Dracula, 1989, funny foreigners and making Isabelle blush

Years ago, when I started to acquire a thirst for adventure, Moldova probably would have never factored into the equation. Even when I lived in Lviv just a few years ago, with Chişinău just down the road, I could hardly be bothered to visit. But I’m here now, and…

I’ll save my Moldovan reflections for later. For now, onto times past.

Brasov, the heart of Transylvania

This was the last of my three stops in Transylvania before moving onto the capital. The highlights and lowlights include:

• visiting Bran Castle, some 30 kilometres outside the city, where Dracula (or Vlad the Impaler) once lived. This was highly anticlimactic, though I didn’t expect much.
• a superb café that I spent way too much time in.
• referencing my last posting on language, and hardly being bothered to speak Romanian, this is why. I learnt ‘pofta buna’, which I thought meant hello, and was repeatedly saying it upon entering cafes and bars, only to be met by perplexed smirks. Far from meaning ‘good day’, it actually means ‘have a good meal’. See, why bother if you’re just going to get it wrong?
• mistranslated menu highlight: in a restaurant that tried to rip me off by giving me ‘complimentary’ local liquor, one of the fish specialties was ‘fried crap in hot sauce’. Uh, no thanks.
• despite my raging atheism (as Orwell put it in Down and Out in Paris and London, you could say that I’m a ‘disembittered atheist’), I love the sound of church bells ding-donging away at all hours. I find them soothing, comforting and very relaxing.

Anyway, onto the whingeing.

The joys of travelling solo. Or, why do people want to drag along the 'poor' solo traveller?

I don’t want to wax lyrical here about the highs and lows of travelling on one’s own. It’s definitely my preferred mode of travel, though that’s not to say that I haven’t had some pleasurable experiences with friends in the past. When not travelling alone, two is my maximum: any more than that is way too many for my liking.

This is a topic I may explore in greater depth at a later time. But for now, I fancy a rant about some of the numbskulls and twits I’ve encountered thus far. And yes, I do realize how bad this sounds, and yes, I’ll readily admit that I can be a nuisance whilst travelling. But that’s why I prefer to do it alone, the more so when I hear couples arguing incessantly about every piddly little thing. And that’s just when I’m around, usually in hostels.

But here are some examples of what just drives me up the wall. In most cases, it’s people’s audacity that astounds me most:

• the Irish couple who spotted me alighting from the train in Brasov. They approached me (must have been the rucksack, because otherwise I blend in as looking very Romanian) and asked if I knew of anywhere to stay. I told them I did, and that I would be heading there in about 30 minutes. I wanted to grab a bite to eat and have a coffee beforehand, as I knew the hostel was a bit of trek and I was famished. The following dialogue ensued:

Irish Guy: Wouldn’t it be better to go to the hostel now and then relax with lunch and a cuppa?

Me: Perhaps, but I’m very hungry and want to eat now.

IG: Let’s go to the hostel first, and then eat.

Me: I can tell you where the place is if you want to go there now, but I’m going to eat something first.

Irish Girl: Come on, let’s go now, and eat after.

Me: (starting to get agitated and snappy) I’m eating now. Would you like the address and I can meet you there?

Let me nip this in the bud. This exchange went on for another few minutes, and I then started to ignore them as I walked in the direction of the café. They actually followed me up the stairs pleading with me to go to the hostel now. After snapping back with a ‘look, I’m going to eat, join me if you want, otherwise, go to the hostel yourself!’ they finally got the hint and left me to my own devices. Best of all, I never gave them the address to the hostel and so never saw them again.

Idiots.

• the two German guys at the hostel. After they overheard me asking at the front desk for train times to Bucharest, they invited themselves along. When I told them I was taking the 11.15 train, they tried to persuade me to take a later one. Honestly – the beauty of travelling by myself is that I can go whenever the hell I like. I’m not about to start compromising with strangers (I’m terribly anti-social, need I remind you, when staying in hostels) over train times when I don’t even want them travelling with me. I find myself having to make excuses and be secretive. In this case, once they ‘agreed’ on the 11.15 train, I told them I was then taking an even earlier train, and just to keep the subterfuge going, I did indeed leave well earlier, spending an extra hour or so at the train station to prevent them tagging along. I grabbed a good vantage point from the café from where I could see them entering the station. Once they had arrived, I surreptitiously followed them to see which carriage they entered, making sure to take a seat in the one furthest from that one. The lengths to which some people go to, honestly.

• this isn’t a rant, more an observation: foreigners are funny creatures. I often wonder about the seemingly random use of English words and phrases interspersed in their dialogue. The aforementioned Germans, for example, who spoke little English. The hostel in which we were staying offered a free drink (beer/soda) for every night one stayed. On the morning we were leaving, I was hanging out in the lounge where one of the guys (Hans) was waiting for his friend (Franz) to take care of the bill.

Scene: Franz walks into the lounge, whereupon he spots Hans drinking a Fanta.

Franz, excitedly, pointing at Hans: Ach, eine muss schott, plunken, bakerei verboten ausgana, ah, FREE DRINK, fussball fier funf, acht, neun!

Hans: Ach, eine, muss schott, nein FREE DRINK, drei [Romanian] lei, verboten ausfahrt, etc.

Earlier, in the room, where they were packing, a similar scene:

Franz: Ach, eine muss schott, plunken, bakerei verboten ausgana, ah, HAVE A LOOK AROUND, fussball fier funf, acht, neun!

Hans: Ach, eine, muss schott, I HAVE LOOKED AROUND, drei [Romanian] lei, verboten ausfahrt, etc.

I don’t get this at all. But I find it highly amusing. Like all foreign humour in general. I’ll never forget the scene, from when I was working at a newsagent’s in Edinburgh, of the two French guys who walked in, each picking up a Mars bar or something similar, and acting out a scene from Star Wars.

‘Ah, me Darth Vader, you Luke Skywalker’. And then they dueled with their ‘light-sabres’.

Funny foreigners.

• the two naïve American girls at the same hostel, who were so in love with these German guys (neither of whom was even remotely good-looking – the guys that is. The girls were hot little tramps, but that’s besides the point).
  

Kristen (real name): Oh my God, those guys are like, so cute.

Lauren (not real name): Oh God, aren’t they, and those accents, oh my God!

On the morning they were leaving, they came down to the reception looking very disheveled, with their rucksacks packed in a seemingly haphazard way, clothes astray, Lonely Planet hanging out of an unzipped compartment. They had definitely manufactured the unkempt look.

Kristen: Dude, you totally look the part, you look like you just woke up and threw everything together.

Lauren: Oh my God, don’t I?! And so do you, the perfect amount of mess, oh my God, we are such cool travellers.

Kristen: I can’t even believe we’re in Eastern Europe, this is so cool!

Lauren: Dude, your guidebook is just at the right angle, looks like it's about to fall out, I just hope it actually doesn't.

Kristen: Don't worry, it's secure.

I was cringing inside. How damn pretentious can you get. I would never wish anything on anyone, but a part of me was just crying out for these girls to get in some sort of minor trouble. In fact, had I not had a train to catch, I was sorely tempted to follow them and start some mischief.

• Lastly: French couple at the train station, who had stayed at the same hostel in Sighisoara a couple of nights before, recognizing me, just before I bought my train ticket to Bucharest, telling me ‘no, no, come tomorrow with us, you cannot go by yourself to there’. As cute as the girl was, I said no thanks and left as planned. Hiding from the German guys of course.

There you go, all you need to know about Brasov – you won’t find anything like that in a guidebook.

Wait, is that bird shit on my shirt?

Bucharest – the unbearable weight of history

This was arguably the last of the great 1989 cold war cities – those that really experienced a sea change in that monumental year - in my pantheon of places to visit in Central and Eastern Europe. From my earliest teenage years, 1989 has always held a firm grip in my imagination. I had been living in Germany for only a few weeks in 1989 when the Berlin Wall came crashing down, and despite being clear on the other side of the country, I could easily sense the importance and significance of what was happening. As the news reels rolled and similar scenes were played out across Europe, images and ideas lodged in my mind. At long last, I feel like I can finally put a ‘face’ to all these ‘names’.

In few other cities have I felt such a palpable sense of history as I did when I walked down those wide Bucharestian boulevards just a few days ago. Bizarrely, parts of the city seemed so familiar, solely from the television screens and photographs I had seen. University Square, scene of so much of the bloodshed and mayhem, had finally come to life, the reality replacing the imaginary.

I’ll say more about this later, when I can provide images as well.

My good pal Dr Wasabi Islam was kind enough to put me in touch with a friend/acquiantance/colleague of his who was a gracious host for the 2 or so days that I spent in Bucharest. Upon meeting Mihaela, I was immediately thrown into one of those potentially awkward situations that are difficult to extract yourself from. It's very innocent, yet still potentially sticky if it goes too far.

She had been delivering a lecture at an academic institute and had promised to introduce me to some 'young and old intellectuals'. Whilst waiting for her to wrap up, I waited in the lobby while people milled about around me. She then joined us, introducing me in quick succession to about 6 or 7 people as a teacher of Eastern Europe history in London. Before I had a chance to correct her, I was faced with a cavalcade of questions.

'Ah, so you teach about Romanian history in London?'

'Interesting, I did not know that students in London learnt about our history?'

'Tell me, what do your textbooks say about Nicolae Bălcescu?'

This last question stumped me. I couldn't keep up the charade any longer and had to weasel out of it by saying we used such lousy textbooks that they neglected Romania's finest patriots.

(for the record, he was a leader of the 1848 Wallachian revolution and yes, I had to look that up.)

Once the barrage had finished, I could relax a bit.

A rendezvous with the ne plus ultra of French cinema

Imagine my surprise upon arrival to see posters flyered about town advertising the appearance of French cinematic screen legend Isabelle Huppert, the star of one of my favourite

films, the massively underrated Amateur (directed by Hal Hartley). I watched this film just by chance with some of my oldest and dearest friends Sarah and Drew and it just blew us away with its absurdity and hilarity. An utterly bizarre, preposterous film. It's been a long time since I've seen it, but I'll attempt to succinctly summarise the plot: Man (Martin Donovan) wakes up in the street, suffering from amnesia. He wanders the streets (Paris? Amsterdam? London?) and then meets Isabelle Huppert, who takes him in and takes care of him. It turns out that she is a former nun who has quit the convent because she's a nymphomaniac. That prompted one of the all-time greatest exchanges in cinematic history.

Martin Donovan is lying in the bath.

Isabelle: 'I'm a nymphomaniac, but I'm also a virgin.'

Martin: 'How can you be a nymphomaniac but never have had sex?'

Isabelle: [looking away wistfully, blowing cigarette smoke] 'I'm choosy.'

That killed me.

Anyway, turns out that the other key character is a porn star who Martin has somehow wronged. Now she wants revenge and isn't quite ready to forgive Martin even if he can't seem to remember what he had done to her. Isabelle is wary of porn star's stories since Martin seems like such a kind, gentle soul. And of course, there are gangsters pressurising porn star to get whatever it is they want out of Martin.

That's really the gist of it. I can't recommend the film enough, it's filled with bizarre one-liners and idiosyncratic characters.

But I digress.

So, Isabelle was in town for the opening of a Henri-Cartier Bresson photo exhibition - over 120 of her images from over the years in all were on display. It was somewhat of a lavish event. The French ambassador was there, along with some other dignitaries and a few famous faces from Romanian cinema, including the country's top up-and-coming director and one of the biggest actresses. The French embassy had also laid out an impressive spread of canapes and wines.

I'm no expert on French cinema, but Amateur is definitely not one of Isabelle's plum roles. She's better known for her quite steamy and sexually unrestrained roles in La Pianiste (directed by Michael Haneke of The White Ribbon and Hidden fame, who had also been in Bucharest just a few days be fore for the opening of his film retrospective) and Ma Mere. If you're unfamiliar with the storylines, take a look.

Isabelle then milled about the crowd, taking in each of her photographs, eager paparazzi in tow snapping away. I waited around, biding my time for the right moment to sneak in and blurt out what was on my mind:

'Isabelle, you were brilliant in Amateur, that's one of my favourite films.'

And she blushed! I made Isabelle Huppert blush! This had to be one of the proudest moments of my life!

'Oh no, oh dear, that is not one of my good films.'

'No, it is, you were terrific in it, my friends and I love that film.'

'No, no, I'm so embarrassed by that film, please, it's not my best.'

'Okay, perhaps not, but I still like it the best.'

I wasn't going to admit that I liked her in Ma Mere - that would have been even more awkward.

After Isabelle had given her schpiel and thanked the crowd, and before my amusing encounter, the ambassador invited the 'guests' to enjoy the mini-feast that had been set up. About 1/3 of the ravenous crowd then made a bee-line for the tables. I refrained from joining the stampede, as famished as I was, and instead let the vultures devour their wares. It was less an offering of hors d'oeuvres than an hors de combat.

I took my leave shortly after, content that I had exchanged a few words with such a charming and stunning beauty. She looks absolutely amazing for her age and I was certainly swooning at her feet. I'll have some close-ups to share later, but for now this will have to suffice.

Isabelle charming the crowd

The Lure of the East

Now that I've reached the cosy environs of Eastern Europe, where I feel so much more at home, I hope to offer up a few slightly more tintillating tales than the drudge I've served up since the start of this year.

I'm currently deep in the heart of Transylvania, where as to be expected, internet connections are slow and shaky. Besides, I hate to while away my time in dark, cramped internet cafes, surrounded by gangly, pimply-faced teens playing computer games and creepy porn-surfing geriatrics. I'm thus hoping to churn these out at a fast and furious rate, though that may mean decent editing and too much thought get neglected for the sake of expediency. I'm really under the kush here, so please don't hold me to my usual standards -whatever those are. I'm aiming for a bulletpoint style, with the as-to-be-expected usual bits of scabrous commentary. I'll save my more in-depth reflections for after my trip and for now will condescend to describe the various antics and eccentricites of the natives.

Part I: Sibiu - getting used to the smoke (& mirrors?)

My first port of call was Sibiu, EU Capital of Culture in 2007. Judging from first, middle and last impressions, the EU certainly doesn't have very high standards when it comes to this. Sure, it's a pleasantly charming* place, with the requisite cobbled streets, winding narrow streets, old churches, atmospheric vistas and baroque architecture, but doesn't that describe every decent-sized town east of the Danube? Sounds like a sop to Romania, a nice little 'welcome to the EU, let's make one of your cute little towns a capital of culture, right up there with Lille, Liverpool and Lillehammer'.

(* perhaps the most overused connotation in this blog: 'pleasantly charming'. By now, I hope it has been realised that this is merely a euphemism for 'I don't know how else to describe this place'. I will no doubt continue to overuse this hackneyed phrase.)

Highlights, lowlights, observations:

* The plane journey over on Romanian budget outfit Blue Air: surely one of the few remaining airlines that allows smoking still? It was only the last few rows and mercifully I was near the front, but still.

* I realise that the low-slung, barely-held up trousers are all the rage among teenagers these days, but I've now seen this style hit the point of utter absurdity. And it's those doyens of sartorial elegance, the Germans (who introduced us to the socks and sandals look), we can thank. I saw a young German man, with his trousers down low, underpants showing and exposing his 'hidden' money belt. Surely this defeats the purpose, does it not? That led me to another thought: anytime you see someone with their trousers hanging off them, at the very least we can assume that they won't be mugging us. No way are they getting very far with anyone's wallet or purse.

* I spent an afternoon visiting the city's vast museum and art collections. I was duped into buying the all-inclusive ticket which guarantees admission to all 7 of the exhibits, spread amongst the compact city. I only paid the student rate, so not too many complaints.

Now, I want to be as respectful as possible to Romanian culture, so I was happy to see not only the 'traditional' European art collection (the Flemish, Italians and Germans, mainly) but also the Romanian. The group of Germans and Italians in front of me in the queue thought otherwise. As I waited patiently, I heard both groups exclaiming that they had no interest in 'such art' and that they only wanted tickets for the great European masters. The poor old ticket seller looked very forlorn and downcast after this, so he was no doubt cheered up when I asked for the all-day ticket and expressed interest in the Romanian contribution to high culture.

And then, irony of all ironies, the guard inexplicably wouldn't allow me to enter the Romanian exhibition! I thrust my ticket into his face, but he was steadfast in his determination to bar my entry. This brought back memories of my sister and I's failed attempt to enter the Bulgakov museum in Kyiv, which I harbour hopes of overcoming when visiting in a few week's time.

I suppose he wasn't used to foreigners trying to see his art.

* This seems to be something that only happens in Eastern Europe, at least in my experience, but if you dare not spend very long at a particular exhibit, or show little interest in seeing a certain room, the dour, stern-faced museum staff take major offence to this and insist on shoving you off in every which direction. A couple of times I tried to sneak off without looking at the treasury - a few rooms consisting of coin after coin - and was chastised and immediately shooed into look. Upon trying to leave after a few minutes, the guard then stood behind my shoulder, furiously pointing in various directions, mumbling something in incoherent Romanian. Like I would have understood had it been coherent.

* A wee while later, I exited the Museum of Pharmacy after a cursory glance at the bottles of pills and old jars with human hands in formaldehyde. I still had about 1 hour left in the day to see the remaining few museums. But I had had enough. The guard insisted I visit the Museum of Hunting, which was a good 3 kilometres away. I lied and said I would. When he saw me an hour later, sipping a large glass of red plonk at the cafe nearby, he predictably wasn't very happy, giving me a right bollocking in front of a few locals, no doubt accusing me of disrespecting Romania's fine hunting culture.

* I ordered black tea at a cafe. The woman insisted I take milk with it: 'You are English, you put milk in your tea!' I never told her what I was, but I wasn't going to disobey this clear order. Yes, ma'am!

* In my hostel room was an older Australian couple. I've not always had the best of luck in my encounters with Aussies on my travels, but I'm willing to give anyone a fair chance these days (except maybe those Canadians who sew Canadian flags on their rucksacks dare they get confused for -horror of horrors!- Americans). This couple seemed pleasant, but my first run-in saw us get off to an awkward start. While I was in the bathroom getting washed, I did what people tend to do in such places, and let one of my more masterful creations rip forth. Unbeknownst to me, there was a gap in the partition between the men's and women's bathrooms, and she heard this. So this is what she says to me when we meet back in the room:

'I hope you're not planning on doing that all night.'

You've got be kidding me. First of all, who plans for that kind of thing? It just bloody well happens for chrissakes. I immediately recalled the passage in The Unbearable Lightness of Being. This is Tereza's mother speaking:

"'Tereza can't reconcile herself to the idea that the human body pisses and farts. What's so terrible about that?' And in answer to her own question she broke wind loudly. All the women laughed."

If you hadn't guessed it already, I'm quite keen on discussing (and performing) bodily functions in a frank manner. I can't help it: it runs in the family.

* In fairness, the couple turned out to be lovely. The woman was an artist, and the man was finishing up his PhD in political philosophy, so we had some interesting chats. In a sign of how old I've become, I passed up on an evening of potential raucous fun on the tiles with their 18 year old son for a discussion on art and politics.

* I've often had a theory about change in countries outside of the 'Western' world. Meaning, if I go into a typical British supermarket, and my total comes to 8.15, the shop assistant will think nothing of me handing her 10.15. Likewise in the US, if something comes to 17.25, and I give 22.25, I can expect to get back a $5 bill. For some reason, attempts to do this in many other parts of the globe (in the, uh, developing world) repeatedly fluster people. I can hand over 10.45 to someone on a 7.45 bill, and they'll looked at me perplexedly, throwing the 45 cents back at me and then giving me the 2.55 in change. They just don't seem to get why anyone would do this. I'm not entirely sure what the theory is behind this, or even if there is one, but I've always been baffled. But maybe I shouldn't be. Twice now, in less than a 24 hour span, I did this, only to get the wrong change handed back to me - in my favour nonetheless. Both times I was honest and gave the extra money back to the sheep-faced shop assistants. At least they chuckled about it. But shouldn't the EU have launched a nationwide training scheme to counteract this? Just earlier, at the post office, trying to buy a 1.60 Lei stamp, I gave the clerk 2.10 - the 50 leu pieces are in great demand here as you need them to use the lockers at the front of shops and I was after one of them. She had no idea what to do, throwing my 10 leu piece at me and then handing me 40 leu in 10 leu pieces. Damn leu, lei, whatevers.

* Similarly, one of the biggest hassles on any trip is the issue of getting change for large banknotes. Upon arrival, I'll hit the bank machine and inevitably get landed with whopping big notes. For whatever reason, airports never seem to prepare for this eventuality and trying to get change can be downright impossible. In foreseeing this problem, I brought along a few $20 bills as a means of getting smaller bits of change. But guess what? The bloody airport didn't even have an exchange office! The EU needs to get on this, asap.

Part II: Sighişoara: birthplace of Dracula - allegedly

* Dracula is loosely based on Vlad Ţepes, or the 'Impaler' as he was known due to his fondness for impaling his subjects and removing their eyes. He was born here, left when he was four, and his early childhood home is now imaginatively named 'The Dracula Cafe'. I daredn't go in.

* I had an odd 'encounter' if you could call it that with a sinister Austrian man on 4 separate occasions: twice at the International Cafe and twice at my hostel. Each time, there he was on the internet looking at some very questionably extreme sites - let's just say that Leopold Van Sacher-Masoch would have been impressed. I tried not to look, but the computer was in a prominent, wide-open place. One site in particular caught my attention: 'Tranny's in Vienna'. Though maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt here. Judging by the position of the apostrophe, he might have only been looking at someone's blog. I hope.

* Language-wise, I've been very lazy on this trip. Normally I at least verse myself with the essentials, the hellos, thank yous, goodbyes, can I have your phone number, etc, but this time I've barely bothered. It's mainly because I'm still cramming Russian for my fast approaching jaunt into Transdniestr (despite a New Yorker in Sibiu telling me about the ordeal he went through, with numerous shakedowns, attempts to procure bribes, and other general tomfoolery from the 'authorities') and also because, well, I can't be bothered. Not too many Romanians speak English, but between my smatterings of Spanish, Italian and French (fellow Romance languages, obviously), German (still the primary 2nd language taught in schools) as well as Russian (an older man knew some), I've managed to get by just fine.

* I caught a little boy stealing from a souvenir stall. I grabbed him, yelled at him, and tossed the little turd in the direction of the woman womanning the stall. And what thanks did I get? She yelled at me for something or other. Probably thought we were in cahoots.

Lastly, a Saturday of great football, beautiful women and Marlboros

I watched the Champions League final in a bar in Sibiu called Caffe Amber. There's an irony in that name, which will soon become clear.

The EU certainly hasn't got their stamp on this yet, but the first thing I noticed in this relatively swish bar, were the repeated cigarette advertisements on the television. Second, was the huge screen next to the television showing a continuous loop of extra-glamorous Marlboro ads, featuring hot young things in all sorts of poses, always with a packet of cigs in their hands or pockets. And then before I knew it, in walked four absolute stunners clad in identical outfits. And they were all smoking. Literally.

Philip Morris must have identified Romania as a prime target to spread its wares. These women, along with their 'pimp', were walking around the cafe, handing out free Marlboros and then posing for photos with the customers. As tempted as I was to get a photo with these beauties, there was no way I was putting one of those filthy things in my gob.

I can hardly compete with Jess Cartner-Morley and her elan for writing about haute couture, but I'll attempt to describe what they were wearing: short, tight white lycra (?) dresses with a Hollywoodish screenprint silhouetted on the their tops (odd, but lovely); short black leather motorcycle jackets sans the excess of straps and zippers (a nice touch); ankle high black booties (not a fan); fishnet tights (ooh la la!); ridiculously intriguing shiny gold belt structures that wrapped around in all sorts of directions (interesting); and black bowler hats (classy). And oodles of makeup and lipgloss (trashy, but effective).

So while they pranced around and did their thing, I tried to focus on the football, for the most part successfully. They eventually gave up trying to get me hooked on their product. I was probably the only holdout in the establishment. For some reason, all I could think about was Philip Morris and all the free cigarettes they handed out to GIs in the Korean and Vietnam Wars.

The most tragicomic moment of the night came much later, when an exasperated waitress lost her cool, and hurled a full plate of food down the dumbwaiter shaft when no one would take the hot plate out of her hands. It was a pretty bizarre occurrence for such an upscale place. Maybe she needed a cigarette.

As for the irony behind the cafe's name, it was my ex-girlfriend Amber, who many years ago worked for an advertising firm in Boston on the Truth Campaign, which used the money resulting in a lawsuit against the big tobacco giants to stamp out smoking usage in America's youth. I think it was quite successful, in the end, though the battle continues. But at least here's a very comforting thought: I haven't noticed much smoking among Romania's youth, despite Philip Morris's blatant attempts to sabotage this (as well as implicating Amber in its attempts). So there's hope, for now.

The end of today's tales

I'm now in Braşov, where earlier today I visited Dracula's Castle. Tomorrow it's on to Bucharest (remember, just like Laurens Van Der Post, I like to save the capitals for the end of my stays). More tales still to come.

Paranoia, Whores, Doctors & New Adventures: all part of the natural state of affairs really

Section I: Puritanism and paranoia

I recently had a chat with two of my best pals over how puritanical America is when it comes to nudity and profanity. We all tended to agree how ridiculous it is that profanity is censored on television and in print. Why on earth are words like ‘fuck’ rendered as f---, f***, f*ck or other such variants when (a), it’s damn well clear what the word is and how it’s spelt, and (b) these words are so prevalent in today’s society anyway that it seems pointless to censor them. The same goes for profanity-laden films shown on public television. By censoring the swearing, in some cases you’re subjecting your audience to an entirely different film. Die Hard, Major League and Top Gun immediately spring to mind as just three of the many films that lose a lot in translation when some of the juiciest dialogue is expunged (for example: ‘yippee kay yay, mother fucker’; ‘I say ‘fuck you, Jo Bu, I’ll do it myself’; and ‘Hollywood, whose dick did you suck to get in here?’ ‘The list is long and distinguished.’ ‘Well so’s my Johnson.’)

Anyhow…

So here I am sat at Newark International Airport, waiting through an interminable delay due to this ongoing ash cloud kerfuffle, when in the course of the past hour I can cite three examples of the puritanism and paranoia that pervade these parts. In fact, consider it a minor miracle that your dear author has managed to avoid being hauled off to Homeland Security and strip-searched.

1. I was innocently watching The Diving Bell and the Butterfly in a public area when an airport official of South Asian background (that detail is important), at the behest of a heavyset Nigerian woman, approached me, tapped me on the shoulder, and informed me that my film had offended the woman because of its ‘inappropriate’ content – a very brief scene of a woman’s breast. He suggested I either turn it off or watch it somewhere more private. I really should have suggested that the woman mind her own business and not watch my film. I merely moved to the other side of the table, from where I could glare at the woman, who left minutes later. However…

2. The same airport official, after I had minimized the film, asked me about the picture on my desktop: the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. The following exchange thus ensued:
Airport Official: What is that, is it a mosque?
Darnell Pedzo: Yes.
AO: Why do you have a picture of a mosque on your computer?
DP: Uh, because it’s a nice picture and I like it.
AO: That probably isn’t the kind of picture you should show in public.
DP: Um, why not?
AO: Because it will offend some people and maybe it is suspicious.
(I love that: it WILL offend some people, he said.)
DP: Honestly, it shouldn’t offend anyone, it’s just a nice picture.
AO: No, no it isn’t, I don’t think you should have such a picture on your computer, not in public.
He then backed off to say something into his walkie-talkie.
AO: Perhaps you can hide it for now, then put it back later after your flight.
I then brought my film back up.
DP: I’ll tell you what. I’ll watch my film, there’s no one behind me to see it, and no one can see the mosque. Fair enough?
AO: [muttering and grumbling something]…Hmmm, okay. Be careful please. Have a nice evening.

[Had something like this happened a year or two ago, I would have been more perturbed then than I am now. In a sign of just how much I’ve matured, or because I feel the need to spout off about any little episode that happens to me, my first thought was, ‘hey, I can write about this in my blog!’]

Lastly…

3. I approached another airport official shortly after my film had finished to enquire about where I might be able to post it back to Netflix. She directed me to my airline and told me they would be happy to do it. They weren’t, due to security considerations, and so I asked the woman again. I told her that it was urgent. This raised her suspicions. She asked me what I wanted to mail. I told her. She asked me why I hadn’t mailed it before I got to the airport. I explained that I hadn’t had time to watch it. She then asked me why I hadn’t tried to mail it about 2 hours prior to that point, when I had first entered the airport. I repeated that I had only just finished watching it and attempted to explain the plot, when she rudely cut me off, radioed into her walkie-talkie for back-up, and told me to wait. A few minutes later, the same airport official who chastised me for watching pornography and spreading a radical Islamic message via my wallpaper, approached.

AO: Ah, you again. Now what are you doing?

Now I was beginning to get exasperated, but surely he could vouch that I had been watching the film just minutes before this exchange.

AO: Yes, he was watching a film, a very bad film, not very nice in the airport.

I was beginning to suspect that negotiating a passage through this Scylla and Charybdis of utter indolence was going to prove to be a futile and thankless endeavour.

AO: You shouldn’t watch films like that.

Full stop. Not in the airport, but in general. Who was this guy, the morality police?

AO #2: Why do you need to mail this now, you should have mailed it before.
AO: You should have watched it at home, in private. With your girlfriend. (with a chuckle and a cheeky grin)
DP: (agitatedly and sarcastically) Look, I didn’t have time, and because my flight is delayed, it seemed like the perfect opportunity, and I’m going abroad and don’t want to have to mail it from there. Anyway, never mind, I will mail it later, thanks anyway.
AO #2: No, no, it’s a security risk for the airport, you can’t ask people to mail packages, or next time we will call the police.
DP: I’m sorry, next time I’ll watch it at home, and mail it before I get to the airport.
AO: Yes, good idea.

I was tempted to prolong this a bit longer and have a bit of fun with them. But I didn’t want to push my luck.

(I can’t strongly recommend the film and book enough by the way: a moving, poignant, elegiac and inspiring story, tinged with pathos and humour; it really moved me. See it and/or read it.)

The offending picture

Section II: Wholesome whores and lascivious ladies of the night

While I should have been brushing up the lacuna in my historical background as continuing preparation for my teaching ‘career’ and devoting myself to more ‘academic’ works, over the past couple of weeks I instead partook in a fine little ditty of a collection entitled The Harlot’s Handbook: Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies (1757-1793). It is, essentially, a directory and review of all of London’s finest ladies of the night: the hottest harlots, the most slatternly sluts and saucy strumpets, the most tempestuous tarts and tantalising trollops, and the most voluptuous and vivacious vixens. The compendium features a rundown of each ladies’ appealing and not so appealing traits. I am told that this type of thing still exists today, no doubt somewhere in cyberspace, but I for one certainly haven’t taken the time to look. Any readers care to weigh in on this?

I thought I would share a sampling of my favourite entries. In other words, if I were a ravenous rake or roué of the 18th century, these are the girls I would track down for a bit of light evening’s entertainment. I’ve saved my top choice for the end.

Mrs Harris-n, next door to the Shoemaker’s Shop, Cleveland-street, New Moulton-street.

A pompous heroic girl, without either wit or humour, but fancies herself clever without any person acquiescing with her whomsoever. She is of the red-haired kind and very vicious, too fond of the male kind for her business, which is the cause of her not succeeding as she should do. Her person is extremely well made, good eyes, fair skin, and incomparable fine hair; never so happy as when in bed with a pretty fellow, altho’ she gets nothing by him – like the giddy girl, thinks of nothing but the present, leaving all future events to chance.

Mifs H-rington, Newman-ftreet

‘She spins her webb to catch male flies,
Like sportsmen’s black birds – by her eyes.’

A knowing one, lives in the first floor, has two or three gentlemen favourites; by giving a double rap, this lady will instantly make her appearance, and if she returns you a favourable glance, she will immediately conduct you in a very complaisant manner to a convenient sofa, and suffer you there to take a view of her haven of delight, where pretty ringlets hang in tempting curls over the cupidinous font, in return she likewise expects a view of nature’s gifts from you, which if she thinks clean and properly adopted, she will unload for two pounds two. She is rather a good figure, and about twenty-five, with a tolerable good complexion, in company chatty, witty and agreeable.

Mrs St-ton, at the Shoe-maker’s, Cornet of Upper Newman-street

‘All I ask of mortal man,
Is to ---- me whilst I can.’

A fine plump widow bewitched, as she says, she is the wife of a captain S-n, who is gone abroad; but her passions are not to be confined, and thinking life not worth her care, without the thorough gratification of that most noble sense, she gives an uncontrolled loose to all her desires, and places the tree of life into the garden of Eden, as often as inclination invites, and opportunity gives leave; and so exquisitely toned are the most sensible parts, that all the senses seem swallowed up at once in the gulph of Venus; she is good-natured, and does not seem to make money so much the object of love, if she thinks she has a flash-man who is a posture-master; but is not to be had by a queer-cull. She will not refuse a guinea from any man, and will take half sooner than go without. This jolly agreeable piece lives in the first floor.

Mifs L-w-s, No. 36, Wells-street, Oxford-street

‘By that smile that decks thy face,
By that dimple on thy chin,
By each loving sweet embrace,
Let me once more enter in.’

The prolific soil of Salisbury is reported to have given birth to this whimsical Cyprian Goddess, a more beautiful face we never witnessed, and to her praise be it spoken, she is not under the smallest obligation to any performer.

‘No artificial tint adorns her lovely cheeks’.

Pure nature and rosy health are her inseparable companions; her conversation displays so much artless simplicity, that we are positive any gentleman would conceive himself happy in having an opportunity of standing before this lady with a view to obtain her mark of pleasure. She has lately been in keeping with Ri-er, but we greatly fear he proved himself a bad horseman, as the lady will not, at this time, suffer him to enter her premises. Pecuniary embarrassments are the reasons assigned for his being depraved her present favours; her visitors must not be surprised if they are addressed with expressions of a simple nature from this votary of wantonness. She is very expert in milking a cow; we mention this acquisition merely for the accommodation of any gentleman who is fond of witnessing such sport; her panting delicate white breasts are tempting, firm, and elastic; twelve months are scarcely elapsed since her virgin rose was plucked. An artist of some celebrity is said to be the fortunate seducer of her maiden treasure; her disposition is extremely lively; she is blessed with a pair of the most enchanting black eyes we ever beheld. It is impossible to gaze at this fascinating female without being captivated with her delightful charms; she exhibits a neat leg and foot; good nature is a valuable ornament to this lady. Nineteen years is her real age, and two pounds two shillings will not be rejected as a reward for the disposal of her favours.


Section III: the state of health care in America

These days I’m generally quite apathetic when it comes to a lot of things that used to interest me, politics being one of them. And though I have been tempted from time to time to sally forth and offer my two cents on health care reform in the US, I have resisted. I will, however, say this (and this is as political as I’ll get): I find it utterly preposterous that in a country like America, a full-time student such as me is not entitled to any sort of health coverage or insurance. Nothing. Apparently, once you’re over the age of twenty-five, you’re pretty much SOL. I will desist from any further scathing commentary.

Needless to say, over the past 8 or 9 months, I’ve been shelling out a hefty monthly premium for health coverage. Perhaps I shouldn’t complain too much. After all, surely I can expect to get some of the best health coverage in the world in the US, right? It might be pricey, but at least these guys [appear to] know what they’re doing. Witness some of my more pleasant and sobering experiences from various locations:

• Nigeria: thankfully, and somewhat surprisingly, I never really got ill here, but at the makeshift hospital in the middle of the delta, I was asked whether I would prefer a clean needle to a previously used one. I’m not making any sort of joke about this – I had to pay the equivalent of about 40 cents for that needle, and it’s beyond tragic that the majority of the population has to think long and hard about this question. This saddened me then, and it saddens me to think about now.
• Ukraine: unfortunately, I never had to visit the doctor, though I did have a lovely young lady come to my house to give me a course of 20 ‘medical’ massages. I will leave it at that.
• Spain: serious shenanigans. Despite hardly paying a dime for the supposedly outstanding state coverage, one comedy of errors after another led to me being badly misdiagnosed with what turned out to be a broken metatarsal in my foot. They kept insisting I had tendonitis, even when x-rays showed what looked to be a hairline stress fracture. I then endured 4 weeks of physiotherapy, which probably only made it worse. I’m just glad it was ‘free’ health coverage.
• Latvia: I visited a few more doctors in hopes of getting my foot ailment healed. I had x-rays in a shoddy underground bunker-like dungeon adorned with, I kid you not, pictures of Chornobyl and the Soviet Union’s finest nuclear reactors. There were various diagnoses: tendonitis again, a shrug of the shoulders from another doctor, and one who said the problem was caused by the 3 inch birthmark on my leg interfering with the nervous impulses radiating outwards in all directions and concentrating in the area just below my big toe. I didn’t bothering following up with the skin specialist she recommended. I might add that she was the official doctor to the American and Swedish Embassy staffs.
• Latvia II: after the broken rib incident – which has yet to be divulged in full on these pages but will be soon, hopefully – I had a grand old time going to the massive state-run Soviet-era behemoth of a hospital on a Saturday afternoon, along with my buddy Michael, who was there ostensibly to help with translations despite speaking even less Russian than I. Still, I appreciated his moral support. The highlight of this excursion? Being pushed against the wall for an x-ray that was blasting at me from a machine some thirty feet anyway. When I motioned for some kind of protection for my, uh, important bits, the female attendant merely gestured to me to cover my whatsits with my hands. And so I did. No doubt I’m now sterile.
• Kyrgyzstan: as detailed on these very pages, I was prescribed a boiled egg to put on my jaw when I had an ear infection. I don’t think it helped.

So, instead of complaining about the excessive costs, I should have been thankful that for once in my life I was going to get decent coverage. Or at least I thought I was. More than anything I wanted to get my foot seen to once and for all. But because of other more pressing concerns I never got round to it, though I feel somewhat better knowing that very little can be done about my foot at this point.

Now, I don’t want to get too up close and personal here, but let’s just say for now I’ve had a few issues with a very sensitive part of my body that have caused me a bit of concern. So, for peace of mind, I got it checked out, though the whole process took a few months and cost me a helluva lot of money on top of the already steep monthly premiums. I’m telling you, health insurance is a scam. You pay through the roof yet still have to pay for so much more on top of that.

Fast forward through all the months of tests to my last round just over a week ago. Without going into too much detail, I had to have a very unpleasant procedure called a cystoscopy performed. I was not looking forward to this and was awfully nervous.

It didn’t help matters that the nurse sent in to clean and ‘prep’ me was a lovely young Croatian woman. Shouldn’t there be a law against this? I was supposed to be remaining calm and nonplussed. Suddenly my nerves intensified and my attempts at playful banter were awkward and embarrassing. She was a good sport, taking it all in stride, diligently going about her business with a smile on her face.

I know now how pregnant women feel. She had me put my legs in those stirrups that pregnant women use when giving birth, or being examined. Just I was thinking that this was completely unnecessary, the door opened and in walked in a much older, grumpier and larger woman (I could now relax a bit more) who immediately snapped at the poor Croatian and shrieked, ‘honey, why on earth have you got this poor guy’s legs up in the air?’ To which the Croatian replied, ‘what, this isn’t how you do this? I saw the other nurse do it like this’. This definitely instilled in me loads of confidence that I was in good hands, so to speak. Can I blame this on the fact that she was Croatian?

The rest of the procedure went off with hardly a hitch and I was certainly glad when it was all over.

I just hope I’ve got my money’s worth after all this.


Section IV: The next big adventure

Now that the drudgery of stale American suburb life has reached its merciful denouement, I’m ready to say goodbye to the ennui and move onto bigger and better things: my next, hopefully hair-raising, adventure. Which means I hope to have more exciting things to write about besides the antics of my students, trips to the doctor or rambling, incoherent diatribes about my inner states of torment. Never mind that far from mending my profligate ways, I’m instead being irresponsible and foolhardy once again, as I continue my ongoing quest to forge a glorious destiny for myself. Hell, I may drop dead in a few months so might as well revel in this exultancy while I can.

So what better place to seek adventure than the cosy confines of Eastern Europe? I am shortly off to Romania, Moldova and Ukraine, with perhaps a stop in Poland tacked onto the end (an exit strategy might be a good idea).

The truth is, though Romania and Moldova haven’t always necessarily been ‘on my radar’, there are few places out there that I’m not interested in seeing. The bulk of my upcoming trip is Ukraine (visiting some dear friends, some I haven’t seen since I left in 2006), so I reckoned these two would be good launching pads. After a fact-finding week of seeing how well Romania has adjusted to life in the EU (and of course to verify the countless claims I’ve heard that Romanian women are amongst the most beautiful anywhere), I’m off to the [yet another] former Soviet hellhole of Moldova. I had considered making a visit here when I lived in Lviv some 4 years ago but was put off by the visa and invitation hassles. Now that all of that rigmarole has been done away with, I figured I might as well visit as it’s en route to Ukraine.

I’ve never ever been one to merely visit places to ‘say I’ve been’ or for the stamp in the passport, and nor do I like to ‘do’ countries. I only go to places that I really want to go to. Russia has always been near the top of my list, but over the past couple of years, after spending good chunks of time in Ukraine, the Baltics and the Caucasus, I got a bit philosophical, as I’m wont to do, about my intentions and sort of decided that I was going to circumnavigate Russia by first visiting all the former countries of the Soviet Union. After last summer’s jaunt round Central Asia, I’m left with just 5: Belarus, Moldova, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan and Tajikistan. I’m mulling over a job in Azerbaijan, which with its proximity to Turkmenistan means that, come the end of 2010, I could be looking at just Belarus and Tajikistan remaining. Hard to say when I’ll get back to Central Asia, so not including Tajikistan last summer when I traipsed round Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan could come back to haunt me. Visa and invitation hassles notwithstanding, Belarus is always in the geographical neighbourhood. Thus, I can hope to get to Russia by mid-2012, though that might be overly optimistic.

Even if, in some circles it’s ranked near the bottom of the World Database of Happiness or it’s been designated ‘Europe’s Poorest Country’, Moldova in and of itself sounds like a pleasantly charming place, replete with copious vineyards nestled amongst gentle rolling hills and valleys, with the Soviet-architecture-laden capital of Chisinau and it’s supposedly legendary nightlife screaming out for a look-see. But the ultimate vertiginous heights might only come when – or if – I make a stop in the breakaway enclave of Transdniestr, another in the long line of self-styled republics (along with Abkhazia, Ossetia, Dagestan, Chechnya) clamouring for independence and recognition (it made its break from Moldova in the early 1990s). It sounds like a bit of a banana republic, unrecognized by anyone bar Russia, with its own currency, army, police force and borders. It also sounds frightfully dangerous and hardly worth the hassle of trying to enter. But will that stop me? Hell no! It’s adventure I’m after, and it’s adventure I’m getting.

More than anything, I can hardly fail to visit Tiraspol, the capital of Transdniestr and home of perennial league champions FC Sheriff Tiraspol, after it featured as the answer to a trivia question posed on these very pages not long ago. For those who missed it the first time, the city features the only football stadium that ‘conforms to every single safety and security measure that [Uefa] stipulates’. So chalk up my upcoming visit as further investigative research.

But perhaps I ought to reconsider. According to some circles, ‘officially’ western tourists are ‘not welcome’, though the regions official tourist website – www.visitpmr.com – suggests otherwise, declaring Transdniestr to be ‘Europe’s hidden jewel’, and offering up a an interesting and skewed (?) version of its history. And here’s an excerpt from the Lonely Planet:

‘We receive continuous reader feedback reporting disturbing hijinks at Transdniestran border crossings, where organised intimidation is used to separate travellers from their money. Accusations of incomplete paperwork or invented transgressions (such as carrying a camera) lead to ludicrous ‘fines’ starting as high as $300. Some alleged offences border on the absurd, such as not having visas (unnecessary) or letters of invitation, acquired at the ‘Transdniestran Embassy’ (non-existent)…

Being invited into a hut with several looming, armed guards is not uncommon, where your infraction(s) is/are grimly pointed out in a farcically massive, ancient tome, written in indecipherable Cyrillic script. Then the haggling about your fine begins. You will be directed ‘by law’ to show them all your money – a brazen way for them to gauge the size of the fine they can impose. If you resist, a theatrical performance designed to heighten anxiety and break your will commences: ominous forms are filled out, your bags will be pulled off your bus, presumably leaving you stranded. Anyone without passable fluency in Russian is in for a hard time.”

How’s my Russian? ‘Passable’, perhaps, but nowhere in the neighbourhood of ‘fluent’. But considering I have a fetish for such off-the-wall places, because I want a funny and sordid tale or two to whinge (and write) about later, and mainly because I’m after a really challenging adventure, no matter how hair-raising, I’ll most likely visit. Unless I’m talked out of it by someone more sensible.

Besides, after the agony and turmoil of the past few months, could a bit of innocent border hassle possibly be any worse?

Lessons to be learned

Two things a male teacher should never do:

1. Lend a 15 year old girl a pair of pink socks.
2. Ask, loudly, in front of about 15 people who are not your own students, 'hey, where are the socks I lent you?'

This is never a good idea.

In my defence, she asked to borrow them for that recent 'fashion disaster day' the school had.

All the same, I'll add this to my list of forbidden topics and chalk it up as a learning experience.

A round of strenuous idleness

"Golf is a lot of walking, broken up by disappointment and bad arithmetic."

I must confess that I spilled the beans to my father regarding my entirely inappropriate ‘that’s what she said’ running commentary in my head the other day on the golf course. He actually found it highly amusing and tried to come up with his own examples, some of which I’ll share in a moment.

Now, this is a bit of a journalistic test for me. As I alluded to in that recent review of Plam Poom’s debut album, I used to cover sports for my university’s newspaper, The Tufts Daily. At first I wrote the men’s [American] football notebook (a sidebar to the main article) as well as women’s soccer for the weekly Observer, but then left that rag in a minor protest over the way they edited and butchered my soccer pieces to make them sound more ‘American’. Just two examples that spring to mind: when I wrote something like, ‘a goal was scored from a corner just after the half-hour mark of the match’, it would get changed to ‘a goal was scored from a corner kick with 60 minutes remaining in the game’; and, ‘she terrorised the opponents’ defence with her blistering pace, leaving the central defenders at sixes and sevens’ to ‘she terrorized the opponents’ defense with her speed, leaving the fullbacks very confused’. Forget it, I thought. And took my services to the Tufts Daily.

It was there that I started covering the swimming team, which wasn’t the most thrilling assignment in the world – no offence to swimmers - before being given women’s basketball, which I thoroughly enjoyed. A little while later, I got given one of the plum beats: sailing. I should point out that Tufts, yes, Tufts (!) had one of the top-ranked sailing teams in the country, ahead even of the US Naval Academy. I’m not sure what that says about the state of America’s navy, especially considering all the partying and drinking the Tufts sailing team engaged in.

Anyway, I really got into it, despite not knowing a thing about sailing in the beginning. A few of the sailors took me under their wing, not only patiently explaining all the important lingo, but inviting me to countless sailing parties and somehow ensuring I got home. At least I think they did.

The point of all this is that I’m about to attempt to write about golf, of which I know very little. So bear with me, please. But I’m doing this because I can’t remember the last time I felt this good about my sporting prowess. The last time I was halfway decent at anything, you’ve got to back to my baseball playing days in high school. For those interested, I can even share my stats with you, as pathetic as that sounds. And no, I don’t have to look them up.

“Golf is a good walk spoiled.”
Mark Twain

I’ve never been a huge fan of golf, and that’s putting things mildly. I went through a phase in high school where I played a lot over one summer, but that was really it until I played a round or two with my old man when I was in college. And I hadn’t played since then – except for putt-putt, which I’m addicted to - until this week. And now, suddenly, I’m hooked.

Actually, for purposes of transparency, I ought to come completely clean. My buddy Brad and I used to go up to Lake Winnipesaukee (NH) during the summer and play a lot of putt-putt, hit some balls at the driving range, eat lots of fried clams (that’s what they were calling it in those days), play video games at the arcades, and drink a few beers and then go run little kids off the go-kart course, where we usually got kicked out. Good, clean, innocent fun really.

My father, on the other hand, likes his golf, and though he’s by no means a terrific golfer, he does play from time to time. Definitely a LOT more than me, that’s for certain. When it comes to putt-putt, things are 50-50. With real golf, no comparison. Until the other day, that is.

Our first day out on the course, he beat me by a whopping 17 strokes over 18 holes. The second day featured a slight improvement, where I lost by 14 strokes.

But on the third day? With my uncle along for the fun, and my feisty competitive spirit raging at full speed, I made a dramatic turnaround and won by 3 strokes. Perhaps more impressively, or perhaps not, depending on your perspective, I was ahead by 9 strokes after 15, and luckily staved off a mini-collapse to hang onto the lead. I really felt proud of myself.

But that’s only part of the story. I got par on 5 holes and a birdie on another, where I was a measly 3 inches away from a hole-in-one. And yes, there was a lot of luck involved, but I was consistently landing my first shot on or near the green. In fact, if my putting were better, I could easily have had another birdie and 3 more pars. And yes, I have over-analysed this round to death.

Some elaboration is needed as to why I almost collapsed. On the 15th, I skewed my first shot into some roughage just over the green. Now, it’s hard for me to pinpoint just one weakness in my game, but if I had to choose one, it would be my pitching. I struggle to get any lift on the ball, especially at short distances. Whenever I’m able to get lift, the damn ball goes soaring over 50 yards. At around 20-25 yards from the pin, I needed a perfect chip to land it on the green. I had a small tree blocking my path as well, so I had to also angle my shot to avoid that.

I launched what felt like the perfect shot: just the right amount of lift, perfect direction…it just felt great. For a few seconds, that is. Plonk it went off the tree, ricocheting back past me. Patience is not one of my strong suits, and this is probably why I’ve always struggled with the game of golf. Immediately, I got flustered. Up until this point, it had been my father effing and blinding, accusing me of cheating and employing bad golf etiquette. What a sore loser.

Anyway, this piece of misfortune completely threw me off my game. I bungled the next shot badly, and in a fit of rage, I whacked my next shot over 100 yards away onto another hole’s fairway, nearly decapitating some 250 pound woman in the process. When I shouted my apology, I’m not sure if she gave me a thumbs-up or the bird, it was too far away. Either way I immediately accepted the 6 stroke limit on that hole and gave up.

The final 3 holes weren’t much better. I suddenly lost my confidence, whacking the tee shot on the 16th into the water, and then badly slicing my approach shot on 17, taking the 6 stroke limit on both holes. The 18th was a shade better, but it was a shame that I had lost my groove. Another 2 or 3 holes and in all likelihood I would have lost it.

But no matter, for the important thing is I did win, and boy was my father irate. He’s still fuming, accusing me of every golfing shenanigan in the book. What a sore loser.

I can’t wait to play him again.

Another game I’ve never been much good at - the patience thing again - is chess. I challenged my father to a game earlier, one featuring massive, life-size pieces in the town centre.

And I had checkmate in 4 moves. Has a game of chess every finished more quickly?

Of course, it helped that the poor guy didn’t know the rules, but still, that is impressive.

The ‘that’s what she said’ pantheon

The following comments uttered by yours truly were all followed by my father’s ‘that’s what she said’. You be the judge of whether any of them were appropriate or not. Keep in mind that the poor guy is learning here.

• ‘Damn it, I was 3 inches away from a hole in one!’
• ‘I completely collapsed over the last 4 holes.’
• ‘That’s ridiculous, that shot was heading straight for the hole.’
• ‘Come on, drop, damn it, drop!’

Come to think of it, those aren’t too shabby. I really have to give him a bit more credit.