by On Sunday morning I still didn’t feel wonderful. After the lesson I joined my students for a drink at Porto Arte, a bar by the Bega, five minutes’ walk from here. After sitting there for nearly two hours, I was prepared to go home. But then they asked me if I wanted to go to Herneacova, a place I’d heard of but knew nothing about and wouldn’t have been able to locate on a map. I said yes but my head was in a spin: I hadn’t mentally paced myself for spending who knows how many extra hours with people. Just how far away is this place? I was also dehydrated. If I hadn’t managed to get a bottle of water at Recaș, I’d have been really struggling. Herneacova is a fairly poor but typically picturesque Romanian village, while two kilometres outside the village is an arena which holds international equestrian events, and a domain (in New Zealand terminology) which is popular with families. The highlight, apart from the few horses, was probably watching somebody’s radio-controlled car being chased by a small dog. It was a beautiful day—it felt like spring—and when I did get home I was very glad that I’d accepted their invitation and got out of the city.
I guessed there were a million Johns or variations thereof who were celebrating their saint’s day on Sunday, but the number was actually two million, or one in ten Romanians. That day really marked the end of the festive season; yesterday, after being a fixture in the square for 5½ weeks, the Christmas market sheds were dismantled.
I now realise that teaching kids can be both rewarding and frustrating in equal measure. My first lessons with those two new kids yesterday were definitely both in the latter category. I ran out of material both times, for completely different reasons, and because I wasn’t at home I didn’t have any emergency supplies. The 13-year-old girl (90 minutes with her) was even better than I’d anticipated, so we she got through everything (a lesson on London, where she’d like to go) in double-quick time without her really being challenged. The 10-year-old boy was mostly unenthusiastic and didn’t really want to speak English, but I actually think he’ll be easier to teach in the long run, because I already have material I can use with him. With her, I’ve got to come up with stuff that’s at an upper-intermediate level and is age-appropriate and doesn’t bore her: although she seems motivated to learn, that’s no easy task.
My students, or their parents, are often in a different financial league from your average Ion or Ioana. It’s extremely noticeable in my lessons with the kids in Dumbrăvița, just as it was in Auckland all those years ago when I did a spot of maths tuition, often in suburbs like Remuera. Last night my student wouldn’t shut up about both her and her husband’s German cars. I had a much more interesting discussion of cars with a student last week: the Yugo, the Trabant (with its two-stroke engine), and the various incarnations of the Dacia, such as this hopelessly unreliable one (the Lăstun, which means “housemartin”) with a 500 cc engine, which was built in a factory right here in Timișoara. It’s sporting a Ceaușescu-era Timiș County number plate.
My Romanian is still in need of some massive improvement. More on that next time.
