suggzy

Part One (this goes on a bit, but stick with it)

I have, quite recently, applied for a job overseas. This is, of course, an exciting if rather distant prospect. Were it to come off, we’d be looking at living in Barcelona for the next couple of years. On the face of it, this might be an intriguing change of pace, and offer all sorts of interesting new things to us.  Life is short, after all. In the ‘causes for concern’ column,  I have written that I am unsure about what Milo The Wonder Dog will make of having his passport photo taken, with a 1,000 mile car journey to follow, and, secondly what SWK will make of piloting a Right Hand Drive Nissan Juke through the uphills of Andorra. Unusual times, eh? I mention all of this for bloggardly lustre, but I’ll probably finish up working in Northampton, having jinxed it. Still, news to follow, no doubt.

Working overseas has always attracted me. I have been doing it in shorter spells for some years, and in some not uninteresting places. As a result I have dabbled, before, with the notion of a longer-term gig. And, indeed, I was offered a job in Egypt that I finished up not taking, and thencame within an ace of a wonder job in Mauritius. Perhaps this will be third time lucky, eh? Occasionally, under the banner of internationalisation, I have had the chance to visit a place I have been to before, as a tourist, which always adds new impressions.

My time in Lithuania is a prime example of this. In fact, as I think about it, I had even met Lithuanian University boffins almost ten years before even going there. My boss at the time was one of those nice old chaps who manages to know someone almost everywhere. He announced to me, one day, that he had a couple of research fellows from Kaunas coming to stay, and he would appreciate it if I could “lend them a hand with a few little things?” Hmm. Charming though they turned out to be (still can’t work out if they were actually a couple), it turned into a full week of work as PA, chauffeur, secretary, and general dogsbody-in-chief. Kind of fun its way, but it only just stopped short of me taking their laundry home. My reward for this cheery slavery was a not unlikely, but certainly unusual one. We pulled up in my rattling Maestro at Stansted Airport and Mr Lithuania leaned over to me and placed a bottle of honey-coloured liquid in my hand, with a label in some sort of Gothic red ink typeface, revealing the name Suktinis.

“Is man drink”, he whispered conspiratorially. O-kay.

Breaking the habit of a lifetime, I didn’t drive home and crack it open. I eyed it warily on the passenger seat, and tootled back to my flat. These things are not always best taken lightly. The bottle went on a dusty shelf and was forgotten about, even though in plain sight. It was months and months later when my friend Nicholas (you’ll recall him from the Bear and Prostitute tales) came to stay. As chaps like us do, after a day on the pop in Cambridge, we nervously freed the cork from my gift in the late hours of a Friday night. No water, no ice, just a little sniff to test the aroma and down went the first shot.

It was an uncompromising sledgehammer of a drink. SWK will occasionally make noises about the agonising effects of the bottle of Bekerovka that sits menacingly in our garage (a gift from some Czech chums; you tell people you like wine and they give you Death Booze), but this was an unholy amalgam of petrol, woody herbs, a little honey and vintage antifreeze. The walls melted, night turned to morning and we woke, fully clothed, on my bed , with the empty bottle lying between us. Suktinis had not made men of us. It had made us most unwell. Still, no good being boring, eh?

Fast forward a decade, and Sarah the First and I went to Lithuania as part of our epic four country trip, some of which has already been chronicled here. Arrival in Vilnius (albeit after a lot of X-raying of my bag at the border with Belarus, the only bag on the bus that drew the use of the machine) came as a sublime relief after the ghastliness of the getting caught short incident at Minsk’s most unsavoury bus station loo. The nostrils cleared, and Vilnius proved itself a beautiful city indeed. Very friendly, everywhere we went, and pleasingly affordable. My wife tucked into the local delicacy that was Beaver stew (those were some fun texts back home) and we had the best breakfast coffee in a long while. Remind me to write a bit about hotel and guesthouse coffee, sometime. I’m a real picnic when it comes to the morning cafetiere.

The return visit to the country was a right ligger’s job, if I’m totally honest. Coming to the end of my days in what was, now I think of it, NOT my last job, I was feeling a bit down on the place. So, quite by accident, I came upon the opportunity to go to a European conference on HE development in Lithuania. Saw a few e-mails flying around and just sent one on to the guy who controlled the funding for such visits. He asked me to submit the title for a presentation, and Bob was, as they say, my Mother’s Brother. In some ways l almost fancied a break, so once it had the green light from Central Command I didn’t give it the most thought. Having submitted a brief, and received what seemed like free money, I then didn’t tell the boss and buggered off to the Baltic sun for three days after talking to the Vice-Chancellor of the hosting University. She was charm itself, and seemed unfathomably delighted that I was going to visit and tell her guests about my work. Go figure. I was sat on the other end of the ‘phone line pretty much high-fiving myself in disbelief. I’m always a bit like that when asked to speak or to give a view on anything; I don’t see it will ever change, to be honest. I sort of want to tell them I was born in Margate and struggle a bit with my shoelaces (true), by way of inviting them to reconsider. Still, off I went. As I recall, one or two enquiries did pop up on e-mail from home base once I was out there but a) I was having too much of a laugh to care and b) my line about “international profile building for us” seemed to be swallowed. Result!

Come the time, I had the singular joy of leaving Sheffield at 3am to rag it down to Luton for the early flight to Kaunas. So far so good, although I always find I suffer with an odd nausea when I have to get up that early to fly somewhere. No doubt I will in a couple of weeks when SWK and I fly at ohmygodoclock to Luxembourg (I am yet to fully reveal how early we have to get up, as it will not win me many husband points). With the jalopy safely stowed away, I arrived at the airport. It occurred to me I was being transported the other end, and was on the company dollar, so I mowed a bacon sarnie and a couple of pints of lager, and promptly felt marvellous again. This turned out to be a splendid tactic, as the flight was only 2/3 full, so within 15 minutes of take-off I was driving them home like a trooper, gathering energy for the day ahead. The only downside was that I came to with an alarming, stewardess-trolley-shaking snort about half an hour from touchdown, to a chorus of titters all around me. Embarrassing, yes, but so it goes – I was refreshed, reasonably sober and ready to crack on.

So, I had arrived. I stumbled around a bit and found the main concourse, and what I assumed to be the meeting point. Fired up a gasper and hoped for the best. This was to be my first ever experience of having a car sent for me. I realise this is a commonplace experience for many people, as you see the signs being wielded in all airports, all the time. But, you know, it’s me. I assumed it was a joke and wondered how on earth I was going to get to Šiauliai, my final destination.

However, my prayers were to be answered, on this occasion. The crowds parted and towards me marched a man at least 95 years old and at least eight feet tall. He had the aspect of Lurch, from the Addams Family. Cheerfully enough now drawing his pension, and doing a spot of driving on the side.

I drew myself upright and stared him square in the navel, whereupon he boomed:

“COX!”

“Er, yes”, I replied. “Chris is fine though, it’s nice to mee..”

“DRIVER!”

A brief pause, as the ringing in my ears came to a stop.

“Oh, right, well thank-you, I’m looking forw..”

“ENGLISH”

I was without words.

“NO!”

The situation became clearer. He had been given a four word script by his employers, sufficient to inveigle me into his motor without further questions. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. I reached for my bags, waiting to follow, whereupon the mighty old man plucked them from my fingers like they were a selection of ladies’ purses. He then set off at what was, for him, an easy stroll, and what was for me, even after three years of running now, an impossible pace.

Outside, it was about 90 degrees in the old money. We arrived at his wheels with him cheerful and me sweating uncontrollably, fighting to breathe. I was patting myself down with a hankie as he swung the door open commandingly. I got in, strapped up, and he tore off into the traffic at the sort of pace that would part your hair. Our odyssey to Šiauliai was underway..

I’d estimated three hours at a steady potter. In the end, I was proved right, but not by own design. It was an attractive countryside journey, dipping into the occasional small market settlement as we headed North. Silver Lurch settled at a Sunday driver’s pace on the sections of A-road in-between. I guess about 70-odd kph? Very steady, not that I was about to argue, as I was in no hurry and was in his massive hands. However, he became very hurried indeed every time we dropped into one of the aforementioned small towns. Each time we alighted upon one, his pace shifted up several gears, and we tore through them like we were on ‘Police Camera Action!’ Rows of houses blurred by. On one occasion he took the wrong exit by driving straight through a roundabout, only to then correct the erroneous manoeuvre (the acknowledgement of which  he marked quite charmingly by bumping his fist against his forehead, cartoon-style) three or four miles down the road, by doing a dramatic u-turn on the main carriageway.

And on we went. About halfway in, he dropped the windows and sparked up a ciggie. Fearlessly, I did the same, and received a beneficent smile. I smiled back. So far so good.

A few miles up the road, smokes exhausted, his country pace slowed, as a windmill appeared on the horizon. We stopped in the middle of the road, and he grabbed my sleeve and pointed towards it. I was at a bit of a loss and wondering what might be coming up the road behind us, when he did the international sign language for eating. You know? A sort of whirring fork and knife movement in a cyclical fashion? Yes, that one. He grinned warmly and patted his stomach. My interpretation remains that it was one of his favoured restaurants. Onwards we dawdled, until a city drew up, and he started to go into chase mode again, until we arrived in a big square, with University-like buildings in it.

The tyres cooled, and I enquired, gently, “hotel?” A shrug and an inquisitive stare met me.

“Wait here” I said, bravely, and mimed pulling up a handbrake. He seemed unconcerned, and I alighted into the sun once again. I staggered around for a bit, as I do (I’m an Olympic-standard staggerer, as it goes) until I saw the University Library. I meandered in there, with one eye on Silver Lurch, and was redirected to the Registry, next door. Once in there, I pleaded my case as an idiotic foreign delegate, and the young woman behind the desk lit up through her faultless and elaborate make-up with apparent recognition. News travels fast, it seems, when you are the sweaty new Englishman in town.

“I come with you now” she grinned. I wondered what Sarah 1 would make of all of this. I held open the door, and she was on Silver Lurch in a breath, barking out instructions in a way that left the poor old retainer rather cowed, I thought. Silence fell, and we noodled off to the suburbs. I kept vague track of the route, and we eventually pulled up at a row of imposing-looking houses, opposite a park.

“I go back now”, she said. And disappeared off at Lithuanian Regulation Pace. Bugger.

So, once again, I blundered off up the path, and ascertained that the building was a hotel. I headed back to Silver Lurch, with thumbs aloft. He leapt into action, slammed the door, and hoisted my bags back up into the small of his palm, and made for the door. He dinged the bell like a guest at Fawlty Towers and launched into cheery and avuncular conversation with the young fellow at the desk. Before long, he patted me in fraternal fashion on the shoulder and left the chap to lead me to my room. I arrived into my new base, which was roughly the size of the ground floor of my current house. Complete with an en-suite, it also oddly featured an entirely superfluous sink in the main body of the room. Of course.

On the bed, a basket of random welcoming stuff. I ate the biscuit, drank the water, and got my head down for a bit, ahead of an evening of exploring.

End of Part One..