Memories of prehistory

Last week my dad got an email from daughter of my old kindergarten teacher at Hemingford Abbots, not that we used the word “kindergarten”. We didn’t say “preschool” either. It was playschool, or sometimes playgroup. It sounds so much more fun, doesn’t it? My old teacher is still alive; she’s now 87. My grandmother taught her daughter history of art (she became a teacher late in the day – in her early fifties – and the change of scenery rid her of crippling depression almost instantly). My dad forwarded the email on to me, and I replied, trying to remember what I could from her mother’s playschool sessions. The little black dog she used to bring in. My fourth birthday. I also remember a time I was stuck on the toilet, unable to go, and she told me to “make an effort”. I didn’t mention that episode in my email.

Nine cancellations in the last two weeks, not to mention the people who have given up. On the plus side, I’ve had some new people, including another pair of brothers, aged seven and nearly ten. Their mother (who could speak reasonable English) told me at the start of the lesson that she’d need to stick around and interpret everything I said, and I tried to put her off doing that. (My Romanian is good enough, I like to think, that I can get by without an interpreter.) They also have a little brother, aged just one. If I’m still here in a few years… Yesterday I had another duo – two women in their twenties. Trying to get the present simple and present continuous across to them was no simple feat. One of them seemed particularly vacant during that part of the session, glued to her phone while her so-called smart watch buzzed. I couldn’t entirely disguise my annoyance.

My mother has – surprisingly – developed what I’d almost term an addiction to Duolingo. She’s been learning French on it for several months. As addictions go, that’s a pretty good one to have, but I wonder how much she’s really learning. She seems pretty motivated by trying to gain promotion to the ruby league, or emerald league, or whatever it is. In the last two weeks I’ve been using Duolingo to learn (or re-learn) Italian, and yeah, I can see how it can draw you in.

I haven’t managed to play tennis since that time a month ago. I’ve made three court bookings with the same guy, but each time he’s pulled out because of the weather or (the last time) because he was “unexpectedly” out of the city. I think he’s simply got better things to do than spend time with me. (I’m used to that feeling.) When he pulled out last week, I hit against the wall for an hour, at one stage keeping a rally going for ten minutes.

My apartment in Wellington. They just want to sell. Now. To me, this is a total capitulation, a surrender (to go all Boris Johnson), and I can’t see how selling will benefit me while I get $24,000 in rent every year I keep hold of the place. But doing anything else feels almost politically impossible. I’m being pressured to consult a lawyer, which will cost me thousands, and I’m on the other side of the world, dammit. The thing that really rankles is that I’m being asked to urgently care about something – the sales process – that I don’t care about in the slightest. “Please progress this,” I was asked. Oh god. You’re using “progress” as a transitive verb. I wish I could disappear the whole thing.

It’s deosebit de cald – unusually warm – for this time of year. The centre of town has been packed all weekend as a result. In the forecast there’s a row of suns and temperatures in the mid-twenties, stretching out as far as it will go.

No subtitles

I’ve just watched a Romanian film, Principii de Viață, and I watched it without subtitles. This wasn’t easy due to the sheer speed they talked at. It seemed they were only saying every third word. I’ll do this again – I think it’s an extremely valuable exercise for improving my listening. As for the film, the ending wasn’t quite what I expected.

Matei’s parents invited me to have dinner at their place in Dumbrăvița on Friday night. It was a good evening. We had plenty of traditional Romanian food – pork, slănină (smoked bacon fat), smântână with mămăligă, and pickled cucumbers. I also had a few shots of Romanian liquor – quite what, I wasn’t totally sure. (I’m not really a spirit drinker, and when I’m eating, I’d much rather have more liquid to wash it down.) We talked about Matei’s (expensive) new “British” school, where he has every lesson in English, except Romanian. So, after 118 sessions, he doesn’t need me anymore. After dinner we sat outside; Matei’s dad had lit a fire. I spoke English and Romanian, roughly equally. I left at about 11:40. According to the version of the timetable I had, the last bus to Timișoara left at three minutes to midnight. Matei’s parents’ friends told me there wouldn’t be any buses at that sort of time. I trusted them more than the timetable, but I thought I’d stand outside the bus stop anyway (expecting to be calling a taxi), and sure enough, on the dot of 11:57 the bus came.

At 10am on Saturday I had my back-to-back lessons with the sister and brother. As usual, the big sister just wanted to talk. I do bring actual material with me, just in case, but I know I probably won’t need it.

It’s cooling down. Autumn here is quite lovely with all the yellows and browns, the colours that remind me of when I arrived in this city three years ago tomorrow. It’s been that long.

Making a difference

The last few days have been a struggle. I’ve picked up my fifth or sixth cold (I’ve lost count) this winter, and I feel feeble. All the colds have pretty much merged into one, and with all the sinus pain that never totally goes away, it’s a long time since I felt anywhere near 100%. Maybe I contracted this latest bout at the doctor’s surgery on Thursday night. As I do every four weeks, I went to the after-hours doctor to pick up my prescription, but that might not have been all I picked up. There had been a flu outbreak and the woman behind the desk was wearing a mask.

The good news is that I met S for coffee this morning, and we spoke for two hours in Romanian. Being able to speak someone else’s language is one of the most awesome things ever. I haven’t seen a lot of S lately. She got sick, I got sick, she went skiing in Austria, she got sick again, I got sick again, and so on. Before we met it was just lovely being out in Timișoara on a Sunday morning. It’s always so quiet and peaceful then. Then it was equally lovely having somebody to talk to. On the way back from the café I filled a pair of six-litre water bottles from the well, as I do every few days, but this time the bottles in my backpack felt unusually heavy. My life here is primitive in a lot of ways, and I don’t mind that too much. The water trips, the tram trips to pay my rent in cold hard cash, and of course work. My work is deliberately manual. The world we live in is automate, automate, automate, but manual is often way more interesting and fun.

I had a bunch of cancellations again last week, but the lessons I did have went pretty well. One of my latest exercises for kids is asking them to come up with 26 foods, or animals, or games, one for each letter of the alphabet. Last week one of my eleven-year-old students thought of Tasmanian devil, or diavol tasmanian in Romanian. He wanted to put that under D, but he already had “duck” there. Of course it needed to go under T instead, and that letter was free. It’s cool when kids come up with stuff that I hadn’t even thought of. I asked another eleven-year-old boy to write about his favourite time of day, expecting about four lines. Instead he wrote almost a whole page about why he liked evenings. I was bowled over, not just by the amount he wrote but also by how much his English had improved since I started with him in October 2017. Man, this is fantastic. All my work is making a difference, hopefully.

The men’s Australian Open final sure didn’t take six hours. It barely lasted two. Djokovic was brilliant and Nadal was very passive and indecisive, perhaps simply because Djokovic was playing so well as to leave him flummoxed. That’s the 52nd grand slam won by either Federer, Nadal or Djokovic. Thirteen years’ worth of majors. Extraordinary stuff. I’ve sat in Rod Laver Arena once, back in 2005 (I did also visit the Open in ’08, but didn’t have tickets for the biggest court). In ’05 the experience felt “big” but not too big. Not like today, with obnoxious electronic advertising boards pulsating in between games. Wimbledon seems to be getting too big as well. They’ve purchased the adjoining golf club, so more land, more courts, bigger, bolder, better. Bleuugh.

Scrabble. I’ve had a fairly iffy start to 2019, but I won all seven of the games I played yesterday. Although my results haven’t been fantastic so far this year, I’ve made some interesting plays: my first-ever triple-triple (ACTIONeD for 149 – he left the C in the triple lane, not particularly dangerous in second position, but I just happened to have a play that fitted perfectly); TOUZLED for 120; SqUARELY (the first time I’d ever used the blank as a Q); and two nine-letter bingos in ASPERsION and OVERDOINg (that last one in the final game I played yesterday; OVERDOg was also playable but I didn’t see it; I only saw its anagram gROOVED which didn’t play).

Brexit. Oh dear. Last Tuesday was a quieter than average day on the work front, so I watched a stream of the debates and series of votes, open-mouthed. One of the amendments was to extend Article 50 in the event that no agreement is reached by a certain day. A chance to sit down, have a cuppa tea, and think about what you actually want to do. It was voted down. So hang on, there are barely 50 days until the scheduled exit day, you’ve got no bloody clue what you’re doing, you’re fast running out of options, and you’ve just voted to deny yourselves the option of a bit more time in the event that no solution magically presents itself in the next few weeks. Are you insane?

Five lessons planned for tomorrow.

Don’t panic!

Yesterday I had my first “half-and-half” lesson with the teacher at Universitatea de Vest. In the Romanian half of the session, she kept complimenting me on my knowledge of the language, but said I need to relax a lot more when speaking it. I shouldn’t beat myself up when I can’t find the right word. Nor should I panic when I’m at the front of a long queue and I’m told to “Speak!”. That’s solid advice. She also helped me with those pesky pronouns. “She sent it to me.” Mi l-a trimis or Mi-a trimis-o, depending on whether the thing she gave me is masculine or feminine. You might add a mie at the end if you want to emphasise that she gave it to me and no-one else. It gets way harder than this, and after more than two years I still struggle.

I had a couple of Skype chats with New Zealand relatives, yesterday and today. They were shocked when I turned the screen around and everything was white; we’ve had another fairly major dumping of snow, including mega-snowflakes the likes of which I’d never seen before. My cousin and family might be coming over next January. Let’s hope so. I really miss the ten-minute drive to their place on a Sunday, seeing the three boys grow up, the roast dinners, the chats. Just as we were about to hang up, my cousin dropped a bombshell of sorts: her husband had just resigned from his job.

The watched the women’s Australian Open final this morning, and a bloody good match it was too. It lacked those long, scrambling, edge-of-your-seat rallies (the only point that fell into that category came at 5-5 in the first set and featured three net-cords), but apart from that, it was gripping stuff. The lefty-versus-righty match-up and the fact that they’d never played before added to the unpredictability. The drama dial got turned up to 9 when Kvitova saved those three match points. From 5-3 in the second set to 0-1 in the third, Osaka went through a stretch where she lost 11 points out of 12, then another where she lost 12 of 12. The stuffing had been knocked out of her. But she showed impressive fortitude in putting all of that behind her. At 2-4 in the third, Kvitova even fended off triple break point with a barrage of big serves, and at 4-3 Osaka might have cracked, but her own serve was brilliant throughout. Either player would have been a worthy champion (and don’t forget that Kvitova was stabbed two years ago) but Osaka has now won the last two grand slams and is the new number one.

Tomorrow we’ve got the men’s final. Djokovic against Nadal, yet again, in a repeat of the final from seven years ago, which might as well have been played on another planet. I’ll stick my neck out and say that this match won’t last almost six hours, because there’s now a super tie-break (boo!) if they get that far, and a proper shot clock. I can’t pick a winner though: they’ve both been in supreme form the last two weeks. The 2012 final was a bright spot in what was otherwise a shitty period for me. I moved house, something I wasn’t particularly interested in doing, everything went pear-shaped at my job, and my grandmother died. I still miss her. At times I wonder what she’d have made of my move to Romania. I think she’d have loved it here, actually. The late summer evenings, sitting out in the bars in the square, the buildings, the similarities between the Romanian language and Italian (she spent some time in southern Italy).

I’ve been watching the Brexit shambles, and it seems Britain of 2019 bears little resemblance to the country I was brought up in. A country of compromise, of pragmatism, of tolerance for others’ views. The actions of senior politicians in the last few months have been totally irresponsible. That includes Jeremy Corbyn, whose non-Brexit policies I have a lot of time for. Regarding Brexit, however, he just seems to want maximum chaos. As for Theresa May, I had sympathy for her in the early days of her tenure, but not any more. In 2017 she called an unnecessary election, thinking she could lead the Tories to a thumping majority without even showing up. That didn’t exactly happen, but she acted as if nothing had happened. Ten days ago her deal got annihilated in parliament. Still it was as if nothing had happened. In between, she has kowtowed to the extremists on the back benches of her party, while the country has become more and more polarised. The saga has become a game, where leavers want the gold medal they “earned” in 2016, they want it now, and sod the consequences. The tragic thing is that 2½ years have gone by since the referendum, and the multitude of reasons why so many people decided to give the middle finger in 2016 haven’t been addressed at all.

Romanian commentary 12 – barriers

It’s ages since I last discussed my Romanian language skills, or lack of them. It’s an ongoing battle. People who don’t live in Romania might assume that after more than two years I’d be just about fluent by now. Total immersion, right? Well, no. Considering how many barriers there are to learning the language, I haven’t done too badly. What do I mean by barriers, exactly? Every time I go to a fast-food outlet or a bank or a pharmacy and I’m dealing with somebody under thirty or so, I get nervous. I’m going to get Englished again, aren’t I?! I always speak Romanian, but I might be the only non-native speaker who has attempted to speak the language that they’ve come across all week. Even if my Romanian is perfectly understandable, they’re likely to find my error-strewn version, with a funny accent, comical or worse. So then they reply in English, often with mistakes, and in a slightly funny accent: “Sorry. Are not dere.” But as a speaker (and teacher!) of a language that everybody wants to speak, I’m used to mistakes and funny accents. They don’t bother me. So Romanians can get away with their dodgy English whereas I can’t with my iffy Romanian. Usually I persist, speaking Romanian for the rest of the exchange, but still feeling that I’ve failed. Sometimes, if I’m not desperate, I simply walk away.

It doesn’t happen like this all the time, of course. Or even half the time. But it happens enough to frustrate me. Am I really this bad? Still? Often the person behind the counter will greet me with “Spuneți!” which means “Speak!”. Talk about putting the pressure on. Speak, boy, speak! Shit, what do I say now? The “Spuneți!” situation is just one of many where I become anxious and uncomfortable, and therefore less able to process the language. One of these times came up yesterday, when I got my hair cut in a place I hadn’t been to before, just on the other side of the bridge. People were talking loudly across me from opposite sides of the room, cracking jokes. I couldn’t see my watch from under the cape I was wearing, nor could I see the clock from where I was sitting, and I had a lesson to go to afterwards. That sort of stuff makes me tense in any language.

I’m more comfortable in open-air markets or funny unsophisticated dive bars, which are generally run by slightly older people who didn’t start learning English when they were at kindergarden. Those places also have a couple of side benefits: they’re more interesting and cheaper.

Since the start of the year (which isn’t very long, obviously), S and I have been alternating languages. We spoke Romanian the first time we meet up, English the second time, then switched back to Romanian again, and so on. This seems to be working. At one point, S suggested that my Romanian level is something like B2, but that can’t be right. Perhaps I’d just scrape B1, or about a 5 on my personal 0-to-10 scale.

It’s been brass monkeys here. We had heavy snowfall last weekend, and on Tuesday morning the temperature dipped into the double-figure negatives. One of my students then showed up on the wrong day: Tuesday instead of Thursday. Somebody else would be coming minutes later, so I had to turn him away. I felt sorry for him, having braved such bitterly cold weather to come here, and I also felt that it was partly my fault: I’ve been teaching in Romania long enough to know that everybody seems to struggle with the words Tuesday and Thursday. I’ve even had texts from people wanting lessons on Thuesday. In this case, a simple reply of Marți? or Joi? and this misunderstanding never would have happened. Luckily he was still able to come two days later.

It’s been a good work week, and the more work I get, the motivated I seem to be with everything else. Hopefully that will extend to the Romanian language.

Apprehension

I haven’t written for a while. I just haven’t had a whole heap of news. Last week somebody flicked the big black switch marked “WINTER”; it was going to happen eventually. Now the wooden sheds are being put up in the square in preparation for the Christmas market. Everything is now coming around for me for a third time. S and I decided to see Sibiu’s world-famous-in-Romania Christmas market the weekend after the centenary celebrations. We’ll head over there on Friday 7th December two weeks tomorrow and come back on the Sunday. I must admit I’m quite apprehensive about spending a whole weekend with S. Although come to think of it, I’d be apprehensive about spending a whole weekend with almost anyone.

Last weekend S and I wandered around the area just on the other side of the river from where I live. We stared at and talked about the beautiful buildings she knew some of their history and ended up in Scârț, the fantastically bohemian bar with all the communist memorabilia on the walls. As S said, Romania has got to stage where it feels it take the piss (just a little) out of its communist past. When I got back home my sinuses flared up, and I suffered two hours of horrific pain. Even when the pain had subsided I felt knocked for six, and the next day I wanted to do absolutely nothing. Unfortunately I’d sort of committed myself to seeing Fantastic Beasts 2, the ninth or tenth (or whatever) Harry Potter film. Not my cup of tea even if I was feeling 100%, but we saw it in 3D, and that made it kind of fun. The best part was getting to speak some Romanian on the way there and back.

I speak Romanian whenever I can, except with S, because her English is that ridiculously good (she hates me telling her that). I will insist that we speak Romanian for at least part of the trip. You might think I’d be almost fluent by now, but I’m an awful long way from that. My student at the university asked me how I’d say simple phrases like “She washed her car” and “The film we saw last week”, and I felt all at sea, because of the pronouns which are still a mess in my mind. “The big blue building was destroyed in the war” or “The weather will be foggy tomorrow” pose no such problems.

I’ve played four games of Scrabble this evening, winning three, despite being out-bingoed 5-4 over the four games. In the last game my opponent played strangely, seemingly fishing on every non-bingo turn. He played two bingos, but I might still have won without the solitary bingo I found late in the game. As well as playing, I’m trying to study seven-letter words. In my next post I might describe how I’m trying to learn them.

Serbian commentary 2 — Three genders, no articles

At the end of last month I wrote my first in a series of posts on the Serbian language, where I mostly talked about the Cyrillic and Latin alphabets. Here is part two.

English doesn’t have grammatical gender. Tables and eggs and combine harvesters aren’t male or female or somewhere in between. For anyone trying to learn it, that’s a real blessing. English pronouns are gendered, however. How many genders English pronouns have isn’t quite clear, especially as all sorts of weird and wonderful creations like xe and zir and emself have cropped up in recent years. (I never teach any of that stuff, but I bet some English teachers do. I do however touch on singular they occasionally.)

Serbian, on the other hand, has three genders, masculine, feminine and neuter, whether you’re dealing with nouns or pronouns. Romanian also features a neuter gender which acts as masculine in the singular and feminine in the plural, but Serbian isn’t like that: it has three distinct genders that act in three separate ways. A horse (konj, a three-letter word because nj counts as a single letter) is masculine, a cat (mačka) is feminine, and a tree (drvo) is neuter. A useful rule of thumb is that nouns ending in a consonant are masculine, those ending in -a are feminine, and those that end in -o ar -e are neuter. There are exceptions, though.

So how do you say “a cat” or “the cat”? “A horse” or “the horse”? The answer is, you don’t! Like most Slavic languages, there are no articles at all in Serbian. There’s no equivalent of a or an or the. Like the situation with genders I mentioned above, this is another example of having features in common with Romanian, but more “extreme” compared to what I’m used to in English. (Romanian has words for a and an but no word for the; to make a noun definite you instead have to alter or add letters to the end of the word.)

I’m quite happy with Serbian’s lack of articles. Definite articles in particular can be a minefield, as I’ve found out whilst learning Romanian and as an English teacher. It isn’t at all obvious to a non-native speaker that “Pacific Ocean” needs the in front of it, but “Central Park” doesn’t, and I commonly hear things like “after the lunch” or “both my parents are the teachers”. Even textbooks sometimes make mistakes here; one of my books tells you never to use the with islands. The author has obviously never been to New Zealand. As yet, I’m not sure what Serbians use to get round their lack of articles, but they seem to make extensive use of their words for “this” and “that”. I’ll talk about those in my next post in the series.

As for the gendered pronouns, these are on, ona and ono for he, she and it respectively. For “they”, you use oni for a group of men or a mixed-gender group containing at least one man; one for a group of women only; and ona for a group of things that are neuter. (Children happen to be neuter too, so you use ona when talking about kids, no matter whether they’re boys or girls or a mixture.) There’s a big added complication here, and that’s cases. The pronouns I’ve just mentioned only apply to the most simple nominative case, which we use when the pronoun is the object of the verb, as in a sentence like “He is happy” which would be On je srećan.

Serbian commentary 1 — The alphabets

I’m trying to learn Serbian, which is a completely different animal from anything I’ve attempted before. It’s not at all like Romance languages such as Romanian and French. At least it is an animal, however. When I explained to my friend in the UK just how dissimilar Hungarian is to almost anything else, he said, so it’s like a fungus then. No, Serbian isn’t quite as off-the-wall as Hungarian.

I’m currently following a course of YouTube lessons. I like them because they explain the whats and hows and whys of Serbian, instead of just giving lists of vocabulary, which would be easily obtainable from a Google search.

First things first, the alphabets. Plural. Both Latin and Cyrillic alphabets are in common use in Serbian. That sets it apart from the otherwise almost identical Croatian and Bosnian, where Cyrillic has largely been abandoned. It seems that the choice of alphabet in Serbia is sometimes politically motivated and emotionally charged. In that region, that’s hardly surprising I guess.

There are 30 letters in the Serbian alphabet. Using the Latin version, these are (in order):
A B V G D Đ E Ž Z I J K L Lj M N Nj O P R S T Ć U F H C Č Dž Š
Crikey. Should I even bother buying a SerbianEnglish dictionary? I use physical paper dictionaries all the time, and I can look up a word in an average of around ten seconds, but alphabetical order (as I know it) is so hard-wired in my brain. There are, unsurprisingly, a few accented letters among that lot, but I’m used to seeing accented vowels. All the letters with accent marks in Serbian are consonants.

So how do you pronounce all those letters? Thankfully, Serbian is phonetic, unlike English which seems even more of a mess than it did before, now that I teach it. The Serbian letter C is pronounced “ts”, while Ć and Č are both similar to the English “ch” of chair, with Č being stronger. Ć and Č have their voiced counterparts Đ and , which are both pronounced rather like “j” in “jump”, with being stronger. Đ is sometimes written Dj, as in Djoković (or Đoković), which contains both the weak “j” and “ch” sounds. Then we have Š, which is like the “sh” sound in English, and Ž, which is like the “z” in “seizure”. Lj and Nj are pronounced similarly to the sounds in the middle of “million” and “onion” respectively. J on its own is pronounced just like the “y” in “yes”. Finally, there’s R, which is a really strong rolled sound. It is common for syllables in Serbian, and therefore whole words, to be completely devoid of vowels. An example is brz, which means fast, or srpski, meaning “Serbian”, which starts with five consonants in a row. But as far as I know, these vowel-free syllables all contain a syllabic rolled R.

An important thing to realise is that the digraphs , Lj and Nj (and also Dj, if you write it like that) are each single letters. I noticed this in Serbia, when visiting a money changer, or menjačnica, like the one below. Notice that when the word menjačnica is written top to bottom, the NJ is written on one line, squashed together, like a simpler version of what happens with Chinese characters. You can also see a squashed NJ above the window, but that appears to be a stylistic choice. I’m guessing this is a fairly old photo and they just haven’t bothered with the decimal points; otherwise those exchange rates make no sense.

It isn’t that unusual for languages to have digraphs that are single letters; Hungarian even has a rare trigraph letter: Dzs. English could do something similar with, say, ch, sh, th and ng if it wanted. At least Serbian, to the best of my knowledge, isn’t like Welsh, where (for example) ng can be either one or two letters depending on the situation. That makes alphabetising a real pain.

For my own reference I’ll write out the Cyrillic version of the alphabet:
А Б В Г Д Ђ Е Ж З И Ј К Л Љ М Н Њ О П Р С Т Ћ У Ф Х Ц Ч Џ Ш

Finally, here’s a picture I took from a market in Belgrade, where you can buy fruit and vegetables, cups of coffee, pasta, household bits and pieces, and, um, coc. However those C’s in COC are actually the 21st letter of the Cyrillic alphabet, which corresponds to Latin S. The word seems to mean “sauce”. You can tell it’s Cyrillic because the next word is MAPКET. Note that the text above the kiosk windows is Cyrillic written in italics. A lot of the Cyrillic letter forms completely change when italics are used, or in handwriting. For instance, I think the letter that looks a bit like a w with a bar above it is actually a T. Madness!

Time for a trip?

Mum and Dad have been back in New Zealand a week, but when I spoke to Mum on FaceTime she looked pretty much zombified. My Wellington-based cousin and her family had been staying there (a base for their skiing) so my parents weren’t really able to recover from their jet lag.

The last two weeks I’ve only just crept over the 20-hour mark and that’s likely to drop further as people take holidays. I’m tempted to go to Belgrade (again), and from there go on a very spectacular train journey to the seaside town of Bar in Montenegro. It would be an unforgettable experience I’m sure, and one that doesn’t come with a high price tag.

With my reduced workload I make the effort to study Romanian for an hour a day, usually first thing in the morning. It’s helping. There’s a site called Context Reverso, which gives words and phrases in context, with their translations, and I’m finding that invaluable. I’ve also started to learn Serbian, which is a totally different animal from anything I’ve attempted before, and I intend to write about that next time.

The weather here has been iffy of late. I wanted to have a good go at fishing at the weekend, but my attempt was severely curtailed. Fishing and lightning really don’t go well together. If I ever do catch a fish, I’ll be sure to post a photo here.

I watched the absorbing final round of the Open golf yesterday. Absorbing because the course, the wind and the final-day pressure made for a tough combination, even for the world’s top golfers. I was probably in the minority who didn’t want Tiger Woods to win, although I enjoyed seeing him out there. I was rooting for Tommy Fleetwood, ‘cos he’s cool, but when he dropped out of contention I was happy to see the uber-consistent Francesco Molinari claim victory in a ridiculously crowded field. The tournament was played at Carnoustie, famous for Jean van de Velde’s meltdown on the 72nd hole in 1999. The scenes, accompanied by Peter Alliss’s commentary, were quite extraordinary. The Frenchman won, but then he didn’t.

I’ve got back to playing online Scrabble again. Five games since Saturday; three losses. In game one I lost by just four points on a ridiculously blocked board, which I struggle with. I still think I made a tactical blunder towards the end. In the second game I learnt my lesson and sacrificed points to open the board up. This felt like a well-played game for me, and I won by 78. Game three: I got both blanks simultaneously, but plenty of crap to go with them. My solitary bingo wasn’t enough and I lost by 43. Game four: my opponent drew both blanks and very quickly made two bingos (they all play so damn fast, probably because the play much more than me, so a lot of the time they’re on auto-pilot). I made a bingo myself and started to close, but my opponent scored well on his final moves to beat me by 73. Game five: I was lucky to draw both blanks, eventually cruising to a 114-point win thanks to two bingos.

Mum and Dad’s visit — Part 3

Our first full day in Belgrade was Mum’s 69th birthday. We visited the impressive fortress, on the confluence of the Sava and the Danube. Outside, as part of the military museum, was an array of tanks and guns from various countries and eras. Given Belgrade’s recent bloody history, it seemed a fitting place to find things that go bang.

It soon became apparent what one of the major highlights of Belgrade would be for me: the Serbian language. As far as I know, all the countries of the former Yugoslavia speak very similar varieties of the same language, which I’ll call Serbian here, because Serbia is where I first encountered it. It has a little over 20 million native speakers, roughly the same number as Romanian. Serbian is written using both the Latin and Cyrillic scripts, although there are significant differences between Serbian Cyrillic and Russian Cyrillic. For one, the Serbian variant makes use of the Latin letter J. It also has two letters, Љ and Њ, that are romanised as LJ and NJ respectively, and are equivalent to ll and ñ in Spanish, or lh and nh in Portuguese, or gli and gn in Italian. I was quickly able to read Cyrillic street and shop signs reasonably well, although actually speaking and understanding the language, which is very different from anything I’ve studied before, would take a huge effort. For a start, it has seven grammatical cases, leaving Romanian firmly in the shade.

After much angst, we did in the end find a good restaurant for celebrating Mum’s birthday. We all had something filling and pork-sausagey. We were getting accustomed to terrible service by now, but our waiter (an older bloke) was excellent. The next day we visited the nearby automobile museum, which was brilliant. It had shining examples of makes such the Aero, a Czech-manufactured car that I’d never heard of. We could have done without the yapping, pooing dog that was allowed to roam free the whole time we were there. Later that day a black cloud descended on us, as we worried how we would get back to Romania without a working phone that the bus company could use to contact us. We bought a sim card from the Serbian equivalent of a dairy, but I had no luck getting it to work. I had all kinds of fun and games trying to use Google translate to figure out the Serbian instructions. After dinner, which consisted of pizza slices from a kiosk and a wonderful chocolate dessert, we caught the second half of the thrilling 3-3 draw between Spain and Portugal, the match of the tournament so far.

Dad said he didn’t sleep a wink that night. He was worried that without a phone we’d never get back to Timișoara. He had visions of being stuck on the side of the road in the pouring rain, with the stress levels unbearably high. The next day was Saturday, the phone shops shut in the early afternoon, so we urgently needed a connection, for our sanity as much as anything. The lady at the first phone shop was breathtakingly unhelpful, but we had much better luck at the second shop and were soon up and running at very little expense. Having breathed a huge sigh of relief, we walked through the city, with the intention of visiting the national museum to give us all a better handle on the region’s troubled history. But it was closed, as it has been since 2003. We changed course and reached St Sava’s Temple, which we thought would be spectacular. And old. Instead we found a post-WW2 edifice that had ridiculous amounts of interior scaffolding to keep it from falling to pieces. When we got back to our apartment, we met the old man who gave us a bottle of Serbian schnapps that I’m now working my way through. He made it very clear that he didn’t like Tony Blair.