Update

I can exclusively reveal that moving house is hellishly exhausting. I've never done it before, or at least not properly. All my moves have been cross border ones involving fitting all your worldy belongings into a couple of suitcases and selling/getting rid of the rest. On the couple of occasions where I have moved within cities, it has been from furnished rented places to other furnished places. (And always with the assumption that there'd be a flight to the next abode eventually anyway). It has actually been a very successful lifestyle for keeping down accumulated crap. Every year or two I could ruthlessly cull my personal property, and leave myself in a zen like state of simplicity.

But this, involved furniture, boxes and boxes of stuff, two children, and vast mountains of dust. Dust everywhere. I'm sure it was breeding. We even dusted everything thoroughly when packing it, only to find it had become even more dusty in transit.

But the new place looks great. It's still a little chaotic, mostly thanks to the fact that we don't yet have kitchen furniture at all, so all the plates etc are in boxes on the floor. We don't even have a kitchen sink, so you have to do the washing up in the bathroom (we do have a cooker and a fridge, though). [It's common practice in Romania - at least as far as I can tell - to leave nothing behind when you move - including light fixtures, sinks, taps, etc. I don't know if this is a curiously Romanian thing, because as I say I've never done this before]

Anyway, when it's finished it will look incredible. Sadly, I won't be there to witness the final stage, as I am writing this post from Prague Airport, where I am en route to Vilnius, Lithuania to do some training for a week. The last time I was in Prague airport was in 1988, prior to the velvet revolution, and it was a little different from now, I have to say. Also that was the last (and only other time) I've flown CSA, and that is very different - back then it was big hulking Russian built aircraft (I can't remember if it was a Tupolev or an Antonev), filled with big hulking blonde stereotypical Germanic communist stewardesses, who offered only two things "Beer or Vodka". Sadly, I don't have the time to go into Prague city itself, though to do so may shatter all my romantic memories of the place - ludicrously cheap, no tourists (not even any restauarants or hotels), and completely gorgeous. I storngly suspect it's not that way any more (though I presume it's still gorgeous).

Anyway, onward to the Baltic States.

[Signs off with appropriate Czech expression]

Moving

Sometime this week we will be moving (By sometime, I mean Satrurday. Or Sunday, if things fall behind schedule). We have been lucky in that we have had two weeks in which to renovate and redecorate the apartment that we have bought and into which we will move, while still living at the one we have already sold. Two walls have been knocked down to create a bigger living room, a bunch of tiles in the bathroom have been removed as they were cracked, and new ones purchased, we’ve decided on paint, and various items of furniture which a carpenter will go ahead and make, and the whole apartment will be re-floored with laminate. In the meantime, Erika is running around dealing with a million and one things that only a fluent Hungarian/Romanian speaker can deal with, and I am left at home babysitting and occasionally deigning to do a spot of packing.

What it does mean, though, is that I’m unlikely to be blogging much until next week at the earliest. But the new place is going to be excellent. Really. And that invite to all the people I know who have yet to come and visit me (which is basically all of you, though my parents are blazing a trail by showing up at the beginning of June), now takes on more relevance as you would actually have somewhere comfortable to sleep.

Magyarisms

English has, I’m told, 6 words which come to us from Hungarian. One or two of these words are only used to illustrate Hungarian concepts or things – like goulash for example. The English version of goulash is, I suspect, somewhat un-goulashy, which is reflected in the fact that we have interpreted the word poorly too – the Hungarian pronunciation of gúlyas is in fact goo-yash, since that “ly” combo in Hungarian does not contain any "l" sound. English is not the only language that manages to mangle the word in this way though – Romanian also makes it sound like goulash by spelling it gulaş. Having a quick look on the web, it seems that there is some controversy about what a goulash actually is. Here is one bloke's opinion, for example.

The next one on our list of 6, is another food. Paprika. Now we tend to use it to describe the powdered pepper used to flavour dishes (such as the goulash for example), but in Hungarian it is used for fresh peppers too. The powder is called piros paprika (red paprika) which may leave you wondering what a red fresh pepper would be called. This is solved by the fact that Hungary and Hungarian speaking areas have a bewildering array of peppers, such that “red pepper” would not be a very helpful description anyway. There is the round red pepper for example, which is known as the paradicsom parika – the tomato pepper, and the long one, the not quite as long one, the fatter one, and many others beside. I usually just point.

There are a couple of military ones – hussar and sabre. Not quite sure how they are spelled and pronounced in Hungarian, but I presume hussar is more like huszar. Why are hussars so often gay, by the way? I have no idea. You’d think being cavalry soldiers, they’d pretty much be cannon fodder, and not especially gay at all. But you never hear of the glum hussar do you?

Two left, and the first is coach. Not coach in the sense of trainer, but in the sense of vehicle. Apparently coaches (horse drawn ones I’m guessing) originated in the Hungarian town of Kocs (pronounced fairly similarly to coach). Thus in Hungarian a coach (and these days a car) is known as a kocsi (from Kocs), and a driver/coachman as Kocsis (hence Erika’s family name, and that of the ever-so-slightly more famous Kocsis, Sandor of the Magnificent Magyar 1950s football team).

Finally, biro. The humble ball point pen, named after its inventor Laszlo Biro, or more properly, Bíró László. Another Hungarian word we manage to mispronounce, since it should be more like beer-o. And that’s about it, as far as I know. If you know of any others, please let me know.

As far as I know there are no specifically Romanian words in English, but since Romanian is derived from Latin, there are an awful lot of words that exist in both languages.

May Be Cold

April was very springlike and warm. May, so far, has been cold - at least here, May 1st, we celebrated international workers day in Marosvasarhely which was much nicer - this morning that little thing over to the right showed the temperature at 6am as being -3. In May. It's not right I tell you.

Meanwhile, a picture:



It took me a while to work out just what was wrong with the name "Transilvanian Trousers Company", until I realised that even though as a noun trousers is always rendered in the plural, as an adjective (as it is here) the word is trouser (as in trouser leg, trouser pocket, etc). Shame really, because I imagine Transilvanian Trousers could sweep the entire world with their ineffable coolness.

Romanian Accent

Romanians are very cavalier with their accents. By accents here, I mean not regionally diverse ways of speaking, but diacritical marks on letters to identify pronunciation differences. There are a lot of such marks in Romanian from ă to ţ and beyond. However, they are frequently omitted in written versions of the language, which is most confusing to the foreigner.

A few days ago, for example, I wrote a post entitled Happy Paste. Now “Paste” was the way I had seen the Romanian word for Easter written, and it amused me that it was paste. But I also knew that it was pronounced not “paste” as the English word, but Pash-tay (more or less), and so it began to dawn on me that it was probably actually spelt “Paşte”. This turned out to be the case. For another example, I drove this weekend to my in-laws house in the town whose Romanian name is Târgu-Mureş. Now on road signs it is normally written as Targu Mures (or sometimes abbreviated as Tg Mures), which is not at all how it is pronounced. That a with a little hat is prounounced something like an uh, not like an a at all. It’s turgu muresh (more or less). (Incidentally, just to confuse things further, it is also sometimes spelled Tîrgu-Mureş, with that be-hatted “i” being seen these days as a Stalinist letter which is no longer welcome. I’m not quite sure what a Stalinist letter is, but maybe it launched some pogroms or something.)

When you sit down in a restaurant and peruse a menu, and happen upon something you’d like to try but are not sure of the pronunciation of, you often have to guess at the correct spelling (and hence pronunciation), since menus appear to be a particularly accent free zone. It’s all very lackadaisical. I’m sure there must be examples of Romanian words that when the accents are left off mean something entirely different, such that when you think you are ordering a veal cutlet, say, you are actually asking for a large consignment of balloons, or some such humorous error.

Contrast this with Hungarian which is obsessive about its accents. Every day I fret and worry over the fact that I have called this blog Csikszereda Musings, a heinous spelling error for it really ought to be Csíkszereda Musings, with that accented “i” making all the difference. Well, to be honest I barely give it a moment’s thought, but I am aware that it is wrong. And it is, in effect, a spelling error. I presume not including accents in Romanian is also a spelling error, just that no-one seems to care. There must be Romanians who bemoan the laziness of printers and sign makers and constantly bang on at anyone who’ll listen about how the country’s going to the dogs, and how education isn’t what it used to be, but they (the possibly mythical people I’ve just invented) don’t seem to be having any impact.

Nasal Octopus

This has been a bad couple of weeks healthwise. Bogi came down with mumps (conveniently "mumpsz" in Hungarian) while I was away. This weekend, having sat out the requisite two weeks at home we noticed that she was not hearing very well. A visit to the ENT doctor on Monday confirmed that there was a problem - that she had a large octopus in her nose. So yesterday she went to have it surgically removed (obviously having an octopus in your nose is not especially healthy nor does it make it easy to breathe). All is well now, though and there are no more octopi or any other form of squid or cuttlefish clogging up her nasal passages as far as we know.

OK, OK, it wasn't actually an octopus. It was a polyp. However, the Hungarian word for octopus and the Hungarian word for polyp are one and the same (polip). So, like a true dad I have been amusing myself all week referring to it as an octopus. In my defence, it has made her laugh too, and helped her reach the operation with at least a couple of laughs to punctuate the pervading sense of fear.

She now has some spots which may or may not be the onset of rubella, another childhood disease which is also very popular at the moment in Csikszereda. Rubella when I was growing up was the best disease going - a week off school with no ill effects barring a couple of non-irritating spots. Of course in those days rubella was called German Measles for reasons I'm not sure of. Was it like Spanish flu in that it seemingly originated in Germany? Or were there more xenophobic reasons? Perhaps it was seen as very efficient form of measles - in and out in a few days without causing much fuss. Who knows? In other etymology-of-spotty-childhood-illnesses, chicken pox may be so called because it's like a rubbish version of small pox (see also "chicken feed") or because the spots look like chick peas. Not like any chick peas I've ever eaten, I have to say.

To top that off, I have a raging flu, though not of the avian variety. (Although I learned recently that all strains of flu originated in birds). Still, such is life.

Falling Star

Last night, contrary to my usual form, I found myself cheering on an English club in European competition (It's not unheard of, but it's fairly rare. I certainly won't be doing it in the upcoming Champion's League final). This is because of my overriding hatred of Steaua - and especially Gigi Becali. However, I had been slightly swept up by the seeming unitedness of the nation behind them (though this may have been a media invention) and thought it might be nice if they got to the final (and then got humiliatingly thrashed).

At half past ten Romania time last night, the game was all over. Steaua were three nil up on aggregate (effectively 3½-0 up because they had scored away goals) and there was only an hour left to play. At half time, even though Middlesboro had pulled one back, there was actually a discussion of the possibility that Steaua would get to play Barcelona in the European Super Cup final, and so relive the EC final of 1986. I thought that it was a bit premature, though I did assume that they would at least get to the UEFA Cup final.

The rest, as they say, is history. A stunning fightback by Middlesboro (for the second time in two rounds), and Steaua crashed out at the death, beaten 4-2 on the night. I was happy and still buzzing from seeing such an incredible game of football. But then as I flicked round the TV channels, the shock and dismay of everyone told its own story. This was a match that a lot of Romania wanted Steaua to win so they could represent the nation on a European stage. I don't really understand that level of national feeling for a club side (I'll be very very happy if both Arsenal and Middlesboro lose the two finals to come), but I could see that it was there. I'm sure there were hardcore Dinamo and Rapid fans who were happy that Steaua had lost, but most of the country it seems was shell shocked. I started feeling sorry for those Romanians who had willed the team on and seen them crash out in such unbelievable circumstances, so close to the finish line. As channel after channel wheeled their best pundits on to try and make sense of this national calamity, I began to wish that Steaua had indeed clung on to get to the final.

Then one channel cut to live footage of Gigi Becali leaving the stadium. He was so gaunt, so haggard, so white, and for the first time ever didn't look like he was enjoying being on TV, and in fact remained tight lipped and silent. He looked utterly broken and almost like he was about to burst into tears. At that point my heart lifted and my spirit soared and I remembered why I wanted Middlesboro to win in the first place. Grazie mille, Maccarone.

Sorry Romania - you deserve to have something to cheer, but not led by that cretinous oaf. Rapid in the final? Now that would have really been great.

Happy Paste

Today is Good Friday according to the Orthodox calendar, and hence part of paste. Paste is the Romanian word for Easter. I don't know if today is referred to as "Good" Friday by Romanians, or something else, as all I have seen is various invocations to enjoy my paste. Obviously paste (or Húsvét as it's known in Hungarian) was last week here, so it's one of those odd days which may or may not be a holiday. Anyway, I'd like to wish all my Romanian readers a happy Paste.

I was intrigued to find out the etymology of the word Húsvét, but have so far drawn a blank. My interest lies in the fact that the first syllable Hús is the Hungarian word for meat, and I wondered if Húsvét was a kind of celebration of the end of Lent, which would have amused me a lot, since I've noticed that the beginning of lent is often marked by massive blowouts which doesn't seem to fit in with the whole spirituality of the thing. However, I can't find out what Húsvét might mean. It did lead me into a discovery that "easter" is derived from the same root as "oestrogen", though, which I found vaguely interesting (it's all about springtime and fertility y'see). Paste, like similar words in various other Latin-based languages is taken from Passover, which at least makes sense.

Someone the other day asked me which European countries were orthodox, which, by a convoluted mental process led me to a realisation that all European countries which don't use the Latin alphabet are Orthodox Christian, and all the ones that do are not. With only one exception to this rule - Romania. Fascinating huh? (Well, it's actually two because there's Moldova too, but that's just decaffeinated Romania, so it doesn't really ruin this enthralling piece of information). Feel free to use this factoid down the pub next time you have a gap to fill in the conversation. I won't ask for any money.

Home

I am back home in Csikszereda now, bearing gifts of Sheffield Wednesday paraphernalia (for Bogi - borderline child abuse though it may be), clothes (for Paula), perfume (for Erika) and curry paste (for me). Two weeks was way too long to be away from everyone, but happily they don't seem to have forgotten me.

In other news, we have sold our flat and are moving to another one in early May. No idea what this means for regular blogging but it probably means the less frequent posts of the last couple of months will be the norm for a while longer.

An alphabet of curiosities

Apropos of nothing in particular, here is an alphabetical list of things in Romania that amuse, baffle, confound and disturb me.

A is for Access. It’s a cultural thing, and one which I have a lot of time for in theory. That is that Romanians (and by that I mean all or most Romanian citizens) like to stop and talk to the people they know when they see them. None of this brief “hello” and hurrying along to ones destination beloved of my people. This is the clear mark of a culture that values relationships more than getting things done, which is very admirable and I’m all for it. In theory. However, the small but occasionally irritating side effect of this is that there is very little thought for where it is that these impromptu conversations take place. This often seems to be in doorways, on staircases or in narrow corridors or anywhere else inconvenient to the people not involved in the meeting. I’ve even seen these conversations happen between two drivers passing each other, and then stopping rolling down their windows and talking right there on the street. Fortunately, stuck behind the old friends in that situation you can at least beep your horn, to indicate that you’d actually like to go on, an option that is not really available when you’re stuck on a staircase. It’s not infuriating to me, mostly merely amusing, and it gives me time to stop and muse on how if someone did that in London they’d be knifed or something. But there are times when I kind of wish they’d just move their conversation to one side – it’s fairly easy.

B is for Benches. Csikszereda hospital is situated on the top of a little hill. That means as you look out from the place in all directions you get a good view of the town (which is frankly not much to look at, but the hills around it are nice). Out the front of the hospital there is a little garden area with a bunch of benches in it so patients and their visitors can sit around and chat and smoke or whatever (at least they can in the months of the year when the benches are not buried under snow). All of these benches, without exception (and there are about 15-20 of them) are aligned such that the sitter faces not the view across to the Harghita Mountains but the pig-ugly communist era hospital. Why? For god’s sake why? It’s utter madness.

C is for Chocolate. Chocolate is a popular commodity here. Supermarkets and corner shops seem to devote on average around 10% of their shelf space to bars of chocolate. But here’s the kicker – almost none of them are just simple chocolate. It’s always chocolate with some kind of cream filling or strawberry or cognac (flavour) or banana or cappuccino or some other bloody revolting filling. Why? Chocolate is a delicious food – either plain or milk versions. Why on earth does one need to make it taste of something else, infinitely less delicious. Sometimes you have to really search to find a bar of un-flavoured chocolate among the vast swathes of cream filled nonsense. In the USA I noticed the same affliction but there it’s with coffee. Again, a beautifully flavourful and delicious treat. Again treated with disdain and spoiled with vanilla or cinnamon or nutmeg or almond or essence of hamburger or something. Insanity. [At this stage you may already be mentally composing a reply pointing out that the UK has a vast array of ridiculous flavours of crisps. Let me save you the bother. We do. Lamb and mint, chicken balti, sweet thai pepper, roast dog, etc etc are all (aside from the one I made up) genuine flavours of crisps to be found in this country. It’s just that spoiling a small sliver of deep fried potato seems less heinous than ruining coffee and chocolate.]

D is for Dust. In Csikszereda when the snow melts, it gets dusty. Why is that? It’s counter intuitive really – the streets are running with meltwater and the air is full of dust. I have guessed that it’s something to do with the idea that throughout the winter the dust accumulates in the snow and is somehow held in suspension there. Then when the snow melts it is all released into the air rather than being washed away by the water. But it’s a rum do and no mistake.

E is for Easter. This upcoming weekend is Easter weekend in the UK. It is also Easter weekend in Csikszereda, since the town is Hungarian and thus predominantly Roman Catholic. But we’re one of the few places where it is Easter. In the rest of the country Easter happens at another time because the Orthodox church measures it differently from the Catholic/Protestant churches. (“Our” Easter is referred to as “Catholic Easter” in Romania, an aside with which I amused Bill, a Northern Irish friend, last week). It’s all very confusing. Last year the two events were weeks apart, while this year it’s just the one week difference. When you say something that ends with the words “at Easter” you have to qualify it with the type of Easter you’re referring to.

F. Finished. You didn’t really think I was going to all the way to Z did you?

Musings on Tour

Just a small update, to let anyone who cares know that I'm not dead yet. Was very busy up until Tuesday night and then yesterday flew to England. So, am "home" now (where I've just noticed the " and the @ sign are transposed on the keyboard) and will be for the next couple of weeks. Not sure what blogging activity there will be in that time, but I should have more time to write stuff, even if it doesn't go online for a few days.

In some very good news, spring must have completely sprung as on my drive to Bucharest for the plane I saw three storks. As the storks have become my infallible seasonal guide in Romania, this is a clear indication of spring-iness.

England is expensive (translating prices into Lei is a huge mistake), and cold. That's all I can tell you at the moment.