by I managed 30½ hours of lessons last week, and I might soon have more work than I know what to do with. I’m starting with a ten-year-old boy tomorrow, my Syrian student has a mate who I’ll be seeing for the first time next Saturday, and this morning a woman called me asking if I would give lessons to her twelve-year-old daughter. Once I’d found a gap in my diary I agreed, and then she sent me the location via WhatsApp. I’d say it’s a little out of my catchment area, meaning it’s in a village outside the city, far from any reliable public transport, down a dirt track uncharted by Google Maps. I’ve got a tram ride plus a long walk in store on Tuesday. (I do have my bike, but it’s become very slow of late.) This might have to be a one-off.
Tonight I had my rescheduled lesson with Ammar. He wanted to practise writing and I asked him to write a short essay about a family member he admired. He chose his eldest brother (he’s one of eight, as I found out). I had a go too, and I wrote about my grandmother. In the middle of my attempt I realised it was the eighth anniversary of her death. I often wish she could visit me.
Today I did my shopping at Kaufland. I immediately got into trouble. I entered, looked for one of their wheeled baskets, saw they didn’t have any, and went out the in door so I could get a trolley from outside. Big no-no (or, should I say, nu-nu). Suddenly I had security guards opening all the pockets of my backpack. They eventually let me go. Take two, and I realised how important it is to have the Romanian names of fruit and vegetables down pat at this particular supermarket. Other stores have numbered buttons, but at this place you have to scroll through an alphabetical list, usually with people waiting behind you. Cabbage is varză, so you have to scroll almost to the end, where you’ll find them next to the aubergines (vinete, which believe it or not is vânătă in the singular). Carrots begin with M in Romanian, swapping places with mushrooms (they start with C, as do onions). I’ve been here long enough that this seems totally normal.
It has been a tragic week in Timișoara. Four children were killed in a house fire, close to where I’ll be having my lesson tomorrow with the new boy. Their mother was working at the time – she said money was too tight not to – and she left the children, all aged under seven, in the hands of their 14-year-old brother who lit the fireplace in the younger children’s bedroom.
