Tag Archives: Romania

Travel Essentials

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What to pack… and why 

b&w donkey pic for blog 

An old friend stayed with me recently in Azerbaijan. We chatted while he unpacked and I asked about the small tin of anchovies in his bag. “I always carry some!” he replied, smiling. “Essential for spicing-up a meal. You never know?”

Sure enough, next day we added anchovies plus some lemon juice to my sautéed courgettes and garlic: delicious. It was also food for thought. You know how to pack a bag, yes? Me too. But what do other gentlemen take?  I emailed some, for their suggestions. Here’s how they replied.

Edgar, a Romanian in Singapore, says, “I take my Magic Bag of pills, for diarrhea, ‘flu, aches and pains. I guess I’m a hypochondriac. I also pack the Confessions of St. Augustine. 600 pages. I never read it, but I feel smart and closer to God.”

Meanwhile, French diplomat Jerome writes from Africa, “My Romanian wife Dana never travels without ground coffee, coffee beans and instant coffee. She adores coffee. In her special cup!”

Jude from Liverpool suggests, “Two hooks with rubber suckers, a length of line and plastic pegs for drying clothes; neoprene bottle covers for keeping beer cool; a tri-band mobile phone for local SIM; an international driving license.”

Vlad of Bucharest suggests, ”Three silk shirts – smaller than a tennis ball when packed, they wash and dry in minutes with the hotel hairdryer, sexy too! A warm sleeping bag; a liquid gas Zippo to occupy and irritate personnel at airports, because security measures are absurd, inefficient and often abusively applied.”

Doug, an American in Ukraine recommends, “A headlamp for power cuts or walking at night. I’ll often take my hiking poles. I used them in Sibiu. And a compass for new cities.”

Rupert in Bucharest advises, “A good jacket in case the heating fails. And a pocket knife.”

British globetrotter Kevin says, “I used to carry a Swiss Army knife in case I want to slaughter the cabin crew and take the pilots hostage. However, last time I forgot to put it in my checked luggage and the guards confiscated it. Luckily I was in Switzerland and was able to buy a new one in Duty Free before boarding! I’m vegetarian so I pack nuts, soya beans and seeds. Indian Army boil-in-the-bag meals are good. I drop the sachets into my travel kettle and eat in my room. I hate sitting alone in restaurants or bars!”

Paul of Tel Aviv recalls, “Twenty years ago, I got a nasty infection in my eye. I have packed special eye drops ever since.”

Marketing guru Eddie from Yorkshire says, “I always take Pass the Pigs, it’s a great little game. Plus lots of business cards, diarrhea pills, spare underwear in hand luggage and a sewing kit.”

Tony in Adelaide recommends, “Small screw-top bottles for your favourite shampoo or shower gel, and keep your suit in the wrapping from the dry cleaners. It will fold without creasing.”

Brussels-based international business coach Peter recommends, “Hand wash in a small bottle; very hygienic and helps in conversation, ‘Hey, you want some liquid soap?’ Also, I travel with some empty plastic bags, for wrapping whatever necessary – worn socks or a new souvenir.”

Ascanio of Rome always carries a gift from his Kazakh wife.  “A glass hedgehog in a leather box (my nickname is Yozhik, hedgehog). Two tote bags for compulsive shopping; power adapters for 6 continents; 1 terabyte parallel hard disk with my laptop backed up; Ekhart Tolle’s ‘A New World’ or ‘The Power of Now’, to read if I get stressed. A mini USB loudspeaker because music is the answer.”

Dominic in Devon suggests, “A mosquito net for the tropics, some cigarettes (not to smoke but to grease the wheels of bureaucracy), and a smart phone with a solar charger.”

Several respondents insist on hand luggage only, like Henry, a London journalist who suggests, “Take half the luggage and double the money. When you arrive, buy what you forgot.” For example, the Confessions of St.Augustine?

First prize for travel essentials goes to my architect friend Dirk in London. He’s a severe haemophiliac and for a 2-week holiday abroad, he takes 21 vials of powdered Factor VIII, 21 syringes of sterile water, sterile adaptors for 7 intravenous injections, butterfly needles, alcohol swabs, a tourniquet and cotton wool. He’s also HIV+ and has to swallow 3 pills per day, for that. His 2-week mobile medical kit is worth over $40,000. No wonder we Brits are so proud of our National Health Service. Then again, the NHS owes Dirk, since it gave him HIV through infected blood products during the political regime of The Iron Lady, so-called, when profit counted more than people.

As for my essentials, I prefer to travel close to nature with a strong-minded companion. So, based on years of experience and many happy miles, I recommend a donkey, a carrot and a stick.

Bon voyage. Or, as they say in Romania, drum bun!

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[First published in Playboy, April 2013, by Mediafax Group, Romania]

The Road to Rio

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Most of us nurture a goal – maybe to own a luxury car, attain enlightenment or find true love?

25-year old ALEX DIACONU is a pro triathlete and his goal is to compete for Romania in the Olympic Games in 2016. He took time off to tell Playboy Romania what it takes to reach the top.

Alex, what is your typical day in November?
I focus on volume. I wake up at 06:00 and at 07:00, I go to the swimming pool. I swim 4,000-5,000 meters (about 2 hours) then rest. I sleep for an hour, maybe ninety minutes. Around 13:00, I cycle 80-90km (3 hours), after which I run 15-20km, to simulate the race-day transition from cycling to running. My spring and summer program is similar but I vary the distances and intensity. I try to sleep about 10 hours. I am usually in bed by 21.30-22:00, all year round.

Don’t you you get bored staring at the tiles on the floor of the swimming pool?
No. I do this sport because I love it, not because I have to. I don’t get bored. Triathlon is liberty and diversity combined.

You hope to qualify for the Olympics. How many rivals do you have?
Romania has 55 Olympic  places but more than 625 contenders. The qualification process begins in 2014, I’ll start accumulating points then. My objectives for season 2013 are, to finish in the top 5 at the Half-Ironman in Israel (January), and top 10 at Abu Dhabi Triathlon (March).

It seems triathlon in Romania needs more investment. How should it be spent?
Many triathletes do other jobs to survive. More investment could help us and our coaches to focus on the sport.  Most days, after my own training, I work as a swimming coach. It’s difficult, doing both. All I need, to represent Romania at the Olympics as a triathlete, is better funding. Most pro athletes in other countries spend around € 40,000 per year on coaching, kit and competitions. If anyone reading this could help me, as a sponsor, I’ll be one step closer to Rio!

How ‘fraternal’ is the triathlon family – big buddies until the race?
Exactly. We train together, eat together, stay at each others homes sometimes. But we are fierce rivals and all expect to finish first. After a race, no matter who won, we all hug like children.

I first came to Romania in 1994 and when I was out jogging, I felt like a circus freak; some drivers would swerve at me for fun. But many people jog in Romania these days how come?
In recent years, sport began to grow in our country. People want to look good, be healthy, so they began to train.

At the Hungary Ironman in 2009 you competed well but spent the night on a glucose drip?
Yes, because I had given my last ounce to reach my goal: to finish in under 10 hours. I lost about 8kg in weight during the race and had problems at the end. When I was on that stretcher attached to that drip, I felt odd – both terrible pain but satisfaction that my efforts had been rewarded. I had reached my goal.

Why do you suffer mental blackouts, during some races?
Because I push myself to extremes. The lack of oxygen produces gaps in my memory.

Timex or Casio? Garmin or Suunto?
Can I pass on this one?! I prefer not to advertise anyone that does not sponsor me! So far, I have 8 sponsors who support me financially or in kind (kit etc)

What was the last book you read?
‘I’m here to win’, by Chris McCormack. He inspired me a lot.

Romania’s most experienced triathlete Russian Marius has been your mentor since your teens. Will you coach triathletes, one day?
Sure, when I retire I would be delighted to be able to do for others what Marius did for me.

Most people with the goal find it hard to ‘turn off’. How do you unwind?
A goal is a dream with a plan! As long as you really want something, you’ll do anything to achieve it. The key is not to get downhearted with hardships along the way, and try to remember: every effort will be rewarded…

[First published in Playboy, Dec 2012 by MediaFax Group, Romania]

Un ţel este un vis planificat!

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Alex photo

Alex Diaconu şi drumul său lung către Rio

Majoritatea dintre noi îşi hrănesc un vis – poate acela de a conduce o maşină de lux, de a ajunge la iluminarea spirituală sau de a găsi dragostea adevărată. Alex Diaconu, un tânăr în vârstă de 25 de ani, este un atlet profesionist de triatlon, iar visul său este acela de a ajunge la Rio în 2016.  El şi-a găsit timp pentru a ne povesti de ce este nevoie pentru a ajunge în vârf.

Alex, cum arată o zi obişnuită din viaţa ta în luna noiembrie? În luna noiembrie mă axez pe volum. Dimineaţa, mă trezesc la ora 6, iar la 7 intru în bazin, unde înot 4000-5000 de metri (aproximativ 2 ore), după care obişnuiesc să dorm cam o or, o oră şi jumătate. De la ora 13 pedalez 80-90 km (3ore), iar imediat după plec la alergare, 15-20 km (simulez tranziţia din concurs de la ciclism la alergare). În general, dorm cam 10 ore pe zi; seara, la 9,30-10 sunt înapoi în pat. Vara respect acelaşi program, dar reduc distanţele, respectiv volumul, şi cresc intensităţile la care fac antrenamentele. .

 Te plictiseşti vreodată să vezi mozaicul de pe fundul piscinei? Practic acest sport pentru că-mi place, nu pentru că sunt obligat, drept pentru care îmi e destul de greu să mă plictisesc. Triatlonul înseamnă libertare de mişcare şi diversitate în antrenamente. Iar antrenamentele nu se repetă, aşa că nu devin plictisitoare.

Speranţa ta este să te califici la Jocurile Olimpice. Câţi rivali ai? În total sunt 55 de locuri la Olimpiadă şi peste 625 de pretendenţi. Acumularea punctelor necesare pentru calificare începe în anul 2014. Obiectivele mele pentru sezonul 2013 sunt acelea de a termina între primii 5 la Half-Ironman Israel (în luna ianuarie) şi în top 10 la Triatlonul de la Abu Dhabi (martie).

Triatlonul are nevoie de fonduri financiare în România. Cum ar trebui banii aceştia cheltuiţi? Pentru început lipseşte motivarea sportivilor, care sunt nevoiţi să lucreze, pentru a supravieţui, în timp ce practică sportul de performanţă. Dacă ar exista finanţele necesare, acestea ar trebui să asigure sportivilor posibilitatea de a se concentra pe sportul pe care îl practică, antrenori care să-şi facă treaba aşa cum se cuvine, şi tot din aceşti bani are trebui să se asigure şi deplasările sportivilor la competiţii. În majoritatea timpului, după antrenamentul meu, lucrez şi ca instructor de înot. E greu să le fac pe amândouă. Tot ce am nevoie pentru a duce România la Jocurile Olimpice la triatlon se referă la mai multe fonduri. Majoritatea atleţilor profesionişti cheltuiesc în jurul a 40.000 de euro pe an pentru antrenamente, echipamente şi competiţiile în sine. Dacă cineva care citeşte aceste rânduri mă poate ajuta, ca sponsor, sunt cu un pas mai aproape de Rio de Janeiro.

Cât de mare e fraternizarea în familia atleţilor de triatlon – prieteni la cataramă până la cursă? Exact. Deşi ne antrenăm împreună, dormim uneori unii la ceilalţi şi povestim toată ziua, la linia de start suntem cei mai mari rivali, iar la linia de sosire ne aşteptăm reciproc şi ne îmbrăţişăm ca nişte copii.

În anul 1994, dacă făceai jogging în România, se uita lumea la tine ca la urs; unii şoferi îi şicanau pe alergători doar ca să se distreze. Dar acum multă lume aleargă. Cum explici schimbarea asta?    În ultimii ani, sportul a început să ia amploare la noi în ţară. Mai apoi, fiecare dintre noi îşi doreşte să aibă un corp frumos, drept pentru care oamenii au început să facă mişcare.

Ungaria, 2009, Ironman – ai făcut o figură frumoasă, dar ţi-ai petrecut apoi noaptea pe perfuzii cu glucoză…?

Faptul că am dat şi ultimul gram de forţă pentru a-mi atinge ţelul, acela de a coborî sub 10 ore la un ironman, m-a costat mult. Am slăbit aproximativ 8 kg în cele 10 ore, şi de aici au apărut problemele. În timp ce stăteam pe targă, cu perfuzii în braţ, nu realizam mare lucru. Era un sentiment ciudat, care îmbina o durere cruntă şi mulţumirea că munca şi efortul depus au fost răsplătite prin atingerea obiectivului.

De ce, în timpul anumitor curse, suferi pierderi de memorie?

Motivul principal este acela că mi-am dus organismul la extrem în timp ce concuram, iar lacunele în memorie au apărut din cauza lipsei de oxigen pentru o perioadă îndelungată.

Timex sau Casio? Garmin sau Suunto?

Pot spune pas la întrebarea asta? Asta pentru că nu vreau să fac reclamă nimănui, atât timp cât nu mă sponsorizează! Până acum am 8 sponsori care mă susţin, unii cu bani, alţii cu produse.

Care a fost ultima carte pe care ai citit-o?

I’m here to win (Sunt aici să câştig), de Chris McCormack; o carte excepţională, care m-a inspirat mult.

Sistemul respirator este important pentru succesul tau. Eviti locurile unde se fumeaza?

Categoric! Intotdeauna.

Cel mai experimentat atlet de triatlon din România, Marius Rus, ţi-a fost mentor încă din adolescenţă. Vei antrena şi tu, la rândul tău, triatlonişti într-o zi? 

După ce mă voi retrage din activitatea competiţională, mi-ar face mare plăcere să pot face pentru alţii ceea ce a făcut Marius pentru mine.

Majoritatea oamenilor care au un vis găsesc că e greu să renunţe la el. În cazul tău, cum stau lucrurile?

Un ţel este un vis planificat! Atât timp cât îţi doreşti cu adevărat ceva, vei face orice pentru a-ţi atinge ţelul. Important este să nu te laşi niciodată doborât de greutăţile care apar pe drum şi să fii conştient că orice efort va fi răsplătit.

un tel este un vis

for blog

(First published in Playboy, November 2012, by MediaFax Group, Romania).

No smoke without panic?

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It’s late summer and I have a question.  Suppose we go on holiday, to a hotel.  We enter our room and drop our luggage, at last. What next? Check the mattress, mini-bar, TV remote? No, no and no.

According to an interesting document I received recently from New York, sent by my Romanian sister-in-law, the first thing we should do is turn around, leave the room and find the fire exit, because this might be our last chance.

OK, so now you’re thinking, “No way, Jose, I’m tired from travelling. I want to lie on the bed and watch TV.” OK, I hear you. Lie down. But read this, before you press the remote.

My sister-in-law works with firemen in Brooklyn. They assess the safety of buildings, including hotels, in terms of fire. They make recommendations to the managers, and advise them how to stick to the rules and stay safe. They have seen a lot of fires, and deaths from fires, many of them in hotels, and here’s why.

First, it seems most people who died in fires were unprepared, presumably because they thought it would never happen. But what if it does, in our hotel?

It seems we cannot rely on hotel staff. History proves some of them don’t even bother to call the fire brigade, until it’s too late.

Now a third point: despite what we see in movies, fire victims don’t usually get roasted like meat and die in flames. Most fatalities are caused by superheated gases (that means smoke) and by panic (that means us).  Those things can cause death, long before the flames reach our floor.

So, how do we avoid smoke and panic? Let’s start with smoke.

Smoke accumulates first near the ceiling, where we may not notice it, and despite the proverb, smoke does not always mean fire, at least not on our floor, because smoke can get transferred through the AC from below. If we see smoke, we should get out, but it stings our eyes, and very soon, they will close, and no matter how we try, we cannot open them. So, that’s one problem. Another problem is that thick smoke obscures the exit signs, in the corridor. Solution? We get on our hands and knees, where the air is fresher. Sounds easy, but here’s what happens if we are unprepared.

A fireman in the Brooklyn report says: “One hotel guest woke up at 02:30. He went into the hall. It was full of heavy smoke and he had no idea where to run. His chest hurt and his eyes stung. He got disorientated. He panicked. We found him dead at 02:50. What caused the smoke? A small fire in a room nearby, for spare mattresses.”

The fellow who died was near the fire exit; all he had to do was walk on his hands and knees, and count four doors. So, let’s make a habit of checking where the fire door is located: to the left or right? How many paces? Any turns, on the way? Could we find it with our eyes closed, people screaming and panicking all around us?

Next, let’s think about panic. It’s a natural but deadly response to a crisis, and once it starts, it seems to grow and can make us act irrationally. We panic and we die. However, if we understand what’s happening, what to do and where to go, we can avoid panic.

Suppose we smell smoke, in the corridor? We roll off the bed, stay low to the floor. We touch our door with the back of our hand, before we open it. If it’s not too hot, we leave, take our key and close the door (open doors help fires to spread). We do not go to the elevator. We go to the fire stairwell and walk down, using the handrail, to prevent people bumping us. If there is smoke coming up the stairwell, we do not try to descend through it. We turn around, grip the rail and walk to the roof, even if people are running down. We go to the roof and leave the top door open, so smoke can escape. This is the only time we should leave a fire door open. On the roof, we wait for the firemen.

But what if we can’t leave our room? If our phone works, we call someone and say we’re stuck. We open the window, if we can, to let out any smoke. We don’t wave and scream. We fight the fire: we fill the bath, wet some sheets and towels and put them around the door to stop smoke. We throw water at the door and the walls. If there is fire around the window we pull down the curtains and throw water around the edge. We don’t panic. We wait for help to arrive. We stay cool. Maybe we watch TV. Maybe we survive.

***

[First published in Playboy, Romania, September 2012. Republished with permission of Mediafax Group.]

Fum fără panică?

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Stânga sau dreapta? Câţi paşi?

O găsim, cu ochii închişi?

To read more, please click > Fum fără panică?

[First published in Playboy, Romania, Sept 2012. Republished here by permission of MediaFax Group.]

În căutarea timpului pierdut

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NU TE PUI CU GUSTUL OMULUI

„Cartofi româneşti!”

„Cartofi?”, întreabă Nigel, în timp ce îmi ţine microfonul sub bărbie. Dau din cap şi spun: „Şi roşii cu brânză. Da, cartofi româneşti, roşii şi brânză, cele mai bune din lume. Vorbesc serios, dacă mă întrebi despre impresiile din primele zile, trebuie să includem şi mâncarea, te rog. Pentru că îmi evocă amintiri puternice şi emoţii.˝”

„Marcel Proust, probabil, ar fi de acord cu tine”, spune Nigel, şi are dreptate.

Prietenul meu, Nigel, are un proiect interesant – acela de a intervieva străini care vin în ţară, întrebându-i de ce au rămas aici şi cum văd ei lucrurile. Până acum a vorbit cu 35 de persoane, timp de o oră cu fiecare, şi speră să poată să le dea răspunsurile la radio, pe Internet şi să le pună şi într-o carte. Nigel este inspirat de Studs Terkel, istoric şi om de radio, care a intervievat peste 7.000 de americani, între 1930 şi 1940, pentru a alcătui o colecţie remarcabilă de istorie orală, păstrată pentru totdeauna în Biblioteca Congresului. Nu cred că Nigel are atât de mulţi oameni în plan, dar rezultatele vor fi, cu siguranţă, interesante. La terminarea interviului, îşi strânge echipamentul său scump şi îmi promite că vom ţine legătura atunci când va edita şi transcrie conversaţia noastră. Până atunci însă: „La revedere!”

În acea seară, fierb nişte cartofi, îi las să se răcească şi îi mănânc apoi cu brânză şi roşii, ulei de măsline şi ierburi, stând în balconul meu de unde se vede tot Bucureştiul. Este o masă perfectă pentru vara anului 2012, dar în mintea mea este toamna lui 1994 şi mă aflu aici pentru prima dată. Nigel a avut dreptate în legătură cu Proust: anumite mâncăruri au un efect miraculos.

Aţi auzit cu siguranţă despre Marcel Proust, dar, în tot cazul, vă voi explica legătura. În faimosul său roman În căutarea timpului pierdut, apărut în anul 1913, naratorul mănâncă o brioşă înmuiată în ceai, gustul acesteia făcându-l să-şi amintească de copilăria petrecută într-un sătuc francez, şi aşa se desfăşoară romanul care se întinde pe 7 volume. Proust numeşte acest sentiment „amintire involuntară” – opus amintirii voluntare, atunci când în mod conştient încercăm să ne aducem aminte de trecut – iar ideea sa a ajutat la popularizarea dezvoltării psihologiei moderne. În prezent, acceptăm bucuroşi faptul că gusturile sau mirosurile, sau o combinaţie a acestora, ne pot declanşa cele mai profunde amintiri, aşa cum s-a întâmplat în cazul lui Marcel.

La câteva seri după vizita lui Nigel, mă aflu la cumpărături în Cora şi iau nişte Cheerios, pentru că îmi place numele lor scris cu litere strălucitoare, şi chiar am uitat când am mâncat ultima oară aşa ceva. Întors acasă, după-amiaza, pun peste ei nişte lapte rece, bag o lingură plină în gură şi…wow, ce se întâmplă?

Nu mă mai aflu în Bucureşti. Sunt în Toronto, am 9 ani şi locuiesc împreună cu unchiul meu englez şi cu mătuşa canadiană. Aceştia ne-au invitat, pe mine şi pe fratele meu, să stăm două săptămâni la ei, mama noastră fiind internată în spital, în Liverpool, iar tata lucrând de noapte într-o fabrică. Canada este incredibilă, maşina unchiului nostru este mare, la fel ca şi frigiderul său, plin la orice oră cu suc de mere în ambalaje la fel de mari. Chestia aia maro, delicioasă, este unt de arahide, iar mătuşa mea stă în grădină şi comandă mâncare la telefon, adusă de un tip cu scuterul, în cutie, şi care se numeşte pizza. La micul dejun mâncăm Cheerios cu lapte. Cât aş fi vrut să fii şi tu aici, mami.

Probabil că această excursie în Canada m-a făcut să vreau să călătoresc, imediat după terminarea şcolii. Pe vremea aceea eram îndrăgostit de Franţa, iar în prezent, de fiecare dată când mănânc muştar de Dijon, am din nou 18 ani, stau în faţa unei cafenele din Lyon şi fac autostopul. Muştarul franţuzesc este mai puţin condimentat şi mai gustos decât cel englezesc, care îmi aduce aminte de carnea de vită friptă pe grătar şi de slujbele de duminică în care eram ministrant în biserică, îmbrăcat aidoma unui pom de Crăciun.

Desertul meu favorit în restaurantele indiene este Gulab Jamun, o prăjitură mică, rotundă, cu sirop de zahăr, după care, de fiecare dată când o mănânc, mă văd stând într-o cafenea în Lucknow, în pauza de prânz – de care beneficiez lucrând la o universitate din acel oraş, unde mă ocup de pregătirea tinerilor jurnalişti. Rajiv, prietenul meu indian, îmi arată peste drum o statuie veche, înfăţişând un bărbat îmbrăcat într-o haină lungă şi ţinând în mână o carte. Auzim râsete şi aplauze, întrucât un cuplu de tineri proaspăt căsătoriţi fac poze în apropiere. „Ca să le poarte noroc”, spune Rajiv. „Noi o numim Statuia lunii de miere. Uneori, atunci când îl omagiem pe Hanuman, zeul nostru hindus, o numim statuia Hanuman.”

Întreb plin de uimire: „Dar cine e tipul în haină şi cu o carte în mână?”

„Samuel Hahnemann, părintele homeopatiei. Neamţ, cred.”

După câteva clipe, spun plin de mândrie: „Mi-e cunoscut numele. Hahnemann a inventat homeopatia într-o pivniţă din Sibiu. În prezent, acolo se află un muzeu, Bruckenthal.”

„Sibiu, unde e asta?”, întreabă Rajiv.

„În România, ţara mea adoptivă.” Mă uit la cuplul de tineri şi mă întreb dacă ei au auzit despre Hahnemann. Acum este rândul lui Rajiv să-şi manifeste uimirea:

„Oh. Am crezut că locuieşti în Anglia. Şi, îţi place în România?”

E o întrebare bună, şi cu siguranţă îi voi pomeni despre cartofi. Poftă bună!

***

Please rate my story – see yellow stars, top left? Multumesc!

(First published in Playboy, July&Aug 2012 edition, by S.C. Mediafax Group SA, Romania)

In search of lost Cheerios

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THERE’S NO ACCOUNTING FOR TASTE…

“Romanian potatoes.”

“Potatoes?” Nigel says, holding the microphone under my chin.

“Yes, and tomatoes. And brinza, the crumbly white cheese, best in the world. I’m serious, Nigel, if you’re asking me about my first impressions, from the early days, I want to include the food. It evokes powerful memories, emotions.“

“Marcel Proust would probably agree,” says Nigel. I’m glad to hear it. We’ll get to Marcel later.

My friend Nigel is working in an interesting project, interviewing non-Romanians about why they came to Romania, why they stayed here, and how they see it.  He has recorded 35 people so far, one hour each, and hopes to put the answers on radio, on the Internet and in a book. Nigel is inspired by Studs Terkel, an historian and broadcaster, who interviewed over 7000 Americans in the 1930s and ‘40s, to create a remarkable collection of oral history, preserved forever in the Library of Congress.

I don’t think Nigel plans to do so many, but the results are sure to be interesting.

When the interview is finished, he packs away his expensive recording gear and promises to get in touch, when he’s edited and transcribed our chat.  Bye for now.

That evening, I boil some potatoes, let them cool and eat them with brinza and tomatoes, olive oil and herbs, on my balcony looking out over Bucharest. It’s a perfect meal for summer 2012, but in my mind, it’s autumn 1994 and I’m here for the first time. Nigel was right about Proust: certain foods have a magical effect.

You’ve surely heard of Marcel Proust, but just in case, I’ll explain the connection.

In his most famous novel, In Search of Lost Time, published in 1913, the narrator eats a madeleine cake dipped in tea, the taste of which triggers an intense flashback to his childhood in a French village, and the seven-volume novel unfolds. Proust called this feeling  ‘involuntary memory’ – as opposed to voluntary memory when we consciously try to recall the past – and his idea helped to popularize the development of modern psychology. Today, we readily accept that tastes or smells or a combination of both can trigger our deepest memories, as they did for Marcel.

But back to the present.

A few days after Nigel’s visit, I’m shopping in Cora and buy some Cheerios, because I like the bright logo and I can’t remember the last time I ate them. Back home, mid-afternoon, I rip open the packet because I love cereal, anytime. It’s fast and tasty, just add cold milk and eat a spoonful and hey…. wow, what’s happening…?

Suddenly, I’m no longer sitting in Bucharest. I’m in Toronto, I’m aged 9 or 10, staying with my British uncle and Canadian aunt. They’ve invited my elder brother Eddie and I to visit for two weeks, because mum is in hospital back in Liverpool and dad work nights in a factory, sleeps all day and would find it difficult looking after us as well. So, we came to Canada.

It’s an incredible place. Uncle’s car is big; his fridge is big and we can drink cold apple juice from that big carton inside. The yummy brown stuff is peanut butter and my aunt sits in the garden, orders food by phone and some guy brings it in a box, by motorbike. Imagine that? It’s called pizza. And for breakfast, we have Cheerios with milk. Dead tasty. I send a postcard from Niagara Falls, to Mum and Dad and finish with the words: Wish you were here.

It was perhaps that trip to Canada that made me want to see the world, to travel far and wide as soon as I left high school. Back then, I was in love with France, and, these days, whenever I taste Dijon mustard, I’m 18 years old again, standing outside a café in Lyon, trying to hitch a ride south. French mustard is milder and tastier than English mustard, which, of course, reminds me of roast beef and serving Sunday mass every week as an altar boy, dressed like a Christmas tree.

My favourite dessert in an Indian restaurant is Gulab Jamun. As you may know, it’s a small, round cake in sugary syrup. I find the taste triggers such vivid memories that, whenever I eat Gulab Jamun, I am transported back in time. I am sitting in a café in Lucknow, on lunch break from my job at a local university, working with student journalists.

I picture my friend Rajiv sitting alongside, pointing across a busy road to an old statue of some guy in a long coat clutching a book. We can hear laughter and applause because a young bride and groom are having their photo taken, nearby.

“For good luck,” says Rajiv. “We call it the Honeymoon Statue. Or sometimes, when we celebrate our Hindu god Hanuman, we call it the Hanuman statue.”

Now I’m lost, and ask, “So who’s the statue of? Who’s the guy in the coat with the book?”

“Samuel Hahnemann,” says Rajiv. “The father of homeopathy. German, I think.”

The name rings a bell, and, after a moment I say, proudly, “Hey, I’ve heard of him. He invented homeopathy in a basement in Sibiu. It’s a museum now, the Brukenthal.”

Now Rajiv seems lost. “Sibiu, where’s that?”

“In Romania, my adopted home.”

I watch the young couple and wonder if they know about clever Hahnemann. Rajiv still looks puzzled and says, “Romania? Oh, how interesting. I thought you lived in England. So how do you like Romania?”

It’s a good question, and I will definitely mention the potatoes.

***

Dear Reader, please rate my story, see yellow stars, above, top left? Thank you! MO

(First published in Playboy, July&August edition, 2012 by S.C. Mediafax Group SA, Romania).

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

Atenţie! Urgentă medicală

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 E numai Eurovision, dar îmi place…

(Please click the link below… mulţumesc for reading : )

playboy mai 2012 eurovision

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

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)

Someone Else

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The young Romanian barmen are quick and polite. They’re also sharp-witted and funny and they know their football. Every week, we trade jokes and hope for goals. I enjoy coming to this Bucharest bar, a short walk from my home, to watch Premier League.

But then Andy turns up. He’s Scottish, 45, with beard and beer belly. He works in construction and arrived in Romania a few months ago. He can’t decide whether to stay. He loves to talk but tells me the same thing, every time.

“There is so much potential here, but I’m fed up with rip offs! Should I set up a business, or leave? I just can’t decide.”

Andy scratches his beard and lights a cigarette and tells me a long story about a company that owes him €10,000. I’ve heard it before and I wish he’d change the subject. So I ask him if he thinks that England will win the World Cup. He orders his third draught beer and stares into the foaming head.

“Drives me mad, this place: scams at the airport, scams at the exchange house, and scams on contracts. Jesus, I’m trying to help, I want to create jobs!”

I feel sorry for the guy but I’m trying to watch the match. At the end, when I pay my bar bill, I notice that Andy doesn‘t pay his, even though he’s had several draught beers. He winks and tells me has a tab running, and they trust him. “By the way, did I tell you about the taxi scam?” Yes Andy. Goodnight Andy.

A few days later I return to the bar to watch a big European game. There’s a terrible storm over Bucharest. The TV picture is jammed. The barmen apologize. I tell them it’s not their fault, that’s life. Andy waddles in and spots me at the bar. I try to look pleased. He orders draught beer and groans.

“Did you watch that Romanian match the other night? Saw it in my hotel in Bacau. What a fix! Someone bribed the ref. This country is a such a scam.”

“Not like our British Parliament, eh?” I reply, and we try to laugh as the screen freezes again. Later on, Andy beckons the bar manager. They’re big buddies. I can tell from the guy’s grin and his eagerness to serve.

“How much is my tab?” asks Andy.

“About 60 or 70 lei?” says the manager, with a shrug.

“Call it 50,” says Andy and passes a folded fifty over the bar.

The bar manager puts the cash straight in his pocket. Something does not add up, and it’s not just the maths. Andy seems to read my thoughts and gives me a wink. “If they bring me a proper bill it goes through the system. This way, it doesn’t. Cheap beer for me, big tip for him! Win-win!”

“So that’s why you drink only draught, not bottles?” I ask.

“Correct, have you seen how these guys pull a pint? They have no idea, lots of waste. He writes mine off as spillage. Same with shots, who’s counting?” Andy smiles. Life is good. “First time I did it, I forgot my wallet. It was an accident.”

“A convenient one,” I suggest. Andy grins and moments pass. Then he whispers to me like a naughty uncle admitting sins. “That’s how it works, everywhere you go. But, hey, I did not invent the system!”

Two minutes ago it was an accident. Now it’s a system

“Besides, that poor that barman only earns €200 a month,” says Andy.

“So give him a nice tip on top of your bill,” I suggest. But Andy looks at me as if I’m nuts. He lights a cigarette, sucking deep and blowing a smoke ring.

“I’m just trying to do the guy a favour. Did I tell you about my contract? I can’t decide whether I should stay or leave. Someone ripped me off, €10,000. ”

“I know, you told me three times.”

“The problem is corruption, scams, it’s a game. But who makes the rules?”

It’s a good question. Someone should ask it in the British Parliament.

“I think you should stay, Andy.”

“Really?”

“Yes, because I’m sure you’ll figure out the rules one day. Win-win?”

Andy looks half happy and half puzzled. But I’m more concerned about the TV picture, which has popped yet again because of the storm lashing down outside. Rain hisses past the window like huge silver curtains, opening and closing. Andy summons a junior barman and barks at him.

“What the fuck, you call this a bar? You charge me the earth for a damn beer and I can’t even watch my fucking team? I want a refund!”

I tell Andy to leave the kid alone, but he won’t. Perhaps he’s taking the mickey, it’s hard to tell. But the junior barman looks like he’s seen a ghost. He presses buttons on the remote and pokes the satellite receiver.

“Sorry Domnul, it’s the storm, it’s the service provider, it’s not my fault…”

Andy groans and rolls his eyes. “No, of course not. It’s someone else.”

***

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

Yer Blues

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If you love Blues, this is the place for you. Below, we play trombone to some of the greats.

1. Blimin’ Horlix

Blimin’ Horlix was born in a moccasin but moved away as a teenager, when his father threatened to turn his guitar the right way up. Blimin’ is well known for his blistering fretwork on Puppet On A String by Petula Clarkson-Missiisspiiisi, and other tremendous hits. After trying to inject plutonium into his fingers, sadly he died on New Year’s Eve in 1959, just before the 60′s, which he probably would have invented.

2. Grub E. Tapwater


The legendary Tapwater only ever recorded half a song, in 1893. If you ever hear it, I’ll have to find someone else even more obscure. The song has only two chords, E and A. It was called: I Woke Up This Morning When My Alarm Clock Went Off and it is visceral in its powerpoint presentation. He sold the other half of the song to the Devil, who was at the bus stop. Grub sadly died in 1894 after a poisonous chat with Robert Johnson who refused to teach him the chord B7. Don’t tell me you’ve heard of Grub E. Tapwater, because I bet you haven’t.

3. Jim Morose One

Jim Morose One was born in Leathertrousers, USA and never wore a shirt. As a young child he had a mystical mystery with a dead Apache, and decided to sing like one.  He was the illegitimate 7th son of Che Hemingway and Lola Shotgun, and wrote the famous song Light My Willy.  His girlfriend Tonto found him dead in the bath in Doncaster and he was later buried in Paris at the famous Repair les Chairs cemetery, under Arthur Rimrod.

4. Plob Towncar

Plob Towncar is the most talented musician, writer and spokesman for an entire generation gap who never lived. Just ask him. Plob was a founder member of legendary Bwitish Mod band The Who Signed These, along with Roger D-d-d-diatribe and swivel-eyed drummer Meek Venus. There was a bass-player too, Patrick Thistle.

Plob was best-known for driving his Union Jock Mini Cooper into the audience at full volume. Plob is very modest, well-spoken and not at all pissed off with life in general, or even the gargantuan success of contemporaries like The Rolled Oats, The Bootle and Lug Zippo. As a guitar player , these days he prefers a Fender Stratocaster, because it is a lot cheaper than a Les Paulocoster. Plob lives in a windmill and enjoys the Internet.

4. Jude Lemon

Jude Lemon was born in Hartlepool and was tortured to death by his father at the age of 5 but he got better. Jude invented the banjo and Elvis Presley. His group The Bootle changed the world, which used to be square, but from 1963 it became a sphere. Jude married Paula McCuteknee in 1969 and some people never forgave him. He is not dead.

5. Vay Grunt

For Vay Grunt, blues is a way of life. Here he is suffering on account of his art and the bottle of tuica he had for breakfast. His debut CD, released soon, is entitled Umbla caiinii cu covrigi in coada (The Dogs Go Round With Doughnuts On Their Tails). Please do not pretend you have heard of Vay, or that you saw his legendary gig on a park bench in Cluj.

MORE BLUES GREATS AS SOON AS WE KNOW MORE THAN YOU