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.