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.
Friday 27 February 2009
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.
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