Dave and I's time in Romania is reaching its conclusion. Not soon enough for some, far too prematurely for others. As previously mentioned we won't tell anyone the exact date but it is very soon.
I'll miss everything in Romania. The phenomenal people, the lifestyle, the culture; but I also lie awake at night longing to see everyone at home and to get my job back, something I never appreciated until I didn't have it.
I think I'm a different person now. Well, I hope I am. I used to be an antisocial, miserable bastard who was reluctant to experience new things and to give anybody a chance to prove themselves as anything other than a waste of my time. Four months in an alien culture has beaten these horrible characteristics out of me. Now when I see a new person my first instinct is to talk to them, not to hide behind my pint. I no longer dismiss people if I don't find myself interested by them at first glance, I feel so very...different. Don't get me wrong, I'm still cynical and sarcastic, but I think now I might be happy as well. What that will mean in the long run escapes me. I hope I can hold onto the things I've learned here and replicate them at home; perhaps be less of a bastard to my friends and appreciate the ephemeral nature of time to a greater extent. Maybe I'll enter a new stage of my life where I achieve things and follow through with plans, maybe I'll throw myself into my music and my writing and finally become the kind of person I want to be. This might be the start of a whole new Gordon for the world to deal with.
I still tell paedophile jokes though. Because they're funny.
Wednesday 3 June 2009
Tuesday 26 May 2009
Getting Ahead In The Lucrative Field of Discourse Analysis
So here I am at 5am stirring cheap coffee with a toothbrush and listening to Rammstein, eating other people's leftovers, writing an essay about a subject I don't understand with the creeping sound of inevitability whispering sweet nothings into my ear, and yet I still find myself wondering; what would happen if time were to stop?
Sunday 24 May 2009
Poli
My sporting endeavours know no bounds. I went to my first football match (in Romania or otherwise)a few nights ago to see Poli Timisoara play Bucharest. It was madness from start to finish. Rather than try to do it any justice with words, here are some small videos of the fans' celebration after Poli scored the only goal of the match.
Not long now, not long now...
Not long now, not long now...
Thursday 21 May 2009
Elba
As some of you may know I have recently began to become interested in basketball. As some of you may know, this is somewhat out of character for me, what with me being a dyspraxic idiot who harbours a natural resentment towards the fit and the beautiful. Well, that was the old Gordon. My trips to the matches began as an excuse to spend time with a particular someone, but they soon grew into a genuine interest in the team's development and the fan psychology. Elba (the name of the Timisoara team) fans are the best kind; loud, invetive and more supportive than any team could possibly wish for. Some of their chants include:
"We're Timisoara and we're better than you."
"Your mother is a penguin" (because it rhymes)
"Fuck you [insert name of opposing player]"
"You're from [insert name of opposing team], you're poor and everyone should know."
They have drums, improvised chants and there's dancing afoot.
Elba have reached the finals of the championship and are playing the best team in Romania, Asesoft from Praest (sp?). The players walked out from the dressing room carrying a banner that thanked all the fans for their support and brought a tear to many an eye.
While Elba are a great team last night they narrowly lost out. What amazed me however was the reaction of the fans who didn't seem to care they their team had lost, you'd barely know anything bad had happened. The players were understandably distraught. The captain of the team was particularly upset and cried slightly. The players left the hall to the deafening chants of "You're our champions anyway" and the fans at the barrier bowing to the players. It was the most heartbreakingly lovely thing I've seen in years. The fans are there to support the team and Timisoara because they are genuinely proud of them, not just because they love sport or basketball or competition. The players love their sport but they love their fans as much, you get the feeling that while they're playing to win they're also playing to make their fans happy and proud. One by one the players came out with their young children and the crowd waved and cheered for them. The team left the court again to the sound of a thousand fans singing "Suntem mândri de tine". We're proud of you.
I apologise for not blogging very much recently. While my adventures at the beginning of the trip were group affairs I felt ok about telling the world about them. Now most of my time is spent with a few individuals and I feel there'd be something voyeuristic about writing about everything we do. I've had an amazing time though. I've seen philharmonic orchestras in forests, rap metal concerts in rose gardens, gospel choirs in orthodox cathedrals; I've lived a lifetime in a few months. While I'll be poor, confused and exhausted when I get home I wouldn't change a single second.
To those who don't already know, Dave and I will be home very soon. I'll be coming to a doorstep near you. And to answer your next question; yes. You can buy me a drink.
"We're Timisoara and we're better than you."
"Your mother is a penguin" (because it rhymes)
"Fuck you [insert name of opposing player]"
"You're from [insert name of opposing team], you're poor and everyone should know."
They have drums, improvised chants and there's dancing afoot.
Elba have reached the finals of the championship and are playing the best team in Romania, Asesoft from Praest (sp?). The players walked out from the dressing room carrying a banner that thanked all the fans for their support and brought a tear to many an eye.
While Elba are a great team last night they narrowly lost out. What amazed me however was the reaction of the fans who didn't seem to care they their team had lost, you'd barely know anything bad had happened. The players were understandably distraught. The captain of the team was particularly upset and cried slightly. The players left the hall to the deafening chants of "You're our champions anyway" and the fans at the barrier bowing to the players. It was the most heartbreakingly lovely thing I've seen in years. The fans are there to support the team and Timisoara because they are genuinely proud of them, not just because they love sport or basketball or competition. The players love their sport but they love their fans as much, you get the feeling that while they're playing to win they're also playing to make their fans happy and proud. One by one the players came out with their young children and the crowd waved and cheered for them. The team left the court again to the sound of a thousand fans singing "Suntem mândri de tine". We're proud of you.
I apologise for not blogging very much recently. While my adventures at the beginning of the trip were group affairs I felt ok about telling the world about them. Now most of my time is spent with a few individuals and I feel there'd be something voyeuristic about writing about everything we do. I've had an amazing time though. I've seen philharmonic orchestras in forests, rap metal concerts in rose gardens, gospel choirs in orthodox cathedrals; I've lived a lifetime in a few months. While I'll be poor, confused and exhausted when I get home I wouldn't change a single second.
To those who don't already know, Dave and I will be home very soon. I'll be coming to a doorstep near you. And to answer your next question; yes. You can buy me a drink.
Tuesday 5 May 2009
Bears are the Alligators of the Black Sea
The prospect of going to the beach will no doubt conjure up similar images in the mind of many Britons; relentless wind, horizontal rain, sandwiches with unhealthily high sand content etc. That is the traditional British weekend getaway. As it so happens a very similar version of events transpires when one tries to holiday in Romania as well. Batten down the hatches and lock the children in the basement, there's a storm coming.
Thursday
We decided to go to the Black Sea for a small holiday and to experience a festival that celebrates the first of May. I don't know why Romanians celebrate it but God knows they love a good bank holiday. The travellers were going to be Dave, Martin, Loic, Jeane, Sore, Sandra, Eda, Juliet, Dana, Dave and myself. We were fearless pioneers delving into the arse-end of nowhere with little to our names besides a few flimsy tents, a volleyball and the lust for adventure. As some of you may know I have a very bad habit of listening to what someone is saying and instead of hearing what is said I hear a more preferable version of events. So when my friend Dana said to me repeatedly that the whole journey was going to take 23 hours I simply hear "the whole journey is going to be easy and a lot of fun". While aspects of the journey were fun, easy it most certainly was not.
The train from Timisoara to Arad left at 17:10 or there abouts. The first leg of the journey was on an uncomfortable modern train with plastic seats and charmless facades. When we left Timisoara the weather was glorious; the kind you would hope for when going to the beach. A few minutes out of the city the skies closed up and the clouds became dense and unforgiving. I looked down at my tshirt and shorts ensemble and gave a little sigh.
In Arad we met up with our Galacian friend Xacobe and shared a few beers and stories, catching up with the gossip in our respective cities. Before we knew it we had to once again depart and begin the second leg of the journey from Arad to Constanta. We were about to see what was on the other side of the looking glass.
The train looked like a monstrosity from a steam-punk novel written by someone with sado-masocistic tendencies. The seats smelled faintly of fish and sweat while the lights shone with the brilliance of a broken glove-box. We piled our stuff into the rickety overhead shelves and settled down into our groove. And by groove I mean drinking. The wine and beer was flowing like an ancient Roman vomitorium and the music came from our own under developed vocal chords. Volleyball and football were played liberally in the corridor and we generally enjoyed having a train carriage to ourselves. I fell asleep clutching my valuables to my body and tried to ignore the feeling that the train track was made of lego.
Friday
I woke up abruptly and found myself staring into the eyes of a large Romanian man. He was busy putting his belongings over my head and handing me my glasses; the international hint that I'm taking up a whole seat and that he wanted to sit down where my face was. We were in Bucharest.
I staggered into the corridor and found Martin smoking out the window. There were two small signs that sported pictures of a man leaning out the window and a man drinking. There were no red crosses through the pictures so we assumed these activities were just fine.
While my belongings had been in my pockets and any attempt to steal them out have been tantamount to rape, others had not been so lucky. Both Dana and Sore had their money, phones and MP3 players stolen in the night and the Bucharest police seemed less than inclined to give a single solitary shit. I was amazed at the girls' composure and attitude towards it all. Throughout the weekend we made sure they didn't go hungry or thirsty, nothing should ruin someone's time at the beach. The rest of the journey went reasonably smoothly and we arrived in Constanta in the afternoon. Due to it being a May holiday most eateries were closed and we were forced to eat at KFC. At this point I was nearly 3000km from home; finding myself in a KFC made me a little homesick for the times I spent there with Spanky. The food was rotten.
The last hurdle before the beach was getting onto a tiny minibus with about three billion other people and a reckless driver. Within minutes we were at the beach. The sky was blue, the sun was unbearably hot and the sea was only a few feet away; things were finally perfect.
What with Dave and I being British and useless we had to rely on Sore and Jeane to erect our tents for us while we adopted a more passive, supervisory role. They did a fantastic job, although Jeane did find our two tiny tents somewhat hilarious.
We played some volleyball, drank some beer, ate some seafood etc. When night fell we went to a bar for drinks and suddenly the night becomes hazy. I remember eating a shaorma with Martin and Loic, I also remember it raining and that I got very wet. My camera reminded me that I tried to go back to the tent by myself. Looking for a dark blue tent in the dark with a backdrop of a black sea and a black sky while guttered out one's dignity is quite the arduous task. I took dozens of pictures for the benefit of the flash to try and guide myself home. I eventually gave up and went back to the town to find the others. Find them I did, I also found more alcohol and they in turn found me my tent. I fell asleep in a mound of sand inside the tent with the relaxing sounds of water ebbing and flowing mere feet away from where I lay.
Saturday
I woke up to the relaxing sound of water ebbing and flowing mere feet away from where I lay and began to panic. Why can I hear water? Why am I in a tent? And good God why am I wearing shorts? After a few seconds of thrashing around and beating the feeling back into my legs I fell out of the tent and surveyed my surroundings. The beach stretched for miles and every square inch was occupied by tent or beer bottle castle, people in the distance played in the surf and dogs sniffed idly at discarded fast food.
Dave, Sore and I dined in a small restaurant for breakfast and instantly my fellow Scot and I were overcome with childlike glee. We had to travel 929km but we found it. We found a fried breakfast. It was only fried eggs and bacon by by God it was the best eggs and bacon I've ever had, my feelings undoubtedly fuelled by my desperation and crippling hangover.
It was at this point that Dave and I had an idea that proved to be as amazing as it was ridiculous. We wanted cocktails. We wanted all our favourite drinks in the same glass. I have no idea what time we started but it was definitely before British licencing hours. Once we ran out of cocktails we knew we began to order by colour, starting with blue and working our way through the rainbow and beyond. We met some minor Romanian celebrities, some people who were altogether too fond of our nationality, a man who is the closest thing to a Herculean figure I've ever met and more people wearing their pants outside their trousers than I could count. We concluded our night by sitting beside enormous fires drinking with the rest of our companions, watching Romanian TV stations filming people jumping over fires and being young and reckless. Dave, Sore and I learned from our mistakes and slept in the same tent to stave off numbness and frostbite. I fell asleep to the none-too-distant cries of Jeane shouting "hopen zis fackhing tent!".
Sunday
On Sunday we played God and had a day of rest. I lay on the beach playing with shells and digging small holes while the others ventured into the town to freshen up and regain some sense of normality.
The journey home closely resembled the one there with a few notable differences. The train where we spent the majority of the trip, almost 15 hours, lacked any curtains or privacy saving devices. The conductors of the train were similarly socially unaware of the rudeness of barging into someone's room and demanding to see the same fucking ticket over and over again. It's difficult enough to sleep on a bench made of pain without being woken up at all times of the night. We arrived back in Timisoara on
Monday
and headed straight for the showers. I've never felt so dirty as I did when I got back to the room. It was almost worth not showering for four days to have a shower that good again.
Dave and I enjoyed a quick game of darts and went our seperate ways for the evening. I filled my friend Anca in about the weekend's events and realised what a completely ass-backwards and surreal time I had. The people I know here have the special ability to make even a trip to the beach something remarkable and memorable; something I miss about the people back home.
Monday night ended with Anca and I staying up until 5am watching the stars and discussing bears and the Black Sea. I suppose all the best nights do.
Tuesday 28 April 2009
Bi-annual Birthday Bashes
As some of you may know it was my 21st birthday yesterday. I tried to blog before then but my body just wasn't up to it. I have been struck by a mystery ailment that is invulnerable to all known forms of human medicine. And by that I mean paracetamol and a banana didn't shift it. It was just normal flu-ey symptomes; aching joints, skin like sandpaper, loss of the ability to chastise people etc. Normally I wouldn't have given it much though, but the morning I realised I was sick I sat in bed and read the headlines online. What did I see?
"THE WORLD IS DYING OF PIG FLU- DROWN YOUR CHILDREN!"
or at least words to that effect. I'm in a country where you have to bribe doctors with cigarettes to get pain-killers so I'm sure you can all imagine my panic when the thought crossed my mind that perhaps I had this killer flu thing. I hadn't been in contact with any Mexicans or rubbed up against any pigs but in my mind I was sure I was dying. Turns out I'm alright now though.
My birthday, dispite being really quite ill, was fantastic. Dave cooked a lovely stew type of affair and himself and the guys chipped in to buy me an electronic darts board. Our plan is to nail it to the door, put the beds together to create a pool table kind of thing and open the room up as a 24 hour casino.
We went to our favourite pub and drank things according to the colours while arguing about how to pronounce things in different languages. There was cake, candles, presents; it was a pretty perfect evening. I wish I had been well enough to enjoy it properly but everyone has to get ill sometime I suppose. I love everyone here dearly, I couldn't ask to be living with a nicer group of people.
Also, our bill came to 314.91 lei which beats our last birthday bill by a clear 15 lei; go team!
In other news I've been experiencing new experiences left right and centre recently. I've been to two basketball games. To the unexperienced reader that might not look like a particularly impressive or outstanding feat. To anyone who knows me and my inherent aversion to all things sporting you'll realise that going to such an event is a life and character changing event. It started when my friend Anca invited me along to one of the games and I went along in an attempt to get to know her better. As it turns out basketball is an incredibly interesting and intense sport when the teams have Romanian fans. It's not a huge hall, around the size of the average gym hall in schools, but they cram hundreds of people in and it sounds like the majority of them have drums and airhorns. The last game ended 102-100 in favour of Timisoara and I thought a riot was going to break out regardless of the outcome. It was fantastically tense, I'm looking forward to the next game with baited breath.
May 1st here is a huge holiday apparently. It seems to be that Romanians take any excuse to take a few days off work and go to the beach. I like their style. Timisoara is in the west of Romania, almost on the Hungarian border, and the seaside is on the other side of the country. It's pretty much Romania- Black Sea- Russia. Quite a scary thought really. Originally the train ride there was going to take around 15 hours. This wasn't ideal, but for 45 euros who can complain? Dave text me at the height of my illness and said, very simply, that the train ride was now going to take 23 hours. Did the fucking country just get wider or what? I don't pretend to understand these things. Basically I'm going to be on a train with almost everyone I know for a whole day with nothing to do apart from talk, read, eat junk food and worry about the train derailing. Kinda like home really. As far as I can make out we're going to some sort of hippy festival so expect many pictures of obscurities and hedonism. We're sleeping on the beach as well, just like Coney Island in the 50s [/postrock reference].
"THE WORLD IS DYING OF PIG FLU- DROWN YOUR CHILDREN!"
or at least words to that effect. I'm in a country where you have to bribe doctors with cigarettes to get pain-killers so I'm sure you can all imagine my panic when the thought crossed my mind that perhaps I had this killer flu thing. I hadn't been in contact with any Mexicans or rubbed up against any pigs but in my mind I was sure I was dying. Turns out I'm alright now though.
My birthday, dispite being really quite ill, was fantastic. Dave cooked a lovely stew type of affair and himself and the guys chipped in to buy me an electronic darts board. Our plan is to nail it to the door, put the beds together to create a pool table kind of thing and open the room up as a 24 hour casino.
We went to our favourite pub and drank things according to the colours while arguing about how to pronounce things in different languages. There was cake, candles, presents; it was a pretty perfect evening. I wish I had been well enough to enjoy it properly but everyone has to get ill sometime I suppose. I love everyone here dearly, I couldn't ask to be living with a nicer group of people.
Also, our bill came to 314.91 lei which beats our last birthday bill by a clear 15 lei; go team!
In other news I've been experiencing new experiences left right and centre recently. I've been to two basketball games. To the unexperienced reader that might not look like a particularly impressive or outstanding feat. To anyone who knows me and my inherent aversion to all things sporting you'll realise that going to such an event is a life and character changing event. It started when my friend Anca invited me along to one of the games and I went along in an attempt to get to know her better. As it turns out basketball is an incredibly interesting and intense sport when the teams have Romanian fans. It's not a huge hall, around the size of the average gym hall in schools, but they cram hundreds of people in and it sounds like the majority of them have drums and airhorns. The last game ended 102-100 in favour of Timisoara and I thought a riot was going to break out regardless of the outcome. It was fantastically tense, I'm looking forward to the next game with baited breath.
May 1st here is a huge holiday apparently. It seems to be that Romanians take any excuse to take a few days off work and go to the beach. I like their style. Timisoara is in the west of Romania, almost on the Hungarian border, and the seaside is on the other side of the country. It's pretty much Romania- Black Sea- Russia. Quite a scary thought really. Originally the train ride there was going to take around 15 hours. This wasn't ideal, but for 45 euros who can complain? Dave text me at the height of my illness and said, very simply, that the train ride was now going to take 23 hours. Did the fucking country just get wider or what? I don't pretend to understand these things. Basically I'm going to be on a train with almost everyone I know for a whole day with nothing to do apart from talk, read, eat junk food and worry about the train derailing. Kinda like home really. As far as I can make out we're going to some sort of hippy festival so expect many pictures of obscurities and hedonism. We're sleeping on the beach as well, just like Coney Island in the 50s [/postrock reference].
Sunday 19 April 2009
You Shouldn't Be Afraid...
This is the fortieth blog post; a landmark event. A kodak moment, if you will. I haven't been blogging as much recently because I don't want to bore everyone with the mundane details of my day to day life here. That's not to say I haven't been doing alot of great things though. We visited a town called Lugoj last week to see where our friend Dana grew up. It was a pretty town, although I can't imagine being a child there; it was somewhat devoid of entertainment or amusement. We had the most phenomenal garlic sauce with our pizzas though. A few of you may remember me bitching a bit about how doors don't always close on trains here and a few people expressed a certain amount of disbelief. Well. Here you go:
Yesterday I spent a great day with my friend Anca; a veritable 80's montage of events and laughter. I visited the Orthodox cathedral for the first time as well. It's beautifully ornate; I'm sure God would approve.
It's Jesus' second birthday today and everywhere is closed. Dave has left on an expedition to find cigarettes in a town where everyone seems intent on staying very much in church. I think it's nice that people still have religion here. It's good to know that somewhere somebody believes in something.
There was talk of taking a road trip north but I think we might be forsaking that plan in order to go to Serbia. £1 is 105 Dinar, so I think I'll be keeping some of the inevitably awesome banknotes I'll get.
Anyway, Loic and Martin are coming round to play Hearts (a game we all enjoy alot now) and I best watch Dave Tidy up. I'll document some more exciting things soon. Ciao for now lovelies.
Yesterday I spent a great day with my friend Anca; a veritable 80's montage of events and laughter. I visited the Orthodox cathedral for the first time as well. It's beautifully ornate; I'm sure God would approve.
It's Jesus' second birthday today and everywhere is closed. Dave has left on an expedition to find cigarettes in a town where everyone seems intent on staying very much in church. I think it's nice that people still have religion here. It's good to know that somewhere somebody believes in something.
There was talk of taking a road trip north but I think we might be forsaking that plan in order to go to Serbia. £1 is 105 Dinar, so I think I'll be keeping some of the inevitably awesome banknotes I'll get.
Anyway, Loic and Martin are coming round to play Hearts (a game we all enjoy alot now) and I best watch Dave Tidy up. I'll document some more exciting things soon. Ciao for now lovelies.
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Saturday 11 April 2009
Sunday 5 April 2009
The Rip
Last night was a mess. Hell, the whole day was a mess.
Our friends from Galicia are visiting from Arad for the weekend and we decided to show them the best of Timisoara. I'll summerise the next 20 hours because to tell you every detail would require more space than the internet has.
We visited the Flavia market again to show the guys a proper Romanian experience. I bought beige trousers and shorts as well as a small jade turtle. Yes yes, I know. Great shopping. We stopped for several beer breaks and dined on mici (mystery meat sausages) and barbequed chicken. It was gloriously sunny and Dave and I have both started to develop them early stages of a tan. These are strange times and I don't pretend to understand them. We decided to leave the market in order to go back to our rooms, freshen up and then go to a concert at the local jazz club. Now we enter the twilight period of the day; in which Gordon starts to lose his sense of self.
Gordon, Dave, Xacob, Diego, Sonia and Juliet sat in the tiny, cramped club and listened to a band that sounded like Franz Ferdinand being raped by the Artic Monkeys. Gordon wasn't entirely impressed by the band but he appreciated being force fed some culture after a few days of reading sinfully boring political theory. The decision was made by someone to return once more to the rooms to freshen up again and to move onto a club callde Dark. Before this happened the majority of people got distracted and ended up sitting in an Italian girl's room drinking cheap red wine mixed with coke and horrible beer. Gordon hovered near the door and contemplated how the night would progress. Could he face another heavy night out? Is it really worth the inevitable hangover and social faux-pas that have become synonymous with Timisoara?
After lengthy debate the decision was made for him and once more into the subculture of clubbing did Gordon delve. The second he stepped into the club he was affronted by a wall of smoke and heat. Bodies occupied impossible spaces and a constant stream of people coming and going pushed and jostled anyone in their way. Cigarettes bounced around in the night and the sole source of light came from the illuminated adverts behind the bar. Nobody's face was visible; this was the place for the faceless and fearless. Gordon tried his best to fit in with the crowd, dancing and drinking for hours on end, before being faced with another decision. A quiet come-down drink in a 24/7 pub called Papillion or follow the crowd to another club aptly named Art.
The next thing he knew Gordon found himself in Art. The inside of the building featured high domed ceilings painted a violent blood red. Gold fixtures leered at the dancers from the walls and reflected small multicoloured shafts of light into their eyes. Gordon drank more and drank more, meeting people he barely knows and treating them like old friends. One French girl he met once upon a time kept falling into him and shouting the name of the place they met previously. Her hair was stuck to her face and she reeked of vodka. Gordon caught her one last time and pushed her into the arms of one of her companions. He looked away for a second and then she was gone. Amidst the unbearable noise and schizophrenic lights Gordon wondered briefly if they would ever meet again. Most likely, he concluded, and it would almost certainly resemble this encounter.
The clock struck six and the clubbers began the long jaunt home. Gordon walked with his Galician friends, Sonia and a small spanish chap whose name he didn't catch. Upon reaching his room at half past six he found Dave awake and drinking a beer. After exchanging brief stories of the last umpteen hours of nonsense Gordon fell into a dreamless sleep in an uncomfortable bed.
Today I woke up at around 2pm and felt remarkably good. I decided to go to the shop and stock up on supplies; orange juice, peach yoghurt, bananas and some eggs. I made my purchases in broken Romanian dispite the woman speaking perfect English at me. As I was walking down the pedestrian path to the caminul a breeze caught the cherry blossoms of a nearby tree and threw them around the air like confetti at a wedding. I walked through the flowers listening to Planet Telex by Radiohead. I realised once again that while things in Timisoara are heavygoing and self-destructive I wouldn't want to miss a second of it.
Our friends from Galicia are visiting from Arad for the weekend and we decided to show them the best of Timisoara. I'll summerise the next 20 hours because to tell you every detail would require more space than the internet has.
We visited the Flavia market again to show the guys a proper Romanian experience. I bought beige trousers and shorts as well as a small jade turtle. Yes yes, I know. Great shopping. We stopped for several beer breaks and dined on mici (mystery meat sausages) and barbequed chicken. It was gloriously sunny and Dave and I have both started to develop them early stages of a tan. These are strange times and I don't pretend to understand them. We decided to leave the market in order to go back to our rooms, freshen up and then go to a concert at the local jazz club. Now we enter the twilight period of the day; in which Gordon starts to lose his sense of self.
Gordon, Dave, Xacob, Diego, Sonia and Juliet sat in the tiny, cramped club and listened to a band that sounded like Franz Ferdinand being raped by the Artic Monkeys. Gordon wasn't entirely impressed by the band but he appreciated being force fed some culture after a few days of reading sinfully boring political theory. The decision was made by someone to return once more to the rooms to freshen up again and to move onto a club callde Dark. Before this happened the majority of people got distracted and ended up sitting in an Italian girl's room drinking cheap red wine mixed with coke and horrible beer. Gordon hovered near the door and contemplated how the night would progress. Could he face another heavy night out? Is it really worth the inevitable hangover and social faux-pas that have become synonymous with Timisoara?
After lengthy debate the decision was made for him and once more into the subculture of clubbing did Gordon delve. The second he stepped into the club he was affronted by a wall of smoke and heat. Bodies occupied impossible spaces and a constant stream of people coming and going pushed and jostled anyone in their way. Cigarettes bounced around in the night and the sole source of light came from the illuminated adverts behind the bar. Nobody's face was visible; this was the place for the faceless and fearless. Gordon tried his best to fit in with the crowd, dancing and drinking for hours on end, before being faced with another decision. A quiet come-down drink in a 24/7 pub called Papillion or follow the crowd to another club aptly named Art.
The next thing he knew Gordon found himself in Art. The inside of the building featured high domed ceilings painted a violent blood red. Gold fixtures leered at the dancers from the walls and reflected small multicoloured shafts of light into their eyes. Gordon drank more and drank more, meeting people he barely knows and treating them like old friends. One French girl he met once upon a time kept falling into him and shouting the name of the place they met previously. Her hair was stuck to her face and she reeked of vodka. Gordon caught her one last time and pushed her into the arms of one of her companions. He looked away for a second and then she was gone. Amidst the unbearable noise and schizophrenic lights Gordon wondered briefly if they would ever meet again. Most likely, he concluded, and it would almost certainly resemble this encounter.
The clock struck six and the clubbers began the long jaunt home. Gordon walked with his Galician friends, Sonia and a small spanish chap whose name he didn't catch. Upon reaching his room at half past six he found Dave awake and drinking a beer. After exchanging brief stories of the last umpteen hours of nonsense Gordon fell into a dreamless sleep in an uncomfortable bed.
Today I woke up at around 2pm and felt remarkably good. I decided to go to the shop and stock up on supplies; orange juice, peach yoghurt, bananas and some eggs. I made my purchases in broken Romanian dispite the woman speaking perfect English at me. As I was walking down the pedestrian path to the caminul a breeze caught the cherry blossoms of a nearby tree and threw them around the air like confetti at a wedding. I walked through the flowers listening to Planet Telex by Radiohead. I realised once again that while things in Timisoara are heavygoing and self-destructive I wouldn't want to miss a second of it.
Dave here, hence the bold, self assured font. Tonight was a mess. Yes I have a tan and matching beige trousers. This much is true.
I felt it necessary to put tonight's epic battle into writing. Forcing drunk French post grads into taxis aside a much greater fight took place tonight (although that was hard enough in and of itself.).
Once all my girl based club dreams (and Martin) had been put to bed I headed straight to the shaorma shop. Today I have eaten two pletcavikas, three miche and one shaorma (in addition to all the energy expended fighting French post grads in taxis). This may not mean much to you but trust me - its a lot. All I wanted was chips, a ciggy, some man rock music and bed. Not a lot to ask. In addition my Romanian is of a high enough standard that I can demand this sort of thing be concocted at my slightest whim.
It was/is roughly five am. I entered the shop and made said request. In Romanian it goes roughly; " Buna Sieara Domnishara. (This is very respectful.) Cartoffi prejits cu sare si vinegar va rog.". Vinegar has an extra long and soft "e". Yes it sounds effing ridiculous. The I vowel sound doesn't even exist. It was absolute torture.
Semantic niggles aside, she refused. She refused point blank on the basis that chips and vinegar don't go together and made me a small shaorma confident in the knowledge that I would both pay for and eat it if it was spicy enough. I like my shaorma hot. But I really wanted a chippy after tonight's ordeal. I love Romania but AAAAAAA I miss Glesga.
I felt it necessary to put tonight's epic battle into writing. Forcing drunk French post grads into taxis aside a much greater fight took place tonight (although that was hard enough in and of itself.).
Once all my girl based club dreams (and Martin) had been put to bed I headed straight to the shaorma shop. Today I have eaten two pletcavikas, three miche and one shaorma (in addition to all the energy expended fighting French post grads in taxis). This may not mean much to you but trust me - its a lot. All I wanted was chips, a ciggy, some man rock music and bed. Not a lot to ask. In addition my Romanian is of a high enough standard that I can demand this sort of thing be concocted at my slightest whim.
It was/is roughly five am. I entered the shop and made said request. In Romanian it goes roughly; " Buna Sieara Domnishara. (This is very respectful.) Cartoffi prejits cu sare si vinegar va rog.". Vinegar has an extra long and soft "e". Yes it sounds effing ridiculous. The I vowel sound doesn't even exist. It was absolute torture.
Semantic niggles aside, she refused. She refused point blank on the basis that chips and vinegar don't go together and made me a small shaorma confident in the knowledge that I would both pay for and eat it if it was spicy enough. I like my shaorma hot. But I really wanted a chippy after tonight's ordeal. I love Romania but AAAAAAA I miss Glesga.
Monday 30 March 2009
Timishaorma
My memories of the weekend are delivered to me in the manner to which I am accustomed; through a haze of bizzare occurences and crippling hangovers. Let me start from the beginning.
Thursday
I went for drinks with my friends Jeane and Dana. These drinks turned into a night of drinking, dancing and meeting odd characters. After sitting in the pub until it closed and then staying in a club until it closed and then going to a 2/7 pub I met a man. By this point I was pretty far gone and had lost track of what life I was living. The alarm bells only went off when I heard the cry of "Heil Hitler!". This is never a good thing to hear. It was at this pont that I realised the man was a skinhead and was wearing a hoodie that bore an eagle perched ontop of a swastika. He started to vomit up racial and anti-semetic slurs while doing the stereotypical salute. I decided that this perhaps wasn't the kind of situation I wanted to be in and so we decided to get some breakfast, what with it being 6.30am by now. Halfway through my shaorma Dave called me and enquired as to my whereabouts. I'm having shaorma with Dana and Jeane, I said. What about the train we need to catch in half an hour? Dave said.
Fuck.
Friday
So I packed and I panicked and I got on the train. We were with our close friends Loic, Martin, Juliet and Sonia. The journey was like any other and the city we visited, Sibiu, while beautiful and stunningly peaceful, was designed more like a tourist destination than a cultural landmark. That night we went out for dinner and met a lovely American girl whose name I can't spell or pronounce. Some of the group went for drinks that turned into a night much like my own previous one while I went to bed and slept off the remnants of my horrible mistakes.
Saturday/Sunday
The next morning I had a wander around Sibiu by myself and listened to some Yndi Halda. Their music lends itself perfectly to the Romanian architecture and style. We caught another train to a beautiful little town called Sighisoara. While it suffered the same fate as Sibiu and was far too touristic, the sheer beauty of its rundown buildings and old fashioned way of life earned it a permenant place in my affections. The town is a maze of ancient staircases and towers that you can explore as you wish. Every sidestreet holds more quaint reminders of how people must have lived in previous lives. We met two fantastic Spanish guys through our friend Sonia. They showed us around and we drank together etc. It boggles the mind how friendly everyone I've met so far has been. Perhaps we're all trying harder because we're very much alone here. I was loathed to leave, but leave we must. We all caught the train to Arad and then we bade farewell to the Spanish gentlemen to make our way back to Timisoara.
I've decided not to describe the places I've been as I could never do them justice. There are pictures on my bebo that should give you a hint as to the kind of world I'm living in. Now it is another week and we're back to the grind of reading and analysing political journals. Dave is feeling a bit poorly so I'm going to go out for a coffee and leave him in peace. I've been getting pangs of homesickness recently, which is something I didn't think I would really experience. That's not to say I didn't think I'd miss anyone, that's not the case at all, I just didn't think five months was a long time. It turns out it is. I do miss my frequent jaunts to Starbucks and meeting the people I know and love there. While I still drink coffee here I tend to spend my time writing stories or thinking about endless regressions of questions. I'll be back eventually though. I'm combating these feelings by writing alot more than I used to. I'm thinking of submitting some of my "things" to online magazines and whatnot. I put them up on manofthesheeple.blogspot.com. If anyone has any time I'd love to hear what anyone thinks of them. I like them, but if nobody else does I don't want to embarrass myself by sending them off to publishers [/shameless self promotion].
Well, I best be off. It's disgustingly hot and I can hear the sound of a white russian calling for me on the wind. So long and goodnight folks, stay safe.
Thursday
I went for drinks with my friends Jeane and Dana. These drinks turned into a night of drinking, dancing and meeting odd characters. After sitting in the pub until it closed and then staying in a club until it closed and then going to a 2/7 pub I met a man. By this point I was pretty far gone and had lost track of what life I was living. The alarm bells only went off when I heard the cry of "Heil Hitler!". This is never a good thing to hear. It was at this pont that I realised the man was a skinhead and was wearing a hoodie that bore an eagle perched ontop of a swastika. He started to vomit up racial and anti-semetic slurs while doing the stereotypical salute. I decided that this perhaps wasn't the kind of situation I wanted to be in and so we decided to get some breakfast, what with it being 6.30am by now. Halfway through my shaorma Dave called me and enquired as to my whereabouts. I'm having shaorma with Dana and Jeane, I said. What about the train we need to catch in half an hour? Dave said.
Fuck.
Friday
So I packed and I panicked and I got on the train. We were with our close friends Loic, Martin, Juliet and Sonia. The journey was like any other and the city we visited, Sibiu, while beautiful and stunningly peaceful, was designed more like a tourist destination than a cultural landmark. That night we went out for dinner and met a lovely American girl whose name I can't spell or pronounce. Some of the group went for drinks that turned into a night much like my own previous one while I went to bed and slept off the remnants of my horrible mistakes.
Saturday/Sunday
The next morning I had a wander around Sibiu by myself and listened to some Yndi Halda. Their music lends itself perfectly to the Romanian architecture and style. We caught another train to a beautiful little town called Sighisoara. While it suffered the same fate as Sibiu and was far too touristic, the sheer beauty of its rundown buildings and old fashioned way of life earned it a permenant place in my affections. The town is a maze of ancient staircases and towers that you can explore as you wish. Every sidestreet holds more quaint reminders of how people must have lived in previous lives. We met two fantastic Spanish guys through our friend Sonia. They showed us around and we drank together etc. It boggles the mind how friendly everyone I've met so far has been. Perhaps we're all trying harder because we're very much alone here. I was loathed to leave, but leave we must. We all caught the train to Arad and then we bade farewell to the Spanish gentlemen to make our way back to Timisoara.
I've decided not to describe the places I've been as I could never do them justice. There are pictures on my bebo that should give you a hint as to the kind of world I'm living in. Now it is another week and we're back to the grind of reading and analysing political journals. Dave is feeling a bit poorly so I'm going to go out for a coffee and leave him in peace. I've been getting pangs of homesickness recently, which is something I didn't think I would really experience. That's not to say I didn't think I'd miss anyone, that's not the case at all, I just didn't think five months was a long time. It turns out it is. I do miss my frequent jaunts to Starbucks and meeting the people I know and love there. While I still drink coffee here I tend to spend my time writing stories or thinking about endless regressions of questions. I'll be back eventually though. I'm combating these feelings by writing alot more than I used to. I'm thinking of submitting some of my "things" to online magazines and whatnot. I put them up on manofthesheeple.blogspot.com. If anyone has any time I'd love to hear what anyone thinks of them. I like them, but if nobody else does I don't want to embarrass myself by sending them off to publishers [/shameless self promotion].
Well, I best be off. It's disgustingly hot and I can hear the sound of a white russian calling for me on the wind. So long and goodnight folks, stay safe.
Sunday 22 March 2009
I like to dumneavoastra words into sentences, even when I don't know what they mean.
Today we went with our french comrades to a market concerned with goods that endeavour to replicate the quality and appearance of well known brands. Essentially a knock off market, much like the barras.
It was reasonably entertaining. In the middle they hard a large barbeque where we dined on undercooked meat and enjoyed a swift beer at around 11am. We both bough jumpers of differing styles and we've become rather attached to them. I had to take mine off when I realised it was exactly the same colour as my trousers and therefore made me look like I was wearing a onesie with a suit jacket.
While we were walking through the endless aisles of unmatched shoes and broken electronic equipment we saw a guy wearing a white shirt that was only half buttoned up, tight jeans and faux-armani sunglasses. Dave and I shared a giggle at his expense and dubbed him "a dick". Which he was; he simply looked the type. We're living in a country with a tenuous internet connection and no tv- we make our fun when we can. We continued to explore the depths of the market and pondered the existence of sentient life in the meat we consumed.
I strayed from the group slightly to check out some hats that caught my eye. I looked away for two seconds, turned back and saw Dave waving at a girl I didn't recognise.
Dave, I enquired, what on earth are you doing?
I don't know, said he, she waved first.
I waved also.
She waved back.
Eventually after much waving she wandered over and said hello, how are you?
We're fine, said we.
You don't remember me, do you? Said she.
Um... said we.
We met at a party? We all got a taxi together to Dark [the name of a local club], we had drinks?
Um... said we.
I decided that action was needed.
Of course I remember you! I'm sorry, I didn't recognise you. What was your name again? I'm afraid I've forgotten, said I.
And I've forgotten again in the process of telling this story. I think it has an H in it somewhere.
We said our goodbyes and promised to run into each other again. She sauntered off into the near distance into the arms of none other than The Dick. What were the chances?
We're in the middle of an enormous gypsy market in a town we've only lived in for a month where we meet a girl we met once at a club who just so happens to be enamoured with the only man in Timisoara we've decided was an arsehole.
Anyway, I've just been informed that I need to teach Dave how to play poker before some friends come over to play poker. He didn't see fit to mention this beforehand. Our Romanian friend Dana has aquired a romanian liquieur called...I don't know. It's considered toxic by British standards.
So long, and goodnight.
It was reasonably entertaining. In the middle they hard a large barbeque where we dined on undercooked meat and enjoyed a swift beer at around 11am. We both bough jumpers of differing styles and we've become rather attached to them. I had to take mine off when I realised it was exactly the same colour as my trousers and therefore made me look like I was wearing a onesie with a suit jacket.
While we were walking through the endless aisles of unmatched shoes and broken electronic equipment we saw a guy wearing a white shirt that was only half buttoned up, tight jeans and faux-armani sunglasses. Dave and I shared a giggle at his expense and dubbed him "a dick". Which he was; he simply looked the type. We're living in a country with a tenuous internet connection and no tv- we make our fun when we can. We continued to explore the depths of the market and pondered the existence of sentient life in the meat we consumed.
I strayed from the group slightly to check out some hats that caught my eye. I looked away for two seconds, turned back and saw Dave waving at a girl I didn't recognise.
Dave, I enquired, what on earth are you doing?
I don't know, said he, she waved first.
I waved also.
She waved back.
Eventually after much waving she wandered over and said hello, how are you?
We're fine, said we.
You don't remember me, do you? Said she.
Um... said we.
We met at a party? We all got a taxi together to Dark [the name of a local club], we had drinks?
Um... said we.
I decided that action was needed.
Of course I remember you! I'm sorry, I didn't recognise you. What was your name again? I'm afraid I've forgotten, said I.
And I've forgotten again in the process of telling this story. I think it has an H in it somewhere.
We said our goodbyes and promised to run into each other again. She sauntered off into the near distance into the arms of none other than The Dick. What were the chances?
We're in the middle of an enormous gypsy market in a town we've only lived in for a month where we meet a girl we met once at a club who just so happens to be enamoured with the only man in Timisoara we've decided was an arsehole.
Anyway, I've just been informed that I need to teach Dave how to play poker before some friends come over to play poker. He didn't see fit to mention this beforehand. Our Romanian friend Dana has aquired a romanian liquieur called...I don't know. It's considered toxic by British standards.
So long, and goodnight.
Saturday 21 March 2009
Eating seeds as a passtime activity.
Dave and I have successfully immersed ourselves in the Romanian art scene with little or no effort on our parts. We are simply artistic people; where ever we go, art follows.
Well, it helps that two of our good friends are art students here...
Anyway.
Last night we went to an exhibition at the French Institute. We were promised pastries and wine and by jove we got some. Free food aside, the art itself was pretty rotten. Upstairs consisted of umbrellas painted with children's poetry and downstairs held some sort of obscure wire and plastic bag contraption that didn't look entirely unlike a very postmodern circus tent. All in all, not fantastic.
While we were there we heard of another exhibition going on in the city; this time a Scottish 'sculptor' in the trendy part of town. Onwards! We shouted, as we thought that a Scotsman in Romania would put on a pretty good spread.
As it turns out, as is most frequent in this country, we were somewhat surprised by what we found. Instead of a sculpture in the traditional sense we found a man in a white room, dressed completely in black, complete with hood, standing in an all pervasive silence carrying some branches with litter stuck in them. Art, as it were, was happening around us.
After a few minutes of looking at him, expecting him to tell a joke or give us a riddle or something, we went to the pub. Art is good, but let's not take the piss.
Today not much has happened. I do love the Romanian attitude towards money though. Today in one of our small local shops instead of the 30bani change I was supposed to get, I got a stick of gum and a smile. I love that, it's so...casual. I was quite chuffed with my haul.
I also made an excellent tuna salad. I'll post the recipie if anyone is interested. I think tonight we're going back to the shanty house after forsaking it for a few weeks. Our new pub has a darts machine and we're all quite taken with it.
Well, best be off. Fareyewell my lovelies.
Well, it helps that two of our good friends are art students here...
Anyway.
Last night we went to an exhibition at the French Institute. We were promised pastries and wine and by jove we got some. Free food aside, the art itself was pretty rotten. Upstairs consisted of umbrellas painted with children's poetry and downstairs held some sort of obscure wire and plastic bag contraption that didn't look entirely unlike a very postmodern circus tent. All in all, not fantastic.
While we were there we heard of another exhibition going on in the city; this time a Scottish 'sculptor' in the trendy part of town. Onwards! We shouted, as we thought that a Scotsman in Romania would put on a pretty good spread.
As it turns out, as is most frequent in this country, we were somewhat surprised by what we found. Instead of a sculpture in the traditional sense we found a man in a white room, dressed completely in black, complete with hood, standing in an all pervasive silence carrying some branches with litter stuck in them. Art, as it were, was happening around us.
After a few minutes of looking at him, expecting him to tell a joke or give us a riddle or something, we went to the pub. Art is good, but let's not take the piss.
Today not much has happened. I do love the Romanian attitude towards money though. Today in one of our small local shops instead of the 30bani change I was supposed to get, I got a stick of gum and a smile. I love that, it's so...casual. I was quite chuffed with my haul.
I also made an excellent tuna salad. I'll post the recipie if anyone is interested. I think tonight we're going back to the shanty house after forsaking it for a few weeks. Our new pub has a darts machine and we're all quite taken with it.
Well, best be off. Fareyewell my lovelies.
Tuesday 17 March 2009
Baile Herculane
Greek mythology says that in yonder past Hercules stopped in a small town called Baile Herculane in south west Romania to rest and bathe. At the weekend we followed in his ancient footsteps and spent a few days exploring this beautiful mountainous town with our friends from the dorm.
A few things should be clarified first, however. This is going to be a long blog so I'll split it into different categories, roughly in chronological order. Also, when I refer to someone as a 'gypsy' I do not mean it in a derogatory manner; it is simly a way of describing a particular ethnic group. So please don't think I'm being ignorant or rude when I say it.
Right, here we go then.
The Many Advantages of Modern Travel
Anyone who has read the previous post about our trip to Resita will know that Romanian trains are a unique nightmare that defies easy description. Since that trip my opinion of them has changed somewhat. Rather than seeing them as an object of terror I'm beginning to see them as more of a social event; a meeting place of characters and vagabonds.
There were nine of us at the beginning of the trip. All the seats on the train were taken so we decided to set up residence in the 'hall', if it can be called that. The trains resemble the kind that used to travel across the American continent, ones that people would hitch lifts from etc. If you can imagine that, we were sitting in one of those. It was reasonably comfortable and warm, which was a good thing because the doors didn't really close and it got rather chilly.
At the first stop a whole family of gypsies climbed on board. A small boy was carrying a wheel from a car and one man had a large cuddly toy snake wrapped around his neck. Within minutes they were clapping and dancing along to hummed tunes and yodelled singing. They noticed that we all had cameras and instantly they were the centre of attention. They posed with us all, they danced more, tried to sell us shoes (single shoes, not pairs). They seemed like genuinely pleasant and happy people. When they got off the train they wished us all a safe and happy journey and waved to us until they were mere specks of person off in the distance. It certainly passed the time until we got to our destination; Baile Herculane.
Baile Herculane: European City of Culture 33AD
At the station we caught a rickety bus to the centre of town. If anyone has seen the Borat movie they may recall the jaunty Eastern European jingle that plays throughout; as it turns out the same tune is often featured on the radio in Romania. There's something oddly surreal about listening to that song while driving past horses and carts in the middle of nowhere.
We stayed in a hostel of sorts on the outskirts of the town. It was painted bright orange, housed many exotic plants in the hallway and was thoroughly enjoyable from start to finish. The owners were delightfully helpful and gave us the use of their outdoor kitchen and barbeque as well. Unfortunately we didn't have time to use it, but it was very kind of them to offer.
I was led to believe that we were going to go and get something to eat. At this point I hadn't eaten anything for about 16 hours and I was exceptionally hungry. When we were halfway up a path leading to the top of one of the medium sized hills I realised that perhaps I had been misled. We wandered around for a while and took some lovely pictures of the sun setting between the mountains while trying to figure out where exactly in the world we were. On our descent we found a restaurant that turned out to be a fantastic place to dine. Dave and I struggle to find nice restaurants in Timisoara, one of the cultural hubs in Romania, yet up a hill in the middle of nowhere we found the best food we've had in this country. After a heavy meal of goulash for myself and spaghetti with an oyster sauce for Dave we walked back to the hostel and plotted our next move.
As I mentioned, Baile Herculane is a thermal town. This gives the whole area a distinctly sulpherous aroma and pleasantly warm breeze. Where there are thermal springs there are thermal baths, and this was where we headed next.
When we got the taxi there I expected to find a floodlit building with adaquate funding from the government and possibly a small plaque explaining the history and chemisty of the town. The taxi stopped on a country road with no street lights and gestured down a barely visible path that led into the darkest dark I have ever seen. This darkness was so dense it had an event horizon. The descent to the pool had no lights and was steep enough to thrown off your centre of gravity with every movement. The staircase had obviously been there since the days of Hercules and had seen very little renovation. The only light came from the flash on my mobile phone.
We groped our way to the pool and found that it was already occupied by a dozen or so people. We spent a few minutes dishing out the alcohol and discussing the absurdity of what we were doing. The thermometer in the taxi read the temperature as being 1C. Eventually we bit the bullet, stripped down to our various underwears and got int the water. The water was around 40C or so apparently, it was pleasantly warm. I cannot describe the next hour or so because I'm not entirely sure what went on. Everyone was drinking beer while Dave and I were drinking red wine. There was singing, chanting and laughing. I think something that will stay with me forever is being in a pool of sulpherous water with a thick haze of cigarette smoke floating on the surface singing Freres Jacque with my French friends, surrounded by darkness and the brightest light being the stars billions of miles away.
While getting into the pool was difficult due to the cold, getting out was worse. We hastily got dressed and caught a taxi back to the town.
What I've discovered about Romania is that alot of the people are willing to go out of their way to help you. It was 2am at this point and most places were in various stages of closing. We found one pub where the woman was willing to stay open for an extra half hour just so we could have a drink. That simply wouldn't happen in Britain; nobody is willing to bend any rules for the greater good or even to offer an apology. For her troubles the girl got a very generous tip and she cemented Baile Herculane as one of my favourite places in Romania thus far. Day one had ended and the thought of day two really did strike a little bit of anxiety into my sulpher ridden heart. In a good way, obviously.
Day Two: Where Walking is the Order of the Day
The next day I still smelled like sulpher and I had condemned a few items of clothing to the bin; some things just aren't worth saving.
We consumed a quick breakfast of orange juice and croissants and then set off into the hills. The scenery was spectacular. Baile Herculane is surrounded by mountains on three sides and they tower over the town like sentries guarding their king. Communist hotels dominate the immediate skyline and almost spoil the quaint nature of the town. We set off pretty much at random and followed any path we could find. Once we ran out of path and we all decided it was too much hassle to keep climbing, we stopped for lunch. It was gloriously sunny; only whispy clouds in the distance disturbed the sheet of blue above us. We drank some beer, took pictures and constructed a small picnic. It was the most tranquil place I've ever been. Even the birds seemed subdued by the heat. We stayed for as long as we could before succumbing to the sun and began to head home.
After a quick stop at the hostel we set off once more in search of a dam that proved more elusive than we expected. We may well have reached it before the point we decided to turn back if we had stuck to the path, but Baile Herculane turned out to be too fascinating to miss. The buildings are oddly fairy-tale like with even moderately cheap hotels resembling the centrepiece of Disneyland. Many of the buildings in Romania lie dereclict due to a lack of funds to repair them and certain laws prohibiting renovation. One such building was one we decided to explore in a very Famous Five manner. One upon a time it was a courthouse; the marble staircases betrayed it as once being an important place for the town. Now it lies in ruins with beer bottles strewn across the floor and piles of bricks and wood lying at all angles in the corridors. There were four floors, all of which were identical. The third floor was slightly different in that it had a large archway that led out onto a veranda that curved around and connected with the next building. After following its path we found that at one point in history it used to be a casino and bar; a rather upmarket one at that judging from the beautiful murals on the wall and domed ceiling.
We found a staircase that we presumed led to the lower floors of the building. As it turned out, after exploring the enormous abandoned complex, the stairs led to a fully functioning and reasonably busy café. I wasn't sure what to make of it all, everything seemed a bit too surreal for me to take in. We ordered some of the worst coffee I've ever had and made a plan of action.
We walked for miles along the river past more abandoned buildings, all of which required exploration, and dozens of small caves that gave off extrordinary blasts of heat due to the underground springs. The only signs of life we saw for the hours we walked were the occassional car that drove past or distant figure on the other side of the river. We eventually conceded that we probably wouldn't reach the dam before nightfall and that it was best just to head home. We dined in a terrible restaurant with a fantastic owner who had the unfortunate business of telling us they had run out of pretty much everything. Still, we ate and we laughed and concluded that the whole weekend had been a remarkable success; one that we wouldn't forget in a long time.
Day Three: Homeward Bound
After a slight mixup with the train timetable we found ourselves at a loose end for three hours. We were rather rudely asked to leave the first class lounge (which was not first class by western standards, I might add) and thus decided to take refuge at the side of the river and enjoy some sun while we had the chance. We sat on the pebbly shore and skimmed stones, read books and whatnot. I was quite content to just watch the water rush over the stones and observe the curious red insects that looked like stylised ladybirds.
The train home was disappointingly modern compared to the one that brought us to Baile Herculane. At the time I was glad of the comfortable surroundings and the chance to catch some sleep before we arrived back in Timisoara.
It seems impolite to mention money after we enjoyed such a glorious weekend, but I feel it is worth mentioning how easy Romania makes it to enjoy the country. To get to Baile Herculane it cost us 17RON, around £4.50. £4.50 to travel around 400KM is remarkable. Getting back was pricier as we chose the express train which came to 43RON, or around £10. If it is that cheap and easy to travel around Romania I think I will see alot more of it before I leave. If only Scotland could do the same and encourage people to visit and explore the country; seeing Romania has made me realise that Scotland is also a place of outstanding beauty. I found myself flicking through the pictures on my camera of the trip to Connect some of us took and marvelling at the countryside and scenery we drove through. It's the sort of thing I want to share with the people I have met here, but getting to Britain costs a small fortune and once you are there they do very little to make your trip affordable. But I suppose that is one of the downsides of living in a country with adaquate healthcare and public funding.
Well, that was our trip. Surreal, enjoyable and unforgettable I hope that it will be the beginning of many other travels. I apologise for the length of the post, I wanted to make sure I didn't omit anything important or noteworthy. I should be heading off to the market to get some food for tonight. Someone is playing REM very loudly in the hall and I feel it is time to drown them out with a heady mixture of Fuck Buttons and Rolo Tomassi.
Don't feel bad if you've skipped to the end rather than read the whole thing; I shan't hold it against you.
Farewell for now everyone.
A few things should be clarified first, however. This is going to be a long blog so I'll split it into different categories, roughly in chronological order. Also, when I refer to someone as a 'gypsy' I do not mean it in a derogatory manner; it is simly a way of describing a particular ethnic group. So please don't think I'm being ignorant or rude when I say it.
Right, here we go then.
The Many Advantages of Modern Travel
Anyone who has read the previous post about our trip to Resita will know that Romanian trains are a unique nightmare that defies easy description. Since that trip my opinion of them has changed somewhat. Rather than seeing them as an object of terror I'm beginning to see them as more of a social event; a meeting place of characters and vagabonds.
There were nine of us at the beginning of the trip. All the seats on the train were taken so we decided to set up residence in the 'hall', if it can be called that. The trains resemble the kind that used to travel across the American continent, ones that people would hitch lifts from etc. If you can imagine that, we were sitting in one of those. It was reasonably comfortable and warm, which was a good thing because the doors didn't really close and it got rather chilly.
At the first stop a whole family of gypsies climbed on board. A small boy was carrying a wheel from a car and one man had a large cuddly toy snake wrapped around his neck. Within minutes they were clapping and dancing along to hummed tunes and yodelled singing. They noticed that we all had cameras and instantly they were the centre of attention. They posed with us all, they danced more, tried to sell us shoes (single shoes, not pairs). They seemed like genuinely pleasant and happy people. When they got off the train they wished us all a safe and happy journey and waved to us until they were mere specks of person off in the distance. It certainly passed the time until we got to our destination; Baile Herculane.
Baile Herculane: European City of Culture 33AD
At the station we caught a rickety bus to the centre of town. If anyone has seen the Borat movie they may recall the jaunty Eastern European jingle that plays throughout; as it turns out the same tune is often featured on the radio in Romania. There's something oddly surreal about listening to that song while driving past horses and carts in the middle of nowhere.
We stayed in a hostel of sorts on the outskirts of the town. It was painted bright orange, housed many exotic plants in the hallway and was thoroughly enjoyable from start to finish. The owners were delightfully helpful and gave us the use of their outdoor kitchen and barbeque as well. Unfortunately we didn't have time to use it, but it was very kind of them to offer.
I was led to believe that we were going to go and get something to eat. At this point I hadn't eaten anything for about 16 hours and I was exceptionally hungry. When we were halfway up a path leading to the top of one of the medium sized hills I realised that perhaps I had been misled. We wandered around for a while and took some lovely pictures of the sun setting between the mountains while trying to figure out where exactly in the world we were. On our descent we found a restaurant that turned out to be a fantastic place to dine. Dave and I struggle to find nice restaurants in Timisoara, one of the cultural hubs in Romania, yet up a hill in the middle of nowhere we found the best food we've had in this country. After a heavy meal of goulash for myself and spaghetti with an oyster sauce for Dave we walked back to the hostel and plotted our next move.
As I mentioned, Baile Herculane is a thermal town. This gives the whole area a distinctly sulpherous aroma and pleasantly warm breeze. Where there are thermal springs there are thermal baths, and this was where we headed next.
When we got the taxi there I expected to find a floodlit building with adaquate funding from the government and possibly a small plaque explaining the history and chemisty of the town. The taxi stopped on a country road with no street lights and gestured down a barely visible path that led into the darkest dark I have ever seen. This darkness was so dense it had an event horizon. The descent to the pool had no lights and was steep enough to thrown off your centre of gravity with every movement. The staircase had obviously been there since the days of Hercules and had seen very little renovation. The only light came from the flash on my mobile phone.
We groped our way to the pool and found that it was already occupied by a dozen or so people. We spent a few minutes dishing out the alcohol and discussing the absurdity of what we were doing. The thermometer in the taxi read the temperature as being 1C. Eventually we bit the bullet, stripped down to our various underwears and got int the water. The water was around 40C or so apparently, it was pleasantly warm. I cannot describe the next hour or so because I'm not entirely sure what went on. Everyone was drinking beer while Dave and I were drinking red wine. There was singing, chanting and laughing. I think something that will stay with me forever is being in a pool of sulpherous water with a thick haze of cigarette smoke floating on the surface singing Freres Jacque with my French friends, surrounded by darkness and the brightest light being the stars billions of miles away.
While getting into the pool was difficult due to the cold, getting out was worse. We hastily got dressed and caught a taxi back to the town.
What I've discovered about Romania is that alot of the people are willing to go out of their way to help you. It was 2am at this point and most places were in various stages of closing. We found one pub where the woman was willing to stay open for an extra half hour just so we could have a drink. That simply wouldn't happen in Britain; nobody is willing to bend any rules for the greater good or even to offer an apology. For her troubles the girl got a very generous tip and she cemented Baile Herculane as one of my favourite places in Romania thus far. Day one had ended and the thought of day two really did strike a little bit of anxiety into my sulpher ridden heart. In a good way, obviously.
Day Two: Where Walking is the Order of the Day
The next day I still smelled like sulpher and I had condemned a few items of clothing to the bin; some things just aren't worth saving.
We consumed a quick breakfast of orange juice and croissants and then set off into the hills. The scenery was spectacular. Baile Herculane is surrounded by mountains on three sides and they tower over the town like sentries guarding their king. Communist hotels dominate the immediate skyline and almost spoil the quaint nature of the town. We set off pretty much at random and followed any path we could find. Once we ran out of path and we all decided it was too much hassle to keep climbing, we stopped for lunch. It was gloriously sunny; only whispy clouds in the distance disturbed the sheet of blue above us. We drank some beer, took pictures and constructed a small picnic. It was the most tranquil place I've ever been. Even the birds seemed subdued by the heat. We stayed for as long as we could before succumbing to the sun and began to head home.
After a quick stop at the hostel we set off once more in search of a dam that proved more elusive than we expected. We may well have reached it before the point we decided to turn back if we had stuck to the path, but Baile Herculane turned out to be too fascinating to miss. The buildings are oddly fairy-tale like with even moderately cheap hotels resembling the centrepiece of Disneyland. Many of the buildings in Romania lie dereclict due to a lack of funds to repair them and certain laws prohibiting renovation. One such building was one we decided to explore in a very Famous Five manner. One upon a time it was a courthouse; the marble staircases betrayed it as once being an important place for the town. Now it lies in ruins with beer bottles strewn across the floor and piles of bricks and wood lying at all angles in the corridors. There were four floors, all of which were identical. The third floor was slightly different in that it had a large archway that led out onto a veranda that curved around and connected with the next building. After following its path we found that at one point in history it used to be a casino and bar; a rather upmarket one at that judging from the beautiful murals on the wall and domed ceiling.
We found a staircase that we presumed led to the lower floors of the building. As it turned out, after exploring the enormous abandoned complex, the stairs led to a fully functioning and reasonably busy café. I wasn't sure what to make of it all, everything seemed a bit too surreal for me to take in. We ordered some of the worst coffee I've ever had and made a plan of action.
We walked for miles along the river past more abandoned buildings, all of which required exploration, and dozens of small caves that gave off extrordinary blasts of heat due to the underground springs. The only signs of life we saw for the hours we walked were the occassional car that drove past or distant figure on the other side of the river. We eventually conceded that we probably wouldn't reach the dam before nightfall and that it was best just to head home. We dined in a terrible restaurant with a fantastic owner who had the unfortunate business of telling us they had run out of pretty much everything. Still, we ate and we laughed and concluded that the whole weekend had been a remarkable success; one that we wouldn't forget in a long time.
Day Three: Homeward Bound
After a slight mixup with the train timetable we found ourselves at a loose end for three hours. We were rather rudely asked to leave the first class lounge (which was not first class by western standards, I might add) and thus decided to take refuge at the side of the river and enjoy some sun while we had the chance. We sat on the pebbly shore and skimmed stones, read books and whatnot. I was quite content to just watch the water rush over the stones and observe the curious red insects that looked like stylised ladybirds.
The train home was disappointingly modern compared to the one that brought us to Baile Herculane. At the time I was glad of the comfortable surroundings and the chance to catch some sleep before we arrived back in Timisoara.
It seems impolite to mention money after we enjoyed such a glorious weekend, but I feel it is worth mentioning how easy Romania makes it to enjoy the country. To get to Baile Herculane it cost us 17RON, around £4.50. £4.50 to travel around 400KM is remarkable. Getting back was pricier as we chose the express train which came to 43RON, or around £10. If it is that cheap and easy to travel around Romania I think I will see alot more of it before I leave. If only Scotland could do the same and encourage people to visit and explore the country; seeing Romania has made me realise that Scotland is also a place of outstanding beauty. I found myself flicking through the pictures on my camera of the trip to Connect some of us took and marvelling at the countryside and scenery we drove through. It's the sort of thing I want to share with the people I have met here, but getting to Britain costs a small fortune and once you are there they do very little to make your trip affordable. But I suppose that is one of the downsides of living in a country with adaquate healthcare and public funding.
Well, that was our trip. Surreal, enjoyable and unforgettable I hope that it will be the beginning of many other travels. I apologise for the length of the post, I wanted to make sure I didn't omit anything important or noteworthy. I should be heading off to the market to get some food for tonight. Someone is playing REM very loudly in the hall and I feel it is time to drown them out with a heady mixture of Fuck Buttons and Rolo Tomassi.
Don't feel bad if you've skipped to the end rather than read the whole thing; I shan't hold it against you.
Farewell for now everyone.
Saturday 14 March 2009
Packing
Just a quick blog before we jaunt off to the mountains. The trip there consists of:
A) A tram to the station
B) A train that takes four and a half hours to go 400km. It's going to be a long trip.
This morning I am sober and of sound body and mind. My packing now consists of:
A) 3 tshirts
B) A jumper
C) A Pair of jeans
D) Socks and underwear
E) iPod, camera and mobile phone
F) Toothbrush and toothpaste
G) A bottle of wine
H) A corkscrew.
You don't need to say it. I know already. That is excellent packing.
I shall speak to you all in a few days. I think we get back on monday. Expect lots of pictures of grass and mountains and a story of two involving social awkwardness.
Yeah, why not.
A) A tram to the station
B) A train that takes four and a half hours to go 400km. It's going to be a long trip.
This morning I am sober and of sound body and mind. My packing now consists of:
A) 3 tshirts
B) A jumper
C) A Pair of jeans
D) Socks and underwear
E) iPod, camera and mobile phone
F) Toothbrush and toothpaste
G) A bottle of wine
H) A corkscrew.
You don't need to say it. I know already. That is excellent packing.
I shall speak to you all in a few days. I think we get back on monday. Expect lots of pictures of grass and mountains and a story of two involving social awkwardness.
Yeah, why not.
Friday 13 March 2009
We've been in Romania for over a month now and finally life seems to be becoming something resembling normal. We've accepted Romania and all its quirks, we've stopped being shocked when faced with things out of our comfort zone.
We haven't been out for a few days. We have reading to do, livers to repair, Twitter to refresh etc. I hope something happens soon. Complacency leads to boredom, boredom leads to idle hands and idle hands are prone to being put to work by the Devil.
Tomorrow should lead to some interesting events, however. We're heading up the mountains for a weekend with our French comrades to explore the wilderness and do a bit of hiking. Seeing as though everyone who reads this knows me to some extent you can imagine my terror when the word 'hiking' was put out there.
I walk. I like walking.
I don't run. I don't like running.
I don't hike. I don't like the possibility of falling off the thing i'm walking on. But being the navigator and trend setter that I am I shall tackle it with the ferocity and enthusiasm in which I approach all my endeavours.
Well, Dave and I overcame another hurdle today. We got our hair cut with absolutely no disasters and done completely in Romanian. Over a coffee we consulted a dictionary for the words "not" "short" and "tidy". Therefore by walking in and saying "Nu scoarte, ordinat" we were able to get our hair trimmed to reasonable lengths again. Damn it felt good.
So anyway, as I was saying. We shall tackle to hiking head on. We bought our supplies today:
Two packets of tic tacs
Pringles
Cheese (for sandwiches)
Ham (see cheese)
Bread
Two bottles of wine.
Regular readers of the blog may remember my packing for a trip to Resita and think "Hey Gordon, that looks like some pretty darn sensible packing you've done there!" and you'd be right. I learn from my mistakes. In Romania you get busy learnin' or you get busy dyin'.
We have both discovered Twitter as well. If anyone uses Twitter our usernames are otagodave and sheerdrop, please get in touch. Right now I'm only following celebrities and my friend Monica and Stephen Fry keeps pushing people off the bottom of my list.
Romania may be bad for my health, but it has inspired me to get back into the habit of writing. I'm going to set up another blog in conjunction with this one to put my personal writing so as to keep this one solely for Romania banter. If anyone is interested in reading my "stuff" you can see it on www.bebo.com/ethanoldreams and all the pictures Dave and I have taken so far are on there too.
[/shameless self plug]
So long for now, I'm off to Twitter-stalk people and listen to Múm.
And so it goes.
We haven't been out for a few days. We have reading to do, livers to repair, Twitter to refresh etc. I hope something happens soon. Complacency leads to boredom, boredom leads to idle hands and idle hands are prone to being put to work by the Devil.
Tomorrow should lead to some interesting events, however. We're heading up the mountains for a weekend with our French comrades to explore the wilderness and do a bit of hiking. Seeing as though everyone who reads this knows me to some extent you can imagine my terror when the word 'hiking' was put out there.
I walk. I like walking.
I don't run. I don't like running.
I don't hike. I don't like the possibility of falling off the thing i'm walking on. But being the navigator and trend setter that I am I shall tackle it with the ferocity and enthusiasm in which I approach all my endeavours.
Well, Dave and I overcame another hurdle today. We got our hair cut with absolutely no disasters and done completely in Romanian. Over a coffee we consulted a dictionary for the words "not" "short" and "tidy". Therefore by walking in and saying "Nu scoarte, ordinat" we were able to get our hair trimmed to reasonable lengths again. Damn it felt good.
So anyway, as I was saying. We shall tackle to hiking head on. We bought our supplies today:
Two packets of tic tacs
Pringles
Cheese (for sandwiches)
Ham (see cheese)
Bread
Two bottles of wine.
Regular readers of the blog may remember my packing for a trip to Resita and think "Hey Gordon, that looks like some pretty darn sensible packing you've done there!" and you'd be right. I learn from my mistakes. In Romania you get busy learnin' or you get busy dyin'.
We have both discovered Twitter as well. If anyone uses Twitter our usernames are otagodave and sheerdrop, please get in touch. Right now I'm only following celebrities and my friend Monica and Stephen Fry keeps pushing people off the bottom of my list.
Romania may be bad for my health, but it has inspired me to get back into the habit of writing. I'm going to set up another blog in conjunction with this one to put my personal writing so as to keep this one solely for Romania banter. If anyone is interested in reading my "stuff" you can see it on www.bebo.com/ethanoldreams and all the pictures Dave and I have taken so far are on there too.
[/shameless self plug]
So long for now, I'm off to Twitter-stalk people and listen to Múm.
And so it goes.
Saturday 7 March 2009
Up close and personal Eastern European student parties
Today I awoke with a strange feeling of resignation. It's the same feeling of resignation that I wake up with every day, but each one is special in its own unique way. I felt that if I tried to sit up I would rip my skeleton out of my body and leave a Gordon shaped puddle of disaster on the bed.
Yes, I went to a party last night.
This was the first proper Romanian party I've seen since I got here. It was in a student hall sort of affair, somewhat like a student union except a huge building without any adverts for Pepsi or heinous paninis that nobody ever buys.
Before I got there, however, I saw a few interesting things while I was waiting for Silvia and Victor. Dave was feeling a bit under the weather so I decided to leave him to recover. I was standing at an intersection where most of the traffic in Timisoara comes to argue. A rather nondescript car drove past without doing anything to warrant my attention. That was until the driver opened the door and vomited on the road. He was obviously in a hurry as he didn't see fit to stop the car to perform said vomiting. He is truly a modern hero; unwilling to let nonsense such as bodily functions get in the way of his postmodern lifestyle. Lock up your daughters.
The other rather interesting thing happened soon after that. Two black cars stopped at the traffic lights and the drivers jumped out their cars, swapped cars and then had some sort of slow motion drag race as soon as the lights turned green.
Drag racing is not big or clever, but if you're going to do it at least get decent cars. Otherwise you just look silly.
Now, onto the party. As I said it was in a student hall that students from all over the country are welcome in. Kind of like a YMCA but without the Christian overtones and sodomy. As Victor said, it smelled like a pub. It smelled like parties. It smelled like fantastic.
The building itself was enormous; it had a huge hallway and several staircases leading up to the main floor. As we climbed each floor we passed more and more clusters of people with cans of beer in hand.
We reached the cloakroom and deposited our jackets on a table. I was rooting through my pockets for my wallet when Victor said "You don't need any money, the beer is free here."
I stood aghast.
Everything after that is a bit of a blur to be honest. I know I spent a long time speaking to a DJ from Timisoara who told me many interesting things about the music industry here. I met a guy from a small town near here who shed some light on why we should definately not get sick in Romania. I met a very nice girl as well, although our conversation was stinted by my lack of any language beyond the one I've had beaten into me from an early age. All in all, nearly all the Romanians I've met so far have been lovely and patient people.
When I got home I tried my best not to wake Dave up, but I ruined it by kicking over everything in the room at least twice.
Right now it's 11:10 and I need to go and buy credit for my phone. I found that a good way to start every day is to watch my friend Louise's videos of her saying hello to the world in a new way every day for five days. If you like that sort of thing you should check it out, they're really nice and Louise is a great person. I'll post some links when I don't think I'll die if I blink.
So long and goodnight, for now. I'm going to go and brave the world in a daring and handsome move that shall be an affront to God himself.
Yes, I went to a party last night.
This was the first proper Romanian party I've seen since I got here. It was in a student hall sort of affair, somewhat like a student union except a huge building without any adverts for Pepsi or heinous paninis that nobody ever buys.
Before I got there, however, I saw a few interesting things while I was waiting for Silvia and Victor. Dave was feeling a bit under the weather so I decided to leave him to recover. I was standing at an intersection where most of the traffic in Timisoara comes to argue. A rather nondescript car drove past without doing anything to warrant my attention. That was until the driver opened the door and vomited on the road. He was obviously in a hurry as he didn't see fit to stop the car to perform said vomiting. He is truly a modern hero; unwilling to let nonsense such as bodily functions get in the way of his postmodern lifestyle. Lock up your daughters.
The other rather interesting thing happened soon after that. Two black cars stopped at the traffic lights and the drivers jumped out their cars, swapped cars and then had some sort of slow motion drag race as soon as the lights turned green.
Drag racing is not big or clever, but if you're going to do it at least get decent cars. Otherwise you just look silly.
Now, onto the party. As I said it was in a student hall that students from all over the country are welcome in. Kind of like a YMCA but without the Christian overtones and sodomy. As Victor said, it smelled like a pub. It smelled like parties. It smelled like fantastic.
The building itself was enormous; it had a huge hallway and several staircases leading up to the main floor. As we climbed each floor we passed more and more clusters of people with cans of beer in hand.
We reached the cloakroom and deposited our jackets on a table. I was rooting through my pockets for my wallet when Victor said "You don't need any money, the beer is free here."
I stood aghast.
Everything after that is a bit of a blur to be honest. I know I spent a long time speaking to a DJ from Timisoara who told me many interesting things about the music industry here. I met a guy from a small town near here who shed some light on why we should definately not get sick in Romania. I met a very nice girl as well, although our conversation was stinted by my lack of any language beyond the one I've had beaten into me from an early age. All in all, nearly all the Romanians I've met so far have been lovely and patient people.
When I got home I tried my best not to wake Dave up, but I ruined it by kicking over everything in the room at least twice.
Right now it's 11:10 and I need to go and buy credit for my phone. I found that a good way to start every day is to watch my friend Louise's videos of her saying hello to the world in a new way every day for five days. If you like that sort of thing you should check it out, they're really nice and Louise is a great person. I'll post some links when I don't think I'll die if I blink.
So long and goodnight, for now. I'm going to go and brave the world in a daring and handsome move that shall be an affront to God himself.
Monday 2 March 2009
Surreality is becoming somewhat too blazé for me to keep taking it seriously. On friday we went back to the Scottish pub to see our friend Christian off on the next leg of his Romanian journey. The details are fuzzy and so are all the big things. I'm sure we had a good night, we always do. What gave the night an element of danger though was that we had to be up at 7am to get to a train station to go and visit a town called Resita with our friends Silvia and Victor. Due to the pubs never closing here we rolled into our room sometime around half five with a Shaorma in one hand and massacred dignity in the other.
We were staying one night, so my drunken packing consisted of:
A toothbrush (with no toothpaste)
Two tshirts (both offensive)
Two towels
My iPod
and six boiled sweets.
Yes, it had all the hallmarks of a good weekend. The train ride there was, if one is being generous, horrific, and if one is being cruel, downright barbaric. The train resembled the kind that rattle through Paisley Gilmour Street station towing six billion tonnes of coal. The interior smelled slightly of stale fish and some of the seats that had tears that looked very much like they had been inflicted by a knife. At this point my hangover was in full swing. It was standing on the rooftops proclaiming to the world that I had drank too much and that I had to learn a lesson. I was not well.
On the plus side, Resita is a fascinating place. It looked almost steam-punk in the architecture and general appearance; the mixture of old and new was disconcerting to begin with. Silvia and Victor grew up in Resita and they knew a phenomenal amount of its history and heritage. It made me feel that perhaps I should learn more about my own hometown, maybe do some reading etc. Then I realised I'm doing seven courses and should probably try and focus on them rather than George Orwell's brief stay in Hairmyers.
We stayed for the weekend and then returned to Timisoara. When we arrived in the train station it was the first time I felt like I was coming home rather than just going back to the room. It was an odd revelation, but not an unpleasant one.
I'm finding it quite hard to collect my thoughts and form coherent sentences again. We went to a bar last night that boasted glass tables that housed live pirhanas, and a very impressive selection of shots and spirits. Did you know that absynthe is legal in Romania? I didn't. I do now. I believe the shot was absynthe, gin and rum. We called it quits after that.
I have also rekindled my love for scrambled eggs since arriving here. After watching several videos with conflicting ideas of what constitutes the perfect scrambled egg I think we're just about ready to perfect the art. Stay tuned for the results.
To those who I promised to write letters; I'm very sorry it has taken me so long to get around to it. I have several written and ready to post but I have no idea how to use the postal system here. Once I figure it out you'll be receiving poorly written prose in my unique "lets dip a spider in ink and let it run over the page" handwriting.
Anyway, we're off to cook. Sorry this post has been quite poor, I'll write something better soon.
And so it goes.
We were staying one night, so my drunken packing consisted of:
A toothbrush (with no toothpaste)
Two tshirts (both offensive)
Two towels
My iPod
and six boiled sweets.
Yes, it had all the hallmarks of a good weekend. The train ride there was, if one is being generous, horrific, and if one is being cruel, downright barbaric. The train resembled the kind that rattle through Paisley Gilmour Street station towing six billion tonnes of coal. The interior smelled slightly of stale fish and some of the seats that had tears that looked very much like they had been inflicted by a knife. At this point my hangover was in full swing. It was standing on the rooftops proclaiming to the world that I had drank too much and that I had to learn a lesson. I was not well.
On the plus side, Resita is a fascinating place. It looked almost steam-punk in the architecture and general appearance; the mixture of old and new was disconcerting to begin with. Silvia and Victor grew up in Resita and they knew a phenomenal amount of its history and heritage. It made me feel that perhaps I should learn more about my own hometown, maybe do some reading etc. Then I realised I'm doing seven courses and should probably try and focus on them rather than George Orwell's brief stay in Hairmyers.
We stayed for the weekend and then returned to Timisoara. When we arrived in the train station it was the first time I felt like I was coming home rather than just going back to the room. It was an odd revelation, but not an unpleasant one.
I'm finding it quite hard to collect my thoughts and form coherent sentences again. We went to a bar last night that boasted glass tables that housed live pirhanas, and a very impressive selection of shots and spirits. Did you know that absynthe is legal in Romania? I didn't. I do now. I believe the shot was absynthe, gin and rum. We called it quits after that.
I have also rekindled my love for scrambled eggs since arriving here. After watching several videos with conflicting ideas of what constitutes the perfect scrambled egg I think we're just about ready to perfect the art. Stay tuned for the results.
To those who I promised to write letters; I'm very sorry it has taken me so long to get around to it. I have several written and ready to post but I have no idea how to use the postal system here. Once I figure it out you'll be receiving poorly written prose in my unique "lets dip a spider in ink and let it run over the page" handwriting.
Anyway, we're off to cook. Sorry this post has been quite poor, I'll write something better soon.
And so it goes.
Friday 27 February 2009
The hedonistic bell-curve
As some of you may have guessed from the blogs and our general economic climate that we have adopted a somewhat hedonistic lifestyle in some regards. We go out alot, we buy lots of booze, Dave smokes etc. It was not always like this, however. When we first got here we lived like paupers for a few days until we found our feet. Since then we've been gradually getting more extravagant with our purchases; buying wine from a wine shop in the trendy parts of town instead of the minimart around the corner etc. Today we went into said trendy wine shop to get some bottles to accompany our trip to Resita (a mountain town in south-west Romania) over the weekend. What is a trip without wine? Nothing; that's what.
So we went into the shop and perused the selection of fine wines from all around the world. Most of them cost somewhere between 14RON and 40RON, or £2 and £10. We picked two and random (and a third because it was called Lowengang) and went to the counter where a stereotypically attractive woman took our purchases and started to ring them up on the till.
After some faffing around on a calculator (they assume we don't speak Romanian because of our accents, but I'll have you know we nailed the numbers 1-10 at our last lesson) she showed us the price- 345.
Usually when we see a number like this they mean 34 lei and 50 bani, dropping the zero for convenience, one assumes. So Dave looked into his wallet and started to count out some notes. In the mean tume the woman asked "Is too much?" to which we replied "no of course not, that's just fine thanks. 34 lei, right?".
"Nu" she replied, "3 million."
This made us pause for thought.
"Are you sure you mean three million? Is it maybe three hundred and we picked up some expensive bottles?"
"Nu" she replied, "3 million."
"No...we're pretty sure you mean three hundred, but it's ok we'll just leave it thanks."
The girl then decided to emphasise her point by pulling out a 100 lei note and saying "See; one million!"
"No...that's one hundred, but it's ok we'll just leave it. We don't need wine that badly."
And so the transaction ended. One has to wonder how many Western customers she has lost due to her confusion between one hundred and one million? Perhaps a rich westerner proposed to make her a millionaire and promised that 100RON equated to 1000000 in anything else. Who knows. All I know is that we don't have any wine. Off to the minimart.
Today we also visited the largest shopping mall in Romania; the Iulius mall. As soon as we stepped inside we could have been anywhere in the world. There were KFCs, Pizza Huts, Polo, Ralph Lauren, United Colours of Benetton etc. It was all quite depressing. It was a necessary trip though, we needed more towels and jumpers and trying to find items like that in Timisoara is alot more hassle than it's worth in the winter. I think if we go back it will only be out of desperation. Or if they open a Starbucks. I miss my grandé triple shot iced caramel lattés.
So we went into the shop and perused the selection of fine wines from all around the world. Most of them cost somewhere between 14RON and 40RON, or £2 and £10. We picked two and random (and a third because it was called Lowengang) and went to the counter where a stereotypically attractive woman took our purchases and started to ring them up on the till.
After some faffing around on a calculator (they assume we don't speak Romanian because of our accents, but I'll have you know we nailed the numbers 1-10 at our last lesson) she showed us the price- 345.
Usually when we see a number like this they mean 34 lei and 50 bani, dropping the zero for convenience, one assumes. So Dave looked into his wallet and started to count out some notes. In the mean tume the woman asked "Is too much?" to which we replied "no of course not, that's just fine thanks. 34 lei, right?".
"Nu" she replied, "3 million."
This made us pause for thought.
"Are you sure you mean three million? Is it maybe three hundred and we picked up some expensive bottles?"
"Nu" she replied, "3 million."
"No...we're pretty sure you mean three hundred, but it's ok we'll just leave it thanks."
The girl then decided to emphasise her point by pulling out a 100 lei note and saying "See; one million!"
"No...that's one hundred, but it's ok we'll just leave it. We don't need wine that badly."
And so the transaction ended. One has to wonder how many Western customers she has lost due to her confusion between one hundred and one million? Perhaps a rich westerner proposed to make her a millionaire and promised that 100RON equated to 1000000 in anything else. Who knows. All I know is that we don't have any wine. Off to the minimart.
Today we also visited the largest shopping mall in Romania; the Iulius mall. As soon as we stepped inside we could have been anywhere in the world. There were KFCs, Pizza Huts, Polo, Ralph Lauren, United Colours of Benetton etc. It was all quite depressing. It was a necessary trip though, we needed more towels and jumpers and trying to find items like that in Timisoara is alot more hassle than it's worth in the winter. I think if we go back it will only be out of desperation. Or if they open a Starbucks. I miss my grandé triple shot iced caramel lattés.
Tuesday 24 February 2009
French girls with knives and other such obscurities
A few nights ago we made a chili that my mother would be proud of. We encountered one major issue along the way, however. We did not have a tin opener for the kidney beans, chopped tomatoes etc. Panic ensued.
Luckily for us, we live with a girl who is rather remarkable. She's called Camille, she's from France and she can open any man made container with a kitchen knife and sheer determination. She simply stabbed the tin and sawed until our kidney beans had been liberated. This was a pretty cool sight at the best of times, but it was made better by the fact that the last time I saw her she was opening a bottle of wine with a knife while holding a conversation about the French author Michel Houellebeq. Sometimes I feel British culture removes the need for such basic life skills. Maybe we should encourage a revival of self-sufficiency and cast off the shackles of our machine-dependent world.
Or maybe we should just buy a can opener.
Luckily for us, we live with a girl who is rather remarkable. She's called Camille, she's from France and she can open any man made container with a kitchen knife and sheer determination. She simply stabbed the tin and sawed until our kidney beans had been liberated. This was a pretty cool sight at the best of times, but it was made better by the fact that the last time I saw her she was opening a bottle of wine with a knife while holding a conversation about the French author Michel Houellebeq. Sometimes I feel British culture removes the need for such basic life skills. Maybe we should encourage a revival of self-sufficiency and cast off the shackles of our machine-dependent world.
Or maybe we should just buy a can opener.
Just a word concerning Shaorma (and dogs).
Anyway. Let me take you on a little improvisational adventure around the bowels of the human psyche.
Shaorma. If there is one that Scotland needs it is Shaorma.
I take it that you have all seen the pictures of the Romanian Kebab. Romania is significantly closer to Greece and Turkey, the home of Kebab, than Glasgow. So comparatively I think it is safe to say that weedjie kebabs are something to be proud of.
That is until you try the Shaorma. Please. I beg you. Go to your local koh hi noor, your Amran or Flames Tandoori. Ask them to prepare you a mare Shaorma. It contains a precarious mixture of donner style bone dry chicken, bean sprouts, lettuce, cherry tomatoes and... chips. All smothered in a provocative sauce. And something resembling pita bread. There is no turning back.
N.B. I do not and cannot condone Gordon's filming of stray dogs. Notice my absence from the film. That was the largest public gathering we have witnessed to date. I behaved like any adult should and if you ever find yourself in Eastern Europe I recommend strongly (and I cannot emphasise this enough) that you do as I did; run away and cry.
Shaorma. If there is one that Scotland needs it is Shaorma.
I take it that you have all seen the pictures of the Romanian Kebab. Romania is significantly closer to Greece and Turkey, the home of Kebab, than Glasgow. So comparatively I think it is safe to say that weedjie kebabs are something to be proud of.
That is until you try the Shaorma. Please. I beg you. Go to your local koh hi noor, your Amran or Flames Tandoori. Ask them to prepare you a mare Shaorma. It contains a precarious mixture of donner style bone dry chicken, bean sprouts, lettuce, cherry tomatoes and... chips. All smothered in a provocative sauce. And something resembling pita bread. There is no turning back.
N.B. I do not and cannot condone Gordon's filming of stray dogs. Notice my absence from the film. That was the largest public gathering we have witnessed to date. I behaved like any adult should and if you ever find yourself in Eastern Europe I recommend strongly (and I cannot emphasise this enough) that you do as I did; run away and cry.
Monday 23 February 2009
Sunday 22 February 2009
The distant and mechanised glow of Eastern European Dance Parties
I would very much like to write that Gordon's previous post contained nothing but lies. Unfortunately I can't. If anything he did not go far enough.
Words cannot describe the filth. This land knows no morals. That is just how Romania rolls.
Guess what we're doing tonight. And tomorrow night.
Why not?
Words cannot describe the filth. This land knows no morals. That is just how Romania rolls.
Guess what we're doing tonight. And tomorrow night.
Why not?
Paul Allen's Going Away Party
Sometimes I wish I was a better writer so I could paint a better picture of what happens in Romania. Nothing I can put into words will do it justice.
Last night we went to a club called Heaven Studio. If anyone has seen American Psycho they'll remember the scene where he is in the club and is asked to pay cash for his drinks etc. Well, that is what Heaven is like. No pun intended.
We were with some of our friends from the door; two French girls, a Polish girl and some Spanish guys. We walked in and were immediately stopped by the bouncers just inside the door. They pointed vehemently to a sign that we couldn't read in a language we barely understand. It had a rather universal message though; women get in free, men pay 20RON. This, moreso than anything else, should have warned us of what was to come.
We checked our coats into the cloakroom (after emptying them of anything valuable) and made our way into the club. As soon as we passed through the archway we were engulfed by noise. The beat was so dense I could feel it in my chest and the bassline was a dull, fuzzy drone lying underneath Eastern European style synths.
Huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling (somewhat remiscent of a club I visited in another life) and the green beams of lasers bounced and refracted of any polished surface. There was an intermittent strobe light that signified when the "good" part of the song was about to kick in. All the while girls dressed only in dignity and underwear danced on raised podiums and peered down at the gawpers with derision.
Around the circumference of the dancerflood there were raised seated areas where people who know people who know people get to sit in relative comfort and order drinks from more girls who dance their way through the gaggle of commoners on the ground.
Everything was shrouded in a pale blue/green hue.
The bar was a large kidney shaped ordeal with male barstaff dancing and pouring drinks for whoever flashed enough cash. After flashing the appropriate amount of cash Dave and I tried to navigate our way around the club. We met the people we came with, briefly, and then ordered more drinks. They don't give change in these clubs, tips are assumed.
We came home, we watched peep show and wallowed in our own hedonism. I didn't have a bad night. In fact, I'd say I had a good night. Nothing was lost, the tattered remains of my dignity remain tattered but intact and my hangover today seems to be subsiding. I may have travelled 2000 miles, but hangovers feel the same in every country. It's like getting a hug from a familiar loved one; they assure you that everything will be alright, not to worry and to stay in bed as they stab the inside of your brain with knitting needles.
It's difficult to concentrate in the city of the future.
Last night we went to a club called Heaven Studio. If anyone has seen American Psycho they'll remember the scene where he is in the club and is asked to pay cash for his drinks etc. Well, that is what Heaven is like. No pun intended.
We were with some of our friends from the door; two French girls, a Polish girl and some Spanish guys. We walked in and were immediately stopped by the bouncers just inside the door. They pointed vehemently to a sign that we couldn't read in a language we barely understand. It had a rather universal message though; women get in free, men pay 20RON. This, moreso than anything else, should have warned us of what was to come.
We checked our coats into the cloakroom (after emptying them of anything valuable) and made our way into the club. As soon as we passed through the archway we were engulfed by noise. The beat was so dense I could feel it in my chest and the bassline was a dull, fuzzy drone lying underneath Eastern European style synths.
Huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling (somewhat remiscent of a club I visited in another life) and the green beams of lasers bounced and refracted of any polished surface. There was an intermittent strobe light that signified when the "good" part of the song was about to kick in. All the while girls dressed only in dignity and underwear danced on raised podiums and peered down at the gawpers with derision.
Around the circumference of the dancerflood there were raised seated areas where people who know people who know people get to sit in relative comfort and order drinks from more girls who dance their way through the gaggle of commoners on the ground.
Everything was shrouded in a pale blue/green hue.
The bar was a large kidney shaped ordeal with male barstaff dancing and pouring drinks for whoever flashed enough cash. After flashing the appropriate amount of cash Dave and I tried to navigate our way around the club. We met the people we came with, briefly, and then ordered more drinks. They don't give change in these clubs, tips are assumed.
We came home, we watched peep show and wallowed in our own hedonism. I didn't have a bad night. In fact, I'd say I had a good night. Nothing was lost, the tattered remains of my dignity remain tattered but intact and my hangover today seems to be subsiding. I may have travelled 2000 miles, but hangovers feel the same in every country. It's like getting a hug from a familiar loved one; they assure you that everything will be alright, not to worry and to stay in bed as they stab the inside of your brain with knitting needles.
It's difficult to concentrate in the city of the future.
Wednesday 18 February 2009
A short preliminary blog right now. We had our first Romanian lesson today. It was in French.
The lecturer was speaking to the French students we were with and he got quite caught up in the moment. Funnily enough I understood most of it. All those years of cheating my way through French in high school are finally paying off.
Once he found out we were Scottish he asked if I had any whisky. Scottish stereotypes are universal, so it seems. I suppose that's a good thing.
Multimedia posts coming ever so soon...
Yeah, why not.
The lecturer was speaking to the French students we were with and he got quite caught up in the moment. Funnily enough I understood most of it. All those years of cheating my way through French in high school are finally paying off.
Once he found out we were Scottish he asked if I had any whisky. Scottish stereotypes are universal, so it seems. I suppose that's a good thing.
Multimedia posts coming ever so soon...
Yeah, why not.
Tuesday 17 February 2009
Here it never snowed, afterwards it did
We have just celebrated the anniversary of our first week in Timisoara. After a week of going out, drinking, socialising, worrying, panicking and acclimatising it might be an idea to take stock of where we are in relation to everything around us.
Timisoara is beautiful. I can't emphasise that enough; it's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. Today we walked in the snow through the town squares taking pictures and making our video diary. We saw a group of teenagers throwing snowballs at the pigeons, a family having a snowball fight, a father pulling two young girls along on a sledge; it was beautifully utopian. For a second we got a glimpse of sheer happiness. This city seems to know when you're doubting it and proceeds to do something amazing to restore your faith in its motives.
In the Piaza Victoria there was a woman standing with her arms out holding bread in both hands. The pigeons landed on her arms and pecked at the bread while she slowly disappeared under the snow. It was oddly surreal. A man asked Dave to take a picture of him with the woman, so obviously this wasn't a regular occurence. It was a lovely sight.
Last night we went to a Scottish pub, although they didn't play any Scottish music and there was no Tennants. The staff were friendly though and they took pictures of us; I think we might have been the first Scottish people to visit it. A nice honour, I suppose.
There's a party on Thursday for the international students; a superhero themed party. While we had no intention of going anyway (I don't need to look like a prick to get drunk. I don't even need an excuse) it turns out we actually have plans with our Romanian friend Silvia. It was quite a nice feeling knowing that we've managed to network so well that we're double booked on week nights.
We bought Romanian copies of Generation X and Trainspotting today. We're hoping to learn conversational Romanian rather than the formal version so these books are our new goal. It's quite quaint; Trainspotting comes with footnotes explaining aspects of Scottish culture such as "Weegies" and "Orange Lodge". What a nice cultural export.
We've cooked a few successful meals as well. They were both pasta dishes, but we're not going hungry and that's something to be thankful for.
There're more pictures to go on Bebo; mostly of snowscapes and graffiti. We're making a small video diary as well. As soon as we have anything witty or interesting to say we'll put it on here.
I think now I'll go and decipher some Eastern European postmodern sentences.
Yeah, why not.
Edit: Tonight we've been asked out by three different groups of people. I don't know if we're lucky or popular, but either way that's pretty cool. I didn't even get that in Scotland.
Timisoara is beautiful. I can't emphasise that enough; it's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. Today we walked in the snow through the town squares taking pictures and making our video diary. We saw a group of teenagers throwing snowballs at the pigeons, a family having a snowball fight, a father pulling two young girls along on a sledge; it was beautifully utopian. For a second we got a glimpse of sheer happiness. This city seems to know when you're doubting it and proceeds to do something amazing to restore your faith in its motives.
In the Piaza Victoria there was a woman standing with her arms out holding bread in both hands. The pigeons landed on her arms and pecked at the bread while she slowly disappeared under the snow. It was oddly surreal. A man asked Dave to take a picture of him with the woman, so obviously this wasn't a regular occurence. It was a lovely sight.
Last night we went to a Scottish pub, although they didn't play any Scottish music and there was no Tennants. The staff were friendly though and they took pictures of us; I think we might have been the first Scottish people to visit it. A nice honour, I suppose.
There's a party on Thursday for the international students; a superhero themed party. While we had no intention of going anyway (I don't need to look like a prick to get drunk. I don't even need an excuse) it turns out we actually have plans with our Romanian friend Silvia. It was quite a nice feeling knowing that we've managed to network so well that we're double booked on week nights.
We bought Romanian copies of Generation X and Trainspotting today. We're hoping to learn conversational Romanian rather than the formal version so these books are our new goal. It's quite quaint; Trainspotting comes with footnotes explaining aspects of Scottish culture such as "Weegies" and "Orange Lodge". What a nice cultural export.
We've cooked a few successful meals as well. They were both pasta dishes, but we're not going hungry and that's something to be thankful for.
There're more pictures to go on Bebo; mostly of snowscapes and graffiti. We're making a small video diary as well. As soon as we have anything witty or interesting to say we'll put it on here.
I think now I'll go and decipher some Eastern European postmodern sentences.
Yeah, why not.
Edit: Tonight we've been asked out by three different groups of people. I don't know if we're lucky or popular, but either way that's pretty cool. I didn't even get that in Scotland.
Sunday 15 February 2009
We are Navigators, David, Navigators!
Before I forget again, a great thing happened in Luton before we abandoned Western Culture completely.
We went for our last British drink (and last pint; beer comes in half litre bottles here. You can't get beer on tap) in a little pub next to our hotel called The California Inn. As it turns out it is Luton's number one spot for gay and alternative lifestyles. Everyone was lovely, we chatted to a few people and they found out about our trip etc. So we were sitting at a table when a guy walks over and says "Hey guys, I heard you're going to Romania- cool! Now, are you two homosexuals?"
How fantastically forward! We told him we were not and he spent a few minutes making angry small talk, obviously annoyed that we were bringing our boring heterosexual lifestyle into his domain. I thought it was all very funny.
I have my first Romanian hangover today. We had a Hell of a night though. We went to a club that had a real band playing, they were somewhere between Rage and Linkin Park. Not too bad. Very Romanian.
Dave and I have both discovered that we've started speaking in pigeon english to each other after having to do so for the benefit of the other students. It's quite embarrassing when you catch yourself saying things like "I like very much" and dropping Romanian words into sentences such as "Hey man, do you want lapta in your tea?". We're truly men of the world.
I found out that our address is "Complexul Studentesc, Caminul C12, Aleea Studentilor, Timisoara, Romania." So if anyone wants to write to us there you go. It translates roughly as "Student complex in student drive." Imaginitive. We're in room 101 as well. Don't think the irony is lost on us.
Oh, another little culture shock. There's no licencing laws here so you can buy booze as long as the shop is open. It's wonderful. And coffee shops are usually open until the early hours of the morning. Oh, that's what I was going to say!
I had an amazing moment today. Dave and I were walking through one of the town squares next to the Christian Orthodox cathedral. It has been snowing a bit so everything has a thin layer of white over it. The sun was setting the snow was melting and there was amazing Gregorian-style chanting coming from the cathedral. Everything for a second just seemed perfect; everything came together and I realised that I love it here, I haven't screwed up. It was a good feeling.
I think i'll stay in tonight and do some writing, I'm too tired to go out. I think I might write a happy story for once.
Yeah, why not.
We went for our last British drink (and last pint; beer comes in half litre bottles here. You can't get beer on tap) in a little pub next to our hotel called The California Inn. As it turns out it is Luton's number one spot for gay and alternative lifestyles. Everyone was lovely, we chatted to a few people and they found out about our trip etc. So we were sitting at a table when a guy walks over and says "Hey guys, I heard you're going to Romania- cool! Now, are you two homosexuals?"
How fantastically forward! We told him we were not and he spent a few minutes making angry small talk, obviously annoyed that we were bringing our boring heterosexual lifestyle into his domain. I thought it was all very funny.
I have my first Romanian hangover today. We had a Hell of a night though. We went to a club that had a real band playing, they were somewhere between Rage and Linkin Park. Not too bad. Very Romanian.
Dave and I have both discovered that we've started speaking in pigeon english to each other after having to do so for the benefit of the other students. It's quite embarrassing when you catch yourself saying things like "I like very much" and dropping Romanian words into sentences such as "Hey man, do you want lapta in your tea?". We're truly men of the world.
I found out that our address is "Complexul Studentesc, Caminul C12, Aleea Studentilor, Timisoara, Romania." So if anyone wants to write to us there you go. It translates roughly as "Student complex in student drive." Imaginitive. We're in room 101 as well. Don't think the irony is lost on us.
Oh, another little culture shock. There's no licencing laws here so you can buy booze as long as the shop is open. It's wonderful. And coffee shops are usually open until the early hours of the morning. Oh, that's what I was going to say!
I had an amazing moment today. Dave and I were walking through one of the town squares next to the Christian Orthodox cathedral. It has been snowing a bit so everything has a thin layer of white over it. The sun was setting the snow was melting and there was amazing Gregorian-style chanting coming from the cathedral. Everything for a second just seemed perfect; everything came together and I realised that I love it here, I haven't screwed up. It was a good feeling.
I think i'll stay in tonight and do some writing, I'm too tired to go out. I think I might write a happy story for once.
Yeah, why not.
Friday 13 February 2009
As Gordon pointed out we went to a club somewhere last night. Honestly I don't remember it. I'm quite proud of myself for getting home in one piece.
Anyway, today has been the first major hangover, impressively considering we've been out every night. So not much happened. Spent the day in my p.j.s. Oh yeah. Gordon made buttery garlicky pasta. Good day all round.
So due to the lack of any news how about some colour. A wee bit about Romanian culture;
Its odd. The streets are prowled day and night by stray dogs. They run this town. Taxis have seat belts but no way to fasten them. You have to cling on for dear life. All toilets are eco friendly. I think. they have a flush button and a stop button. There are no pints. Beer comes in half liters. Showers don't have drains. You mop up.
Oh. And we got a kettle. (Ouala)
And so it goes.
Anyway, today has been the first major hangover, impressively considering we've been out every night. So not much happened. Spent the day in my p.j.s. Oh yeah. Gordon made buttery garlicky pasta. Good day all round.
So due to the lack of any news how about some colour. A wee bit about Romanian culture;
Its odd. The streets are prowled day and night by stray dogs. They run this town. Taxis have seat belts but no way to fasten them. You have to cling on for dear life. All toilets are eco friendly. I think. they have a flush button and a stop button. There are no pints. Beer comes in half liters. Showers don't have drains. You mop up.
Oh. And we got a kettle. (Ouala)
And so it goes.
Day four and all is quiet on the Western Front. Well, it's not quiet at all. People play lots of shit Eastern European pop music which sounds like last year's Western music, and when they're not doing that they're shouting. Still. We just haven't found our feet yet. Soon we'll be the obnoxious bastards.
Last night we had a party. It started off as a gathering in someone's room which progressed into the kitchen which led to a club etc. Let me tell you about clubs in Romania.
Some of you may be familiar with my writing which frequently tackles the topic of clubbing and how I feel about it. I tend to paint quite a dystopian landscape due my my cynical nature, but it's never really as bad as I say it is.
Well, in Romania is it. The club we went to was fairly anonymous. It must have been a fire hazard; people were crammed in at every angle. packt like sardines in a crushd tin box
Nobody dances because there was no room, queueing at the bar consisted of throwing money over people shorter than oneself and cigarettes bounced around in the darkness like fireflies. I wasn't sure what to make of it or how to react. I drank, I chatted, I laughed etc, but for the first time since I got here I was struck by the same overwhelming lonliness that I felt in Scotland everytime I went out. Everything I have is based on conversation, if that's taken away I regress into myself and become a cynical looking man cowering under an expensive coat and sipping beer angrily. as opposed to my usual happy go luck self
Couples make the effort to talk to those left, people dance to shake off the boredom, drinks pour and drinks pour.
I don't know how to handle it even after years of practice. I suppose I'll learn to live with it eventually. Maybe I should read more and go to fewer clubs. Having said that, I had a better time last night than I usually do in these places. I don't know. People outside are singing in Turkish.
I don't think I'll go out tonight. I'm tired and I'm enjoying catching up with my reading and writing. Our classes start on Monday.
Tomorrow is Valentine's day. I think I'll get drunk.
And so it goes.
Last night we had a party. It started off as a gathering in someone's room which progressed into the kitchen which led to a club etc. Let me tell you about clubs in Romania.
Some of you may be familiar with my writing which frequently tackles the topic of clubbing and how I feel about it. I tend to paint quite a dystopian landscape due my my cynical nature, but it's never really as bad as I say it is.
Well, in Romania is it. The club we went to was fairly anonymous. It must have been a fire hazard; people were crammed in at every angle. packt like sardines in a crushd tin box
Nobody dances because there was no room, queueing at the bar consisted of throwing money over people shorter than oneself and cigarettes bounced around in the darkness like fireflies. I wasn't sure what to make of it or how to react. I drank, I chatted, I laughed etc, but for the first time since I got here I was struck by the same overwhelming lonliness that I felt in Scotland everytime I went out. Everything I have is based on conversation, if that's taken away I regress into myself and become a cynical looking man cowering under an expensive coat and sipping beer angrily. as opposed to my usual happy go luck self
Couples make the effort to talk to those left, people dance to shake off the boredom, drinks pour and drinks pour.
I don't know how to handle it even after years of practice. I suppose I'll learn to live with it eventually. Maybe I should read more and go to fewer clubs. Having said that, I had a better time last night than I usually do in these places. I don't know. People outside are singing in Turkish.
I don't think I'll go out tonight. I'm tired and I'm enjoying catching up with my reading and writing. Our classes start on Monday.
Tomorrow is Valentine's day. I think I'll get drunk.
And so it goes.
Thursday 12 February 2009
Snipers on Carousels
It's gotten to the stage where documenting our day to day shenanigans is going to get a bit boring. I think I'll start writing about specific aspects of Romanian culture instead, just to shake things up a bit. It's probably best to start with where we spend alot of time; our local.
Well, we have about 3 bazillion locals. Everywhere sells alcohol; take aways, petrol stations, coffee shops, markets etc. It's more prevalent than air here. Also, cigarettes are in the impulse buy section at Supermarkets.
Anyway, our local of choice is a little place down a flight of stairs (stairs is a generous word, stairs don't usually lie at 70 degree angles) and is shrouded in smoke. It's called, and we didn't know this until last night, The Shanty House. I love that. It looks sort of like the Brunswick Cellars on Suchihall Street except this place has wifi, everyone smokes and the booze is pennies. There's another point; I've met dozens of people so far and all bar one of them smoke. The only person who doesn't is a Dutch girl living down the hall from us.
The pub is split into two rooms with some sort of feature wall between them. The room with the entrance has the bar and the typical tables and chairs etc, the second room is much darker and has sofas and whatnot. The only thing that we don't enjoy about the pub is an apparent obsession with a strange disco ball sort of thing that shines red lights all around the room like snipers on carousels.
I my stream of thought. Dave and I went out for coffee and I forgot to finish this. I think i'll call it quits and think of something else to write about later.
And so it goes.
Well, we have about 3 bazillion locals. Everywhere sells alcohol; take aways, petrol stations, coffee shops, markets etc. It's more prevalent than air here. Also, cigarettes are in the impulse buy section at Supermarkets.
Anyway, our local of choice is a little place down a flight of stairs (stairs is a generous word, stairs don't usually lie at 70 degree angles) and is shrouded in smoke. It's called, and we didn't know this until last night, The Shanty House. I love that. It looks sort of like the Brunswick Cellars on Suchihall Street except this place has wifi, everyone smokes and the booze is pennies. There's another point; I've met dozens of people so far and all bar one of them smoke. The only person who doesn't is a Dutch girl living down the hall from us.
The pub is split into two rooms with some sort of feature wall between them. The room with the entrance has the bar and the typical tables and chairs etc, the second room is much darker and has sofas and whatnot. The only thing that we don't enjoy about the pub is an apparent obsession with a strange disco ball sort of thing that shines red lights all around the room like snipers on carousels.
I my stream of thought. Dave and I went out for coffee and I forgot to finish this. I think i'll call it quits and think of something else to write about later.
And so it goes.
Wednesday 11 February 2009
I heart Timisoara
Dear god. This is all too much for me. I know I've been neglecting the blog for a while. Maybe its because my thoughts are less ordered than Gordon's. Or maybe I'm just lazy. I really don't know what to make of Romania.
Yesterday I finally managed to acquire tea, milk (lapte) and a mug. It involved a lot of pointing and shouting. Got back to the flat... no kettle. There is no kettle here. Can you imagine such a thing? Apparently Romanians don't use duvets either.
I can't say I've been sober since I arrived. It's too horrible. Until I can get a cup of tea I think will leave the blogging to Gordon. It's half one here. Half eleven in the developed world. I'm off to the pub.
And so it goes.
Yesterday I finally managed to acquire tea, milk (lapte) and a mug. It involved a lot of pointing and shouting. Got back to the flat... no kettle. There is no kettle here. Can you imagine such a thing? Apparently Romanians don't use duvets either.
I can't say I've been sober since I arrived. It's too horrible. Until I can get a cup of tea I think will leave the blogging to Gordon. It's half one here. Half eleven in the developed world. I'm off to the pub.
And so it goes.
Tuesday 10 February 2009
This Romania was brought to you by the Coca Cola Corporation
Historical slumming - the act of visiting locations such as diners, smokestack industrial sites, rural villages — locations where time appears to have been frozen many years back — so as to experience relief when one returns back to "the present". (page 11)~ Douglas Coupland; Generation X.
This is effectively what Dave and I have done/are doing. We left Luton airport with a mixture of substantial relief and almost crippling fear. We sat in the departures lounge nursing our last Starbucks coffee, staring at the ground, judging girls dressed like slags and not touching our food. We were scared, we were very scared. People often say that the only true fear is the unknown and we were jumping into it face first with not even a bottle of wine to our name.
I hadn't slept in 28 hours when we got onto the plane; sleepign every second day seemed to be working for me. There was a little girl in the seat infront of me kept turning around and grinning at us, which was adorable. She drew Dave and I, and a girl called Bianca, lots of little pictures for us to keep. She kept me sane for the 2 hours and forty minutes we spent hurtling away from Western culture.
For those who care, of which there are few, my tracklist for the flight was;
We Flood Empty Lakes- Yndi Halda
Gagging Order- Radiohead
Alice- Tom Waits
Triumph of Our Tired Eyes- A Silver Mt. Zion
Cold Days From the Birdhouse- Twilight Sad
Timisoara houses the second biggest airport in Romania. I'd say it was about the size of fuck all. I thought we were going to land in a field until we saw the reassuring grey stream of concrete out of the window.
We left the airport and studied our surroundings. We could have been anywhere in the world, there was nothing unique about the outskirts of Timisoara. We enquired in broken Romanian about the price of a taxi from the airport to the university. I think it worked out as £40, which apparently is fair.
We met Ciprian Stefanescu; the man in charge of the administrative side of our trip. Aside from not having done anything we should have done, we came out of it pretty well. He's a lovely man and already he's been ridiculously helpful. Our first example of Romanian kindness.
After that we visited our home for the next five months.
Ciprian drove us there, which was amazing as our luggage weighs a ton (or tonne, whichever is heavier). There was a small boy in a dirty tracksuit pointing to where we could park. He expected a tip, which was one of the most heartbreaking things i've ever seen. There's unbelievable poverty in Timisoara. We passed a horse and cart on the road, which would have been funny anywhere else but instead enveloped me in dread. The 'complex' we're living in was built during the communist era and looks as much. It reminds me of the places you see wars happening where no one cares, where it's the "and finally" section in the news.
Somewhere in foreign something bad happened...
Paint peels from the walls, windows stay broken indefinitely, cars park on grass etc. Our first impression was not a happy one. It was the first time I thought I had seriously fucked up- what the hell had I gotten myself into? It looked like we had moved into the unhappiest place on Earth.
We got to our room, although I was shaking so much I thought I was going to collapse on the stairs. It's tiny, really tiny, but it's warm and well lit so I can't complain. There's a communal kitchen and shower room (with individual cubicals, thankfully) and vast shanty town of convenience stores, pubs and diners making up the rest of the complex. While i'm not painting a pretty picture (that would be a lie and i'm making a point of being honest on this blog), I feel at home here. Dave and I don't speak a word of Romania's ass-backwards language yet everyone we have encountered have been patient, friendly and helpful to a degree that puts Britain to shame. We've only met a few of the people on our floor so far, but they seem lovely as well.
Our first night in Romania ended with Dave and I getting drunk in a bar and buyingthe worst kebabs I've ever seen. It came in a roll- enough said. Our first day had been a mixed bag of emotions, but we fell asleep thinking that maybe, if we stay positive, this might just work out alright.
Today we met with our academic guide for our time here, a man called Lucian. He showed us around Timisoara and talked us through our academic career. I won't bother describing the city, there'll be pictures on Bebo as of tonight (www.bebo.com/ethanoldreams). There's three or four town squares all named after aspects of the revolution; victory square, union square etc. Everything is run down but functional. There's laws against renovating historical buildings so I imagine Timisoara is going to stay the same for a while.
Lucian informed us that attendance of lectures and seminars is not compulsory, nor is it expected of us. Not only that, there are no exams for us to finish before we leave. Simply essays for each course we do. Life is good.
Roads are not great. Pedestrian crossings in Romania are a suggestion for drivers, not a rule that is set in stone. The etiquette for crossing roads is to make eye contact with the driver, who you can guarantee is driving too fast anyway, stick your hand out and put your faith in their brakes. If you don't do that you better hope you're standing across from something pretty because you're going to be there for a while.
We found our umpteenth example of Romanian kindness when we got lost trying to walk home from the city centre. I asked a beautiful girl, the kind who would be unapproachable if found in one's own country, for directions in broken Romanian. She understood a bit but couldn't tell us how to get home. She found a friend who couldn't help either, so they asked us to follow them. Dangerous? Probably. Ill-advised? Maybe. Good for the banter? Definately. Turns out they were going to get on a bus and come with us. We declined their kind offer as it would be better to leave then and be cool Scotsmen rather than embarrassing ourselves trying to figure out how to use buses with them watching. I can't even do that in Britain. We walked the rest of the way.
I ordered our first meal in Romanian today;
"Doua pizza va rog si duoa coka". Two pizzas thanks and two cokes. A small step, but one I'm proud of.
Dave and I also bought a bottle of wine, the most expensive one there, and 20 cigarettes. It came to 20RON, or £4 in real money. We're gazillionaires.
Right now we're lamenting our lack of a kettle and drinking odd orange juice that's more orange than the most orangey orange in an orange place.
It's a huge bonus being Scottish, everyone loves the Scots. Our accents are going down very well indeed.
I'm trying to find out our address but the woman I have to ask is terrifying and I'd rather not speak to her. I'll get it eventually.
I'm glad we're here. I really am. And I'm glad Dave is with me. This would be impossibly difficult without him.
I'm sure there's more things to say, I just can't think of anything right now. If anyone wants to ask anything just "hit me up" on Bebo or on here.
I think we're going out again tonight. We're trying to blend in with the locals.
Tomorrow I shall start cooking.
Goodnight for now,
and so it goes.
This is effectively what Dave and I have done/are doing. We left Luton airport with a mixture of substantial relief and almost crippling fear. We sat in the departures lounge nursing our last Starbucks coffee, staring at the ground, judging girls dressed like slags and not touching our food. We were scared, we were very scared. People often say that the only true fear is the unknown and we were jumping into it face first with not even a bottle of wine to our name.
I hadn't slept in 28 hours when we got onto the plane; sleepign every second day seemed to be working for me. There was a little girl in the seat infront of me kept turning around and grinning at us, which was adorable. She drew Dave and I, and a girl called Bianca, lots of little pictures for us to keep. She kept me sane for the 2 hours and forty minutes we spent hurtling away from Western culture.
For those who care, of which there are few, my tracklist for the flight was;
We Flood Empty Lakes- Yndi Halda
Gagging Order- Radiohead
Alice- Tom Waits
Triumph of Our Tired Eyes- A Silver Mt. Zion
Cold Days From the Birdhouse- Twilight Sad
Timisoara houses the second biggest airport in Romania. I'd say it was about the size of fuck all. I thought we were going to land in a field until we saw the reassuring grey stream of concrete out of the window.
We left the airport and studied our surroundings. We could have been anywhere in the world, there was nothing unique about the outskirts of Timisoara. We enquired in broken Romanian about the price of a taxi from the airport to the university. I think it worked out as £40, which apparently is fair.
We met Ciprian Stefanescu; the man in charge of the administrative side of our trip. Aside from not having done anything we should have done, we came out of it pretty well. He's a lovely man and already he's been ridiculously helpful. Our first example of Romanian kindness.
After that we visited our home for the next five months.
Ciprian drove us there, which was amazing as our luggage weighs a ton (or tonne, whichever is heavier). There was a small boy in a dirty tracksuit pointing to where we could park. He expected a tip, which was one of the most heartbreaking things i've ever seen. There's unbelievable poverty in Timisoara. We passed a horse and cart on the road, which would have been funny anywhere else but instead enveloped me in dread. The 'complex' we're living in was built during the communist era and looks as much. It reminds me of the places you see wars happening where no one cares, where it's the "and finally" section in the news.
Somewhere in foreign something bad happened...
Paint peels from the walls, windows stay broken indefinitely, cars park on grass etc. Our first impression was not a happy one. It was the first time I thought I had seriously fucked up- what the hell had I gotten myself into? It looked like we had moved into the unhappiest place on Earth.
We got to our room, although I was shaking so much I thought I was going to collapse on the stairs. It's tiny, really tiny, but it's warm and well lit so I can't complain. There's a communal kitchen and shower room (with individual cubicals, thankfully) and vast shanty town of convenience stores, pubs and diners making up the rest of the complex. While i'm not painting a pretty picture (that would be a lie and i'm making a point of being honest on this blog), I feel at home here. Dave and I don't speak a word of Romania's ass-backwards language yet everyone we have encountered have been patient, friendly and helpful to a degree that puts Britain to shame. We've only met a few of the people on our floor so far, but they seem lovely as well.
Our first night in Romania ended with Dave and I getting drunk in a bar and buyingthe worst kebabs I've ever seen. It came in a roll- enough said. Our first day had been a mixed bag of emotions, but we fell asleep thinking that maybe, if we stay positive, this might just work out alright.
Today we met with our academic guide for our time here, a man called Lucian. He showed us around Timisoara and talked us through our academic career. I won't bother describing the city, there'll be pictures on Bebo as of tonight (www.bebo.com/ethanoldreams). There's three or four town squares all named after aspects of the revolution; victory square, union square etc. Everything is run down but functional. There's laws against renovating historical buildings so I imagine Timisoara is going to stay the same for a while.
Lucian informed us that attendance of lectures and seminars is not compulsory, nor is it expected of us. Not only that, there are no exams for us to finish before we leave. Simply essays for each course we do. Life is good.
Roads are not great. Pedestrian crossings in Romania are a suggestion for drivers, not a rule that is set in stone. The etiquette for crossing roads is to make eye contact with the driver, who you can guarantee is driving too fast anyway, stick your hand out and put your faith in their brakes. If you don't do that you better hope you're standing across from something pretty because you're going to be there for a while.
We found our umpteenth example of Romanian kindness when we got lost trying to walk home from the city centre. I asked a beautiful girl, the kind who would be unapproachable if found in one's own country, for directions in broken Romanian. She understood a bit but couldn't tell us how to get home. She found a friend who couldn't help either, so they asked us to follow them. Dangerous? Probably. Ill-advised? Maybe. Good for the banter? Definately. Turns out they were going to get on a bus and come with us. We declined their kind offer as it would be better to leave then and be cool Scotsmen rather than embarrassing ourselves trying to figure out how to use buses with them watching. I can't even do that in Britain. We walked the rest of the way.
I ordered our first meal in Romanian today;
"Doua pizza va rog si duoa coka". Two pizzas thanks and two cokes. A small step, but one I'm proud of.
Dave and I also bought a bottle of wine, the most expensive one there, and 20 cigarettes. It came to 20RON, or £4 in real money. We're gazillionaires.
Right now we're lamenting our lack of a kettle and drinking odd orange juice that's more orange than the most orangey orange in an orange place.
It's a huge bonus being Scottish, everyone loves the Scots. Our accents are going down very well indeed.
I'm trying to find out our address but the woman I have to ask is terrifying and I'd rather not speak to her. I'll get it eventually.
I'm glad we're here. I really am. And I'm glad Dave is with me. This would be impossibly difficult without him.
I'm sure there's more things to say, I just can't think of anything right now. If anyone wants to ask anything just "hit me up" on Bebo or on here.
I think we're going out again tonight. We're trying to blend in with the locals.
Tomorrow I shall start cooking.
Goodnight for now,
and so it goes.
Monday 9 February 2009
We're going on a bear hunt- I'm not scared!
London; the capital city of Great Britain, the cultural hub of the known universe, the place that people from all over the world come to live out dreams and fantasies is a fucking hole. A soulless purgatory of people hurrying up to get nowhere against a backdrop of paranoia and overcast skies. It's beautiful, don't get me wrong, it truly is a beautiful city, but the atmosphere of casual indifference is unbelievably claustrophobic. Maybe it was a lack of sleep on my part that made me feel like this, I don't know, I'm not a doctor.
There was one saving grace however. Dave and I dined in a little restaurant called Borgia (the namesake of a similar establishment in American Psycho) and witnessed the greatest battle of wills since Kennedy and Khrushchev.
The restaurant walls were adorned with huge ornate mirrors. At random intervals alabaster busts of nude women and cherubs stared at you with cold, dead eyes and no arms. It looked like the set of a Monty Python sketch. A man next to us took pictures as, in his words, "I couldn't describe this place to my friends, they wouldn't believe me."
The waiters had been told to adopt Italian accents; presumably to maintain a sense of authenticity that the food sadly lacked. While we were eating our questionable meals (Dave opting for a seafood dish in what can only be described as a "red" sauce and myself choosing a delightful beige dish) a woman stormed into the restaurant with the grim determination of a deaf woman trying to complain about not being able to make reservations. Her main gripe seemed to be that she attempted to make reservations earlier and was denied the privilege as the restaurant did not take reservations. There were tables available; nothing was stopping her from colonising one of the many tables with her band of merry men, but this did not make her happy. She wanted reservations. She proffered her argument in a way that only a deaf woman can; by shouting. She shouted alot. She shouted at the waiters, she shouted at the manager, she shouted at the customers and in her hilarious deaf accent she probably shouted at me. It was hard to keep up with the focus of her rage.
The waiter, whose admirable handling of the situation was reflected in his tip, tried to placate the woman by shouting back and telling her he was going to call the police. His Italian accent gave way to a much more natural cockney one each time he raised his voice.
To recap; we watched a deaf woman arguing with a man pretending to be Italian.
It saved an otherwise soul-destroying day.
Instead of sightseeing we adopted a different approach to exploring London. In a daring and handsome move we decided to buy an all day rail ticket and head towards anywhere we recognised. It was liberating and refreshing. The people of London were also surprisingly friendly, but I suppose in a city where you have to assume everyone is a nutter the only way to survive is to adopt an air of cautious politeness.
Right now we're in Luton airport.. Dave is listening to the new Hot Leg album and I'm contemplating my Nth coffee of the day. We're approaching our last few hours on British soil.
The laptop is running out of batteries, I should wrap this up.
We've said in every post that we'll miss people and that is still very much true. The next time you hear from us we'll probably be in Timisoara, although it still seems too surreal to be true.
We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when...
And so it goes.
There was one saving grace however. Dave and I dined in a little restaurant called Borgia (the namesake of a similar establishment in American Psycho) and witnessed the greatest battle of wills since Kennedy and Khrushchev.
The restaurant walls were adorned with huge ornate mirrors. At random intervals alabaster busts of nude women and cherubs stared at you with cold, dead eyes and no arms. It looked like the set of a Monty Python sketch. A man next to us took pictures as, in his words, "I couldn't describe this place to my friends, they wouldn't believe me."
The waiters had been told to adopt Italian accents; presumably to maintain a sense of authenticity that the food sadly lacked. While we were eating our questionable meals (Dave opting for a seafood dish in what can only be described as a "red" sauce and myself choosing a delightful beige dish) a woman stormed into the restaurant with the grim determination of a deaf woman trying to complain about not being able to make reservations. Her main gripe seemed to be that she attempted to make reservations earlier and was denied the privilege as the restaurant did not take reservations. There were tables available; nothing was stopping her from colonising one of the many tables with her band of merry men, but this did not make her happy. She wanted reservations. She proffered her argument in a way that only a deaf woman can; by shouting. She shouted alot. She shouted at the waiters, she shouted at the manager, she shouted at the customers and in her hilarious deaf accent she probably shouted at me. It was hard to keep up with the focus of her rage.
The waiter, whose admirable handling of the situation was reflected in his tip, tried to placate the woman by shouting back and telling her he was going to call the police. His Italian accent gave way to a much more natural cockney one each time he raised his voice.
To recap; we watched a deaf woman arguing with a man pretending to be Italian.
It saved an otherwise soul-destroying day.
Instead of sightseeing we adopted a different approach to exploring London. In a daring and handsome move we decided to buy an all day rail ticket and head towards anywhere we recognised. It was liberating and refreshing. The people of London were also surprisingly friendly, but I suppose in a city where you have to assume everyone is a nutter the only way to survive is to adopt an air of cautious politeness.
Right now we're in Luton airport.. Dave is listening to the new Hot Leg album and I'm contemplating my Nth coffee of the day. We're approaching our last few hours on British soil.
The laptop is running out of batteries, I should wrap this up.
We've said in every post that we'll miss people and that is still very much true. The next time you hear from us we'll probably be in Timisoara, although it still seems too surreal to be true.
We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when...
And so it goes.
Saturday 7 February 2009
Fear and Loathing in Luton
After a non-too arduous journey we find ourselves in Luton; a town with all the charm of a stick dipped in shit. The room we are in is reasonable enough, although the small kitchenette area raises more questions than it answers. EasyJet was...enjoyable. It was nice to see Scotland disappear from under us. The feeling being ruined, obviously, by England coming hurtling towards us with very little warning.
I haven't slept in 25 hours now and I don't appear to be feeling any ill effects. How long this precarious balance of caffeine and crippling tiredness will last remains to be seen. We're heading for Londontown now. It's cold, snowy, wet, expensive, miserable, English and most definately ours.
I love flying. That was my first time in a plane. I did not cry. Not even a little bit. Now Gordon and myself are off to London for a bit of sightseeing; two unemployed young Scots giro playboys are about to be unleashed on London.
I miss you all very much.
And so it goes.
I haven't slept in 25 hours now and I don't appear to be feeling any ill effects. How long this precarious balance of caffeine and crippling tiredness will last remains to be seen. We're heading for Londontown now. It's cold, snowy, wet, expensive, miserable, English and most definately ours.
I love flying. That was my first time in a plane. I did not cry. Not even a little bit. Now Gordon and myself are off to London for a bit of sightseeing; two unemployed young Scots giro playboys are about to be unleashed on London.
I miss you all very much.
And so it goes.
Tuesday 27 January 2009
12 days
Today we booked our flights and brief accommodation. We did so with only a mild amount of panic, no tears and without the need for coffee.
Things are pretty much set in stone now.
I'm looking forward to going because it's the biggest opportunity for a culture shock I've been offered so far. And God knows I'm sick of the culture I'm in now.
But I'll also miss some people when I leave. Not everyone, but some. Especially some. Maybe the alcohol is making me maudlin.
All that is left is for Dave and I to have our party. There'll be cake and speeches and the like. Young children on heroin lying on the lawn demanding cappuccinos with baited breath as they watch reruns of Obama's speech.
It's a beautiful world we live in. It's a good time to be alive.
We plan weekend trips to post-apocalyptic wastelands and war-torn regions still recovering from little known genocides. Things have never been so great. I'm not worried.
And so it goes.
Things are pretty much set in stone now.
I'm looking forward to going because it's the biggest opportunity for a culture shock I've been offered so far. And God knows I'm sick of the culture I'm in now.
But I'll also miss some people when I leave. Not everyone, but some. Especially some. Maybe the alcohol is making me maudlin.
All that is left is for Dave and I to have our party. There'll be cake and speeches and the like. Young children on heroin lying on the lawn demanding cappuccinos with baited breath as they watch reruns of Obama's speech.
It's a beautiful world we live in. It's a good time to be alive.
We plan weekend trips to post-apocalyptic wastelands and war-torn regions still recovering from little known genocides. Things have never been so great. I'm not worried.
And so it goes.
Monday 19 January 2009
21 Days
In twenty one days Dave and I are leaving for Romania. This is our blog.
I, Gordon, shall be writing in the unadulterated font as you see it now.
I, Dave, will be writing in a self-assured, bolder fashion.
We will be living in Timisoara and attending the West University of Timisoara.
We do not speak Romanian.
We do not always speak in the present tense.
Not all of our blogs shall be written from a Bean Scene.
We do not agree on the content of this blog. Therefore it shall be a constant struggle for attention; like a child with ADHD vying for attention from divorced parents.
We do not know why we are going.
We do not, however, regret our decision to leave Scotland.
We will miss people. They know who they are. We will not miss others. They know who they are.
We're fucked.
And so it goes.
I, Gordon, shall be writing in the unadulterated font as you see it now.
I, Dave, will be writing in a self-assured, bolder fashion.
We will be living in Timisoara and attending the West University of Timisoara.
We do not speak Romanian.
We do not always speak in the present tense.
Not all of our blogs shall be written from a Bean Scene.
We do not agree on the content of this blog. Therefore it shall be a constant struggle for attention; like a child with ADHD vying for attention from divorced parents.
We do not know why we are going.
We do not, however, regret our decision to leave Scotland.
We will miss people. They know who they are. We will not miss others. They know who they are.
We're fucked.
And so it goes.
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