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.
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