suggzy

Part Two (after a bit of a pause.. still, only one behind now!)

We spent four nights in Constanta, and really loved the place. Right up to the hectic final evening, which saw the national Romanian side sadly exiting Euro 2016 at the hands of Albania. Hordes of fans charged down to Ovid Square as we, emerging from our latest Escape Room triumph, attempted to line up a spot of nosebag at a Greek restaurant that one of the two women we’d met on the first evening recommended.

Greek food seems to have become something of our default choice, since last year’s honeymoon on a couple of Greek islands. Indeed, earlier this year during a short break to Luxembourg, we hopped over the border so that SWK could claim to have trodden upon German soil, and we found ourselves scarfing a few Dolmades and whatnot for lunch. With, at least, a drop of German Pilsner for authenticity. That all got a bit awkward, when they didn’t take credit cards, and we proved unable to use the cashpoint in the border village. We finished up sat at the table transferring money across bank accounts just to be able to pay the bill. Better, on balance, to do that than find ourselves donning the marigolds and heading for the washing-up pile, splendid team though we are, of course.

Back in Constanta, arriving at the restaurant, we instantly regretted not booking. The terrace was packed. Properly packed. Couples, families, groups of mates, all scarfing the Souvlaki and watching the game on big screens. We asked if they could squeeze us in, but no dice. We wandered away, disconsolately looking on at the piles of halloumi with not a little envy, until suddenly a couple leapt up and away from their finished plates and glasses. SWK, being, as I call her, The Face Of The Organisation’ smiled winningly at a waiter and we were in.

At which point things slowed down rather. We gave it a few minutes and were wondering what the alternatives might be, but then a lady dropped in with a menu and asked if wanted a drink. Going through the menu at just under the speed of light, herself espied her much-loved Retsina and ordered a bottle.

“Ah, no. Retsina finish” said our girl.

Pah. Bit of a setback. Buy, y’know, at least we were in. And hungry and thirsty, so we persisted. In short order a couple of beers, some water and a very nice Romanian red put in an appearance, and we waded in.

The beer and the water were gone by the time our lady eventually popped back. Indeed, the wine had taken an early hit as well. However, there would at least be a few solids. Albeit probably not south of midnight.

“I’d like to try your Moussaka, I said” taking an appreciative sip of the red wine, picked to accompany it. I was determined to give authentic Greek Moussaka a third and final try; the two experiences I had of it last year were slippery, oily and yuck.

“Ah, no. Moussaka finish” said our girl.

Sake. My stomach growled, audibly. I think I did too. And just about stopped short of asking whether or not everything Greek was “finish”? Happy the gentler one of us hurriedly scoped an order and we eventually pushed it down atop the ocean of wine and beer. Meanwhile, Romania gradually bowed out of Euro 2016. We popped down to the main square for the last 20 minutes of the game, and eventually commandeered a taxi back to chez nous.

And so, the time came to transport ourselves across the country. The day dawned scintillatingly hot. We got ourselves and our luggage down to the local shop and stood in the shade, beaded with sweat, gulping frantically from water bottles. A certain amount of calling cab companies followed. After a time, the right combination of numbers got us through to what purported to be a taxi company and SWK summoned a mercifully air-conditioned ride to the station. We bumbled down into the bowels of the place and stowed our bags away until the evening, and headed out for the day, but not before checking with the nice ladies in the booth the exact details of our initial connection to Bucharest, where we later to pick up our onward sleeper to Bucharest.

Nice day out followed, including a final trip to one of our favoured haunts for a spot of lunch. After a time, we trekked back to the station and got cold drinks, bags, tickets, and awaited our train. Which, once it rolled into town, defied all expectation. It was utterly pristine, in each and every way, and the seat reservations proved correct and well, everything really. We settled in with books and a few tunes and set sail for our 20-minute visit to the Capital. All was in good order, and once we really got shifting there were some moments of genuine excitement, as we headed up and up and up and then traversed multiple level flyover bridges, as the Sun started to wane. Really pretty breath-taking stuff.

And then the customary oddities of a Cox-led journey began. We suddenly became aware of the sound of rapidly flowing water. And then the sound of a fairly large amount of water impacting something. Not a drop of rain in sight, though. Odd. I got to my feet and looked in what I perceived to be the right direction. To the left of the entrance to our carriage there was a locked glass door, and beyond it all that was visible was a pretty-much constant deluge of water sluicing down from the floor above (the train was one of those split-level jobs). After a time, it stopped. Speculation was rife amongst the locals. SWK and I pretty much shrugged it off, but did wonder what the source might be. Back to the old book, then.

Then it cracked off again. One started to dismiss the notion of a movement of stored water from an earlier shower, and reached darker conclusions. Particularly when there were suddenly some squeaks and whispers of shock around us, and the mighty chap to my right reached for his 53786 shopping bags and tried to find elevated areas on which to place them. He looked rather glumly at one, unmistakeably dripping from the bottom. A considerable snake of rather murky water had advanced down the central aisle. We did similar with our own belongings, and indeed moved ourselves upwards, much in the manner of Mammy Two Shoes, the lady of the house inhabited by Tom and Jerry. The base fear was that there had been some manner of eruption in the first floor WC, leading to a crack in the porcelain and something of a gruesome outflow. Ugh.

We met the situation with fortitude, and held on until Bucharest. Left with 18 minutes between services we barrelled down to the concourse and bought a healthy dinner of a large bag of pretzels and two large bottles of cold beer.

Our steed arrived, and proved itself to be of rather less than tip top order. Not a little Soviet, in vintage. I recalled my delight when I had booked tickets online for a First Class double for pretty minimal outlay of £50. Resolving, albeit briefly, to be positive, I led the way onto the train and swung the door of our cabin open, only for it to rebound into my face from an iron structure about three quarters of an inch inside the room.

The interior of the place was a vision of brown wood. And one of the smallest spaces I have ever cohabited. It made that cabin that Nicholas and I rattled through from Prague to Warsaw in look like a sprawling ballroom. It was, essentially, a pair of bunk beds and a tiny place in which to lay one’s wares. And nothing else. With the window tight shut, and the heat of our bodies added, the heat and humidity was excruciating. SWK leapt to the upper bunk, and we both disrobed immediately. I stood on the ground level, naked except for my boxers, and offered a short piece to camera, which our friends on Facebook are welcome to view. I appear in that short film to have been running for several miles. I have never been in a sauna, but I imagine this was not far off. The experience was slightly painfully added to when the guard appeared, and I had to endure a short exchange with him over the matter of our tickets, dressed and dripping in just the same way.

We were, for a time, not a little hysterical. We opened the beer, and could almost see it evaporating. Storm clouds started to form just under the ceiling. I ventured to the WC, at the end of the carriage (having popped my sodden shirt back on), and made water ahead of the coming night. It had the ring of a recently abandoned abattoir.  Beyond a simple evacuation, touching as small a number of surfaces as possible, nothing was possible. To brush your teeth in there would have been to embrace the cold grip of Cholera, Typhoid, and, indeed, diseases yet unknown. First Class my foot.

I returned, advised my wife to hold it, and turned my attentions to the window, as the temperature rose once again.

Remember those comedy caper films where cars were started with a crank handle? Yes? So it was, that the route to fresh air was by much the same method. One took a sort of outsized Allen Key from a berth on the wall, and engaged it in an aperture on the sill of the window. And turned, and turned, and turned. The window started to open, by the millimetre. I thought I discerned the sound of atmospheric pressures equalising, as my muscles burned. Frankly, that Atlas geezer had it easy.

We clawed eagerly at the moving and cooler air as it burst into our little coffinette. The effect was merciful. Noisy, yes. Oh God it was noisy, but one could at least draw in a full lungful of air. I cast the handle aside, took a closing pull of my beer, crammed in some pretzels for the saline replacement value, and dropped onto my bunk. We made good-humoured talk for a while, musing momentarily about what it would be to attempt anything overtly romantic in such a space – agreeing very much that it would be beyond ghastly, and eventually one or the other of us dropped off.

We clanked North. Now and again one would be wrested from slumber by the train’s horn. But, remarkably, I believe we both cobbled together a couple of hours of sleep.

In seemingly no time at all, we jumped back into wakefulness as mobiles chirruped that we were but 15 minutes from Iasi (pronounced Yash). A desultory application of wet wipes acted by way of a shower, and we used chewing gum to freshen our breath. Clothed once again, SWK made for a morning pee. After a while she returned, sporting a stunned expression that suggested that discussion about the facilities would be unwelcome.

We disembarked. Glad of being back on two feet, and at liberty. It was 6.30am, and so we dumped bags and went out on foot for an early explore. Within minutes we were walking down a marvellous boulevard and generally cooing at an agreeable location. Very nice indeed, sparkling attractively in the emerging dawn.

We were, by now, famished, and so I can report to my shame that we walked back to the station and got ourselves outside of a McDonalds breakfast and a spot of coffee. It had the restorative effect, and we hailed a cab and took ourselves and our belongings off to the hotel. The staff there were a little surprised to see us so early, and could not offer a room until later in the morning. However, they took our heavier luggage behind the counter and pointed us in the direction of local possibilities. As we headed out, we came to an agreement. We would treat the morning as if it were the evening, drop in somewhere for a couple of cooling beers, then come back to the hotel for a doze and go out to explore later on the day. And so the die was, I’m afraid, cast…

It did not take long for us to alight on a place that was up and running. On an upper terrace a bulky and shaved man was enjoying a cold one. No one else in sight, but it was not long until the Face Of The Organisation summoned a young man who was only too happy to supply us with cooling lager. Shoes off, feet up, we relaxed into an impromptu but, we felt, justifiable morning sup. We nattered about this and that, including our concerns about the upcoming EU Referendum, which was only two days ahead of us, and had already involved us in a couple of conversations with some Romanian folk.

Over SWK’s shoulder, I saw the man get another round in, and this time chase it with something cold, small, clear and evidently rather bracing, judging by the way he shivered on a first sip of it. He looked a little troubled when another fellow dropped in on him with some paperwork which he scanned, with furrowed brow, before scribbling a few notes and sending the fellow off with some instructions.

We were just about to head off to our hotel when we heard those words..

“Hello! Where are you from?”

The first words of this fateful day from a man I have come to dub Ovidiu The Rogue. Our buzz-cut man across the terrace. We indulged in a certain amount of small talk, being the friendly citizens we always endeavour to be. All jolly agreeable. SWK fired up another “last quick one” before we headed for sleep, and our new chum ambled over to our table.

Right from the off, one could see there was the glint of mischief and mayhem in his eye. A range of topics were covered. His life, his business, his young Daughter, and, alas, the EU. Fair to say our chap was not a fan, but in fairness he made a number of cogent remarks about foreign ownership and their effect on his ability to make a living. I don’t know how he did it, but, unspeakingly he made two more beers and a glass of the firewater appear.

“You must try this. It is local drink”, he said. I looked at SWK, she looked at me. I gulped. It was about 9.30am. I drew the glass to my lips and poured in a plum-flavoured mouthful of flames. The icy burn that is the Romanian version of Palinka. OTR, as I shall now call him, chortled at my disquiet. SWK did too, the cheeky mare, so I thrust the glass in her direction, suggesting it would only be polite for her to have a little try. The woman is made of iron, it turns out. She didn’t so much as flinch as the burning liquid passed her teeth.

The morning became rather more fluid. We felt it only hospitable to get OTR a round back. With misunderstandings at an all-time high, this round came accompanied with more paint stripper. Oddly once you’ve had a few sips, it becomes rather more potable. We mused that we would, at least, sleep. Fatally, for our prospects later that day, we exchanged telephone number, as OTR said he’d like to show us around a bit. Mrs OTR put in an appearance, after the school run. A nice lady, but bearing something of a thunderous expression for her husband, and not possessed of very much by way of conversational English. The atmosphere became frostier than the drinks. Through the fog, SWK and I realised it was time to beat a retreat. We came to an agreement as to the bill, and weaved down the hill towards our lodgings. We boozily hoisted the bags to the room and crashed out to the strains of air-conditioning.

Skip forward to 5.00pm or so. I jumped back into wakefulness as my mobile registered a text. From OTR..

<I am outside. With car.>

Oh crap. There was a brief discussion between us and we agreed we probably ought to play his game. After all, we had plenty more time, even if we were going to inevitable right off the first day somewhat. Small matter, we were on holiday, after all!

<Give us 10 minutes, to have a quick shower. Meet you in lobby?>

…

<Cool. C U soon.>

It was as I banged my head getting into the shower that I mused that the morning’s largesse may not quite yet have left my system. SWK did not voice them, but she clearly had similar misgivings. But we soldiered on.

Outside, OTR smoked cheerily against a fancy sports car. He introduced his chum, who I mistook as his driver or employee; a notion I could not quite get out of my head for the rest of the evening. We alighted the motor and OTR tore off into town, parking up by a Prosecco bar. In we went, a table was secured, and yet more libations appeared. There was more by way of chitchat, and we moved on to a discussion about wine. Big mistake. The next thing you know, fingers got snapped and a bottle of something white, crisp and amazing arrived in an ice bucket. This, for me, was the fatal blow. I’m just not 21 anymore, I’m afraid.

I nodded off. Sorry, but it’s true. I was woken in time to be ushered into a different vehicle for a ride to OTR’s ‘club’, which it transpired (as I woke again) was a leafy resort just outside the city, with a terrace and a pool. Some other chums were on station by the pool. I collapsed into a deck chair, and was given water. I like to imagine I entertained the gleeful throng, but suspect not. They seemed entirely engaging and cheerful, but there was just a hint of darkness about what ‘business’ they might be engaged in. Who knows, really? SWK fought gamely onwards, and I dropped back into sleep, which, it turned out, was going to be very good for me.

I am told that a further avalanche of ruinous fluids followed. I knew nothing of this, as my snores echoed through the trees.

Having lost some time, I then dimly remember being led to the exit by SWK.. in just a bit of a hurry. She sported a mobile in one hand and, well, a cigarette in the other.

“You’re smoking?” I offered.

“E-cig’s gone dead” she slurred back.

Ho hum. I woozily ensured I had all my belongings, and was delighted to find I did. In the distance, OTR was stumbling around, a confused and really quite broken man, by the looks of him. It was the last glance of him I ever had, as, magically, a taxi appeared and we fell into it and sped away, leaving our host behind. I, true to form, fell asleep.

SWK and I finally compared notes over a late lunch the following day, from behind dark glasses, with sausages and water to rectify the overdose of the first day.

I learned that we had left in a polite hurry as it seemed that as I dozed, OTR had exhibited where he got the R bit from. He had chosen that pause in my evening to take more than a bit of shine to SWK, and had gone as far as, err, ‘unclasping’ her, in an unwanted little clinch. Fortunately, being a pretty but very determined lady, herself managed to shrug off this boozy advance. No doubt she has suffered similar unwelcome attentions in the past. If anything I was far more shaken by this revelation than she was in its retelling. Quite a woman, my wife.

I fumed quietly inside, but told myself to let it go. Not my place to go around defending the honour of my loved one when she could do it herself perfectly well. Still, a cautionary tale all the same, and I think a lesson learned.

It would not do to head for the grave without some tales to tell, and that is the latest of many. The Tale of Ovidiu The Rogue, and my Brushes with Death in Romania.

More next week..