Tag Archives: Bucharest

Gettin’ Better

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ABSENCE MAKES YOU WONDER: WHAT’S GOING ON?

You know how it feels, right? You’re leaving a place you think you know well; except maybe you don’t, not anymore, because the place and the people have changed, somehow. In my case, it’s the UK.

I’m sitting in a train to Manchester for my flight to Romania, listening to a song called Gettin’ Better, by Mamas & Papas, it’s perfect pop, you’d recognize it.  But Mama Cass is singing about romance in 1960s California, not about the people sitting opposite me in England 2012.

Mama Cass was, however, overweight, so there’s a link to what puzzles me: why are so many Brits obese, these days? That’s not better. it’s a health hazard.

Maybe it’s hormones, or too many calories? Whatever, the average Brit now resembles the average American and I notice it because I’m not here often. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but does presence – in the UK – make you more likely to get heart disease? Not to mention diabetes, gallstones and high blood pressure? In the airport I watch families queue for fries, doughnuts and ice cream.  Wake up, Brits!

I browse the BBC, checking the latest from Syria. But the top story says British women are the fattest in Europe, 24% are obese, and British men second on 22%. One in three British kids are overweight, or obese by age 9.  TV chef Jamie Oliver and footballer Steven Gerrard are urging our government to fight obesity through cookery teaching in schools. We Brits also win at binge drinking, above Finland and Ireland. Rule Britannia, and pass the aspirin.

Soon my plane is soaring over Transylvania and I ogle it like a lover because Romania is my adopted home and one day I’ll have a sheepdog. Bucharest’s Otopeni Airport glitters like some Vegas casino and even the taxi driver takes his time. Of course, there is no seat belt in the back, because the laws of physics do not apply here and his clients would presumably prefer to crash through the windscreen than sit on a buckle. But what’s this? The car in front just INDICATED. Another car SLOWED down.  It happens again, and my eyes pop. What’s going on, here? Has President Basescu put Valium in the drinking water?

But no, wait…I recall a recent chat with a Romanian friend in Azerbaijan. We were both complaining about Baku drivers (who are terrible) and I mentioned Romania being third in Europe for traffic accidents. My Romanian friend argued that the reason for this is not driving, speed or seat belts. “It’s roads,” he said, “Romanians drive well, now.”

If that’s logic I’m Aristotle, maybe but he has a point: driving here has improved and I notice it today, because I have been away for a year. Fewer cars? It doesn’t feel like it. Stricter driving tests? We’ll come back to that later. Or maybe Romanians have simply realized that life is not Formula 1, and death is just a kiss away?

The odd thing is, stats suggest otherwise. Accidents here rose by 20% between 2007-8, with 2000 killed. Between 2008-9, 2800 people died. In 2011, the number was 3,151*. And yet, from what I can see, drivers in Romania are more careful and less aggressive so I’m curious to see stats for 2012. I don’t own a car and I have not driven for seven years, but I hope I’ll be here to read them.

It’s good to be back in Bucharest, catching up with friends, including a bright young lady who works at the Parliament. Maria wears very high heels and very short dresses and reckons there are decent people in politics. She hopes to be a deputy. I tell her many Romanians think politics is all show. Maria disagrees and says: “It’s getting better, there are some good people in every party, and young politicians with smart ideas, there’s hope for us all, we have to try, see ya!”

She wobbles away on her heels and the workmen gawp and drivers beep and if those were votes, Maria would be PM.

My tennis partner Todd the businessman is also an optimist. He says the Romanians are hospitable, not xenophobic. He’s a black Canadian and has no problems here, except for when he wanted EU funds to create jobs in Bucharest. Some VIP asked him for 10% in şpaga (bribe) on a €5m grant. “That’s €500,000!” Todd says, “I told them where to shove it, and dropped my application.”  He flips the ball in the air and hits a serve that almost takes my head off. Game, set & match.

Over cold drinks, I ask Todd about driving in Romania and he rolls his eyes. His Egyptian wife had to pass 9 exams to get her licence, including a psychology test, a gynaecological test, and a blood test for syphilis. “I know Romanians adore their cars,” Todd says, “But do they **** them, too?”

We agree that the problem is probably outmoded bureaucracy, and that those guys who wanted 10% şpaga are dinosaurs and they’ll be gone soon.

Me too, back to Azerbaijan, by the time you read this. Damn! Summer is coming and I’ll miss Romania. But I know what song I will play in my headphones on the way to Otopeni in slow traffic, because…. believe it or not, there’s something groovy and good about whatever we’ve got, and it’s gettin’ better…

* from Eurostat & Radio Romania

First published in Playboy, June 2012, by S.C. MediaFax SA, Romania.

Romanian version:playboy jun

Va fi mai bine

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 Absenţa face ca mintea să fie mai curioasă…

Ştii cum e. Pleci dintr-un loc pe care crezi că îl cunoşti. Dar s-ar putea să te înşeli, pentru ca lucrurile se mai schimbă. În cazul de faţă vorbim despre Marea Britanie.

Mă aflu în trenul către Manchester, de unde voi lua avionul spre România şi ascult ”Gettin’ Better”, hitul celor de la Mamas & Papas, un cântec care se potriveşte perfect cu momentul. Dar Mama Cass cântă despre dragostea din California anilor ’60 şi nu despre oamenii care stau cu mine în compartiment, în Anglia anului 2012. Cântăreata era supraponderală şi de aici şi legătura cu ceea ce mă frământă pe mine: de ce sunt atât de mulţi britanici obezi? Asta nu e bine. E un risc pentru sănătate.

Să fie oare hormonii sau prea multe calorii în burtică? Oricum, majoritatea britanicilor arată în prezent ca majoritatea americanilor şi observ asta pentru că nu mă aflu foarte des aici. Absenţa dintr-un loc face ca dorul să fie mai mare, dar oare prezenţa duce la o probabilitate mai mare de apariţie a bolilor de inimă? Fără a mai vorbi despre diabet, calculi biliari, infarct şi tensiune. În aeroport mă uit cum familii întregi stau la coadă la cartofi prăjiţi, gogoşi şi îngheţată, de porţii mari. Englezi, deşteptarea!

Caut pe site-ul BBC ştiri despre Siria. Dar în topul listei se află ştirea potrivit căreia englezoaicele sunt cele mai grase din Europa, 24% dintre ele fiind obeze, iar englezii ocupă locul doi, cu un procent de 22%. Unul din trei copii englezi pana la varsta de 9 ani e gras sau obez. Steven Gerard si Jamie Oliver au incurajat guvernul nostru sa lupte impotriva obezitatii prin lectii de gatit predate in scoli. Tot britanicii sunt câştigători şi la consumul de alcool, depăşind Finlanda şi Irlanda. Rule Britannia şi daţi-mi o aspirină.

În curând avionul meu zboară peste Transilvania şi mă holbez cu ochi de îndrăgostit, pentru că România este acasă pentru mine şi într-o bună zi voi avea un câine ciobănesc aici. Aeroportul Otopeni straluceşte precum cazinourile din Vegas iar şoferul de taxi nu se grăbeşte. Desigur, bancheta din spate nu e prevăzută cu centuri de siguranţă, pentru că aici nu se aplică legile fizicii, iar voi, românii preferati  mai degrabă să zburati prin parbriz decât să va legati cu o cataramă. Dar ce-i asta? Maşina din faţă semnalizează. O alta INCETINESTE. Se întâmplă din nou şi nu-mi vine sa-mi cred ochilor: o fi pus Băsescu valium în apă?

În acel moment îmi aduc aminte de o discuţie recentă cu un român în Azerbaijan. Ne plângeam atunci de şoferii din Baku (groaznici, dealtfel) şi am menţionat faptul că România ocupă locul trei în Europa în ce priveşte accidentele rutiere. Prietenul meu a susţinut că de vină nu este şofatul, viteza ori centura de siguranţă. “E vorba despre drumuri,” a spus el, “românii au început să conducă bine.”

Dacă vedeţi vreo logică în asta, eu sunt Aristotel, dar avea într-un fel dreptate: şofatul în România a făcut progrese şi am observat asta pentru că am lipsit de aici vreme de un an. Maşini mai puţine? Nu s-ar spune. Mai multă stricteţe în obţinerea permisului? Vom reveni la asta mai târziu. Sau poate că românii au realizat pur şi simplu că viaţa nu este un circuit de Formula 1 şi că moartea pândeşte la tot pasul?

Bizar este faptul că statisticile sugerează cu totul altceva. În perioada 2007-2008, procentul accidentelor rutiere a crescut cu 20%, 2000 de oameni pierzându-şi viaţa. În 2011, numărul lor a crescut la 3151. Şi cu toate astea, din câte văd, şoferii din România sunt mult mai atenţi şi mult mai puţin agresivi, aşa că sunt curios să văd statisticile pe 2012.  Eu nu am maşină şi nu am mai condus de 7 ani, dar sper că mă voi mai afla aici să citesc aceste cifre.

Mă simt bine înapoi în Bucureşti, mă întâlnesc cu prieteni vechi, îmi fac prieteni noi printre care şi o tânără inteligenta care lucrează la Parlament. Maria poartă tocuri înalte, rochii scurte şi consideră că în politică oamenii sunt decenţi. Ea speră să devină deputat într-o bună zi şi crede că cei mai multi jurnalişti sunt subiectivi. Îi spun că mulţi români cred că politica este doar un spectacol, nimic serios. Dar Maria nu e de acord şi spune că lucrurile merg spre bine, în fiecare partid există oameni capabili şi tineri politicieni cu idei bune, aşa că există o speranţă, nu trebuie decât să încercăm, salutare!”

Se îndepărtează clătinându-se pe tocuri, muncitorii de pe stradă se holbează, şoferii claxonează, iar dacă toţi aceştia ar vota, Maria ar ajunge prim ministru.

Partenerul meu de tenis, Todd este om de afaceri şi spune că-i place România. El crede că românii sunt ospitalieri şi nu sunt xenofobi. Este cetăţean canadian de culoare şi nu a avut probleme aici, poate doar atunci când a solicitat fonduri UE pentru a extinde afacerea şi a crea locuri de muncă în Bucureşti. Unii oameni importanţi i-au cerut un procent de 10% şpagă. “Asta înseamnă 500.000 de euro!” spune Todd, “le-am spus să-şi bage banii undeva şi am renunţat.” Apoi aruncă mingea în aer şi serveşte cu putere, gata să-mi reteze capul. Joc, set şi meci.

După meci, la un suc rece, îl întreb pe Todd ce părere are despre şofatul în România.  Se pare că încântătoarea lui soţie, şi ea tot cetăţean străin a trebuit să treacă 9 teste pentru a-şi lua permisul, între care un test psihologic, unul ginecologic şi unul de sânge, pentru sifilis.  “Ştiu că românii îşi adoră maşinile,” spune Todd, “dar fac şi dragoste cu ele?”

Suntem amândoi de acord că problema ţine probabil de birocraţia de modă veche şi că indivizii care au cerut 10% şpagă sunt nişte dinozauri care vor dispărea curând.

Deci, eu voi fi deja în Azerbaijan atunci când voi veţi citi aceste rânduri. La naiba! Vine vara şi îmi va fi dor de România. Dar ştiu ce cântec va rasuna în căştile mele pe drumul către Otopeni, în traficul care se mişcă cu viteza melcului, pentru că…. believe it or not, there’s something groovy and good about whatever we’ve got, and it’s gettin’ better…

* sursă Eurostat & Radio România

First published in PLAYBOY, May 2012, by S.C. MediaFax SA, Romania.

Original page from magazine: playboy jun

Viking on the run

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VENI, VIDI, PERDITUS…

The email is short and smug: Do you want to run the London marathon next year? It comes from a friend who has just finished this year’s race in 4 hours 38 minutes. He raised £5000 for the Red Cross, including a small donation from me. I think about his proposal and then I write back: I’ll think about it.

I hesitate because I ran the London marathon in 2001 and, despite the hype, I found the route disappointing: – dismal suburbs for fifteen miles and no historic sights until the last four miles, by which time I was too knackered to enjoy them. But the real reason is that my last marathon, in 2007, which was my 5th, did not go to plan. It went haywire, frankly, and I’m not sure I’ll do another.  Want to know why? Got your shoes on? Good, let’s go. Back in time.

One cold January day, I’m jogging through thick fog around Faurei, rural Romania, when I meet a shepherd in a big woolly coat who asks if me I have seen any sheep in the fields. Sheep? I can hardly see my feet. I tell him no, sorry.

The well-wrapped shepherd chews his grass, gives me the once over and says: Are you a crazy jogger from the West, training for a marathon?

I shake my head as I run on, but now I’m thinking: Maybe I am, and it’s time for another one, number 6? I glance back at the shepherd, who has disappeared into the mist. Was he sent to prophesy? Or am I going mad, out here…?

Next time I’m online, I check my options and choose the Anglesey marathon, nine months off, in late late-September. Let me tell you about Anglesey, because I know it well from summer holidays as a kid.

Its an island off North Wales with stunning views of mountains, a remote and desolate place. The Romans conquered it, in 78 AD, but the hard-ass Vikings failed, in 900 AD. Local Welsh warriors chased them while Druid priests chanted in victory. This is highly relevant, I feel, because my family has Viking roots, so maybe I should go back and avenge my scaredy-cat ancestors? Conquer Anglesey alone? By Odin, it would be about time.

Come spring, back in Bucharest, I increase my weekly mileage and monitor my heart rate, all that technical stuff, doing well. But something unexpected lies ahead: by mid-July, Bucharest is baking at 46C.  Global warming, maybe? Long runs become tricky unless I start them at 5 am. I run a few 20 milers, but not enough.

Late in August I get another surprise: I have to go to India for a month to work, which compromises a crucial period of my training, especially as I fly back from India to Europe only 24 hours before my marathon. I can hear the Druids chuckling down the centuries: Viking, you stupid or what?

Time to focus. After my 9-hour overnight flight from Delhi, I land in the UK at 7 a.m and take a train from London to my mum’s place in Liverpool, planning to eat lots of carbohydrates and other relevant goodies when I get there – pasta plus broccoli, and some pomegranates. But due to circumstances beyond my control, when I arrive in Liverpool. I have to settle for sandwiches and a cup of tea. And another cup of tea, chatting away with my mum, the way you do, the PG Tips flowing like wine. Time is tight and so is my head.

An old school friend has offered to drive me to Anglesey but we depart into a setting sun that dips over over Penny Lane with a fiery glow, beckoning me forward to North Wales, if I dare.

It’s 9pm by the time we reach Anglesey, where the chef of my pre-booked hotel refuses to cook me a hot meal because it’s too late, mate. I tell him I’m running the marathon, mate. Try the pub, he says, taking off his apron. He’s had a long day, poor fellow. I don’t tell him about my long flight and that I am, well, starving,

The pub has a sign outside that says Warm Welcome Guaranteed and a sour-faced landlady inside who says: come again? But I don’t think I will, somehow, because she will not cook me any pasta either. Why?

Perhaps she can tell I am one of those Vikings, here to rape and pillock. Perhaps my fleecy hat has sprouted horns? Should I axe her politely? There seems little point and so, instead, for my pre-marathon carbo-load dinner, in a chilly corner of the pub, I eat a bag of roast peanuts and a bag of crisps. The locals give me the kind of chilly looks I remember as a kid on my summer hols: you’re not from round here, are you? My friend sips coffee, on edge. I drain my juice and we head back to the hotel. I need sleep. It’s time to get to bed.

Problem is, the hotel is overbooked so my caffeinated driver settles in a chair in my room to watch Hits of The 80′s on MTV. I lie in bed a few feet away listening to Nik Kershaw and wishing I was in Spandau, at least it would be quiet. I drift off eventually, but I swear I can hear the Druids laughing at me: welcome back, boyo.

I rise, zombie-like, at 6 am, tired and hungry. En route to the race, I get a weak coffee and two granola bars from a garage, but I know from five previous marathons that this will not be enough. And I’m right.

The Anglesey Marathon 2007 starts under a brooding sky at 10 am with 500 runners, all looking fit and happy, and me, feeling like shit. I shuffle along half asleep. My first 5 miles feel like 10, but somehow, my feet wake up and I reach the halfway point in 2 hours and now entertain giddy delusions of success: I can finish in under 4 hours, my target? Have I discovered a whole new Hindi-based training system – The Red-Eye Rocket?

No! The Welsh hills wind fight back with windy vengeance. Mile 22, I hit the infamous ‘wall’, and it feels like it is made of Welsh slate. My heart rate is sky-high and I sense that if I don’t slow down, I will perish like my barmy Viking ancestors. So, I take it easy and crawl to the finish line on 4 hrs 34 minutes – aching with disappointment, my training wasted. Ironically enough, by some twist of fate, the beautiful young Welsh woman giving out the medals slips not one, but two of them into my quivering paw. She vanishes and I’m too tired to go after her and give it back. Plus, I feel as if I have run 52 miles, not 26. I’ll give it to my nephew in Liverpool. He likes athletics. It might inspire him.

Anyway, enough mistakes, let’s finish on a wise note. Voltaire once said every misfortune brings a privilege, and he’s right, because I’m privileged to be able to run at all. I also know, more than ever, that no matter how well plan our lives, even 9 months ahead, they can unravel in 24 hours or less. That’s a lesson I won’t forget.

What else? Next time I train for a marathon, it will not be during summertime in a boiling city. And next time I take a long haul flight, I will not run a marathon 24 hours later.

If you’re a runner, you know why you run. If you’re not, give it a try – it might change your life.

As for Anglesey, some people probably enjoyed those steep, howling hills, but, if and when this skinny Viking ever goes back, he will take more supplies and ask Mr. Kirk Douglas to drive him.

***

[First published in FHM, July 2010, by S.C Sanoma Hearst Romania SRL].

Dad, you were wrong.

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The radio newsroom is quiet but busy, reporters hunch at computers. One of them scribbles in her notebook, cradling a phone. Two guys in jeans huddle in low chat. I walk towards the News Editor who sits checking documents and tapping his teeth with a thumbnail. As usual, Marin wears only black. He rises and shakes my hand, all smiles, long time no see.

His window offers a panorama of the city. We stand for a while watching rush hour traffic. The blue sky turns purple. A big road stretches across Bucharest like the Milky Way, an endless stream of twinkling headlights.

We sit and he serves coffee in plastic cups. On his desk I notice an old china mug with a broken handle, embossed with a colour photo: a group of well-dressed young women, packed together, all smiling. Every picture tells a story.

“Nice girls, who are they?” I ask, sipping my ness. Marin offers a cautious grin and says: “My staff. Some left, some are still here.”  He picks up the mug.

“See this girl? She was a reporter who liked celebrities. She took seven friends to a pop concert and tried to blag them in for free on her Press Card. But the Security guy phoned me. I told him no way. She resigned soon afterwards.”

“See the next one, the blonde? Told me she had a friend at a rival station who was well paid for little work and knew VIPs. So, she demanded a pay rise and glamorous stories. I told her not to be silly: her friend was obviously paid for connections whereas she had none. She resigned too. Went to our rivals.”

Marin pauses to take a call then continues his tale, still holding the mug. “This brunette, with the tan and wild hair? She loved environment stories and dreamed of working for an eco-NGO. So, I asked a friend to chat with her.”

I glance at the TV above us. Breaking News: Killer Snails Attack

“Which friend?” I ask, turning back to Marin.

“Someone who worked for an NGO in the Delta. He told my reporter to be wary. Take her time. Find a good one. Many NGOs are just a way to make money. Naturally, she resigned next day to work for an NGO. Guess where?“

He smiles and makes a funny face.

“Six months later, all three reporters phoned me: Can we come back?”

Marin gets up, patting pockets. He needs a cigarette. We move to a balcony, the air is cold. He lights up and we swap career stories: good times and bad times. He saves his best until last.

“In 1993 I was young and idealistic. I joined an NGO, the best I could find: human rights. I had good colleagues, tough assignments and big doubts.”

“About?”

“We were cramming Somali refugees into accommodation for chickens, feeding them peanuts and charging donors like it was a five star hotel.”

He sees my eyes pop.

“At the same time, we monitored other Romanian companies to prove they were exploiting people, abusing rights. We put those documents in a safe.”

“Until the court case?”

“Until the companies paid up. If not, we published.”

Marin sucks his cigarette. I can’t tell whether he’s proud or disgusted.

“Did you complain?” I ask, folding my arms against the chill.

“First, me and some junior colleagues told the Somalis, tough people who had survived weeks in open boats on the ocean. God knows how they ended up in Romania but when they heard about the donor scam, they went nuts. Then they went on hunger strike. Then we called the press. They gobbled it all up,” laughs Marin, blowing smoke.

“I’ll bet. Then what?”

“Then we got sacked and charged with Bringing The Reputation of Romania into Disrepute. That’s fifteen years in jail. But the case collapsed and the NGO closed down. Don’t get me wrong – some NGOs are good. But some are rascals!”

Back in the office, a shy attractive redhead asks Marin to check her script. He reads quickly, scribbles a few changes and hands it back. She frowns, apologizes and waddles away in her Converse, duck yellow. She looks familiar. I look again at Marin’s mug. She’s there, grinning from ear to ear.

“Well-spotted,” says Marin. “She came down from Moldova for a job interview. I liked her CV, her answers and above all, her honesty. I offered her a position. She was in shock, almost fainted, poor girl.”

“How come?”

“Seems her Dad had told her she would have no chance because she was from the sticks, didn’t know anyone and would have to sleep with the boss.”

“Is that true?” I ask, teasing.

“Not here,” says Marin, flashing his wedding ring. “After the interview, she asked me if she could make a quick call. She dialed and said four words: Dad, you were wrong. Then she put the phone down. She’s one of my best reporters.”

“News? Sport? NGO stories?” I ask, but Marin is watching TV.

“Look at this bullshit,” he says.

***

(First published in FHM, March 2009, by S.C Sanoma Hearst Romania SRL)