“This is my dance space. That is your dance space”

Hot and bothered, I struggle with my bags to the car park. And there, gathered around my car are three people, one with their foot on the wheel, another with his hand on the scorching bonnet. "Make yourselves at home", I snarl in English at them, regretting it the moment I'd said it.

I just need to get used to the fact that people's idea of personal space are a little different here.

When I go to pay my bills at UPC, it always takes me five times longer than anyone else. This is mainly because I patiently wait my turn, subsequently everybody else pushes past me. I just don't feel comfortable standing next to people as they discuss confidential account information. Apparently, others don't.

It seems that others go even further – someone recently took the bold step of taking tomatoes from my garden. They were still green! But they felt comfortable taking them.

Not long ago, I was upstairs with the radio on. The Malteaser was in the shower so we didn't hear the door. When I came downstairs there was a large bunch of home-grown flowers. Not a romantic gesture from the Malteaser (fat chance) but our neighbour who'd come into the house, found a vase and arranged the flowers carefully in the dining room.

Guess that there are some advantages.

For a very long time I was...

...disturbed to find a dead cat next to my house. And even more disturbed by the suggestion that I put it in the dustbin.

....I am over it now!

The Fortune-teller and the Bin Fairy

Bin day's Monday. The bin-men come round around 11 but the bins are on display and ready for inspection from about 9. You don't have 6 different bins like you might do in other countries but there is definitely an ad hoc system in place for dealing with recycling (and the amount of waste each household has for the week would put most Guardian readers to shame).

I learnt pretty early on that polite etiquette was to remove plastic bottles from the rubbish and leave them to the side of the bin. They are quickly squirreled away by some "less-fortunate-than-ourselves" to group together until they have a kilo. That earns them a whole 10p!

However, until recently I had the curious problem of finding much of my rubbish littered over the street when I went to collect my empty bin back in. This could sometimes be embarrassing, depending on the contents of my bin that week, and the number of neighbours in the vicinity. It was whilst playing with Ferdi in the front yard that I saw the culprit; our very own Bin Fairy.

She works deftly and nimbly, pouncing upon a full trash can, and looting it for its bounty in a matter of seconds. As I watched through the fence she'd emptied the drawstring bin bag, mostly back into the bin (now I know why no one else uses them) and whisked it off to use for further treasure-hunting, along with some of the more highly prized items from our bin. Leaving me to pick up what is discarded on the street. More recently she has caught me sorting out my recycling on a Sunday evening and wrestled the plastic bottles away from me through the fence.

Whilst I wouldn't exactly describe Romanians as particularly 'green', there certainly isn't a lot of waste in this neighbourhood.

A few weeks ago, back when the weather was slightly less stormy, I was walking home through the drizzle when someone called out to me from the side of the street. At first I didn't believe my ears, because it seemed such a cliché, but this old gypsy woman wanted to read my palm and tell my fortune.

This doesn't come cheap. I understood that I had to cross the fortune teller's h    and with silver before she would reveal my fortune about my future.

Having always been a sceptic, I reluctantly handed over a leu note. I got a curled lip. "Mai mare! Mai mare!" she shouted at me.

So I gave her five more lei.

"What do you want to know?" she crowed, finger waggling dangerously near my face.

"I don't know" I answered pathetically.

"Work, money, love....you married?"

"No"

"You will marry in one year. You have a boyfriend?"

I nod

"He Romanian?"

I shake my head

"He a doctor? Engineer?"

"Yes, he's an engineer"

"Give me more money and I tell you what to do so that he marries you"

"Don't have any"

"Yes you do, you're English, lots of money. Give me a bigger note.

"No I don't have any more money, I must go now"

"Mr Bulibaşă thinks you should give me money" (Mr Bulibaşă barely looks up on his way to the bar)

"Show me your purse. I know you have more money, a bigger note"

"I really must go now, Goodbye"

"Oh, go on. You've annoyed me now. Hey, where do you live?"

I ran.

Ferdi and the Bear

Despite a less than auspicious start with Romanian dogs, the Malteaser and I made the rash decision to adopt one. But then, wouldn't you be tempted?

His name is Ferdinand, or Ferdi for short. Romanian history buffs will recognise the name as being that of one of the kings of their short lived dynesty. His being from Sinaia, it seemed appropriate.

The Malteaser and I found Ferdi and many other small dogs in a layby on the mountain road behind the historic castle. I'm not really sure who chose who, but he didn't put up much resistence. Funnily enough, neither did anyone else, as we whisked away a 4 week old pup, barely able to walk without falling over.

We're just hoping he gets a bit better with the potty training.

Within minutes of the kidnapping we met an interesting mother and baby combo. We were very excited about seeing them so close, evn if we were slightly afraid. We like to think of our little canine adoption as having saved him from the clutches of a big scary bear!

For months now, I have been wondering....

....what on Earth these little plastic things are. I found one in the garden the other day and they're everywhere arounf the streets of Buzău. Anyone able to shed some light on the subject?

A visit from Geo

We had our first visitor in Romania a few weeks ago. I could tell you all about it but I think I the best thing to do is to read about it in her own words; http://joabroadeurope.blogspot.com/2009/06/romanian-hospitals.html

I think it'll remain a memorable trip for if not necessarily for all the right reasons. For one thing, it has earned her the nickname "Geo". Before finally being remedied at the hands of the Francophone doctor with the leather-clad door, we tried some more alternative therapy. Whilst passing through a mountain spa-retreat (yes, Romania does have some of those) we stopped at a cafe which "Geo" limped up to. As we were accompanied by a four week old puppy (more about that later) we soon made friends with the cafe's patrons and one of them, let's call him "Matchmaker", introduced us to his young friend, a masseur. Quite what a massage was supposed to do to for an insect bite I don't know but we ended up in this masseur's bedroom, as the only convenient place for her to receive treatment. His hotel room (for this is where he worked) was shared, as indeed was his bed, with a fellow worker who merely moved over to allow enough room for "Geo" to lie down. It quickly became apparent that I was playing the role of chaperone - they both seemed beside themselves to have two girls in their room and we suspect the one in the bed may have taken a surreptitious photo from under the bedclothes. About twenty minutes later, we managed to free ourselves (Geo still limping) and return to the cafe where the Malteaser was anxiously waiting dog-sitting.

We bought our new friends a beer for their services (not that they didn't enjoy every minute of it) before getting back in the car, not before exchanging numbers and promises to return next weekend (fat chance with Geo living in Swirzerland, mate!). Sure enough, later on that afternoon I received a text. "Y like Geo verry much. Love. Kiss."

Rather her than me! I still haven't replied!

The Malteaser’s tale

My apologies for the lack of posts of late! I have a whole stack of subjects that I'm hopefully going to trot out in the near future. For now I have a little story that the Malteaser recently shared with me about a business trip.

Whilst travelling with one of his heads of department, who is Romanian, in her car, but with him driving, the Malteaser was pulled over by the police. Not aware that he had committed any kind of offence, he calmly pulled over and produced his driving licence. His colleague did the talking and it turned out that his heinous crime was that of driving, in daylight, without his headlights on. Obviously this awful law-breaking could not go unpunished so the police officer wrote down his name (luckily for the Malteaser just his two Christian names) and informed him (via his interpreter) that he was going to be prosecuted.

Despite repeated pleas and arguments the officer seemed hellbent on making an example of the Malteaser. There was a brief round of Gallic shrugging before his Romanian counterpart decided on a different tack. As fortune would have it, the police officer in question, along with his colleague, had been whiling away his time in their stationary vehicle by drinking. So the Malteaser's plucky right-hand woman offered the law-enforcers a little bribe;

• "Perhaps you'd be interested to know that I have a case of wine in the boot," she proffered.
  
• "Hmm, you'd have to speak to my boss about that," replied the polițist, hesitantly.
  
• "It's French wine".
  
• "Oh no. We don't want that!
  
• "Well, what I meant was it was made by French producers in Romania.
  
• "Oh, well if it's Romanian wine...."
  

So, it seems that silence can be bought – but only if the goods are top quality. Don't even think about offering something as shoddy as French wine.

And that's how a Frenchman gets evades the law in this country.