an arsehole.
'Naroc!' he replied, beaming playfully.
Things had got off to a good start.
It was to be downhill from here. I was bombarded with another torrent of strange guttural sounds which meant that Grigore was asking me another question. His eyes twinkled expectantly awaiting my reply. You had to admire his complete refusal to accept that I had a vocabulary of only four words in his language. One of them, 'Prost', was going to become relevant soon if he carried on like this. I smiled vacuously in recognition of not having recognised a word. Grigore took a sip from his brandy and it somehow gave him the inspiration to attempt some English.
'What iz you? Ears?'
What?'
'What iz you ears?'
'Ears?'
'Da – ears. Uno, doi, tre – ears! What iz your ears?'
'I'm not sure I know what you mean.'
Yes I was. I was damn sure I didn't have a clue what he meant.
'Me,' continued Grigore bravely. 'Me – patruzeci trei ears.'
Ah, I recognised some numbers in there. I'd learned a bit of counting.
'Patruzeci – that's forty.'
'Da.'
'And trei is three.'
'Da.'
'Right. So you're saying you have forty-three ears?'
'Da! Da!' he cried with immense relief.
I looked at him in disbelief. He appeared to be exaggerating by forty-one.
'Oh!' I said, the penny finally dropping. You're saying you have forty-three years.'
'Da. Da. What iz your ears?'
'I'm thirty-eight.'
He looked blank. No surprise that he had failed to understand. Five minutes later after much laborious holding up of fingers he had a rough idea of how old I was, which would have been something he could have divined simply by looking at me. I took a sip of brandy. This male bonding thing was rather hard work. I wasn't looking forward to the part where we moved on to politics. However, by manufacturing three consecutive yawns I was able to signal that bedtime was upon us and thankfully our struggle was over. We exchanged goodnights and shook hands cordially. The little chat, though hardly a flowing one, had confirmed one thing at least. We liked each other.
As I lay on the single bed in my colourless, uncomplicated bedroom I felt strangely at home. The family had set me at ease. They'd brought to me a warmth. This was something I would come to rely on in the coming weeks. In Moldova you looked to relationships for warmth. The radiators were useless.
We were lost again, just as we had been the previous day.
'Is it a national characteristic of Moldovans not to number things correctly?' I asked Iulian cheekily.
'People do number their addresses correctly,' he replied, 'but I'm trying to convince the driver that he's not where he thinks he is.'
I would need less convincing. I already felt as if I was in some kind of suspended reality. I had spent the morning in the back of a Lada which was driving us around the drab suburbs of the city in a search for Zimbru Chisinau's training ground. At ten-minute intervals we had pulled over to the side of the road so that Iulian and the taxi driver Alexandra could argue over the map before setting off to a number of locations which had only one thing in common – that of not being Zimbru Chisinau's training ground.
At one point I had been hopeful. We were outside some gates with 'Zimbru Chisinau' written on them. For me, this was promising. Surely worth getting out and asking. But no, Iulian insisted that this was the wrong address and he instructed the driver to take us off in search of the right one.
An hour later we pulled up outside the same gates.
This is not it, but I will go and ask,' said Iulian without enthusiasm.
I watched from the back seat as he ambled up to two men who were sharing an animated conversation. He did not interrupt but stood patiently by for them to finish. Iulian was confident and self-assured but he certainly wasn't pushy. Ten minutes later, when the men had finished their conversation and exchanged protracted goodbyes Iulian seized his moment. The discussion which followed did not seem to be
'Naroc!' he replied, beaming playfully.
Things had got off to a good start.
It was to be downhill from here. I was bombarded with another torrent of strange guttural sounds which meant that Grigore was asking me another question. His eyes twinkled expectantly awaiting my reply. You had to admire his complete refusal to accept that I had a vocabulary of only four words in his language. One of them, 'Prost', was going to become relevant soon if he carried on like this. I smiled vacuously in recognition of not having recognised a word. Grigore took a sip from his brandy and it somehow gave him the inspiration to attempt some English.
'What iz you? Ears?'
What?'
'What iz you ears?'
'Ears?'
'Da – ears. Uno, doi, tre – ears! What iz your ears?'
'I'm not sure I know what you mean.'
Yes I was. I was damn sure I didn't have a clue what he meant.
'Me,' continued Grigore bravely. 'Me – patruzeci trei ears.'
Ah, I recognised some numbers in there. I'd learned a bit of counting.
'Patruzeci – that's forty.'
'Da.'
'And trei is three.'
'Da.'
'Right. So you're saying you have forty-three ears?'
'Da! Da!' he cried with immense relief.
I looked at him in disbelief. He appeared to be exaggerating by forty-one.
'Oh!' I said, the penny finally dropping. You're saying you have forty-three years.'
'Da. Da. What iz your ears?'
'I'm thirty-eight.'
He looked blank. No surprise that he had failed to understand. Five minutes later after much laborious holding up of fingers he had a rough idea of how old I was, which would have been something he could have divined simply by looking at me. I took a sip of brandy. This male bonding thing was rather hard work. I wasn't looking forward to the part where we moved on to politics. However, by manufacturing three consecutive yawns I was able to signal that bedtime was upon us and thankfully our struggle was over. We exchanged goodnights and shook hands cordially. The little chat, though hardly a flowing one, had confirmed one thing at least. We liked each other.
As I lay on the single bed in my colourless, uncomplicated bedroom I felt strangely at home. The family had set me at ease. They'd brought to me a warmth. This was something I would come to rely on in the coming weeks. In Moldova you looked to relationships for warmth. The radiators were useless.
We were lost again, just as we had been the previous day.
'Is it a national characteristic of Moldovans not to number things correctly?' I asked Iulian cheekily.
'People do number their addresses correctly,' he replied, 'but I'm trying to convince the driver that he's not where he thinks he is.'
I would need less convincing. I already felt as if I was in some kind of suspended reality. I had spent the morning in the back of a Lada which was driving us around the drab suburbs of the city in a search for Zimbru Chisinau's training ground. At ten-minute intervals we had pulled over to the side of the road so that Iulian and the taxi driver Alexandra could argue over the map before setting off to a number of locations which had only one thing in common – that of not being Zimbru Chisinau's training ground.
At one point I had been hopeful. We were outside some gates with 'Zimbru Chisinau' written on them. For me, this was promising. Surely worth getting out and asking. But no, Iulian insisted that this was the wrong address and he instructed the driver to take us off in search of the right one.
An hour later we pulled up outside the same gates.
This is not it, but I will go and ask,' said Iulian without enthusiasm.
I watched from the back seat as he ambled up to two men who were sharing an animated conversation. He did not interrupt but stood patiently by for them to finish. Iulian was confident and self-assured but he certainly wasn't pushy. Ten minutes later, when the men had finished their conversation and exchanged protracted goodbyes Iulian seized his moment. The discussion which followed did not seem to be
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