București cosmopoliți

I have never lived anywhere that could be described as cosmopolitan.

I grew up in a village in Norfolk where I think racial diversity meant coming from Norwich. The only non-whites for miles around were airmen from the nearby US Air Force Bases, leading me to the conclusion that black people came from America (a conviction I held until I was at least 10, I'm sure).

At university I was determined to head for the big city; big it might be, but Sheffield is definitely not glamorous. It's been glammed up a fair bit in recent years, and there are probably parts of it that I'd no longer recognize, yet the oppressive post-war concrete structures and the permanent drizzle from September to late May always dampened the esthetic of what was otherwise a fantastic place to be a student.

My studies took me across the channel to France, at last a bit of the exotic! I was sure I was on to a winner by stating I wanted to be placed in a city for my year as a teaching assistant. The excitement continued as I was told I was going to be in the Burgundy region. Wine, mustard, snails and Boeuf Bourgignon, Dukes and history and second homes, this was it. At the welcome meeting we were told how lucky were to be posted to the most affluent region in France…except if we were in the region's second largest town, Chalon-sûr-Sâone, in which case the situation was different. My school turned out to be on the outskirts of said town, between a sink estate and a factory, where I lived in what looked like a nuclear fall-out shelter in the middle of the school field.

After uni I tried again, this time sure I could get that position on Aix-en-Provence. Fate saw differently and I packed my bags for Valenciennes in Northern France, chav-central and a building site. I had by now resigned myself to living slightly askew of the cutting edge.

So, whilst some may have been apprehensive about moving to Romania, having never really lived the high-life myself, I told myself "How hard can it be?"

This answer was, harder than I thought!

Despite certain first impressions, I do love all the places I have lived and will defend them vehemently against snobs and ignoramuses who try to do them down, and I have no doubt I will feel the same about living in Buzău. This doesn't stop me feeling that I am missing out on some fun somewhere along the way.

Last week, I went to my first ever expats meeting in Bucharest. I was a bit nervous about what I would find but all of the women I spoke to were absolutely lovely and it really was a pleasant way to spend a morning. However, I came away with a rather bizarre feeling, knowing that all these women could continue going to their bridge clubs, book groups and coffee meetings (not to mention Monthly Luncheons and aqua gym sessions) whilst I would be two hours away, on my Todd. I didn't necessarily want to take part in all their meetings (I came to Romania in order to find out about Romanian lifestyles, after all) but I envied the escapism it offered them and the company of other expats (of whom there surely are in the town, I just haven't found them yet).

I did enjoy my trip to the big smoke; taking the train, then a cab, speaking English, having a coffee and a chat but it didn't feel very real. I'm obviously not cut out for these bourgeois affairs.

So until further notice I shall be here, running from the dogs, escaping to the swimming pool and dreaming of the day I can understand what all the people around me are talking about.

in the third week of February, I was mostly...

loving my SwiMP3.It allows you to listen to music whilst swimming. The sound is transmitted through bone conduction so you actually wear the headphones over your cheekbones. It was one of the more inspired presents from the Malteaser. I've even found myself singing along underwater and stepping up the pace when a dance track comes on. I love it!http://www.finisinc.com/products-swimp3v2.shtml

Money matters

Credit crunch, economic slump, company lay-offs, falling house prices, pouvoir d'achat, and banks going bust mean that this is not a good time for anyone financially.

Money-wise it was a (personally speaking) disastrous time to move to Romania. The country's entry into the European Union and the steady increase in foreign investment had created a wave of euphoria throughout the land which saw flats in major towns changing hands for higher prices than in Paris or Vienna. Even here in Buzău, flats in run down concrete blocks with dodgy lifts and even dodgier décor were being sold for in excess of 130 000€. I myself feel this figure is insane because the amenities available are nowhere near the standard of a provincial town in France (where you could expect to pay the same price) and you'd still have to contend with other inconveniences such as stray dogs and dirt roads. Luckily the situation is calming a little, but rent remains high – up to 1000€ a month here whilst in Bucharest it is double or triple that.

Quite how Romanian people can afford such prices is beyond me. Renault workers in Piteşti went on strike last year to obtain the princely sum of 300€/month. You'd need three salaries just to cover the rent! Even professional salaries seem incompatible with the cost of living, with an accountant earning around 14 000€ annually. The taxation system also means that lower earners are even worse off. Everybody pays a whopping 16% income tax! If you're a factory worker, that's 48€ of your 300€ gone before you've got it home. (Some of the other problems, like people holding down multiple jobs and widespread corruption seem to be easier to comprehend in this light).

The attitude of Romanians towards Westerners is rather a strange one; it is assumed that you have money to burn. This does not necessarily mean you will be taken advantage of, although I was ripped off by a taxi driver yesterday, but you will undoubtedly differ in opinion as to how money should be spent. I was recently ambushed by an insurance saleswoman who tried to sign me up for some life insurance. In Britain or France they wouldn't have looked twice at a 26 year old in jeans and trainers but here I was being given the hard sell. Having explained the formalities, we discussed how much I'd hypothetically like to pay each month. The default amount was already on the screen but "100 €, is too little" she told me, "for you, 150€ is no problem". Err??? My earnings have taken a nosedive recently (I'm paid by the hour for English training, which is not a priority for companies trying to keep their overheads down) but even before moving to Romania this would have been about 10% of my take home pay. Even in spite of the communication barrier, I felt quite speechless. That's an enormous amount to just "find" from somewhere and in the current economic climate I would not be able to do it. How much did she think I made?

What people spend their money on is vastly different though. Numero uno has to be a flash car, preferably a 4x4. This would come way ahead of fixing up the house or taking a foreign holiday. Many Westerners would spend money on the garden but nobody even has a garden here. Restaurants are often empty, there's no cinema, not many bars and cafés and I haven't been tempted by one single garment since I arrived (except on a trip to Bucharest). When they do go out at night, they're not drinking because they have to drive their flash car home. It seems that the trappings of a Western life come at the expense of a Westerner's lifestyle.

The reason that I have been giving values in €uros is not just because it's now my default value for calculations, it's also the Romanian one too. The currency is used for property, cars (even second-hand) and contracts for services, and everyone can convert values into Euros easily (as I write this the exchange rate is about 4.3 RON, Romanian New Lei, to the €uro). People are very optimistic about entering the €uro zone, which they expect to do in 2014 (I think it will take longer).

However, whilst high end goods and services are calculated in €uro (but often paid for in RON), cheaper items are calculated in the local currency. At the market, a kilo of spuds costs 1 RON (around 20p or 0.23€), meaning that change for anything less than one RON becomes fiddly. At the supermarket the price is often rounded up or down, at least to the nearest tenth of a RON or 10 bani. I'm still coming to grips with the fact that coins are more or less worthless here, and that it is important to always have a good stock of 1RON notes because nobody ever has any change.

The most perturbing thing of all is that the RON is a relatively new currency. It came into circulation in January 2005 and replaced the "old" lei (singular leu, meaning Lion) with 1 RON being equivalent to 10000 ROL. This aimed to bring purchasing power in line with that of Western European states. A nice idea, but as people effectively chose to adopt the €uro as a reference point at this time it would appear a little redundant. Also, most people still refer to the old values, meaning that you may be told that your cheese at the market costs 50 000. Even more confusing is the negation of the thousand when speaking, (so that the cheese would now be priced at 50) which always has me asking the seller the price about seven times, before trying to pay ten quid for a block of bland cheese.

At least they are more adaptable than the French. The Malteaser still converts EVERYTHING from €uros to Francs, as do most French people (they've only had 10 years to get used to it, after all!). My elderly relatives in Ireland converted to the Euro remarkably easily, and after 6 months, prices were no longer displayed in the two currencies. Needless to say that this is not the case in France; indeed if you go out into the country you'll find that the people in villages still talk about anciens francs, the value before the devaluation in 1969! I think this says a lot about people's will to change things. Although they're quick to defend the €uro in the face of les Anglais (Mutter, mutter, mutter, we are les britanniques and if I hear one more time about the "English" Prime Minister Gordon Brown I'll scream).

I think I'll just let someone else worry about the money for now. I quite like the idea of being a kept woman.

Ziua Îndrăgostiților

I'm not usually a fan of this overly commercialised excuse for an "occasion". That being said, this year has been a good one so I'm feeling slightly more ingratiated to it!

Firstly, for the first time ever, (this being our fourth 14th February ensemble) the Malteaser and acknowledged the day's existence and tried to be nice to each other. I baked him a chocolate cake and he took me out for a drink at "Café Romantic" last night. We must be getting soft in our old age!

Having gone a bit overboard on the eve (cake and beer being our absolute limit in terms of romanticism), today we had nothing special planned. We giggle to ourselves in French about the teenage couples in the park with their little red "te iubesc mult" bags or their bunches of flowers. We openly mocked the enormous cushions being sold in Carrefour.

Little did we know we were about to get our come-uppance!

Whilst in one of the aisles looking for dusters (yeah I know, romantic!) there's a load tannoy announcement. I realise that the reason it is so loud is because the guy with the microphone is right next to us. Before we have time to react, we've been cornered and the Malteaser is well and truly put on the spot as the whole supermarket is waiting for his answer. Having not understood the question, he does the only thing he can, and replies "Je suis français", accompanied by the customary Gallic shrug. A lesser microphone-brandishing PR pundit would have been dissuaded, but this bloke was keen.

Pushy supermarket announcer: "You speak English?"

Malteaser: "A little"

Pushy supermarket announcer: "Do you want to tell her how much you love her this day?

Malteaser (now a perfect shade of beetroot): "So much!"

Pushy supermarket announcer: "Aaah! Ok, now we take the photo and here are your presents"

Who knew that all I had to do was to resort to public humiliation to get an (begrudging) declaration of love from him?! I'm not sure where the photos are going to end up but the Malteaser and I are not the most photogenic couple in the world so they may already have been destroyed. These are our presents though!

When we got back to our street, out landlord and his friends were standing outside talking. We stayed talking to them for a while, as they explained the various "career choices" of some people in the street. "His future is in jail!" we were told as a group of guys from further up the street strolled past, curiously brandishing dead fir trees which they deposited on a neighbour's roof. We didn't understand absolutely everything!

Afterwards we were invited in for some fantastic home cooked Romanian food. Sarmale cu mămăligă washed down with țuică and wine. Delicios!

Going for the snip

Although the Malteaser may frustrate me sometimes I don't actually want to go as far as to emasculate him. This title refers to nothing more sinister than the hair on my head.

I've not always had good experiences with hairdressers. In particular, my irregular visit chez le coiffeur en France nearly always resulted in an irregular haircut. Other anglos suffered similar problems, with one friend coming out with what could only be described as a loaf of bread on her head. After four years in France I had finally found a good stylist. And then I left the country. Two months on, I fear that my locks are now in dire need of a trim.

The Malteaser succumbed to his shagginess (still talking about the hair!) a few weeks ago. In the week before I was supposed to be on a reckie for a suitable place. The place I found was full on Saturday morning so we went cruising the mean streets in search of a Frizerie. Having been turned away from two places we eventually happened upon a third which would later become known as "the most Communist hairdressers in the city". Inside, four women in white tabards worked at their own stations. Each station had its own sink, although curiously, none of the patrons had their hair washed. Instead, upon taking their seat, the patrons had their heads past over with a wad of gauze (the same gauze that had been used for any prior customers) moistened with the stagnant water sitting in the sink. The women then took their scissors in hand and made ferocious movements with them, making it look like the scissors had a life of their own. Any hair cutting was merely a by product of the hand being taken closer to the head. Still, the Malteaser came away sufficiently defuzzed and was spared the alcohol treatment (this is apparently where spirit alcohol is wiped over your neck to calm the redness after a close shave). The whole process was surprisingly easy – no appointments, no complicated explanations and no extortionate bill at the end. I think the Malteaser paid five lei (about £1) for the pleasure

When I was in France I thought I could explain most things in everyday life but at the hairdressers I came unstuck. My requests for a fringe generally met with a prolonged attack on my hairline by a barber's razor which inevitably left me with several weeks of tufty mini- antlers protruding from my forehead. I tried in vain to explain that I needed to cover up my cowlick at the front leaving flummoxed coiffeuses asking "Mais qu'est-ce que c'est une lèche de vache?"

I wasn't even safe with just a trim. I once asked a French hairdresser to cut my fringe (which had been cut in previously by a nice hairdresser back home). The one good thing to be said was that nightmarish process was over in less than a minute. She lifted my fringe up so that it was at 180° with my forehead and then took two huge stabs at it with the scissors. This effectively left two fringes, a shorter one overlying the longer. She then sprayed on a vat of Elnette so that the top fringe stuck up in the air and the bottom to my face. The money was whisked out of my hand and I was out again on the pavement before I knew what had hit me. I ran home to wash my hair and I cut my fringe with nail scissors until I next went back to the UK.

I studied French for 10years and still couldn't get my point across about how I wanted my tresses styled. What hope do I have in Romania? Please take part in the vote to help me decide what to do!

In the first week of February 2009, I was mostly...

skint. Roll on Payday!

Liquid brown stuff

This is what our water looked like on Saturday morning!

Not the best start to the weekend, I think you'll admit as it also cast doubt on the day's proceedings. Is it safe to shower? Wash vegetables? Brush our teeth? Drink tea?

As is the usual way of things, the Malteaser (I have yet to find a suitable pseudonym for my LTLP but this one is growing on me) erred on the side of caution, although he did have a shower and wash his hair. He tutted irritatingly as I foolishly boiled the kettle (the operative word being boiled. What's the problem?), and later absent-mindedly rinsed my toothbrush under the tap (it's fine, I have an iron stomach). To cap it all (in his eyes) I then headed to the swimming pool. He went to the park for a nap.

Out of the house, disagreements about water cleanliness subsided and we enjoyed the unseasonably warm weather. We sat together in the park, in bright sunshine and I marvelled at the fact I was in just a tee-shirt in February. The Malteaser and all the Romanians in the park were in hats scarves and duffle coats. Bunch of bloody pansies, these Latin types!

We had lunch out with another Malteaser (bet you're really confused now) and then took him to see some of the sights. Luckily the man outside the restaurant washed the car for us as it was filthy, but it was not much better having been driven through far-flung villagers (i.e. quagmires) and down various "interesting"-looking tracks, (again, quagmires). Undoubtedly, the highlight of any foray into the hills around Buzău is a visit to Volcanii Noroisii. Even if they do smell vaguely like a mechanic's fart (the area is still drilled for crude oil, and the bubbling effect is thought to be due to natural gases), the pleasing "plop" noise they make, as well as the fun that can be had sliding around on the mud flows makes this a fun excursion.

Unfortunately, when we got back home and I was brushing my teeth with cleaner water I noticed my smile was not as pearly white as I would like. I hope this is a temporary effect of water/mud contact and not the sign of a more serious problem!

Vreau să fiu vedetă

This weekly televisual highlight may just be a poor copy of the X factor, with (frankly) rather boring judges, but it certainly has me spellbound!

Vreau să fiu vedetă works on the premise that children are always good for being exploited, especially if their parents are particularly pushy. Although some are undoubtedly talented, many are just over rehearsed puppets. This video being a good example (although he is very cute!)

The show is not without charm – the kids dancing along next to the stage are quite adorable, especially wwhen they dress up! But otherwise the programme just seems wrong, and on so many levels.

For starters, you can't have failed to have noticed the presenters. The one with the facial hair just seems creepy to me. He gets far too close to the kids, and basically just reminds me of the kind of man your mum told you never to take sweets from.

Far more worrying, I think, is the lap dancer female presenter who is dancing with the kids. This video sees her very tamely dressed. The first time I saw this show, just before Christmas she was trussed up like a turkey, being as she seemed just to be wearing just a small piece of Bacofoil. "Anyone for breast? There's plenty to go around." (Incidentally, the Frog's first words upon seeing the lovely Miss Ionescu were "Quelle Horeur!" so it's not just me being jealous.)

I'm not saying she shouldn't show off her cleavage/legs (if I looked like that I imagine I'd want to dress like her too) but when presenting a programme aimed at, and depicting, children, I am a firm believer in less is more!

(*although it would appear that Roxana is already an adept of this expression from a quick search on YouTube; please only watch this if you are not easily offended .I don't think you'll find any clips like this of Blue Peter presenters*)

Asides from the fact that the show is presented by a pedophile and a porn star, that it lasts a interminably long time, and the judges only give benign praise, the other big problem with the show is its treatment of the guests. The kids are usually accompanied by their parents in the studio who are interviewed on a sofa by old double-D Dora (needless to say that they don't know where to look) and they show a film of the family at home so that grandparents and neighbours can get on the telly as well! The worst example was when a family of very poor farmers took their daughter on the show. The video showed how the family lived in a remote hut without mains water, sewerage or electricity (surprisingly common outside of large towns and the parents were wearing old worn out clothes. They'd obviously sold a few goats to get the kid something nice to wear (a traditional Romanian costume) which the judges all praised her on. They had to really; the unfortunate girl had no real talent to speak of and was clearly the night's token charity case. To add insult to injury, the presenter with the bad face pubes said (and you'll have to excuse my paraphrasing, my Romanian being not the best)

"We see your poor so we bought you some presents", at which point Mlle Il y a du monde sûr le balcon
enters the studio with a wheelbarrow containing farm animals. Unfortunately nobody had thought about how the animals might react to this and they fled from the bright lights and applause as fast as they could, with the poor piglet practically breaking its neck in its bid to clamber out of the ill-thought out means-of-transportation. I don't remember exactly what the other presents were but I seem to remember a basket of yoghurts and raw meat (bet that smelt lovely under the studio lights) and probably some chickens. I'm tempted to say there were cows too but I think I might have made that up. In any case the whole thing was grotesque and the family were speechless (and not through joy). If they really had to be so crass, couldn't they just have given them money and avoided the impending lawsuit from animal rights campaigners (if there are any watching Vreau să fiu vedetă)?

If it gets any worse, I'll let you know.

In a spin

On Monday night our washing machine packed in. Never a good sign, but particularly whn you don't even know how to say "Plumber", let alone call one. But here is a description of the shocking events.
Monday night - washing machine suddenly stops, mid cycle.
Tuesday morning - it has not spontaneously tried to repair itself overnight
Tuesday lunchtime - My Love telephoned a neighbour to ask him if he knew the name of a plumber. Neighbour said he'd call back.
Tuesday early afternoon - Neighbour texted to say he was coming round with a repairman between 4-6pm
Tuesday at 5pm - Two men (+neighbour) arrive promptly and fix the the machine (blocked filter due to, ahem, crap left in pockets). Bill - 25RON (approx £5)
Tuesday evening - clothes are washed and hanging out to dry.

If only Western European service providers were so efficient! And so affordable! Can only be a positive in the fight against the rip-off merchants. Or is it that they've not yet learnt about Call-Out Fees, extortionate Hourly Rates (even if the job takes five mins), Ordering Parts, Not Be Able To Make It Round Til A Week Next Wednesday, Love or all the many excuses some so-called professionals employ. grrrr!

And this isn't just a one-off. When the TV wouldn't work we phoned the person who installed it (he had left his mobile). He came round an hour later and, after a few phone calls, fixed the problem. For free!
So, I've seen the shape of thisngs to come.
Watch your backs, the Eastern Europeans are ready to takeover your jobs!

In the last week of January, 2009, I was mostly...

cross about my lack of Sarah Beeny-like house transforming skills

reading "L'amour dure trois ans" by Frédéric Beigbeder (I think My Love is scared - we've been together three and a half!

surprised at the comment "This is not a good neighbourhood." Where are the good neighbourhoods round here?

eating minced beef in any variety of ways I can think to cook it!

Our house, in the middle of our street

This is starting to be a habit. Maybe I will begin all my post with lines from popular 1980s pop-songs.

I LOVE THIS PICTURE.

Although neither of these realty gems is in fact mine.

If you've travelled any way outside the tourist loop of Bucharest-Brașov-Bran Castle you may well be familiar with the modern miracle that is the "gypsy palace" some of which may be occupied by a local "Bulibaşă", or as I prefer to call them, Gypsy Kings.

Whilst not typical of most Romanian dwellings, they do go to prove a certain number of things that I have been able to find out about Romanians attitudes to their houses.

For starters, just look how close together they are! If I'd had a decent plot of land like that, big enough to build two houses, I would have thought that it'd be nice to have a bit of space around it. You know, for a garden and what not. But like so many other Romanian houses I've seen, including my own, the building extends as close as possible to the garden fence and you're like to be able to see into your neighbours' property. In this one I reckon they could probably shake hands across the divide.

Yet although you'll not be able to swing a cat between the two houses, you'd have ample room to do so in the corridors. Don't ask me why but Romanians love their big corridors. We've had to stick a sofa in one of ours to try and use up the space. What do you do with a big hallway, otherwise? Answers on a postcard, please.

I'm presuming that the house on the left is unfinished because it is clearly far too sober for Romanian tastes. I'm not making any judgement about this, but the Romanians do love their bright colours! I mean, two such moderately sized homes, with neat and unimposing roofs couldn't possibly stand out unless you painted the windows a violent shade of mustard, could they? (Incidentally, the whole of the outside of our house is painted a similar hue).

So, I think you get the message about these houses (and other scaled down versions) being status symbols. Hence the big satellite dish and double garage, undoubtedly to hold an unyielding gas-guzzler to tower over the plebs in their knackered, old Dacias. Like I said, no judgement, but it does seem strange for me, coming from a background where ostentatiously displaying wealth is seen as vulgar or just plain 'being a chav', to be so eager to bow to the holy grail of avarice. But that's easy for me to say; I was sat at home in my nice warm living room waiting for my cooked dinner whilst watching the Blue Peter "Romanian Orphans Appeal" on telly not so many moons ago.

Inevitably, though, the downside to all this superficiality is the, well, superficiality. In the race to catch up, certain traits such as craftsmanship, attention to detail, and practicality seem to have been forgotten; you need only to look at the photos below to see where the workmanship has not come up to par.

For those of you in need of further elucidation, having been blinded by the décor, that is indeed an ideally placed TV aerial socket for functional kitchen use (i.e. above the kitchen sink), as well as a state of the art extractor fan unit, (a.k.a. a ruddy great hole in the wall revealing woefully insufficient insulation for any country, let alone one which suffers such extremes of temperature).If only the property market weren't so slack at the moment, I think I'm discovering a real talent for Estate Agentese. A.k.a.Bullshit.

As if that's not enough, all the interior walls are also made up of concrete breeze-blocks. Great in the event of an earthquake (Buzău is at the epicentre of Romanian seismic activity, apparently. Why did nobody tell me this before I moved here? At least they only have a bad tremor every thirty. Guess when the last one was….1977. Looks like they were waiting for me to arrive) but not so great if all you want to do is hang a few pictures.

Good thing Hello aren't coming until next month then.