin-left: 96px;
  text-align: left;
}

.image_container {
  padding-top: 5px;
}

#illustration {
  width: 100%;
  margin-top: 150px;
  margin-left: 10%;
}

.color_back {
  background-color: #EDECFF;
}

.color_next {
  background-color: #FBFFF0;

}


@media (max-width: 575px){
     .small_icon {
       display: none;

     }
     .title_story {
       font-size: 48px;
     }
     .author {
       font-size: 21px;
     }

     .content {
       padding-bottom: 40px;
     }

     .photo {
       padding-bottom: 40px;
     }
   }

</style>

<template>
  <b-container fluid class="p-0">
    <MenuBar/>
    <b-row >
      <b-col md="4" class="color_back">
        <b-row class="controls">
            <b-col md="12" class="arrows">
              <router-link to="/threeeggs" id="leftarrow"><b-img src="media/left-arrow.png"></b-img></router-link>
              <p id="onhover_left">Me, My Mom and Those Three Eggs</p>
            </b-col>
          </b-row>
          <b-row>
          <b-col md="6" offset-md="3">
              <b-img id="illustration" src="media/illustrations_3/olives_small.png"></b-img>
          </b-col>
          </b-row>
      </b-col>


    <b-col md="4" class="color_back">


  <b-row>
    <b-col md="12">
      <p class="title_story">A Jar of Green Olives</p>
    </b-col>
  </b-row>
      <b-row>
        <b-col md="12">
          <p class="author">by Raluca Chereji</p>

        </b-col>
      </b-row>
<div class='content'>

<p>One day, I bought a jar of green olives from my local Billa. A spur of the moment purchase because they were on sale, I took them home and mindlessly started snacking. My mom noticed, and when the jar was finished, she went and bought another one. I’d get home from work at 5.30, make a beeline straight for the fridge, open the olives and fish them out with my fingers. Popping them like candy, two, three, four at a time. I’d offer my mom one, she’d usually decline. We’d share a bowl over dinner, alongside whatever meal she’d cooked during the day whilst I was away, alongside an overly tart, overly salted green salad, another staple of our newfound routine. We were learning as we went, adapting to each other and constantly adjusting our expectations, making up for the last 11 years spent apart, she in Romania, and I in the UK. For the first time since high school, we were both in the same place, and she wasn’t going anywhere.</p>
<p>
I’d moved countries in the summer following a job offer. It felt like the embodiment of everything I’d consciously and unconsciously manifested, a change of pace and life and language I spent years dreaming about. Finally, here it was, and here I was, trying to make sense of a city whose language I barely even spoke. For the first time in months, I was living alone, and would be alone until my boyfriend joined me in the autumn. I’d assumed the freedom would be good for me, and maybe it would have been, had I known how to wield it. Instead, I spent my evenings alone watching shows I’d already seen, thinking of the places I’d come from, and wishing I could inhabit them again. Making the same meals. I’d been excited about pasta; my boyfriend hates tomatoes, and being away from him meant I could make all the marinara sauce I wanted. And I did, and it did provide comfort but its ability to soothe was far exceeded by the task at hand. Pasta alone can’t console the inconsolable.</p>
<p>
I hadn’t expected to find solitude, albeit a temporary one, as oppressive as it felt. It mirrored the weather: the hotter the days became, the heavier my loneliness grew. I tried to find solace in food, but what I hadn’t realised was just how important having another seat at the table was. I cooked for more than just pleasure, or bare sustenance; I cooked to share.</p>
<p>
Still, when my mom suggested she come stay, I hesitated. When I was a child, my mother was my best friend. We defied people’s expectations of what a mother-daughter relationship could look like, we were so close. I’d tell her everything. I’d relish in her warmth, her arms, sleep with her perfumed scarf on my pillow whenever she was away. But ten years elsewhere will do a lot to erase that, and the physical distance between us grew into something harder to travel over. I’d grown awkward, clumsy – I didn’t want her arms around me anymore, felt at times ashamed and embarrassed by my inability to be the daughter she had had before I left. We had a lot of rebuilding to do.</p>
<p>
Despite my reservations, I said yes, so she packed a small suitcase, kissed my father goodbye and got on the night train to Hauptbahnhof, where I promised I’d meet her. There I was, and now here she was, as smiling and as happy to see me as ever. It was strange at first – I was tentative and distant, so she threw herself into what she knew best: food.
She started with schnitzel. It was both a celebration of the place we were in, and the first meal she’d make me whenever I went back home. It was her opening bid, and though I’d protested, saying the Airbnb kitchen was too small, and what’s the point of making schnitzel when you can get it in every restaurant, she’d won me over. It tasted the way it always does, and for the first time in months, it felt like home.</p>
<p>
She slowly worked through her repertoire, and we started building a routine. We’d have breakfast together, then I’d leave for work, leaving her at home by herself. She said she enjoyed it, but still I couldn’t help feeling guilty every time I closed the door behind me. I hated myself for not opening up faster, for taking so long to readjust. For not showing more appreciation when she was here to support me, to soothe and to comfort. I tried harder, and worked on my own routine: every day on my way back from work, I’d pick up a small something. Éclairs from the French patisserie. Bergkäse. A jar of green olives. When I'd come home, we’d pick at whatever nibbles I’d brought over game shows on the only Romanian TV channel we could find. Then we’d have dinner. It didn’t matter what she made, it always tasted the same: flavorful and familiar, and always like home.</p>
<p>
Slowly, I thawed, and began to see her the way I used to when growing up. I’d seek her comfort and warmth, and revel in this new routine of doing nothing together. Of me settling into a new life with her by my side, of her taking care of the mundane so that I could get used to the new. Balancing everything that was unfamiliar with schnitzel, and mashed potatoes, and roasted red peppers. Filling my emptied cup.</p>
<p>
We assumed she’d stay for a couple of weeks, but two became three became four. All of a sudden, it had been four months. She had brought me right up to the point where my boyfriend would come and take her place, when she could go back home and I could start new routines in my own flat, with my own things, and my own chosen family by my side. She’d carried me across the Styx and brought me down to Earth.</p>
<p>
I still buy olives on my way home.
</p>
</div>

      </b-col>
      <b-col md="4" class="color_next">
        <b-row class="controls">
            <b-col md="12" class="arrows">
              <router-link to="/vodka" id="rightarrow"><b-img src="media/right-arrow.png"></b-img></router-link>
              <p id="onhover_right">Spoiled</p>
            </b-col>
          </b-row>

        </b-col>
        </b-row>

      </b-container>
</template>

<script>
import MenuBar from '../MenuBar'
export default {
    name: 'olives',
    data: function() {
        return {
        }
    },
    components: {
        MenuBar
    }
}

</script>
