Life :)

Cracks had already been showing in the lockdown for some time. It was inevitable really – the warm weather, the light evenings until nine, and the general feeling of lockdown fatigue meant that people were itching to get outside. Then came yesterday, when the state of emergency was officially replaced by a state of alert, and it was like a switch had been flipped. Still fewer people than normal, but a big increase.

So what’s new? If you’re staying within the city, you no longer have to fill in a form to say where you’re going and why. Most shops and fast food kiosks are now open. Restaurants, bars and cafés remain closed (inside and out), as do malls (good!). Services are starting up at the cathedral again, but outside. Schools won’t be going back until September. The Romanian school year ends in June, so unless you reschedule it somehow, there’s no point in going back before the autumn. Although the UK school year finishes in July, it would be best if the Brits called the whole thing off too.

I’m still going up and down the stairs with those ten litres of water on my back. People often ask me, “Isn’t the lift working?” Today I tried counting the steps in Serbian, eight at a time, up to hiljada dvadeset četiri (1024).

This morning they repainted the pedestrian crossing below my apartment, with a twist. People in the UK are told to be alert; in Romania you have to B sharp instead:

When I walked by the Bega this afternoon I saw a hornet’s nest. I hadn’t seen hornets for ages. Maybe they were those killer hornets I’d been warned about. This is what the Bega looked like today:

Today I’ve translated part of The Magic Finger into Romanian as an exercise, I’ve practised some Serbian, I’ve worked on my book, I’ve written six short fill-in-the-gaps stories for my newest student, and I’ve been up and down the stairs eight times. I also had a quick walk this afternoon – noticeably more people were out than a month ago, but the quiet was still lovely, and I caught the first whiff of Timișoara’s distinctive late-spring and early-summer aroma. In some ways I’d prefer the lockdown to continue beyond this coming Friday.

In one of John Campbell’s latest videos, he talks about the higher mortality rate from coronavirus among people with darker skin, even when you remove the effects of underlying health conditions. The pattern is repeated all over the world, and the excess mortality rate increases progressively as one’s skin gets darker. He is convinced that this is because people with higher melanin levels (i.e. darker skin) produce immunity-boosting vitamin D more slowly, and is frustrated that this biological effect isn’t being talked about. It’s OK to talk about the socio-economic factors (which are massive too) but skin colour is somehow off-limits; you can’t go there, even if going there would save lives. Although I have white skin, I’m taking 2000 international units of vitamin D per day.

It’s time to call my brother again.

Last night I lay awake thinking about when I’ll see (and hug) my mother again. I feel I have an almost complete relationship with my father just though voice calls and emails, but with Mum it isn’t the same.

This Friday will be the 75th anniversary of VE Day. I remember the 50th anniversary well. I was fifteen, it was a sunny Monday, and we had a barbecue and drinks in the garden. I took Seagers gin from the cabinet at regular intervals, added it to my orange juice, and nobody seemed to notice. I doubt I would have been in much trouble anyway – my parents weren’t big drinkers, but they had fairly relaxed attitudes to their kids getting hold of the stuff. Vera Lynn (still alive today at 103) was rolling out the barrel. It was a happy occasion, and of course so many World War Two veterans were still alive, including my grandparents. My grandfather, a squadron leader during and after the war, already had quite advanced Alzheimer’s by then.

It was a different world in 1995. The internet was this new thing, touted as the information superhighway, with all its cyber-slashes and dots and dashes that normal people still had no need for. Normal people made do with 1471, a handy number you dialled to tell you who called last. (And people still talked about dialling numbers then.)

When I think of ’95, I also think of sport. Costantino Rocca’s 50-foot putt at the Open, Blackburn’s Premier League title and various ups and downs through the divisions, and then Jonah Lomu’s destruction of England in the rugby World Cup. (I remember I switched over from that ridiculous match – it felt like a boxing match that I hoped could be stopped – and instead watched a very long third set at Queen’s Club which Pete Sampras barely survived.) I also think of an essay our English teacher asked us to write, called “The Class of ’95”. We had to imagine a school reunion taking place this year – in 2020. She told us that statistically, one or two of us (out of 25 or so) wouldn’t make it. I didn’t enjoy the essay – the idea of a reunion didn’t appeal at all – though I imagined I’d be living in New Zealand by then. I never would have guessed I’d have moved to NZ and then to Romania. Where even was Romania?

I wonder how Britain would have handled coronavirus in ’95. The government response would surely have been more sober, more dignified. Those were not partisan times. John Major would not have declared 20,000-plus deaths a success – that would have been too obscene. There would have been less information, but less misinformation too. Right now though, living thousands of miles from the rest of my family, I’d take having the superhighway during this pandemic over living in 1995 and not having it.

It was blissful outside today. The river, the trees, the birds and not much else. I’ve been getting used to the quiet⁠—it’s easier for me than for most people⁠—and weekends are when the difference is most stark, but we now only have two weekends until the lockdown begins to ease. On a day when Romania has recorded 34 deaths, the highest daily figure so far, there are articles (advertorials?) giving advice on where to fly for 100 euros, after flight bans are lifted next Saturday. Ugh.

Yesterday morning I woke up, felt cold, then immediately hot and clammy. My forehead was sweaty. Oh no. This can’t be, can it? I don’t have a thermometer at home. Luckily it was time to get another batch of antidepressants, so I rang my doctor and soon I was able to pick up a repeat prescription from the clinic and get my temperature checked at reception. It was fine. Everything slightly out of the ordinary is magnified right now. (I pretty much always have a productive cough, so that doesn’t count.)

Today is Anzac Day and my sister-in-law’s birthday. I spoke to my brother this morning—he still thinks the British government is doing a decent job. I disagree. I think they messed this up right from the start. They were nowhere near proactive enough. The lockdown was too soft and came two weeks too late. And it still isn’t much better now. Testing is a joke. Fifteen thousand people are still flying into the UK every day, and nobody bats an eyelid when they arrive. I’ve watched a couple of the press briefings—what a waste of time. No real information, no real questions. At least nobody has advocated injecting Dettol yet. My brother reckons everyone needs to be supportive of the government and blindly optimistic no matter what, but then again he said the same about Brexit. All those years of immature chaotic faff surrounding Brexit are partly to blame here—Britain’s resources for an emergency on this scale have been shot to pieces. He also said that New Zealand is being unduly smug over their low casualty rate. Yes, time and space have been on NZ’s side, but that’s only part of the story. They’ve been dealt a good hand but they’ve played it jolly well.

Update: Just had a good chat to my sister-in-law on her 35th birthday.

Boris Johnson is out of hospital, and I’ve just watched his video address where you could see he’d been through the mill. He especially thanked one of his nurses who was from New Zealand. Invercargill, in fact. It’s great that he made it, but I’ve seen all sorts of crap in the British press like “The health of Boris Johnson is the health of Britain itself.” Nauseating stuff. In fact the British press as a whole during this pandemic, with the exception perhaps of Channel 4 News, has been bizarre.

John Campbell’s Youtube videos have been a mine of information for me. It helps that Mr Campbell is clearly a good egg. I’ve learnt all about the benefits of vitamin D to the immune system, and hence why black people might come off worse from the virus because the extra melanin in their skin reduces their production of vitamin D from sunlight (as well as significant socioeconomic factors and increased comorbidities, of course). Although I’m white, I am now taking vitamin D tablets every morning. He’s also adamant about what we should be taking whenever we get a fever. Nothing. Anything such as paracetamol or ibuprofen will certainly reduce the fever and make us feel better, but the fever is our body’s natural response and helps us fight the virus. Cold-blooded creatures like lizards, when they contract a virus, will move to the sunlight if they can, to raise their body temperature. The other negative knock-on effect of medicating to lower a fever, is that because we artificially feel better, we do more, expending vital energy.

I had a surprise text today from Cosmin, an ex-student of mine I last saw in 2017. He wished me a happy Easter. I think he was a bit surprised to learn I was still in Romania. He had plans to move to Australia – I wonder what happened.

The wonderful weather continues. Here’s the chart and my latest picture of the cathedral. I must have posted so many on here.