by Yesterday was my birthday, after which I felt more clueless than ever. It started off normally, with Matei – his maths exams imminent – tapping away furiously on his Casio to solve the diabolical enigma of ten divided by four. It carried on in pretty standard fashion too as I had 3½ hours of English with the brother-and-sister partnership. Then I cycled to Parcul Rozelor where I sat for a while before playing tennis with Florin. I didn’t play well, with the exception of my defence which kept me in it. Once again I had the wobbles, especially on serve. I won the first set 6-3, a score that flattered me. In the ninth game I led 0-40 and eventually won it on my third attempt following the longest rally of the day – a point I was well out of at one stage. I was 3-2 up in the second set when time ran out.
Then it was off to the riverside bar with Florin who talked to me (or at me) for the duration of the walk. A drink or two and a bite to eat, then home. That’s what I’d gathered would happen and what I’d mentally budgeted for. There were rather more friends and friends-of-friends than usual, and we sat inside rather than outside, but that was no cause for alarm. Someone – I can’t remember who – gave me a bottle of wine for my birthday, the second I’d received that day. Then small bottles of homemade țuică (plum brandy) and cognac and vișinată (cherry liqueur) started appearing, and out came shot glasses. Always good to try this stuff. Apart from the shots I had a single beer, and sarmale and mămăligă to eat. With my batteries just about dead and half the people already gone (some had started while we were playing tennis), I decided to head home. Right, can I pay? After some confusion over who and how to pay, a figure of 300 was mentioned. Sorry, what?! That happened to be exactly what I’d earned from my lessons that day. I ended up paying just 70 lei. Then Florin spent several minutes explaining there had been some cultural misunderstanding, as he put it, and when I said that all I’d expected was a beer and some basic food, he said “that isn’t how it works in Romania”. Well last weekend it was, so what do I know?
Baffled, I cycled home. I watched some snooker – last year’s champion Luca Brecel lost 10-9 to David Gilbert after being 9-6 up and twice having the table at his mercy. I didn’t sleep much with all that “business” going around in my head. Plus I had a hangover, my first in several years. I’d planned to go on a road trip today, and eventually did in the afternoon. I visited Charlottenburg, a village settled by Germans (as the name would suggest) in the 18th century. The dwellings are all in a circle, making the place more striking from the air than the ground. From there it was a short hop to Buzad where Dorothy has her house. I can see why – it’s extremely beautiful. That patch is hillier than most of the surrounding area, making it more picturesque. Sadly it has seen a huge drop-off in population like so much of rural Romania; cats, dogs and domestic birds must outnumber humans there in 2024. Driving on those potholed roads was rather taxing given the fug that I was in, though negotiating the city and its sneaky one-way system was far worse.
I was in contact with Florin’s wife today. I said I’d pop over and give her some money to make up for the “misunderstanding”. She then said it had nothing to do with money, so I don’t even understand what it is I don’t understand. Times like these make me think I must be autistic. She was lovely though, and put the blame for whatever it was squarely on Domnul Sfâra, the 89-year-old man (!) whom I used to play tennis with. “It was all his idea, and he didn’t explain anything.” I didn’t feel comfortable blaming him – if by some miracle I make it to more than twice my current age, I very much doubt I’ll even have ideas, let alone be able to articulate them.
Our Romanian teacher sent us a long film showcasing “legends” that arose during the so-called Epoca de Aur, or golden age, meaning the final years of communism. (It was anything but golden.) It was a good watch. I was particularly amused by the story of Ceaușescu’s picture in a major newspaper in which he appeared alongside the (taller) French president. The photo of Ceaușescu was edited at the last minute, putting a hat on his head to give him some extra inches and make him look more statesmanlike. Unfortunately the editor forgot about the hat in his hand.
A word on my brother’s graduation. Hats off (!) to the announcer who read out a hundred or more multi-barrelled African names with hardly a stumble, before alighting on my brother’s group. He must have practised. It reminded me of a radio ad from 2000 where someone had to say the names of the Samoan rugby team. Have a break, have a Kit-Kat. Fifteen Samoan names would have been a breeze compared to what this guy had to contend with.
Birmingham drew 0-0 at basement-dwelling Rotherham yesterday in a match that was interrupted for half an hour by a medical emergency in the stands. Because Sheffield Wednesday won during my road trip today, Blues are now in a precarious position, back in the bottom three with only two games left to play.
