I’ve just booked some flights. Four of them, in fact. It wasn’t a simple process. “Oops, something went wrong.” Important yellow buttons disappeared from my screen at will. There were endless pop-ups asking me to tack on this or that, and I wasn’t allowed to just ignore them. Sometimes a circle just went round and round and round and never did anything. After booking Ryanair flights from Timișoara to Bergamo and then on to Stansted, I’d planned to return directly to Romania with Wizz Air, but it was cheaper to go back via Italy with Ryanair. If I’d realised that, I’d have booked two return flights rather than four one-way ones and cut out some hassle, even if there’s no price difference. So I’ve got northern Italy to look forward to, not just the UK (where I’m likely to get caught up in airport hell). I’m flying out on 26th July and coming back on 9th August. My brother will have some time off work then, and hopefully I can also see my friend in Birmingham.
Ferdinand Marcos Junior has been elected as president of the Philippines, replacing the tyrant Rodrigo Duterte. How could the son of a dictator, who was removed in a revolution, get elected in a landslide? As the reporter explained on the news this morning, it’s a combination of endless horseshit being pumped out on social media, and the country’s shockingly low education level. A deadly concoction, literally.
There was a time when I’d grab the old small TV with the bunny-ears aerial from my room and take it downstairs so I could watch Wimbledon on two channels at the same time. It was the most important thing going on in my life, and I wasn’t even involved. Now it’s just there, going on in the background. There have been some great matches already, but for whatever reason I can’t quite get into it.
My two teenage students had just got the results of their “national evaluation” Romanian and maths exams when I saw them yesterday. One of them got an average of 9.4 out of 10. The other got 9.95 in maths, but seemed almost dumbstruck to only get 8.3 in Romanian, and has already lodged an official appeal. They’re the “haves” of the Romanian education system, and are under pressure to succeed, to go to the best liceu, from their parents and the society in which they live. It would be interesting to meet some of the have-nots.
One of my new adult students has just started a job at Ikea, after a long stint with Renault. Last time he read out Ikea’s mission statement to me. “To create a better everyday life for the many people.” Sorry, what?For the many people? Is that supposed to be English? How did that ever get past the first round? Type “for the many people” into Google, and all I get is Ikea.
I don’t think I’ve totally lost my marbles yet, although many of the Romanians I meet think I already have for deciding to live here. I’ve been wondering how I’ll cope should I survive long enough to be marble-free, be that thirty years or twenty or ten, because even now I’m almost drowning in a sea of passwords and captchas and invalid formats. Today was particularly bad because I had to reactivate stuff and make payments using my new bank card. Then when it came to logging into plutoman – logging into me – I needed three attempts. My fingers just weren’t going the right way anymore.
Talking of aging, June is almost over, and that’s the month that reminds me that my parents aren’t getting any younger. Dad has just turned 72; Mum had her 73rd birthday two weeks ago. The last time I saw them they were 68 and 69. I miss them a lot. October isn’t far away.
It’s been a scorching June. We hit 35 today, and we’ve got 38s forecast for both tomorrow and Friday. Luckily, unlike today, I won’t have to go anywhere. Today my lessons got a bit messed up because somebody came over to take measurements for installing gas in this block. I went up to one of the apartments on the fourth (top) floor to have a discussion (or more like a listen) with the gas man. The heat up there was something else.
Today I finished the first plays of my new skyscraper board game with the two teenage boys. This morning I was surprised to see that my student’s family had acquired a kitten. We read a bit, and then finished our game. I lost 22-19; it became clear that he would win when we each had about four turns left of our allotted 30. (The game lasts 60 turns – or 60 months – regardless of the number of players.) In the game with the other kid which we concluded this evening, I won 23-19, and it was only clear I would win on my penultimate turn. Most importantly, the boys seemed to enjoy themselves and were obviously engaged enough the first time around that they could still remember how the game worked a week later. Interestingly, they each had different tactics.
Wordle. I thought I might bomb out today as I needed all six attempts. This is the fourth time it’s taken me all six since I started in January. I hoped GAFFY (an adjective for someone who makes lots of gaffes) wasn’t a word.
I had an easier time in Romanian. STARE is a common word in that language just like in English, so I often start with that word in both languages. (It doesn’t have the same meaning in Romanian, where it means a state or situation.) As for my lucky guess ALUNA, that’s a hazelnut.
Woodle is a harder version of Wordle, which I try every evening. Woodle tells you how many greens (letters in the word in the right place) and yellows (letters in the word but in the wrong place) you have, but not which letters they are. If standard Wordle is pool, Woodle is snooker. Here was my attempt today, where I started with four frustrating turns but then struck gold. Attempts are unlimited; today’s six is roughly average.
On a forum I suggested a variant of Wordle which lies about one letter every row, then somebody (who knows how to codify or whatever it’s called) made it. Independently of me, of course. I really like this one, which gives you eight attempts. The red letters are the lies:
I’ve had a bit of a crappy time of it the last few days. On Wednesday night I had a piercing sinus headache on my right side – one of those “screwdriver rammed up my nose” ones – and although it eased at around four in the morning, it destroyed my sleep and my energy for the next day. Yesterday was an improvement, but the pain returned last night and I’ve reverted to go-slow mode today. I was grateful for the storm that put paid to this evening’s tennis.
The first half of the week wasn’t too bad. I got good feedback from the two teenage boys about my new skyscraper-building board game. The first one said something like “isn’t it amazing that you’ve actually made this?” which was nice to hear. I was on solid ground with them; after a combined 400-odd lessons, they probably weren’t going to say they hated my stupid game and didn’t want to see me again. (Someone basically did tell me that once, though it wasn’t a game I’d created.) The timing was good because they’d just had their high-pressure exams in Romanian and maths that will determine where they go for their final four years of school, so there was a good chance they’d be receptive to some kind of game.
Lots of politics this week. The US Supreme Court have made abortion illegal in something like half the states. Even if you are anti-abortion, actually banning it is monumentally stupid and evil. Thousands of women will die because of this ruling that has been handed down by half a dozen ultra-extreme religious loons whose concern about a child’s life seems to evaporate once it is born, if their attitude to guns is anything to go by. And where will they stop? Will abortion soon be outlawed nationwide? Homosexuality too? Who was it who said that America shouldn’t fear Islam, but fundamental so-called Christianity instead? They’ve been proven right. This latest ruling will have repercussions that go beyond America’s borders; I could see abortion laws being tightened in religious countries like Romania. The whole political system in the US so utterly messed up. It would be good it could burn to the ground.
In happier news across the pond, the Conservatives lost both the by-elections they were contesting on Thursday, the sixth anniversary of the Brexit referendum. In the next general election, voters absolutely all-capital-letters MUST vote tactically for whatever party is most likely to beat the Tories. Labour, Lib Dem, SNP, Plaid Cymru, it doesn’t matter. If Labour don’t win a majority, that doesn’t matter either. In fact it’s better if nobody wins a majority. The more chance there would then be of the terrible electoral system (albeit not nearly as egregious as the American one) changing.
I called my sister-in-law last night. I knew she and my brother had gone up to St Ives, but was very surprised to see her in the church by the river. She said she was at a “Booze in the Pews” event. After the news from the US yesterday, I was glad to hear that so few people in the UK now use churches for their original purpose that they hold drinking sessions there. My sister-in-law, six months pregnant, wasn’t partaking.
I plan to travel to the UK in a month’s time, but I’ve been unable to book a flight because I still haven’t got a replacement debit card after I nearly got scammed two weeks ago. I’m getting just enough cash payments to tide me over from week to week. What a pain.
It’s proper aroma-filled summer now; it’s almost the longest day. Luckily we haven’t quite been swamped by the heat wave that enveloped countries further west, though today we’re forecast to hit 34, which is plenty hot enough. The kids have started their very long summer holidays – they get almost three months here – so some of them are taking a break from English lessons.
Yesterday Mark, the teacher at British School, came over to my new flat. Then we had some beers at a bar near the market. It was nice to show him a part of Timișoara that he hadn’t yet explored. He and his girlfriend are heading off today on a seven-week tour of Europe. Lucky them.
My big project in the last few days has been creating a new board game. The theme is skyscrapers; players have to accumulate resources such as steel, concrete and glass, and then start building. It has three versions – Chicago-based, New York-based, and international. The tallest, most resource-heavy buildings score the most. There will be occasional “shocks” such as earthquakes or landslides or stolen metal (yes, you can steal steel). It took me a while to research just how many tons of steel were required to build Sears Tower and all the other buildings I’ll be using in the game, how deep the foundations were, and so on. This week I hope to try the game out on one of my long-time teenage students. I’ll be on safe territory with him; even if it’s a complete flop – which it could be – he won’t hate me for it.
On Saturdays I always have a funny online lesson with a 24-year-old guy who lives near Cluj. He works in IT and wants to become a contractor. We’ve been practising interviews, and last time he got me to ask him some industry-specific questions that he had prepared. I didn’t have a clue what I was saying. To one question he replied by saying he used some software called Hamcrest. Hmm, I like that name. Where does it come from? I went to the Hamcrest site, whose logo is a surfer guy riding a wave of sliced ham, and I could deduce that the name is an anagram of “matchers”, but what they’re matching I have no idea. In the top-right corner of the Hamcrest site is an invitation to “fork me on GitHub” which reminds me of a a few days into my first real job when, out of the blue, a colleague asked if he could grab my dongle.
I managed a pair of two-hour tennis sessions over the weekend, and in both of them we played two against one, taking it in turns to play as the one.
Last week Dad had a check-up on his aortic valve, which he had replaced in 2005. Apparently there’s a gap where there shouldn’t be, and they’ll need to monitor it. I was worried that he’d need urgent surgery and my parents would be cancelling their trip to Europe once again.
I Skyped my parents this morning from the café next to the market and by the river. It was a bit noisy there so I moved to a bench by the river bank. It was already hotting up; a shirtless man on the other side of the river hauled in a fish. On Friday I sent Dad a depressing article about the beautiful River Wye being polluted – killed – by chicken factories along the river. He spent much of his childhood around the Wye, which was then teeming with salmon.
Dad mentioned that a new autism clinic had opened in Wellington and it was a shame I wasn’t still there and able to help out in some capacity. Helping people with autism was near the top of my list of career options when I left my insurance job in 2009, but that never eventuated.
The lady whose birthday was last weekend lent me two small English textbooks entitled Eckersley’s Essential English – triple E – dating from the fifties or so. They aren’t without value today, even if the language is outdated. The illustrations are delightful; they remind me of the John Thompson’s elementary piano books that I learnt from when I was little. Here are a few pages:
Interestingly in the second picture she’s circled the pronunciation of “always” with a schwa, as if she didn’t quite believe it. It does seem extremely old-fashioned; I’m not even sure the Queen says it that way. Or Jacob Rees-Mogg. In the eighth picture the author seemed to think that marquesses were something a student needed to know about.
It’s that time of year again that everything smells in Timișoara. The ripe fruit, the lime trees, the general scent of summer heat. That’s nice, but on Friday there was also the distinct whiff of pollution when cycling along the busy roads. Unfortunately that is a problem here.
The weather put paid to tennis once again yesterday, but it should go ahead later today.
I was going to write about something else, but I had a bit of drama last night.
I very nearly got scammed. I put my old mattress on OLX, Romania’s version of TradeMe. Price 300 lei. Then someone WhatsApped me. How old is the mattress? What sort of condition? Could you arrange delivery? Lots of messages. He was insistent. God, this sounds like a lot of hassle. If you haven’t done it before, I’ll show you how. Still sounds like faff, but OK. Here’s the link. You’ll pay for delivery, right? Yes. I’ll pay you, then you just have to accept the payment, and the guy from the delivery company will call you to pick it up.
Now here’s the clever part. The link, which directed me to a page asking for my card details (why do you need those?) also brought up a live chat facility, which a lot of organisations now have. “I’m Mihai. How can I help you?” It all looked remarkably genuine. “Just tap in your number, go to your banking app, then tap to confirm.” I don’t like this, but whatever. My banking app then asked me to confirm that I wanted to make a payment of 1400 lei (£250; NZ$500) to somebody unknown. CANCEL!
For a few minutes I was worried I’d actually made the payment. Then I googled “OLX deliveries” and discovered that I’d nearly been the victim of a common scam. Everything was bogus. The live chat thingy was what fooled me, that damn Mihai who was just him, the scammer. It just seemed like another of the dozens of situations in the last few weeks that I’d been faced with something a bit dodgy and uncomfortable under time pressure but had to reluctantly go ahead with it. And all in Romanian. I wondered if he targeted me; because OLX unfortunately uses real names (they appear on the site as first name and last initial), he could have seen that I probably wasn’t from these parts and was easier prey.
I then called the bank to get my card blocked. The woman told me that someone had already tried (and failed) to use my card to buy something for hundreds of Singapore dollars.
This was a narrow escape. I kicked myself afterwards for being so gullible, for getting that close to losing hundreds or thousands. But having weird shit thrown at me from all directions on a regular basis does excuse me somewhat.
I’ve just had a phone call. It was a woman from the mattress company. She spoke so damn fast at the beginning that I almost blacked out. After all this time, Romanian on the phone can still be a real challenge for me.
Right now I’m living in a near-permanent state of fatigue. I don’t know if it’s the heat, the stress related to the move, the regular bike rides, or some combination. I don’t feel refreshed even after a full night’s sleep. Maybe I really need this new mattress.
I had a chat with my brother on Sunday. They still had the bunting out for the jubilee. It’s obvious that he’s had enough of life in the army. All the early starts and pointless trips are getting to him. Amazingly he’s started a correspondence university course in – I think – business management. He says he’ll finish it in 18 months. My sister-in-law, who is expanding, was more upbeat. Mum keeps referring to her future grandson as Herbie, which was the name of a guinea pig we used to have. (We don’t even know what it’ll be yet. It’s still an it.)
After being booed at the jubilee, Boris Johnson survived his confidence vote last night, but a whopping 41% of his Tory colleagues voted against him. His supporters – a bunch of overgrown schoolboys – banged their desks in unison on learning the result. A good result for the country, Boris said. In the medium and long term, I hope he’s right. A divided party with a lame-duck leader that staggers on to the next election, then gets well and truly stuffed. The UK ends up with a coalition of Labour, the Lib Dems, and the SNP. They introduce proportional representation. That would be good for the country.
Shortly before the jubilee celebrations, the British government announced that pounds and ounces and other imperial measurements could be making a comeback, not that they’ve totally gone away. I’ve always quite liked imperial measurements because they’re batshit mad and much more fun to say than the metric versions. I recently got one of my students to read a simplified version of Alice in Wonderland in which Alice’s heights had been converted into metres and centimetres, and it felt like we’d been transported to a lab. I still remember Dad (“you can’t even see those silly millimetres”) ordering sheets of glass for his paintings in inches, one by one, over the phone. “Twenty-four and five-eighths by seventeen and three-quarters.” The person on the other end would repeat the dimensions back to him, and the whole thing took on a poetic quality, a bit like the BBC shipping forecast. But, after being taught in metric and living all those years in New Zealand, and now Romania where non-metric is almost unheard of, it’s obvious that metric is far superior for doing actual calculations and when you’ve got to, you know, do business internationally. Going back to imperial would quite clearly be crazy.
The shipping forecast, read four times a day on Radio 4, has a place in British culture. It follows a strict format that hasn’t changed in decades, running through the evocative names of the shipping areas – 31 in all – always going round the British Isles clockwise in the same order: Viking, North Utsire, South Utsire, Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger, Fisher, German Bight, and so on. I liked listening to it as a kid, and I still remember the warnings of “hurricane force 12” in the storm of October 1987. It’s still popular today, even if it’s far less in demand, thanks to the internet. It reminds you that you’re part of something far bigger, that there are people out there exposed to the high seas, not in air-conditioned offices. Regular listeners get to know the announcers. I tuned in over the weekend and listened to a forecast read by Neil Nunes, who has quite a wonderful deep voice. He comes from Jamaica and started at the BBC in 2006. Apparently some rather bigoted listeners complained at the time that his voice wasn’t British enough. The late-night forecast is preceded by Sailing By, a beautiful song. (YouTube comments are nearly always awful, but the ones for Sailing By are delightful.) Other maritime countries, like New Zealand, have shipping forecasts too, but they don’t have the cultural signficance of the British one. The shipping areas are rattled off in a great 1994 song by Blur called This is a Low. Damon Albarn, whom I’ve seen live, likes referencing the sea in his songs.
After Saturday’s washout, I played tennis on Sunday. It was a hot one, and I was relieved to be playing doubles and not singles. They had some kind of party on the beach volleyball courts next door, with music that I found almost unbearable. I partnered a 14-year-old girl against two men, and we played a heck of a set lasting roughly an hour. Following numerous deuce games, we got to 6-6 but then fell 6-1 behind in the tie-break. We saved four set points but my error on the fifth was the last shot of the set. We had to call it a day at 2-2 in the second set. After that we picked sour cherries from the laden tree next to the courts. It’s a great time for fruit right now.
As promised last time, here are some pictures.
I took this picture on Saturday night. Magda, on her 58th birthday, with Domnul Sfâra, 87.A last picture of Piața Victoriei on the day I left for good.A game of backgammon at Piața Lipovei. You can also see the egg and coffee machines.A law firm. The two names are identical, just that one (Kovacs) is written in the original Hungarian way while the other (Covaci) has been Romanianised.An old, and small, Pegas bicycle at the supermarket yesterday. This dates from communist times when these were virtually the only bikes around. In the last few years, modern Pegas bikes have come on the market, though they’re no longer made in Romania.
I’m still at the disorientation – “Where does this go?” – stage of living in my new flat, and with none of the bells or clattering trams to fix me in either time or space. Instead of the early-morning trams shuttling workers to their six-till-two shifts in factories that make car headlamps or foam products, I now hear trucks that could be carrying anything anywhere. On the plus side, I hear more birds, and the location honestly isn’t bad. There are tram lines just out of earshot, the river is close by, and the big market, nestled among the old Austro-Hungarian buildings, is only a five-minute bike ride from here. Inside, it’s a mishmash of eighties bathrooms with old-style cisterns and chains, seemingly endless Ikea-like wardrobe space, and modern appliances that won’t stop beeping at me. Yes, OK, OK, give me a minute. This apartment block is one of half a dozen in what you might call a pod; in the centre of the pod is a car park which, as well as functioning cars, contains walnut trees, two abandoned souped-up VW Beetles, and a farm vehicle long out of commission. My particular block was built in around 1980 and comprises ten flats. My deeds, or whatever you call them here, tell me that I own 12.78% of the block, so more than my fair share, and as I potter about the place I get regular reminders that I have much more space than I need, especially now when all my lessons are either online or at my students’ places. It isn’t as bad on that score as my flat in Wellington; when I returned from my trip to America on a wintry September day in 2015, I almost burst into tears at how empty and lifeless it seemed. The good news is that I’m less exposed financially than when I bought my Wellington apartment, so even the worst-case scenario won’t kill me, assuming no Russian bombs descend on this city. On Friday I bought some home and contents insurance (with a war exclusion, of course) and ordered a mattress made here in Timișoara.
Yesterday my tennis was called off for the third time running. I’d only just left on my bike when it started to bucket it down. I stood under a tree for a while and then went to my neighbours’ (Florin and Magda’s) place back at the old block. I caught the end of Iga Świątek’s crushing win over Coco Gauff in the final of Roland Garros on their TV, and then we went to the restaurant by the river. It was a balmy evening and the rain had stopped. Not until people started turning up out of nowhere did I realise that the get-together was to celebrate Magda’s birthday. People chatted, and sometimes I was fully involved in the conversation while at other times I was trying desperately to tune in. (That’s not far off what happens, at best, in my own language.) I had some traditional Romanian food – that means meat – and three beers, which is a lot for me these days. I got home at about 10:30.
Jubilee celebrations are still going on in the UK, and that’s mostly what my parents wanted to talk about this morning. Mum said that 70 years on the throne is an incredible achievement. (As all it involves is not dying when you have the best healthcare imaginable, I’m unconvinced.) My brother’s house is apparently decked out in bunting. Although I’m no royalist (I’m agnostic – I really don’t care), I can hardly blame people for wanting a party (whatever the reason) after two years of lockdowns and not being able to get vital surgery or see their sick relatives. I emailed my friend in Birmingham (no royalist either) to ask how his long jubilee weekend was going, and I got a pretty clear meh in reply. Little sign of bunting around his way. I’m detecting a pretty strong north–south (or east–west) divide.
The French Open has been great from a tennis point of view, but the organisation has been lacking at times. I don’t like the way they’ve tried to make it more like the Australian and US Opens with night sessions starting ridiculously late. Some of the play has been sublime, but even when I was watching Nadal come up with an extraordinary passing shot at set point down against Sascha Zverev, I found myself pining for those women’s finals in the nineties, when people were smoking in the stands and you could tell that it was the French Open. Now it could be almost anywhere. I expected Djokovic to beat Nadal in their quarter-final, which at times threatened to outdo their famous Australian Open final. Zverev’s ankle injury in his match with Nadal was excruciating even to watch. Nadal got out of jail twice there (first by robbing Zverev of the opening set, and then being saved from a six-hour-plus match); he’s a huge favourite in the final against Casper Ruud.
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