Sunburn, Snow, The Mountains and Death

It is with a half smile and heavy heart that I write now, some 3 months since my last post. I have sailed through my 'honeymoon' period of the first 2 months where everything was a different shade of brilliant, every corner held a surprise and each new sunrise brought with it a hungover thirst for more excess.

I have also successfully weaved my way through months 3 and 4, filled with late summer evenings, a slight whiff of homesickness and a mild nagging voice telling me that this magnificent new city is not without its problems.

I now find myself sat on the edge of a cliff staring into the abyss and wishing for time to slow down or even reverse so that I could take a breather, assess, and plan my next move carefully.

I realise a few over-used metaphors slipped into that last paragraph which I humbly apologise for but describing life here in Bucharest without using cliches is like making and omelette without... you get my point.

Summer was warm, hot even. I'll go as far as using the word 'roasting'. My fair, anglo-saxon skin, spittooned with freckles is more at ease with the Scandinavian climate than the Eastern European grilling it has received. I'm now the proud owner of 4 shirts that have an impenetrably dried, crusty residue under the armpits as a result of the particular glue formed by my deodorant and my constant sweating. Maybe the worst part of this little ditty is that I'm sporting one of these tops right now and as I flap my arms, funky chicken style, the calloused material simply rubs into my skin, I become warm, sweat a bit, and this sweat then adheres itself to the malignant lump that is my 'formerly' favourite shirt and the problem increases. I, of course, should just throw the offending garments away, but they each hold fond memories for me and i'm not ready to say goodbye to them yet (more of that later).

Summer was also a time of merrymaking, as it is for most. Parties were attended, food and alcohol consumed in abundance and conversation participated in through to the early hours. All in all good times (when I managed not to be sunburnt.)

Then it finished. It took roughly 10 hours for the heat to subside and Winter to begin. No time for Autumn here, which is a shame because I rather liked the smell of Autumn, all smoke and leather and Horlicks. There's snow 80km north of Bucharest, traffic was brought to a standstill, which I can't quite fathom because at the best of times traffic is at a standstill, and the air-con controllers were rapidly left down the sides of the sofa in exchange for the heating system manual and Google Translate so that one, not blessed with a Technical Engineering degree from the University of Bucharest, might know how to turn the fucker on.

I'm getting a little ahead of myself in the general timeline, I missed out the rare excursion Eli and I took outside of Bucharest. We trod for the first time on Transylvanian soil. We successfully drove over the lower Carpathian mountain range to arrive in Brasov. A delightful Medievil town sat in a 3/4 bowl shadowed by snow capped peaks and lush green, bear infested forest. Maybe the only drawback of this breathtaking expedition was our failure to actually see much of Brasov outside of the main square and the interior of a mediocre touristy restaurant.

And so to Death. Having covered the other topics layed out in the heading I may as well end on this bitter note, it's the most recent event, having happened only last week, and one that I shall remember with mixed emotions for a while yet. Little 'George Michael', or simply 'Blacky' as he was known when all persons of colour were well out of earshot, was sent to an eternal slumber last Thursday morning. He's always had a ravenous hunger but bizarrely was loosing weight. This was coupled with his inability to control his bladder. Ahhh, with a soft smile do I recall my early morning plods to the toliet that quickly evolved into splishes and splashes of randomly deposited pools of piss. A trip to the vet, several hours of IV fluid replacement and a blood test told us that he was not a well kitty. He was transferred to the Veterinary clinic at the University of Bucharest where they continued to prod and poke for a further 5 days. Diabetes was the cause of his symptons we were told but regular insulin injections were not doing the trick. Long story short he was not going to get better. I spoke with Eli later that evening and we led each other to the same, responsible and caring solution, we would have to say goodbye to the little wretch. There was only one problem with this plan...I wasn't ready to say goodbye. Me and 'Blacks', we were a team, a crime fighting duo, me at the wheel, him riding shotgun, we racked up the miles weaving through the downtown metropolis making vet appointments. We'd shared the highs and the lows, the good and the bad, but we were a team. You can't just break up a team can you? Can you?

I remember bringing him home Wednesday lunchtime, his last lunch. I remember giving him his dinner, his last dinner. And I remember crying. I don't think I actually adopted the fetal position but you get the picture...Raw burning emotion unlike anything I could remember past the age of 6 or 7 poured out of me. I woke on Thursday to a stunning blue sky, Eli left for work, not without a tear in her eye I might add, and I was left alone with the cats, but especially with 'Blacky'. We had a chat, me and him. I didn't hold back, I told him how it was and how it was going to be. I stepped into the shower and let the water hide even more tears as I trained my mind into understanding that he was a sick animal that was deteriorating quicky. I was playing the role of the good guy, putting his friend out of his misery, sending him on to a better place....I just about believed myself. . . just.

What happened next comes to me in fragments, like a badly edited made for TV movie. I think my body has blocked the actual memories as a way of pretecting itself from more self-inflicted harm. I remember taking him from the flat, then we're driving, then I'm walking with him into the clinic. My 'I'm-the-good-guy' mantra starts to crackle and de-tune itself as the Vet thanks me for my actions and assures me that there isn't anything else that I could have done. I mumble a few parting words to my 'besty' as he sits in front of me, he responds by leaning in for a final snotty rub of his nose on my cheek. That's the last memory I have. I sort of remember standing up to leave and picking up the cat box only to realise that it was lighter than I remember, I tried to focus on my mantra, my defense against unwanted and untimely outbursts of emotion but at the very moment I needed it most it wasn't to be found.

I began the drive home, empty cat box on the back seat. The radio was on...and I was singing. I don't sing very much, i'm not very good at it, but I was singing. By the time I arrived at the flat I was actually happy. I may have even whistled.

OK, that's me done, demons have been faced and overcome. It's pissing with rain outside and I'm cooking Roast Leg of Lamb with roasted carrots, parsnips and potatoes tonight. I've got 2 pathetic cloves of garlic and no rosemary or thyme so I'm off to Billa, a most excellent supermarket.

Ooh, Just remembered I didn't get a chance to explain how little 'Blacky' helped me give up alcohol, but it's not a very exciting story so maybe that's for the best.

I didn't sign up for this.

At approximately 03:00 this morning the first born ginger kitten left us to return to ginger cat heaven. Eli had nursed him the afternoon before when it was apparent that he lacked the grit and determination of the other three when it came to finding his mum's milk.

I only know it was 3am because that's when Eli presented me with a lifeless ginger body she'd lovingly removed from the cosy environment of the 'kitten corner'. I'd never had a cat die on me before, but in the early hours of this morning, faced with a kitty corpse, I remained calm, if not a little distant from the minor tragedy.

In my heart I knew that this was how nature had intended it to be. Natural selection dictates that the strong survive and the weak perish. I think I'm glad that 'little ginge' passed as soon as he did with limited knowledge or understanding of his environment. It was quick, it was merciful.

As for Adriana, the mum, I'd be lying if I said I couldn't see remorse in her eyes, a sad sense of loss for what might have been, but equally I may have misinterpreted her feline expression. Mother Nature knows best, invariably mums know best, and so with this calming mantra looping continually in my head I think it's best to brush aside the loss and continue on with minimal fuss.

This sad, touching episode has not yet come to an end, rather it has left me with a small problem. I have in my freezer a very dead 'little ginge'.

Making a decision on what to do with a corpse at 3am this morning resulted in using the freezer as a holding bay, a decision I do not regret, but one that merely sprouts newer decisions to be made.

I instantly opted for cremation but am now backtracking on that idea. Burial seems the right thing to do, but we live in a penthouse apartment with no access to terra firma.

We will need to contact a vet to get mum and kittens checked over very soon and so there is always the option for them to dispose of the body.

If I put it out for the rubbish collectors, I need to be assurred that I won't be racked with guilt afterwards. This option seems, at first, to be the quickest and easiest but I have a nagging doubt that it is not the right thing to do.

So there you have it, not the most uplifting, comic, care-free of posts but merely my musings on what's been a troublesome 24 hrs. I even forgot to mention the tremendous electrical storm that circled overhead last night. The upside to that was that I now know our winter terrace roof that runs 3/4 of the way round the outside of the apartment is not watertight.

I certainly did not sign up for this.

Are the cats happy?

Once the decision had been made to relocate to Bucharest for 2 years the subject of the cats happiness became paramount. How would they travel? How much distress would the move cause them? Would they be happy in their new surroundings?

Maybe I should point out for those not already in-the-know, We currently have 5 cats; Salvatore (The Gladiator), Mischa (The Matriarch aka She Who Must ALWAYS Be Obeyed), Bobby (The Ginger Ninja aka Ginger Nuts aka The Nuts), Carmela (Caramela aka Purramela aka The Purrmeistress) and lastly, the above pictured Adriana (Ponky Face aka The Punk).

As anyone who has ever lived in proximity to a cat will surely know, they are a law unto themselves, they make the rules, we must follow. The journey from the UK was of course a source of displeasure for them all, but one they faced bravely and with minimal fuss. For Eli and me, however, the worry almost finished us off.

I won't use this space to relive the trauma of waiting over 3 hours in a Bucharest downpour outside a seemingly abandoned cargo shed for our five priceless boxes to be unloaded from the main terminal. I also don't intend to waste words describing the heart-achingly epic taxi drive from said cargo building to new downtown residence with the full cat chorus screaming insults at their owners from the back parcel shelf. All I will say on the matter is that I don't wish to ever repeat it.

I am fully aware that we must leave Bucharest in approximately 720 days time and it is with that knowledge that I intend to devise an exit strategy that will cause less stress and worry. I'm thinking some form of feline opiate and a slow boat up the Danube, over night train or car to Paris and a speedy shuttle under the channel back home. No doubt Her Majesty's Custom and Excise will have something to say about this, as would the RSPCA and numerous other agencies but they can all answer to Mischa.

And so we arrived, all of us. Eli and I spent the first week realising what we should have carried with us and what should have been sent by removal company (note to self: Always bring a corkscrew with you..always). The cats set about exploring the huge expanse of tiled floor and resisting the urge to pee in each and every corner with varied success.

Our first shopping trips invariably led us to the Pet aisle in each new Supermarket. The job of finding a brand of meaty goodness all the cats will eat is an ongoing project, made easier by the fact that cat food is relatively cheap here, cheaper than the UK anyway. The shock came when we hunted for their favourite cat litter brand, it's pricey, very pricey. Needless to say we found a brand of litter they can tolerate and we can afford.

I think I've just about reached my quota for cat talk for this post, I could go on and if not kept in check would happily, but I fear I'm becoming boring. I want this blog to be about all aspects of strangeness I find on my travels and not just the furry shit machines. One last thing for those interested, The Punk is up-the-duff, if you'll excuse the phrase, her stomach now hangs so low that her little legs visually wobble under the strain of carrying it around. I will of course post pics once the little ones arrive.

My other favourite subject is food. I want to embrace Romanian cuisine, I want to bury my nose in it and inhale. I want to submerge myself completely in their food culture, I want to....... So you get the idea, I DID want to do all these things before I had a chance to actually taste the stuff for myself....It's mediocre at best. I'm basing this statement unfairly on the small percentage of Bucharest eateries I've visited so far and hope to have my mind changed soon.

The food is not bad, it's just not jump-for-joy, hand-clapping, pant-wettingly exciting. Romanians, it seems to me, have a love affair with everything Italian (they describe themselves as cousins, or brothers or something similar...you get the idea).

Before travelling I was curious to know why there is not one restaurant with a Michelin star here, (the closest star is a restaurant in Hungary I think) well I think I know why. The delight Romanians take from their food is that it comes from the earth, has been prepared naturally and will not run out before their stomachs are full. The idea of a Michelin sized plate of food here is laughable as are the diverse ingredients.

A typical meal is made up from a bowl of Chorba, which is a hearty meat soup, followed by grilled meat, usually Pork, occasionally Beef or Chicken and and at Easter, if you're lucky enough to find it, Lamb.

Vegetables do not play a particularly important role at meal time and the idea of someone being vegetarian in Romania is almost unheard of. They eat a lot of Polenta, Potatoes and Bread as well as Pasta, but that's the Italian influence.

Bucharest is full of Italian Restaurants each offering the same dishes with little variation. On the whole I've stayed away from them but meals with Eli's colleagues invariably are based at Il Trattoria or Il Fattoria or Il Calcio. It's easy to forget where your eating, they could all be supplied by one large central kitchen.

My initial culinary highlight so far is also my guiltiest pleasure. The Shaorma is their version of what we know as a kebab and it is lush. In my first week I think I averaged one a day. I'm now down to two a week but it's very difficult to walk past a Shaorma stall in the street and not be led by your nose to the back of the cue.

I'm going to stop now before this becomes painful to read. I'm aware that I've skimmed over a few topics and made some initial claims about food that I hope to be proved wrong about. The fact is that I've not really spent enough time here to say for certain what's good or bad.

I've lots more stories to tell, none of them as boring as this first bit, which I'll get to in due course.

I'm off to feed cats, empty litter trays, and buy wood and charcoal for the BBQ...get in!