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.