Eye opener

My first experience of the Romanian medical system. I had had something in my eye for a few days, which no amount of scratching or rubbing or playing with my eyelid would shift. Eventually, Erika forced me to go to the hospital to see if someone would look at it (those who know me well will know that I would rather jog the length of the Danube or eat a lump of Brie than actually seek medical treatment). Fortunately there is one very good eye doctor in Csikszereda, so well-respected that people come from all over the country to consult her with their ocular problems. (As a small poor town, this is not always the case – a colleague of Erika’s commuted for an hour throughout the course of her pregnancy to see her gynaecologist because she didn’t trust any of the local ones). We had found out what hours of what days she was working at the local hospital (and not in her private clinic) and went there early one morning. The eye department was practically deserted aside from one youngish patient walking around in her dressing gown. I was a tad surprised to see Erika start asking her about the doctor, but as she was the only one around, I guess there was no choice. She led us into the consulting room and took a look at my eye. It was a bit disconcerting to have a patient look at it, but it’s Romania, and I don’t know how things are done around here (besides, I don’t really have a phobia of patients, merely of medical professionals). She told us that she had never seen anything like it before, but that there were no eye doctors in Csikszereda at the moment as they were all off at a conference in Hungary. So, she called Udvarhely, an hour away, where there was a doctor left (presumably too unimportant to go to the conference), and told them we were coming. And so Erika called work, explained she’d be absent for a while, and drove me across the Harghita mountains and the rapidly deteriorating road to Udvarhely hospital. (Romanian speaking readers will know Udvarhely as “Odorhui Secuiesc”, just to keep everyone in the loop. Not sure what it’s called in German, but it’s basically a Szekely town anyway, so they probably didn’t care much what they called it)

At that hospital, another patient came out to meet us, and we explained why we were there. She nodded and took us in to the doctor. It was at this point that I realised that these patients were not actually patients but in fact nurses, who were wearing dressing gowns because the hospitals were both so cold. I wonder if there’s a way of distinguishing them from real patients, other than the fact that they look less grey, and generally healthier. So, the new doctor took a look at my eye and explained what was wrong to Erika, who then translated. To be honest I kind of switched off after hearing the words “cyst on the eyeball” as my mind went into overdrive and my faint reflex threatened to kick in (that’s a reflex that causes me to faint, rather than a very slight reflex). But I was alert enough to hear the “it might just go away of its own accord” bit and the prescribing of some drops. This came two days before my visit to the UK, so I was wondering whether I’d have to cancel the trip in favour of some kind of ophthalmic surgery, but it seemed like I didn’t.

(I have to confess here, as the more pedantic among you may have already guessed, I don’t really know what the gradations of meaning of all the various eye related adjectives actually are – ophthalmic, optometric, optical, ocular, etc etc – and I’m just throwing them around with casual abandon)

So, to update you on my terrifying sounding eye condition. I have now had it examined by the Csikszereda doctor who has told me that it is basically permanent. I can leave it, and hopefully it won’t bother me too much. Or I can have a quick procedure, that takes only one minute, and which will basically empty it but not permanently remove it (and it will fill again) – frankly I am having to cross and vibrate my legs even typing this to try and ensure that I don’t collapse face first onto my keyboard. No permanent solution has been mentioned, but I’m guessing there isn’t one - and if it doesn’t involve lasers I’m frankly not interested, no-one, not even the most respected eye doctor in Transylvania, is sticking a knife in my eye, a la that scene at the beginning of a Buñuel movie the name of which escapes me (Un Chien Andaluz? L’Age d’Or? God knows – you know the one, man lies in a dentist’s chair, cloud goes across the moon, director cuts back and forth between the cloud slicing across the moon and a razor blade being applied to the man’s eyeball. It’s brutal.)

I tend to feel it’s bad form to end a piece of writing on a parenthetical aside (although, as you may have noticed, about 40% of what I write is just such an aside) (see?), so here is a completely gratuitous extra sentence just to finish things off with a nice clean full stop.

Circus Minimus

On Friday we took Bogi (and her friend Kornel) to the circus. I’ve never been to the circus before. Or at least I’ve never been to a traditional big-top-in-a-field travelling circus. I’ve been to Cirque du Soleil, but that’s not so much a circus as a piece of athletic entertainment for yuppies who are too scared to go to the football. So anyway, the real circus was just about as I could have imagined. A group of people in caravans show up and set up in a piece of open ground, plaster the town with posters and then drive a van round all day announcing their presence. This one was called “International Circus Columbia” which I assumed was a piece of branding, and in fact they’d be either a bunch of Romanians from Galati or somewhere, or a bunch of Hungarians from somewhere equally provincial. I also assumed they’d all be gypsies, since the travelling show image in the UK is one of a reasonably heavy proportion of gypsies, and with Romania having the largest population of gypsies in Europe, I just thought it would be the case.

Apparently not. Fairs and circuses here are not seen as gypsy things, to my surprise. And as the circus went on it became clear that the “International Circus Columbia” may well not be quite as deserving of a prosecution under the trades descriptions act as I had guessed either. While we never got to learn the nationalities of our entertainers, they were all introduced as Roberto and Antonio and Carlos Manuel and such like names. And they certainly looked South American. And they had (badly) trained llamas. So maybe, just maybe.

It was good. Not Cirque du Soleil good obviously, but also not rubbish juggling and half-arsed dog tricks as I had feared. There were one or two weak points (the knife thrower in particular was pretty pathetic, standing so close to the board he could virtually have placed the knives in it rather than throwing them) , and there was an animal section that it could easily have done without (frankly I wasn’t as perturbed by the fact that there were animals as I thought I would be, the animals all looked well cared for and healthy, but watching horses run round in circles, while maybe illustrative of fabulously trained animals, is not exactly exciting, and nor is it is so obviously skilful as watching three blokes standing on top of each other half way up a wire), but aside from that it was really pretty good, well presented and full of very impressive pieces of athleticism. (The previous is my entry in the “longest blog sentence of 2005” annual Blog awards) Particularly impressive from the point of view of all the dads in the audience was the rope climbing woman, who was not only stunningly beautiful, but also wound herself flexibly round that rope in such a way as to practically force you to imagine similar acrobatics elsewhere…but I digress.

Multitasking seems to be the order of the day too – Antonio, the bloke who stood on a plank balanced on balls and on ever higher piles of planks balanced on glasses (does that make him an acrobat?), also did a stint of horse mastery, and then reappeared at the with his two brothers to do some hanging acrobatics that involved prodigious strength and balance. The ring master also did a turn as the bloke with a pole on his head while “Miss Dorin” cavorted about on the top. The rope woman also appeared as a clown for a while and at the very beginning was Antonio’s (very) lovely assistant during his plank gig. All in all, in a two hour show there were probably only about 12 performers all together, which leads me to my next conclusion…that it’s a pretty lucrative business. There were probably about 700 people there, all of whom paid more or less 100,000 Lei to get in, coupled with the outrageous price of popcorn and candy floss and the rides on ponies at the interval, must have meant that they easily cleared 100 million lei for the night – and in a 5 day period in town they did 7 shows, which is not bad for a week’s work. I mean they have all the equipment and the animals to maintain, and have to drive around and presumably pay some kind of site fee, but even if that all sucks up ¾ of the takings, they get approx €5000 for the week’s work – and as there can’t possibly be any more than 20 people involved, this is pretty good money (well, it is in Romania at least). Mind you I bet there’s some kind of circus pimp middleman who gets a large percentage for “setting up” the venues and generally not hanging around on a wire 20 metres above the ground.

Sorry, can’t think what drew me off onto that materialistic accountancy tack. I’ll try and make sure it never happens again. Where was I? Oh, yes, the circus. A good thing, definitely. I can see why people might be tempted to run away to join them. And I’m not just referring to the opportunity of getting closer to the bendy blonde either (and anyway, I suspect Antonio has his hands on her, and I reckon he could tear me into pieces with his bare hands and feed the bits to his llamas). I wonder if they’ve a vacancy for a teacher trainer who can do a bit of cooking? Give me a flipchart or a wok and I can do things that will make the crowd gasp in amazement.

Book review

I have just finished reading a book which I wish, here and now, to recommend in the most glowing possible terms. That book is “Bury Me Standing”, by Isabel Fonseca. It is a non-fiction book, filed somewhere between anthropological study, historical account, cultural primer and impassioned plea, on behalf of Europe’s most misunderstood, misrepresented, unknown population, the gypsies.

Fonseca, an American Jew, mentions at one point how she came to be interested in the gypsies through the similarity of their European experience to that of the Jews. And in many ways the similarity in the way they have been scapegoated over the centuries is stark, and of course both populations were massacred by the Nazis. But really here’s where the similarity begins and ends. She spends time with various gypsy families throughout Eastern Europe, from Albania to Poland, describing their way of life and the values and beliefs that lie behind them. It’s really really fascinating. I can’t possibly do it justice in a few paragraphs here, but some of the things I didn’t know before reading the book include:

• The reason that there are more gypsies in Romania than in any other country is because Romania (or rather Walachia) was the only country in the world in which gypsies were systematically enslaved. Gypsies were actually therefore imported into the country from Bulgaria during the middle ages. Hence their numbers here now. (This is a fact that it is still suppressed and hushed up in Romania, and almost nobody here knows this)
  
  
• Gypsies* don’t really have a cultural sense of their own history. Gypsy history* tends to go back only as far as the oldest member of the family or clan group. Unlike the Jews, for example, gypsies* have no real legendary or mythical origin story – which is why nobody really knows who they are or where they originated, though it is fairly widely theorised that they originated in India. (*Obviously all statements here are generalisations and not intended to be some kind of definitive statement, but rather than precede any statement with the proviso “It is generally thought that…” or “Evidence seems to make the following generalisation roughly acceptable...” I’ll leave it to you to take it as read that I’m not actually saying “All gypsies are X” or “Gypsy people do Y”. OK?)
  
  
• They are, however, consummate story tellers, with story telling ability being highly prized, and the story and its telling being much more important than the truth of the tale being told. So, even those older-generation histories are not especially reliable as historical documentation.
  
  
• It’s not clear whether gypsies are nomadic through tradition or choice, or because they’ve constantly been forced to move on. Likewise, they don’t tend to work the land. Again, either by choice/culture or because with such a precarious existence they’ve not had the opportunity.
  
  
• During communist times in E Europe, they were forcibly “assimilated” – by having the traditional family groups split up and moved into villages to live side by side with the local population. The moment the wall fell in 89/90, the long standing resentments and racism towards the gypsy populations forced to live in their midsts exploded into terrible crimes against gypsies – where entire villages spontaneously broke into mini-civil wars and attempted to ethnically cleanse themselves of the hated Roma (gypsies were murdered, their houses destroyed and burned down all while the local policemen and fire departments looked on).
  
  
• Gypsies are (nearly everywhere) seen as thieves. I know people here tend to assume that they are and act accordingly. In Romania in 1994 for example, the author quotes the official crime figures. 11% of all (solved) petty crimes in that year were committed by gypsies. So, maybe it’s a stereotype rooted in some truth? But then you realise 11% of the population of Romania is gypsy, and then it doesn’t seem quite as clear cut.
  
  
• Other aspects of gypsy culture that stand out are a great sense of cleanliness (again bucking commonly held perceptions) and , a deep fear of and fight against death, and a complete lack of interest in integrating into the societies in which they find themselves.

In fact it’s this last thought which ultimately left me with a seemingly unanswerable question. How exactly can the gadje (non-gypsy) population of Europe learn to live with their neighbours, when their values and needs are so different from ours? And indeed when there is really no interest on their part in integrating in any meaningful way. Communist thinking failed because it required that everybody be a contributing member of (the same) society. Capitalism is failing because it is based on greed and selfishness and nobody wants the gypsies as their neighbours. (Though the book suggests that gypsies are exceedingly successful capitalists, being experts at making bargains and deals – another source of resentment among gadje). And because of the lack of a historical mind set and a similar lack of willingness to advocate for themselves in the traditional media of our societies, there is no chance of Gypsies gaining a “homeland” as Jews have.

Vaclav Havel once said that “the Gypsies are a litmus test not of democracy but of a civil society”. I can’t help but agreeing with him. Get yourself down your nearest library and get hold of this book. It’s gripping, tragic, fascinating and depressing all in equal measure. And she’s a damn good writer.

Stuff

It’s snowing here today. It had been spring, but now it feels like it’s December again. And really snowing, not messing about with a few light flakes either. There were about 7 cm on the car this morning and it’s still dropping heavily. (And it is extremely heavy snow). No idea when it will stop, but it’s 11.30 as I type this and it’s still falling as heavily as ever. When will this bloody winter ever end?

Tomorrow, it is St George’s Day. I know this not because I am English and he is my patron saint, but because there is a nearby town called St George (or actually Szentgyeorgy/Sfantu Gheorge – with the usual misspelling provisos), and they have a festival on this weekend. We are supposed to be going, but if it continues snowing like we won’t be able to or (or we won’t want to much either). I noticed when I was in England one or two shops trying to whip up support for a St George’s Day celebration of some sort. Now in principle I’ve nothing against England having some kind of national day – as far as I am aware it is the only country that doesn’t have something of the sort (whether it be independence day, or revolution day, or constitution day, or St somebody’s day), but I am reluctant to support this one as it smacks of being organised by the UK Independence Party with their “England for the English” type line. I’m also somewhat unsure about naming it after St George. I mean what did he do really? He is famous for slaying a mythical beast. You know, something that didn’t exist. The man was a genius of self-promotion. “I went into that forest over there, and there was this big dragon who was just about to come in and destroy all our lives, so I killed it for you”. And everyone believed him. Put like that it doesn’t sound that dissimilar to Tony Blair on WMDs.

Who made him Saint anyway? It was that organisation which just elected a misogynistic, homophobic old bastard who’d rather that Africans die of AIDS than use condoms to it’s highest office, wasn’t it? That’s a recommendation to be proud of. Make it Shakespeare Day and I’ll support it.

I did a quiz to find out who I should vote for in the UK election, and found out to my surprise that I am a very strong Liberal Democrat (and happily a very strong anti-Tory). I thought I would be a Green, but apparently, by the terms of this quiz I ought to vote LibDem. Surprising. Here's my results, and a link should you be excited enough by this revelation to do the same:

Who should I vote for?

Your expected outcome:

Green

Your actual outcome:

Labour -14
Conservative -73
	Liberal Democrat 108
UK Independence Party -16
	Green 84

You should vote: Liberal Democrat

The LibDems take a strong stand against tax cuts and a strong one in favour of public services: they would make long-term residential care for the elderly free across the UK, and scrap university tuition fees. They are in favour of a ban on smoking in public places, but would relax laws on cannabis. They propose to change vehicle taxation to be based on usage rather than ownership.

Take the test at Who Should You Vote For

I know what they're thinking

Been away for a while and am now back witgh yet another slice of anti-rightwing vitriol. Those looking forward to light observations on life in Romania ought possibly to come back later in the week.

Being in the UK for a couple of weeks has meant that I have been exposed to the beginning of the election campaign. As one of the vast number of “natural” labour supporters who has been completely alienated by Tony Blair and his ongoing rim job on the Bush sphincter, I am vaguely interested to see how this effects his (and his party’s) chances. The trouble is that in the UK there are very few (if any) credible alternatives. The only party that seems to be completely reasonable are the Greens, but they’ll be lucky to win a single seat. From the extreme right inwards the main parties in this election are thye BNP (British National Party – bunch of psycho Nazis), UKIP (UK Independence Party - anti European tossers), Conservatives (tory scum), Labour (or rather “New Labour”) and the Lib Dems. (Not much choice on the left then).

As the second most supported party, the Tories have the best chance of ousting Blair, but instead of trying to do so by convincing people they are no longer the scum party of the Thatcher years, they have lurched even further to the right and have launched into a disgraceful and repugnant campaign based on racism. The main problems afflicting Britain today are apparently immigration and gypsies. Their main platform is one of telling refugees to fuck off, a policy made even more shocking by the fact that their leader Michael Howard is the son of a Romanian Jew who fled the Nazis and ended up in the UK. A refugee, in other words. These days of course refugees have been rebranded as “asylum seekers” which makes them much less cuddly and worthy of pity and help. It’s no longer about what they are fleeing and instead about them coming here (and, you know, doing such terrible things as helping to fund our pensions and contributing to the nation). Plus it has the word “asylum” in it which always conjures up an image of mad psychopaths running amok. It’s sick. Anyway, all of them do it from Tony Blair to the odious BNP, but the Tories have taken it one stage further. They have put posters up (mostly in immigrant heavy districts of inner cities), saying things like “Stop Immigration” and “Whites Only” (I paraphrase, but this is essentially the message that they pass on. Especially as they are completed with the Tories’ catchphrase of the election “Are You Thinking What We’re Thinking?” – to which the answer from any right thinking person will be “No, but I know what you’re thinking you racist scumbags”).

Frankly I think they’ve made a massive mistake and that all the disaffected labour voters who would have stayed at home or registered a protest vote for the lib dems or someone, will instead be so disgusted by the vile rhetoric coming from the tories and actually vote for Labour anyway. God knows what the UK will look like if they get in. One thing’s for sure, anyone fleeing holocaust and genocide as Howard’s father did, would not be allowed in under his son’s government. Frankly, the disgraceful nature of their campaign would reach its logical conclusion with our very own Cristalnacht. It’s difficult to imagine that a party once led by Margaret Thatcher could actually get any worse, but it seems to be the case.

I blame the Daily Mail to be honest. Anyone associated with that loathsome racist rag ought to be hunted down and killed by a pack of dogs (thus giving those poor unemployed hounds something to do).

Boldog Husvet

More Cartoons

Bogi is now into the Japanese cartoons that come in after 8.30pm. These are bizarrely fascinating. Her favourite is “Yu-Gi-Oh”, who is this big-eyed spiky-haired kid of indeterminate age (frankly all Japanese cartoon characters are big-eyed spiky-haired kids of indeterminate age) who, every episode, plays top trumps with someone. Yes, that’s right, the cartoon depicts a game of what is essentially top trumps. Strangely, it’s absorbing watching two exaggerated animated characters playing a game of top trumps, even when you can't understand the dialogue (something which I'm sure doesn't detract from the experience) – sadly it’s top trumps monsters rather than test cricketers or something genuinely interesting, but still. [Good god. I've just googled "Yu-Gi-Oh". It's frigging terrifying. Makes Dungeons and Dragons look like a pleasant hobby for the well-adjusted kid about the school yard]

Going for a Halliburton

I have been discovering more about Gigi Becali, the president of Steaua Bucharest, who I suggested looked like a gangster. Well, his money apparently came legally. In as much as he has basically made it by buying things and selling them to the army, or somehow otherwise getting cash from the Romanian army. So, basically, not a gangster but a legitimate businessman – like a Balkan Dick Cheney.

The first Easter of the year

We’re off on a tour of Saxon Transylvania for the next few days on an Easter break. It’s actually not the national Easter, but what is known here as “Catholic Easter” as the Orthodox church celebrates Easter later, and the country is mostly Orthodox. However the Hungarian community is mostly Catholic or Reform, so Csikszereda is having a long weekend. Perhaps we’ll get another one when Easter II rolls around. Tomorrow, we head to Sibiu for a couple of nights (meeting up with some friends from Budapest). Sibiu is supposed to be gorgeous and I’m really looking forward to seeing it. From there on Saturday we’ll head to Sighisoara via a number of fortified Saxon churches many of which appear to be on the UNESCO world heritage site list. Should be good. Sunday we’re doing some family thing in Targu Mures, and then Monday back here. On Monday there is some curious Transylvanian tradition in which men chuck water on women, and get eggs in return. I’ll investigate and let you know what it’s all about.

Who wrote all the Pis?

Athens was stunning. It was no doubt helped by the a number of external factors not necessarily Athenian in nature (the weather, which was warm and sunny, and to me heralded spring; the fact that it was Orthodox carnival which meant a party time; and the food which due to the climate was fresh and delicious), but all the same it is a great great city. I had heard that Athens was polluted and chaotic, but (perhaps as a result of the Olympics) it wasn’t. It was pleasant and well organised and the public transport was clean and fast. We stayed on the very edge of Plaka, the old town on the hill atop which sits the Acropolis. Parts of the district are as you’d expect – touristy restaurants with menu in English German and French, but other parts, including some which are literally a stone’s throw from the Acropolis itself are quiet and peaceful and village like. To be in the very heart of this huge city, next to its biggest tourist attraction and yet find yourself in quiet narrow alleyways between run-down whitewashed houses with blue shutters is quite amazing.

As I mentioned before it is definitely now in the top 5 cities I’ve been to. I don’t think I’ve yet included a “my favourite X” list on this blog before, but that kind of anal and self-absorbed list making is what made the Internet what it is today (not the bit about it being a place full of pop-up ads and spyware, but the non-corporate bit about it being a haven for the egotistical), and so as a tip of the hat and an exaggerated genuflection towards the origin of blogging, I will present my top 5 cities of the world. I thought about inventing some scientific formula to justify the positions of these cities, based on climate, attractive architecture, friendly people, food, natural beauty, and having a quiet yet beautiful central neighbourhood where you can get away from it all. But I’d be inventing it after the fact, and in reality it’s just a bunch of subjective bollocks anyway. So, without further beating in the environs of the bush, and recognising the fact that by the time you read this it will probably have changed, here goes:

1. Rome – the weather is perfect, the food is fantastic, the people are great. You can walk down a side street and find a small church with a Caravaggio in it. If you stand on that hilltop between the Vatican and Trastevere in the late afternoon the sun hits the rooftops and the buildings in such a way as to gladden the heart of the world’s most miserable bastard.
   
2. Rio de Janeiro – Frankly it’s a rubbish city architecturally. But really, who cares? It’s always warm, they have carnival, and it has to be the most perfectly situated city in the world, the bay, the beaches, the mountains, the sea. What could be better? Plus of course there are the Cariocas themselves, good food, and the relaxed pace of life. And there’s even the barrio of Santa Theresa which can fulfil the cute neighbourhood criteria
   
3. Athens – New entry at number 3. In my mind, it’s constantly 22 degrees, there are very few tourists and everyone’s friendly and hospitable. It just possible that in the depths of August with temperatures hovering around 40 and the city teeming with foreigners I might not like it quite as much. Like the others on the list, though, I suspect it’s big enough to absorb its incomers.
   
4. Istanbul – When I first went it was noisy chaotic and dirty. Now it’s kept the energy but lost the unpleasant aspects. Walking around Sultanahmet in the shadow of the Blue Mosque. Wandering down to the Glden Horn, eating delicious food, having a hamam, drinking endless cups of tea at the behest of storekeepers, even though they know you’re not buying. It’s dead good.
   
5. Jerusalem – It does have its drawbacks of course, such as gangs of tooled up IDF kids wandering around the old city making everyone nervous. But the old city (and to a lesser extent the run down but infinitely hospitable East Jerusalem) are great. Again, filled with tourists it may lose its appeal, but without them it is just great to wander around, getting lost. I’m less enamoured of the Western more modern bit as a city, but the people are friendly there too. Good weather too.

So there we are. The world’s top five cities. Looking at that list I can see a number of common factors. The weather is high among them. A lot of history (all bar Rio), and as I see in fact three of them are actually to some extent parts of the foundation of what I might term “my culture” (London would have made it too, were it not for the weather and the hurriedness of its citizens). Bet you’re glad you read that aren’t you?

One day on our Greek trip we took a catamaran (the Flying Dolphin) to the gorgeous island of Hydra which is about 1 ½ hours away (or 3 if you go by normal ferry). I’d never been to a Greek island before (well, I’d never been to Greece at all), and obviously I’d heard how nice they were and so on, but I thought it was mostly hype. Well, Hydra is not a famous island (it doesn’t have much in the way of beaches as far as I could see), but god it’s gorgeous. Tiny seaside town built up into the hills, crystal clear blue water, little taverna’s tucked away on flower filled side streets. Perfect for strolling around aimlessly wandering up and down the back streets and over the hills. I would have swum, but the water where we could go in was full of sea urchins. I’m told that sea urchins are an indicator of clean unpolluted water, but they’re also an indicator of getting your foot filled with tiny painful spines. So I decided against it.

I suppose I ought to do my “name 5 famous Greeks” bit, since it’s become something of a habit. So here goes. Name 5 famous Greeks. Too easy? OK, name 5 famous modern Greeks. Hah, not so easy now is it?

On that tack, why is it that we really only remember “cultural” ancient Greeks? All the famous Romans are emperors and warriors while all the famous Greeks are philosophers and mathematicians and writers. Even the famous Greek warriors are literary figures (Achilles) rather than actual documented human beings. The more I think about this the more I like them. The ancient Greeks I mean.

The food in Greece is ace. Beats Central/Eastern European cuisine into a cocked hat. It’s the vegetables, the salads, the sunniness of the food that does it. It’s a salad cuisine rather than a soup one. Not that I’ve anything against a good soup from time to time, but you can have too much of a good thing. A fresh tomato, I find, is more versatile than a dumpling. But hey, that’s just me. Managed to buy myself a box of extra virgin Cretan olive oil (or should that be Cretan extra virgin?) Yes, a box. Greece is such an advanced olive oil society that they have it in wine boxes. €12 for three litres. You can't beat those prices.

Greek script is as good as Cyrillic, with the added caveat that at times it can feel that you are marooned in a maths textbook. The word for Spanakoptika (those kind of little greek pasties), I’m sure approximates to zero. It is something like (I’m making it up to be quite honest, before any Greek speakers get onto me) this: ΣπάηάκΩπτικά (that may not come out on your browser, but trust me it’s an equation of some sort).

My answers to the quiz above: Demis Roussos, Nana Mouskouri, Aristotle Onassis, Costa Gavras, Melina Mercouri. I would have had a couple of members of the Euro2004 winning squad, but I didn’t get to watch any of it and they all seemed to have inordinately long and difficult to remember names anyway. Charisteas? Anyway, what this proves (if we can use the verb “prove”) is that if Austria produces Nazis, Greece (since the halcyon days of Plato, Homer, Euclid, Sophocles et al) produces rubbish entertainers. And shipping magnates. Is someone who’s made a fortune on refrigerators a fridge magnate? On that note, I’ll sign off. I’ll put photos in this post when I get round to it, maybe tomorrow.

Some Bogi things

It’s a constant learning experience dealing with a 5 year old. Yesterday I was cleaning the windows in the house and Bogi insisted on helping me. This helping, however, involved squirting inordinate amounts of Windex (the blue stuff you use to clean windows, I know in the US it’s known by that brand name, but probably something different elsewhere) over the glass and smearing it in a way that I didn’t believe possible. In short, any window that she cleaned needed to be cleaned more than all the others. Eventually I discovered that the way to best deal with this was to give her one pane and let her douse it to her heart’s content, while I got on with cleaning the others. Occasionally, she “finished” and wanted to clean something else, and once, infuriatingly* cleaned a pane I had already actually cleaned. Now it may be that there are women reading this – particularly those who may have had the good fortune to have lived with me – who are thinking “Hah! Sounds like he’s getting a taste of his own medicine”. It’s quite possible however that those women never got past the sentence that started “Yesterday I was cleaning the windows…” as they would have assumed the rest of the paragraph to have been a figment of my imagination or something written with extreme poetic licence. To those women I will point out that later, of course, after I had cleaned all the windows and re-cleaned the ones cleaned by Bogi, Erika came along to make them really clean.

We went for a walk yesterday and as we passed a cemetery she asked which kind of grave she’d have when she died. It’s a tough question to answer, not least because I don’t remember ever even thinking about it for myself. In the end she answered her own question and concluded that it would (of course) be in one which was empty.

No, I don't know why the sidebar has gone all the way down the bottom of the page. It must be some function of me putting photos in.

(*She has a cunning way of being infuriating and impossibly cute ate the same time. I have no idea how she carries it off)

A Becs of a Drive

We didn’t leave the house in time for the overnight train to Budapest. This was my first clue as to the nature of the weekend. It was clear to me that we would be driving somewhere – and as Erika had drunk a glass of wine with me I suspected it would be with other people. Plus, I was fairly sure we were leaving Romania (unless the passport thing was a red herring) and we live about as far as it is possible to live from any borders. With this in mind it seemed unlikely that we would be going in Erika’s Daewoo Tico, which is small and uncomfortable.

So it was that I found myself on the pavement outside our house at 8.30 on Thursday night suitcase beside me waiting for the driver to turn up. And turn up they did, Marika and Tibor, friends of ours in their Renault Clio ( a much more comfortable ride than the Tico). Their family name is Kedves, which means “nice” or “kind”, and that just about sums them up. Although Tibor can sometimes become not-so-kedves Tibor when he whips me at table tennis on a regular basis. I had surmised that they may have been involved with this birthday experience when I had been talking to Marika on my actual birthday and she had declined the opportunity to offer me a happy birthday and had said she would do so later with Tibor. Which of course had sent my mental sniffer dogs out after a hint of a suggestion of a scent of my birthday surprise.

So we set off, across the shite roads of Hargita County. Heading west to confirm my susipicions. We crossed the Harghita mountains to Udvarhely, and continued on to Sighisoara. From then we continued westward to Medias and Alba Iulia and thence on towards Arad. We reached the border west of Arad at about 4am, just under 8 hours into the journey, and from there crossed into Hungary. At that point I actually managed to sleep for a little bit and woke up somewhere on a motorway between Szeged and Budapest. But I didn’t think we were going to Budapest as a final destination ( I knew a hotel was involved as my credit card had been used to secure it, and I didn’t think we would say in a hotel in Budapest – we have far too many friends and acquaintances in Budapest for that to be an option, we’d offend far too many people if we did that), and I was proven correct when we started skirting it on the orbital road. From Budapest we headed northwest on the road to the Hungarian town of Gyors, and crucially the two other capital cities of Bratislava and Vienna. One of these two would be our final goal, of that I was sure, and I had a suspicion that it would be Vienna. After all, who goes to Bratislava? I’m sure it’s nice and all, but you know, it’s not famous for much. Whereas Vienna is all that and a bag of chips (whatever that means, I just thought I’d throw that expression in there for no reason other than it sounded like a good occasion).

As we left Budapest, a blizzard spung up, and our pace slowed significantly. As te radio switched to a Gyors based station, we learned that this weekend was the Gyors spring festival, to which we responded with the wry chuckles of the weary travellers. “Hah, spring”, we opined, sarcastically, as the snow whipped across the windscreen, and we neared the border.

The border post between Budapest and Vienna was the scene of the defining moment of the late 20th century. It was here that in 1989, the Hungarian government decided to pull aside their side of the iron curtain, and allow people to cross. Which they did in large numbers very quickly – and not only Hungarians, but Czechoslovakians and Yugoslavians and East Germans and loads of others who packed their stuff into their Trabants and Yugos and Skodas and Ladas and Moskviches and set out for the promised land. Or Austria at least, which apparently was an important way station on the road. Obviously that breach in the dam led quickly to a flood, which then in turn precipitated a series of revolutions all over Europe, and all the monumental changes that followed. To read the recent obituaries, it was all the doing of that senile old bastard Ronald Reagan, rather than the people of Eastern Europe, but that’s historical revisionism for you.

On this day (Friday 4th March, 2005, fact fans), the border was also crowded. The line we were waiting in was jammed solid with non-EU citizens. This confirms my suspicion that the recent enlargement of the EU, was less about expansion and more about creating a buffer zone. If you look at a map you’ll see that the Eastern European additions to the union form an unbroken line from the Adriatic to the Baltic – Slovenia, Hungary, Slovakia, the Czech Republic, Poland. So we were already technically in the EU, but were being held back at this border, as we were from the undesirable end of the continent. It’s successfully created a double border for those outside the EU. If you can get into one of the new states you still have to get across another border into the “old EU”. We waited. And waited. Among the Ukrainians and Moldovans and Romanians and Bulgarians who made up our line of cars. I could have got out and strolled through the EU line, but (a) it would seem rather churlish to do so, having been driven all the way there; (b) what was I going to do on the other side anyway?; and (c) there was a frigging blizzard going on – don’t you remember? It took us more than an hour to get across.

Not long after the border, the final turn off to Bratislava passed and we were clearly destined for Bécs. Bécs is the Hungarian word for Vienna and sounds a little bit like “bitch” (well, not really, it sounds like betch, but that’s not a word, and it amuses me more to say that it sounds like bitch, so bear with me here). So all through the years of the Austro Hungarian empire the people of Budapest were laughing behind their hands and referring to Vienna as their Bécs. (See? That halfarsed joke wouldn’t have worked if it was betch).

Mr and Mrs Hapsburg’s place

We drove into the capital of Austria (name five famous Austrians, my answer to follow), and now that I had been made aware of my surprise I was at liberty to be the navigator through the city to our hotel. This I did with laser like precision, with nary a wrong turn or a missed exit. If the US military wanted a non-computerised system to direct their missiles to kill some unsuspecting Arab family in their dining room, they ought to hire me. Well, they didn’t, as I would instead turn their missiles on them and send them into the White House, but I would do so with precision accuracy.

These days having Christmas lights outside your house is often regarded as a bit naff

And so, just under 16 hours (16 hours!) after we had left Brotherhood Street, Csikszereda, we were parked outside our Viennese hotel. 16 hours is a seriously long drive for a weekend, I think you’ll agree. Not even Californians would do that, I’m thinking.

Mostly Mozart. In no way tacky. No sirree

So, Vienna. Nice town, cold as hell, but nice. A tad obsessed with Mozart, I suspect, but that’s understandable I suppose. It could be worse, and they could be obsessed with some of their other more famous sons (my answer to the question posed above was W.A. Mozart, A. Hitler, K. Waldheim, A. Schwarzenegger, and N. Lauda. When you look at that list packed full of murderous far right loonies (and Niki Lauda) you can understand why Vienna has latched onto Mozart as its favourite son. Though wasn’t he actually from Salzburg?). For the most part this is done with taste and elegance (the Mozart café was particularly nice), but there are occasions when it gets a bit naff.

Rathaus – disappointingly, not a house for rats

There is a musical going on in Vienna called “Falco Meets Amadeus”. I had, I confess, forgotten about Falco and his curious brand of Austrian proto-stadium-rap. I’m not that happy that I have been reminded of it now. On the plus side it dislodged the Ultravox earworm from my brain temporarily, but on the minus side replaced it with “Rock me Amadeus”. I’m quite intrigued about what happens in this musical, and whether the great man himself appears in it (or is he dead? I’m thinking possibly he snuffed it). Do they link his songs in some kind of thematic loop culminating in the man’s big hit? Did he have enough songs to do this with? Other than Rock me Amadeus, I can only remember the even more classic “Der Kommisar”. Presumably in Austria he had a string of high profile hits. Was he the Robbie Williams of Austria? Prolific hit machine in his own country, virtually (and rightfully) ignored outside it?

The KunstHaus

One day we ended up going to the Kunst Haus (I don’t know much about Kunst, but I know what I like), which houses the permanent collection of an old (well, dead, actually) hippy artist called Hunderdtwasser. I’d never heard of him before, but he’s frigging brilliant. He’s my new favourite artist. I love his pictures, his architecture, his philosophies, his all round hippy-ness. Really. Here’s a link to something about him, in case I have sparked your interest. (a link to something about him)

The rest of the weekend was equally fun, though we didn’t go up in the ferris wheel a la The Third Man, or see much Klimt (another of my favourite artists), but as a birthday present it was spectacular. No-one’s ever taken me away for a weekend to Vienna for my birthday before.

A big U

More thoughts on driving in Romania

Romania has an (I presume, unofficial) system of roadside whores. You’ll be driving on a major-ish road at any time of the day and at a petrol station or a lay-by in the middle of nowhere, there’ll be one or two women standing waiting for a ride, so to speak. It’s a bit like the Happy Eater or Little Chef chains in the UK, only for cheap and rough sex rather than cheap and rough food. Unhappy Shagger perhaps. Joking aside, when you’re driving round in the depths of winter and it’s below zero outside, it really brings home to you the misery of this particular occupation. They stand there stamping their feet against the cold, wrapped up to the point of shapelessness (thank god they are not forced to go for the full on beminiskirted outfit), and waiting, presumably, for some fat bastard truck driver to stop for them.

When you cross the border into Romania by car, you see this informative little sign telling the unwary foreign driver of the speed limits that he or she should obey in the country. There’s a picture of a town with the number 50, a picture of a town with a line through it accompanied by a 90, and the universally recognised symbol of the motorway with a 120 next to it. All well and good you might think. Except that this is in fact a cunning ruse to make you think that there are motorways in Romania. There aren’t. Well, there is one. It runs from Bucharest to Pitesti. I have a friend from Pitesti, so I can’t badmouth the place, and besides, I’ve never been there, but it’s not exactly one of Romania’s major cities. It’s neither big nor does it feature prominently in tourist guide books. Having the only motorway run to it is akin to having the only motorway in England run from London to Swindon or something similar.

Because Romania is scheduled to join the EU in 2007, and also lined up to join the 21st Century in about 2012, they have decided to build some motorways. The first of these is due to be built from Bors (on the Hungarian border a fair way north of where we crossed) to Brasov. This will provide much greater and quicker access to all of Transylvania. However, there is one decided oddity about this project. As this road construction is part of Romania becoming part of Europe, the EU will fund 75% of the costs, provided they use a European contractor. But, instead, the government (or the previous government to be exact) signed a deal with Bechtel, an American company. Now, I do have a sense of how Bechtel operate, and reading between the lines it seems they set up shell companies which enable them to participate fully in any backhanders and bribes that may be needed to make things happen. So, my guess (and I stress it is a guess only and not even so much as an allegation) is that Bechtel and members of the previous government have stitched up some deal whereby they all get nice brown envelopes in exchange for the contract. The only victims are the Romanian taxpayers, and any foreign aid that may be used to help finance the deal - possibly from the US government who are closely linked to Bechtel, and who are not averse to channelling US taxpayer money to corporations affiliated with the Texan money mafia, as an alternative to the Swiss bank accounts normally favoured by corrupt fascist dictators (see the great Iraq Money Laundering Scheme, for the best example.) But as I say, before anyone shows up to kneecap me, I am merely speculating what might have happened rather than making any concrete allegations. OK?

And on that conspiracy theory, I will sign off. Those looking for me will find me helping to prop up a motorway bridge outside Cluj.

Greece is the Word

Not really a proper blog post, as I'm in a cafe, and don't have the time, wherewithal, or desire to spend a long time writing. However, I am writing a longer post on my own computer and will hopefully be able to post it before long.

So, I'm in Athens (the one in Greece, not the one where REM come from), and it's brill. It's shot into my top five cities of the world list. It's also carnival in Greece at the moment (being Orthodox, Greece has a different easter from the Catholic/Protestant world, and carnival is moved accordingly), so lots of late night japery is ongoing. Last night we walked back to out hotel from a restaurant at 2.30 and the streets were packed. This may have just been a normal Saturday night thing though. I'll send a full report next week sometime.

Last weekend, the one I didn't know where I was going, was spent in Becs (there's an acute accent on that e but I can't work it out on this keyboard). If you know where Becs is you know where I was, if you don't you'll just have to wait until I send my report (or google it if you're desperate). It was great.

Oh, and you'll need to know that the scum of Steaua beat the mighty heros of Ciskszereda 4-3 in the final game, and hence won the series by the same score. It's an old old story - rich capital city based playthings of alleged dangerous mobster with a compliant media, helpful officiating, and plastic fans beat passionate and deserving team from the provinces.