Flashback to ’95

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.

May Day blues

Yesterday was a crappy Friday. My sinus pain or migraine (I’m not sure which) started the night before, and I didn’t sleep a lot. I took plenty of paracetamol which helped, but I still felt washed out and sapped of energy. Four trips up and down the stairs were all I could manage. I had two lessons, and I had to apologise for yawning in my session with my UK-based student which started at 9pm. In the middle of the lesson we had a storm here. Today I’ve still felt lethargic and have done little other than read and talk to my parents (where they taunted me on FaceTime with lumps of Whittaker’s chocolate). I did my full eight laps of the stairs but was slower than usual. It’s bucketing down right now. We were in need of a good deluge.

It’s our penultimate weekend under full lockdown. I hope by the end of this month I’ll be able to read a book on a park bench while eating a punnet of strawberries. I have no desire to eat out or go shopping. I was surprised to see Piața 700 – an open air market I’ve mentioned several times on this blog – in full swing when I passed by on Tuesday. I kept well away from the produce and people. Another market, Piața Iosefin, has shut down after one of the stallholders tested positive.

Mum keeps me updated on cases and deaths from Covid-19 in New Zealand. Those who die in NZ are invariably old, often from care homes. In Romania that is not the case. The list is updated two or three times a day, and it’s full of not-that-old people. So far, 57% of deaths have been under-70s, including 27% under 60 and 10% under 50. Why? My first guess was that, even though I see old people all the time, Romania has a smaller proportion of elderly than a prosperous country like New Zealand. But no, Romania’s proportion of over-70s is in fast slightly larger than NZ’s (1 in 8 against 1 in 9, roughly). That’s not because Romanians live longer than Kiwis – they don’t! – but because so many young people have left the country, and women have just about stopped having babies, so the elderly make up a sizeable chunk of the population. In other words I’m puzzled by all the premature deaths here.

Here’s the first ten questions from Tuesday’s game of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? with the twelve-year-old. I made these up pretty much on the fly. After the Boris Johnson question, I was tempted to ask how many kids Boris had, and make all the possible answers correct.

Serbian commentary 5 — Signs from last summer’s trip III

Now we’re in Mostar, in Bosnia and Herzegovina. I knew that Crvena Armija (which you can see in the shadow) meant Red Army, and I thought the mural had some sort of military significance, but it’s for the local football team, Velež Mostar, which was founded in 1922.

The picture above was taken on Braće Fejića (Fejić Brothers) Street. The noun brat (brother) does not have a plural; instead you use the collective noun braća (think of the word “brethren” in English). There are dozens of collective nouns in Serbo-Croat. And guess what, the collective noun for brothers is feminine! Mad or what? Because it’s the street of the brothers, you need the genitive case, where the final a changes to e. The slogan on the mural means “Never forget, never forgive”, and it references the 1995 massacre of Srebrenica, where many thousands of Bosniaks were killed. Here we are on the east (Bosniak) side of Mostar. As the guide told us, the dividing line separating the Bosniaks and the Croats is the Boulevard that runs north–south, to the west of the river, not the river itself as some people mistakenly believe.

We’re hiring. But only females. Radnica is a female worker (a male worker is radnik). Potrebna is the feminine form of potreban (“necessary”). Once again, when you add the ending, you also remove the a before the final consonant. This gender-specific job advert is familiar from my time in Romania. Vânzătoare. Barmăniță.

This was my train from Mostar to Sarajevo. The text means “Railway Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina”. Now we see a difference between the Serbian variety of the language and the version spoken elsewhere. In Serbia, the j in željeznice wouldn’t be there. There are many, many words where an e in the Serbian dialect is replaced by je, or sometimes ije, in the variety used elsewhere. In Serbia and Bosnia, the same word is used for both “Sunday” and “week”; in Serbia this word is nedelja, but in Bosnia they say nedjelja with an extra j. “You are beautiful”, if talking to a woman, is Ti si lepa in Serbia, but Ti si lijepa (with ij added) in Bosnia.

Now I’m in Sarajevo. What’s a buregdžinica? It’s a place where you get burek, a kind of meat-filled pastry. The word burek comes from Turkish. This particular place had a huge variety of bureks, of which I ate several (and a yoghurt). I was amazed how cheap it all was, and I’m not someone to splash the cash. If the word for the pastry is burek, why is there a g in buregdžinica and not a k? This is due to something called “assimilation by voice”. Some consonant sounds (like g, b, d, v and z) are voiced – they employ your vocal cords – while others (like k, p, t, f and s) are unvoiced. If you say the g in “goat” with your finger on your Adam’s apple, you can feel the vibration, but if you say a k sound you can’t. In fact, g and k are a voiced–unvoiced pair; voice (or lack of it) is the only difference between the sounds. The same is true of b and p, d and t, and so on. The in buregdžinica is pronounced like the j in English “jump”, and is a voiced sound. It is much easier to pronounce two voiced consonants (or two unvoiced) side-by-side than a combination of both, and so the unvoiced k converts to voiced g, to match the “voicedness” of the following . There are lots of examples of these assimilations in Serbo-Croat. A ćevap is a piece of minced meat, much like mici in Romania, but a ćevap-seller is a ćevabdžinica, with the unvoiced p changed to voiced b.

And guess what – we do these assimilations in English too. The s in dogs is pronounced as a voiced z, to match the voiced g, but the s in ducks remains unvoiced, because the k is unvoiced. Of course, these sound changes aren’t reflected in the spelling, but that’s only because English isn’t a phonetic language, unlike Serbo-Croat. If it were completely phonetic, we would indeed write dogz. One example I can think of in English where the spelling does change is in the pair absorbabsorption. The -tion suffix begins with an unvoiced sh sound, so the voiced b changes to unvoiced p to match it.

Back to the picture above. On the window you can see the word mliječni, which means “dairy”. It’s an adjective that comes from mlijeko, “milk”. In Serbia, these words would be mlečni and mleko.

And finally, if you’re ever travelling to Sarajevo and want to visit Olimpik Buregdžinica, it’s in a square called Gajev Trg, off a main street named Ferhadija in the middle of town.

Serbian commentary 4 — Signs from last summer’s trip II

The pictures in this post are from Bar in Montenegro. I call the language Serbo-Croat for simplicity, even though we’re not in Serbia or Croatia.

I dalje si felje, with lj ligatures, written on the pavement. What does it mean? Google Translate says “You’re still a fella.” Dalje means “still”, and seems to be related to daleko, meaning “far”.

A bookshop. You can see here that all foreign names are transliterated into Serbo-Croat phonetics. Jamie has morphed into Džejmi. The same happens to foreign words. This would be like me writing that I’d eaten a crwasson or that I like paintings by Clawed Monay. Jamie Oliver’s book is called Meals in 15 Minutes in English, but the translated title just means All in 15 Minutes. The title of the book about mushrooms simply means What is this Mushroom? The word koja really means “what” instead of “which”, but “which” is used more generally than in English. It’s the same in Romanian: Care este numele tău? literally means “Which is your name?” It’s more complicated in Serbo-Croat though, because “which” has to agree with the noun. Here it’s koja because gljiva is feminine, but if it would be koji for a masculine noun and koje for a neuter noun. Gljiva is one of two words they use for mushroom; the other is pečurka, a cognate of Romanian ciupercă (meaning the same thing), but it’s a mystery how the consonants got swapped between the two languages.

The large brown book on the right is entitled Sto događaja iz istorije Crne Gore: One Hundred Events from the History of Montenegro. The local name for Montenegro is Crna Gora – Black Mountain. The English name (which obviously also means Black Mountain) comes from Venetian, and I wonder why we don’t now call it Black Mountain. Some grammar: because we’re saying “history of”, Crna Gora needs to go in the genitive, which means the final a‘s become e‘s. As for “event”, that’s događaj, but when you’re talking about 100 of them, you need that final a. If it were just “events”, without a number, you’d have a final i instead.

You don’t see much Cyrillic in Montenegro but you can see it on some books here. Поуке старца Тадеја (Pouke starca Tadeja) means “Lessons of the Old Man Tadej”. Star means old, starac means old man, and “of the old man” requires the genitive (add an a to the end but remove the a before the c). The old man is Tadej Štrbulović, a Serbian Orthodox elder who died in 2003. His name Tadej is equivalent to Thaddeus in English. I did once meet a Thaddeus in New Zealand, back in 1997 – he was a friend of a friend of my grandfather’s, and was known as Thady (rhyming with “lady”).

In the top right we have a book with a Cyrillic title in quite a traditional font, similar to one commonly used in Romania (but to write the Latin script). When reading something in an unfamiliar script, unusual fonts only complicate matters. The title is Тешко побеђенима, or (in Latin) Teško Pobeđenima, which either means “Hard to Beat” or “Badly Beaten” (two very different things, but I can’t tell which it is). Pobeđenima is some sort of passive version of the verb pobediti: to win or to conquer.

Blissful

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.

Lockdown breakdown

There are signs of breakdown in our lockdown. The official case and fatality numbers here are low compared to the tragic figures in western Europe, and there’s a sense that we could be over the worst of it. Foot traffic was up today. I’m concerned by all the non-essential work on our pavements, carried out by men in orange hi-viz jackets, often centimetres apart from each other. Some of it has already been completed, and it looks smart, but I doubt any of it would have happened in normal times. There are also people working in the parks and gardens, as usual (Timișoara has always done a good job there), and honestly that’s fine – you can keep your distance fairly easily.

Our shiny new footpath, complete with bike lane

I’m still watching John Campbell’s videos with interest. How and when will countries (or parts of countries) relax their lockdowns? Just how terrible will it get in Africa? Does warmer weather help significantly? Of particular interest to me: Can New Zealand eradicate the virus completely? (He thinks they can.) There are so many inter-related difficulties and issues that I never would have imagined. For instance, an oil from a specific type of Chilean tree is often used as a binding agent in vaccines, but that tree is only harvested in the Southern Hemisphere summer. Glass is used extensively in medicine (it’s inert, unlike plastic), but there’s a shortage of sand because so much has been used in construction.

The lockdown cracks are only emerging in the daytime, as yet. It’s 9:45 pm and I can hear an owl and intermittent trains.

Serbian commentary 3 — Signs from last summer’s trip I

It’s a long time since I wrote about the Serbian language (summer of 2018, here and here), but I’ve had a bit of extra time on my hands, so here I’ve decided to post some signs from last summer’s trip to Serbia, Montenegro and Bosnia. (Montenegrin and Bosnian are basically the same as Serbian, as is Croatian.) Most of the signs presented some kind of puzzle, which I’ve attempted to solve, so here goes:

Belgrade wall plaque

The main text on the plaque above would read SAVEZ ENERGETIČARA SRBIJE in Latin. This means Serbian Association of Energy Workers. The G is pronounced hard, as in goat. Serbia is Srbija in Serbian, but here it’s in the genitive case (“of Serbia”), where the a changes to e. At the bottom it says Beograd (Belgrade), Zetska 11, which is the address.

Buskers Belgrade

The buskers above have a sign that says NISMO NA BUDžETU, meaning We’re not on a budget. “We are not” is a single word, nismo. They’ve taken budžet directly from English ( counts as a single letter in Serbian and is pronounced just like the j in just—sometimes the ž part remains in lower case even if the rest of the text is in caps, as in here). The word budžet gets an extra u because it’s in the locative case. Cases tell you what the word is doing in the sentence—they’re an essential part of Serbian, which has seven of them.

Belgrade biilboard

The billboard above is printed in italic Cyrillic, and that opens up a whole nother can of worms. Some of the letters look quite different from upright Cyrillic. What looks like a g is in fact a д, equivalent to latin d. The barred u is actually a п, equivalent to p. The barred upside-down m is a т.

In non-italic Cyrillic, the slogan above would read “Ко сме, тај може. Ко не зна за страх, тај иде напред.” In Latin, that would be: “Ko sme, taj može. Ko ne zna za strah, taj ide napred.” This means “Who dares can. Who knows no fear goes forward,” and is a quote from Vojvoda Živojin Mišić (1855-1921), a commander in Serbia’s wars. You can partly see his name at the bottom.

McDonalds billboard - Belgrade

Still in Belgrade, the billboard above has the word “shake” printed in Serbian phonetics. The milkshake has been reduced to 100 dinars, or about 75 pence.

Handwritten restaurant sign - Belgrade

We’re still in Belgrade, where these handwritten Cyrillic bar signs weren’t easily decipherable. Handwritten Cyrillic is very similar to italic Cyrillic, only harder to read. The large sign in the frame reads:
Марина Милорадовић П.Р.
Услуге припремања и послуживања пића
Лутић
Београд – Стари Град

In Latin, that would be:
Marina Miloradović P.R.
Usluge pripremanja i posluživanja pića
Lutić
Beograd – Stari Grad

The top line is the name of the woman who owns the place, I guess. I don’t know what P.R. means. The second line means “preparing and serving drinks”. The word for drink is piće which is a neuter noun. The e changes to a in the plural. I think we need the accusative case here, but pića is the same in both nominative (vanilla, if you like) and accusative. I think it’s only masculine nouns whose plurals change between nominative and accusative, but don’t quote me on that (!).

They’ve switched to Latin for small signs on the right; the top one simply says otvoreno with “open” in English, while the bottom right sign says radno vreme (opening hours), which are 4pm till midnight, except Fridays and Saturdays (a subotom i petkom), when the place is open from 5pm till 1am. The words for Friday and Saturday are subota and petak in the nominative, but this sign is using the instrumental case, just in case you haven’t had enough cases yet. Nouns which end with the letter a followed by a consonant (like petak) lose that a when a case ending (the -om here) is added. Note that Serbian has two “and” words: i (a general “in addition” type of “and”) and a (a “but” or “whereas” kind of “and”).

Now it’s my first morning in Bar (Montenegro) after my long train journey. Although the language is substantially the same, there’s virtually no Cyrillic in sight now.

The sign on the right above is a road safety message. It says Ne brže od života: “Not faster than life”.

Brz (one of those no-vowel words) means “fast”, but it has comparative forms (“faster”) which are brži (masculine), brža (feminine) and brže (neuter). The z changes to ž, which is equivalent to the sound at the end of “massage”. I guess you use the neuter version in this general situation. Od can mean “from”, “since”, “of”, or (here) “than”. Od is followed by a noun in the genitive case, which is why the word for life (život, masculine) is written with an a on the end.

This beachside restaurant is built around trees, and that’s why I was confused when I saw the sign. I knew drvo meant tree, so I thought Pizza na drva probably meant “pizza in the trees” or something. It actually means “pizza on wood”, i.e. “wood-fired pizza”. I don’t know what case drva is in – Wiktionary isn’t helping me. Roštilj na ugalj (it should have an accent on the s, making the “sh” sound) means “barbecue on coal”.

The big four-oh

Forty. I’ve made it. I’ve had a fairly busy day of birthday phone calls with people in New Zealand and the UK, mixed in with a pair of lessons. I even got a knock on the door from the chap on the sixth floor – he handed me what looked like homegrown apples, some sarmale and more pască. Bizarrely, he also gave me a pair of trousers that he said were too big for him.

After last night and this long weekend in general, it’s pretty clear that Orthodox Easter is a really big deal for Romanians, and something that they find hard to let go of, lockdown or not. Older Romanians, even more so. I’ve had eighty Easters goddammit, and I’m gonna have my Easter even if kills me. Last night they told me that grocery shopping is a three-hour round trip from them. I’ll do it for you in a fraction of the time, I said. But they didn’t trust me to get “the right stuff”. I trotted off to the supermarket this morning, masked and gloved, but it was closed for Easter Monday.

I can make no complaints about the weather for my lockdown birthday, a day when US oil prices dropped below zero. They are paying you to take it away. Oh, and I just tried on those trousers, for a bit of a laugh. They’re enormous, and far too short.

Dangerous dessert

At around six I called the elderly couple on the sixth floor, so I could pop up there and give them a box of chocolates. If I happen to have pre-symptomatic coronavirus, I probably gave them that as well. That would be terrible. The lady answered and said she’d call me back when she was properly dressed. All I wanted to do was leave the chocolates outside their door. I’d just finished my dinner when she called me back. I went up there, was invited in, and there was a table laid out. Oh no. What do I do now? I ended up eating some pască (which is a Romanian sweet bread filled with raisins and other fruit) and two big pieces of something like a rum baba. It was lovely to eat some typical Romanian Easter food, and it was good to speak Romanian, but I couldn’t relax. All I could think of was the bloody virus. I really should have made it clear on the phone that I wouldn’t be coming in. People have picked up this thing from courier deliveries, and here I was sitting with a couple aged nearly 80 and 90, both with a list of medical conditions as long as my arm, for more than an hour.

The couple are quite religious and have been on pilgrimages to Israel. When I mentioned that tomorrow was my birthday, the woman talked about all the round numbers. Yes, tomorrow there will be zeros everywhere I look.

Shockingly normal ⁠— what’s going on in the UK?

Nearly 900 deaths were added to the UK figures today, just like yesterday and the day before. Nine hundred. Nine Hillsborough disasters. A dozen Grenfell Towers. Every day. Granted, some of the deaths, perhaps 100 a day, are people who die with Covid-19 rather than from it, but there are also vast numbers dying in care homes who aren’t being counted. The daily tally of people dying from Covid-19 is surely well over 1000.

Those numbers are terrifyingly high. But what really shocks me is how normal this seems to have become over there. What has happened to the country I was born and bred in? How has life in the UK become so cheap, all of a sudden? How has being unable to breathe and drowning in your fluids, while your family can’t even say goodbye to you, become so acceptable so quickly?

Here in Romania we’ll be in lockdown, with armed police, until mid-May at the earliest. I’m glad of that. I agree with whoever said that lifting the lockdown now would be like flushing half your antibiotics down the loo because you’re feeling a bit better, and anyway we’re yet to even properly reach the “feeling better” stage. A huge hole was blown in my teaching hours in mid-March, but my volume is starting to pick up. Yesterday I had that lesson with Cosmin’s friend – it was probably as good for my Romanian as it was for her English. Now she wants a lesson every day including weekends (after all, what is a weekend now?). She should improve quickly.

It’s my 40th birthday on Monday. Yikes! All this social distancing means I won’t be having the massive rip-roaring party I would have had otherwise.

Timișoara really is beautiful in spring, and here are some more photos of the bits of Timișoara that I’m still allowed to set foot in.