The Irish Stout Anomaly

          On the evening of Friday, Oct 1st my friend Andreea invited me for a pint of our favorite brew: Guinness. Our place of choice is usually the Garage Hall on Pta. Romana. However, in that evening there was going to be a football match and on football nights the Garage Hall becomes a small stadium with its giant projection screen and noisy football supporters.
  
          So we decided to go bar-hopping trying to find a nice, football-free pub for our pint of Guinness, good music and a relaxing chat.
An overly-optimistic undertaking, for those who know Bucharest pubs and their football and loud crap music infested environments.

          Andreea swore she won’t go to the Centru Veche (Lipscani) area so we started our pub prospection around Universitate.

          A brief peek at Edgar’s Pub proved infructiferous as the only available table was too smoky and too chilly as it was the nearest to the door and the wind bit shrewdly in that evening.

          Next stop was Coyote Café but they were having live music band that night: too noisy and impossible to hold conversation in normal voice levels.

           And so the inevitable happened: We ended up in Centru Veche, in a pub called Dirty Harry’s, which, oddly had an LCD screen ready for the football; the waiter told us they would tune it on the match later but for some mysterious reason was kept showing Schwarzenegger’s movie Eraser.

          We finally ordered our two pints of Guinness.

          Now Guinness is not your average beer. It’s not even called “beer”, it is a stout. And it has some very important characteristics: its creaminess, the creaminess of the head (the foam on top of the beer) and the famous Guinness cascade of bubbles.

          The creaminess of the beer caused not only by its ingredients but mainly because the brewery injects liquid nitrogen in the mix along with carbon dioxide to completely eliminate the presence of oxygen, which would cause the beer to oxidize and alter its flavor.

          The creaminess of the head is achieved when the pressure in the liquid is released as the beer is draught, causing the nitrogen to expand.

          As the radius of the bubbles are inversely proportional to the surface tension of the liquid, the creamy liquid wins the fight against the pressure of the bubbles, making them smaller and smaller bubbles means creamy head.

          The famous Guinness cascade effect is caused by a hydrodynamic effect called entrainment.

          As the beer is draught into the glass and the pressure is released, bubbles start to form.  Bubbles close to the surface of the glass tend to cling to it causing drag and slowing down the bubbles ascent. Now bubbles in the center of the glass are free to rise to the surface, forming an ascending column of bubbles. The movement of the rising column of bubbles creates a current by entrainment of the surrounding liquid. As the beer column rises in the center, the beer in the outside surroundings tend to move in the opposite direction, causing the bubbles to fall towards the bottom like a cascade.

          Purist bartenders tend to pour Guinness very slowly to optimize the creamy and cascade effects. According to the Guinness company itself, a perfect pint of Guinness should take 119.53 seconds to be poured.

          Of course, we can’t expect bartenders in Bucharest to do it like that but I expected at least to get a pint of Guinness when I order one.

          When the waitress brought our pints it was obvious that something was wrong. The beer was too transparent, not creamy. The head was not creamy at all. It just looked like ordinary head from a carbon dioxide mixed beer. And it certainly didn’t have the characteristic bubble cascade.

          One sip of it and it was confirmed: Guinness it was NOT. It tasted just like an ordinary black beer like Silva Bruna.

          I took the glasses to the bar and told the bartender that I had ordered Guinness not Silva Bruna. He said it IS Guinness and I raised the glass against the light for him to see the watery non-creaminess of the black liquid that he was selling as Guinness.

          He still claimed that it IS Guinness.
          I suggested he taste it.

          Using a straw like a pipette he extracted some of the liquid from my glass and tasted it. Then his argument changed to: “Well then the problem is at the producer as I just connect the keg that comes from Guinness to the machine.”

          I asked him if he’s really suggesting that I should complain to the producer and his response was the Romanian trademark: “Pai, nu-e vina mea!" (It's not my fault!).
          As I saw that I wasn’t going to get anywhere arguing with him I told him I’ll keep the Silva Bruna he was selling as Guinness but I wasn’t coming back to that place. And of course, his answer was yet another Romanian trade mark response: “Treaba ta.” (That’s your business).

          This is how Dirty Harry’s won a distinguished place in my black list of pubs to avoid.

          So if you’re considering going to Dirty Harry's, you've got to ask yourself one question: 

          Do I feel lucky? 
          Well, do ya, punk?

Euphemistic Food

         A couple of weeks ago me and Ioana were walking up Blv. Bratianu when I noticed that Dominium Pizza opened a new restaurant there.
    We checked the menu and it seemed interesting so we decided to eat there.

         As soon as we entered and sat down the waitress brought us the menu, which sounds obvious to those who live in other countries but it is unusual for those living in Romania. One positive point to them.

         While we were browsing the menu the waitress passed by again and asked if we would like to order drinks first. One more positive point. So we ordered a beer for me and a white wine to Ioana.

         A short time later and the waitress brought us the drinks and to my surprise: In the appropriate glasses! My beer (I had ordered a draught Stella Artois) in their trademark draught glass with short stem and the white wine in a stemmed glass with a not so broad bowl, proper for white wines. Another very big positive point.

         We proceeded to choose the food. I noticed that they had Beef Cutlet alla Parmigiana, which was a favorite of mine when I lived in Brazil. So I ordered one.
         Ioana was feeling a little more adventurous so she ordered a burrito.

         Now we don’t really need to live in Italy or Mexico to know what these dishes are about do we?
 

 
         Beef alla Parmigiana is a dish typical from Southern Italy and consists of a piece of boneless meat coated in bread crumbs and fried. The meat is then put on an oven dish and covered with layers of cheese and tomato sauce and baked in the oven.

         Burritos are a Mexican dish that consists of a filling of minced meat, Mexican beans, rice, cheese and lettuce wrapped in a soft corn flour tortilla and usually covered in a chili-tomato sauce.




 

         Now based on all the positive points that the restaurant had earned so far, that’s exactly what we were expecting.
         However, to our utter disappointment we realized that Beef alla Parmigiana and Burrito were simply euphemisms to hide the crude naked true:
 
         What they call Beef alla Parmigiana was a simple, ordinary schnitzel with fried potatoes. No cheese, no tomato sauce, no oven. They didn’t even care to spill some ketchup on top and pretend it was tomato sauce. 
 
         And the so-called Burrito was an undisguised Shaworma with a small cup of un-chilied tomato sauce on the side. No corn tortilla, no beans, no chili.
 
         I'm sure they didn’t even wave the dishes in the general direction of Italy and Mexico to attach those names on them!
 
          I asked the waitress where’s the tomato sauce, the cheese, the chili, the beans…??? And she just mumbled “this is how we make them” and something about “our own recipe”.

         I know that expecting the right food in a Romanian restaurant was overly optimistic. But after all those positive signs I had the right to have hope!
         But alas, as usual in Romania hope is the first to die.
         I will never, ever expect good things from a Romanian restaurant. And don’t send me messages about half-full and half-empty glasses, please.

Mâna întinsă care nu spune o poveste nu primeşte pomană

             Living downtown on the main street of Bucharest, I see all sorts of beggars around.  There are the usual old ladies and kids who sit down by the sidewalk. Some are even dropped by their families in their usual spots every morning and picked up in the afternoon.

I don’t usually help them because I know there’s a mafia of beggars operating in Bucharest and even the government has a campaign against it with a huge outdoor advertising saying that some beggars make more money than honestly employed people. So I rarely give them money. And I make a special point in not helping when they call me “china”. And most do.

But one day, long ago, when I was still living in Ploiesti I was walking the streets and an old lady asked me for help and called me “Domnul Japonezu” (Mr. Japanese). So I stopped, thanked her and gave her a 50.000L note, which in that period was enough for her to buy bread for more than a week.

Most of the beggars just simply ask for money.  Some even quote a sum. The minimalists just shove their open hands towards you without a word.

            But in the famous words spoken by the late Gheorghe Dinica in the celebrated Romanian movie Filantropica by Nae Caranfil: "Mâna întinsă care nu spune o poveste nu primeşte pomană" or  "a stretched hand without a tale receives no alms."

            So this is when they have to exercise their creativity.

            Yesterday under the Coloamne on Pta. Romana there was a man with a sign that read: "Mi-e foame" (I'm hungry). Simple and straight to the point. The font he chose was not a real good choice but I suppose he was no designer. At least he knows how to write.

            Also under the Coloamne there use to be an old man with a sign containing a double page magazine article about himself. As I never stopped to read the article I have no idea what it is about but he seems to be a celebrity beggar.

            Today in front of Cartureşti there was a lady with a small kid and a sign that said simply: "Chiria 80 Lei" (Rent: 80 Lei). Which I hope meant that she was asking for people to help her pay her rent, not that she was renting her kid for 80 Lei.

            When I was living near Cismigiu Park there was an old man in ragged clothes and disabled legs who used to camp  at the corner of Ion Campineanu. One day I passed and he called me Domnul Japonezu. I saluted him and he asked me where in Japan I am from and I told him Nagoya. Then he told me that he has been to Japan and I thought: Yeah right. I asked him where in Japan has he been and he said Tokyo and Oklahoma. I had difficulty in keeping a straight face and not rolling on the floor laughing. He continued his story and told me that he used to be a physics professor and he was invited on a government delegation to Japan to visit the Kanagawa Institute of Physics in the 70s.

            Then I realized that the guy was serious. As the Kanagawa Institute of Physics is in Yokohama, he probably meant Yokohama instead of Oklahoma.
             He continued his story and told me he was a physics professor and because of a disease he had his legs paralyzed and had to retire early.

            After that talk he saluted me every day on my way back from work and one day he asked me if I could lend him 16Ron and he would pay me as soon as he gets his monthly pension. I gave him 20 and told him to not worry about giving it back.

            When I lived in the Muncii area, on the Subway station there used to be a guitarist who was always singing Romanian folk songs but whenever he saw me he would start playing Elvis, probably trying to appeal to the foreign audience. 

            There was also the girl who played violin, not in the station but in the train itself. She used to play a short song and then walk around with a cup collecting  coins. Maybe I’m being a little picky but I used to find very annoying that her tempo was always spoiled by the train’s shaking. If she would use it to her advantage and play songs that had the shaking in tempo with the song I would give her a considerable tip.

On the entrance to the metro station at Stefan Cel Mare there was a violinist who was always playing those Romanian folk songs that have tempo signatures that are a mystery for me. Probably something like 8/17 or some other signature that I find impossible to tap my foot to. But one day when I was on my way home he was playing Bach’s Air from the Suite No.3. I was so surprised that I stopped and put a tenner on his violin case and told him that this is for Bach and he thanked me profusely.

About a year or so ago I was coming home from work and on Magheru, at the traffic light in front of McDonalds, a girl stopped me to ask me for some money to go to Timisoara. She was in her early 20s and very polite. I asked her what she needs to go there for and she smiled shyly and said she wants to go to a rock festival. I thought that was nice. I mean, she could have told me that she had to visit her dying grandmother in the hospital but she decided to tell me the truth. And also, I was her age once and have hitch hiked to go see rock concerts too. So I gave her 20Ron and told her that I am giving it because she was honest. She crossed the street after me thanking me profusely.

Then about 6 months later I saw her again. In the exactly the same spot and she was again asking me for money to go to a rock festival, this time in Brasov. However, she was changed. This time she had her hair much longer, dyed black with red streaks, she had more piercings on her face than Tony Montana in the end of Scarface after saying “Say hello to my little friend!!” She was wearing sunglasses and a black leather jacket with metal studs. She was completely stoned and called me “dude”. And I started thinking… Maybe it was my fault…? Maybe if I haven’t given her the money for her to go to the first festival she wouldn’t have met the bad influence that transformed her? Naaah. I don’t need this kind of weight on my conscience. So I told her that this time I won’t be giving her any money.

Remember how she thanked me profusely last time? Well, this time she was also profuse but I don’t believe she was thankful. I remember her suggesting in a very loud voice that I should go to a pool. Though I am not sure if she meant billiards or a swimming pool. She crossed the street after me suggesting very vehemently that I go to other unholy places as well.

Now this last case happened a week or so ago, again in the same spot: Magheru in front of McD.
I was waiting for the light to turn green and a guy approached me and asked me if I speak Romanian. I said yes. And he started: “You seem to be a very intelligent and serious man so I’m sure you will understand my problem. I have some serious psychological problems so could you help me with some money for a medical treatment before I become paranoic?"

Now that was a pretty good and original one! Too bad he didn’t pretend to look over his shoulder or to hear voices in his head. I would have given him a 50 for the act.

45

          (Originally posted on May 17, 2010 - 12:40)

         Some trivia about the number 45: 

         - 45 (forty-five or XLV in roman) is the natural number following 44 and followed by 46.

         - 45 is the sixth positive integer. 

         - It is the atomic number of Rhodium. 

         - Messier object M45, a magnitude 1.4 open cluster in the constellation Taurus, also known as the Pleiades. 

         - The New General Catalogue object NGC 45, a magnitude 10.6 spiral galaxy in the constellation Cetus. 

         - 45 is a type of gramophone record classified by its revolution speed of 45 revolutions per minute (rpm). 

         - "45 and Fat" is a 1996 song by Babybird. 

         - "Forty-Five" is a song by The Atomic Bitchwax.

         - "45" is a song by Elvis Costello, with "45" both referring to the 45 rpm singles and to the artist's age when he wrote the song.

         - Forty-five is the name of a card game. 

         - A football match consists of two periods of 45 minutes each. 

         - .45 is a caliber for some guns and ammunition. 

         - +45 is the telephone country code for Denmark. 

         And finally, 45 is also the number of years that I have survived so far. 

         And by the way, if you're asking yourself what the picture above means, I suggest you consult your ophthalmologist. On the other hand, if you can read this then your problem may not be so bad, so don't panic.

 

Taxi Driver II

         (Originally posted on Oct 29, 2007 - 21:39)

         Taxi drivers seem to be a class on its own, no matter what country you go. I know we can't blame them much for what they are because traffic is a very stressing environment to work in, but still... They are making a living out of it and we clients are providing their income. 

         And in the rank of bad taxi drivers of the world I think Romania takes the biscuit.
But again we're not going to talk about this. Maybe another time, but not today. 

         Today I have three more amusing taxi driver stories to tell.
         The first one is probably one of the most amusing taxi drivers episode I've ever been part of. 

         One night I was at a friend's place and I was about to leave at past midnight. She called me a cab and when I went downstairs the car was waiting.
         I got on the car and told him my destination and off we went.
         I noticed that he was constantly flicking his eyes between me and the road and I though "oh no... I know what's coming... He will ask me if I am Chinese". It always happens. And I have an instinctive automatic allergic reaction to this but as the driver was huge, skinhead, big moustache, though guy type I thought I'd better not react at all. 

         He stared at me again and I knew the question was coming... I took a deep breath and held it to keep myself from reacting... Then he shoots point blank: "Esti Mexican?" 
         I almost choked on my own breath!
         Between laughs I asked if he was kidding me and he just say innocently: "Pai... Arati ca un Mexican"
         After recovering from the laughs I tell him that no, I am not Mexican. I'm Japanese.
         Then he tells me that he is an ex-judo champion and he started asking me many questions about Japan. 

         When we're getting close to my place he asks me if I would like to have some coffee and he's quick to add that its on him. So we stop at the magazin alimentar close to my place and he orders two coffees and says "let's drink it Romanian style" and he sits the two cups of coffee on the bonnet of his car and we drink and talk more about Japan.

         After the coffee he says he will take me home and again is quick to add that the remaining of the ride will be for free. We get on the car and he turns on the taxi meter and adds quickly "Don't worry! I won't charge you. I just have to turn it on because if one of my colleagues see me with a client and the taxi meter off it may be trouble, but don't worry, you're not going to pay for the ride." 

         When we stopped in front of my bloc he said: "Fii atent!"
         He reached into the glove compartment and took out some sort of device. It was a dismantled piezo-electric cigarette lighter. He put the wires in contact with the taxi meter panel and clicked it. The taxi meter crashed like a Windows computer and when it restarted the meter was zeroed!

         He looked at me, winked and said: "Iti dai seamna cat bani fac in fiecare noaptea asa?"
         I couldn't believe!
         I mean... Come on! How many people (besides a Romanian) would ever try something like this to find out if it works?? 

         Revised Romanian version of an old saying: "The necessity to cheat is the mother of invention."

         The next is one of  the craziest specimens I've ever met in this planet.          A friend of mine from Brasov had sent me a book by post and for some mysterious reason I was supposed to pick it at a post office near Gara Basarabia. 
         Come on, I live at Stefan Cel Mare. There are two post offices nearby. Why do I have to go to the other side of the city to pick a book? 

         Anyway, I took a cab at Barbu Vacarescu.
         The driver was a big, fat guy with big glasses and a big moustache and a deep basso laugh like John Rhys-Davies.

         We're riding and every time he sees girls he goes: "Uite, uite! Fete!!"          When we were around Gara de Nord he sees a blonde walking on the sidewalk and "Uite! Fete!" I look and notice that the lady was mid 40s and I ask him if he doesn't think she's kinda old and he replies "inca merge, inca merge" and laughs like Rhys-Davies. 

          He also drives like crazy at high speed. No heavy traffic is an obstacle to him. He doesn't mind zig-zagging between lanes and invading tramvai lines like a courier biker. And whenever he's about to do it he says: "Inchide ochi! Inchide ochi!" then after the life-threatening maneuver is over he says: "gata, poti sa deschide acum".

         And so it was the whole ride.
         Girl-spotting and extreme driving.
         Well... At least the guy was joyful and funny.

         The last story happened last week.
         I was taking my guitar to a repairman. I carry it in a black hard shell case, rectangular, not the guitar shaped type. It's very heavy so I decided to take a cab. When the driver saw me opening the back door to put my guitar on the back seat, he shoots a look at my face (you could read the panic in his eye: "Chinese!!") then he looks at the black case and his eyes go wild with terror: "Chinese MAFIA!!"

         He asks me what's in the case.
         I swear I could see the image of an AK-47 Kalashnikov assault rifle form in his retina.
         So to put his overdriven heart at rest I opened the case and showed him the guitar. He breathed a long sigh of relief like a punctured bagpipe. 

         It was brown trousers time for him.
         Can you imagine what could have happened if the guy had a weaker heart?
         My guitar playing sucks but I never thought my guitar could kill without me playing it. 

Yellow skin, green lights and suicidal robots

         (Originally posted on Oct 29, 2007 - 19:52)

         A few months ago I had a very surreal online conversation with a lady. She is 27 years old from Bucharest and she has been in Japan for a year or so and we have been talking online for some time by the time we had this conversation.   

         She asked me what color am I.
         I know what she meant. But I also know that this is a totally, completely, absolutely, utterly pointless concept invented by people with an inordinate amount of free time and astronomically huge propensity for prejudice. 

         No, really, tell me what is the point in classifying people by color? Give me one good point to it. Give me one example in which classifying people by color is necessary or even useful. I can’t think of any besides being useful for promoting racism, prejudice and segregation. Can you? 

         And I thought that this lady, having lived abroad for some time, would know that this concept is totally ridiculous. And she knows that I can’t stand prejudice, so I tried to give her a hint that she’s annoying me with this pointless, ridiculous question by asking her if she wants the values of my color in RGB or in CMYK, to give her the chance to realise how silly this question is and give me a feeble excuse like saying it was just a joke and laugh her way out. 

         Well, after a long explanation on the meaning of “RGB” and “CMYK” and color interaction, she declared that she is indeed serious about that question. I tried to explain to her the pointlessness of this racist classification method I even extracted RGB values from her and from my own photographs to prove that we are not “white” and “yellow” as she believes us to be. 

         Then she told me why she asked me this. She told me that a friend of hers is married to a Japanese man and he was in Romania in that day and she had met him. And she asked him what color is his skin. He didn’t understand the point of the question and confused, he said it’s probably light brown. And she was amazed to see that he didn’t know how to answer it. How come they don’t know that they are yellow??? And how come intelligent people as the Japanese do not know how to classify people by color???
          Well, she touched the answer and yet she missed it completely.

           I tried to explain to her that this is a racist concept. And she denied it categorically because she learned it in school! And I asked her if she really believes in everything she learned at school and she affirmed “Yes! Of course I do!! The school NEVER teaches anything wrong!! 

          They also don’t teach the difference between education and indoctrination, do they?

         Some of you may say "yeah, well, you have to understand, in the period when she was in school it was in the communist times….”
Stai.

         Let me tell you another story.
         A few weeks ago I was walking down Stefan Cel Mare. In front of me were a father and his son. The kid was around 7 I think. We stopped at the intersection with Barbu Vacarescu because the traffic light was red. A few seconds later it turned green but a silver german car (you know, the owners of german cars believe that either the traffic laws do not apply to them or that their precious german car is somehow transdimensional and it doesn’t interact with ordinary matter in this dimension) crossed the red light and was coming at high speed. And the kid almost jumped in front of it. His father grabbed him by the arm and yanked him from the path of the transdimensional german car. He (the father) was furious. He yelled at the kid: “What were you thinking???” And the kid answers quite matter-of-factedly: “But… but… but… my teacher at school said that if the light is green I can cross the street!!”

         Is it only me or does someone else believe that the future looks bleak for the next generation?
         Is it only me or does someone else see the next generation as a horde of suicidal robots jumping lemming-like in front of cars or off cliffs just because some “higher authority” said it’s safe?

         What’s going on with the fathers and teachers, with those to whom we trust the education of the next generation? Do they really believe that it’s better to indoctrinate kids rather than teach them how to think for themselves, how to use their brains, how to use skepticism? Are they just plain lazy and taking the easiest path? Or are they part of a bigger, more sinister conspiracy plan of world domination? 

         Am I the only one who is seeing this? 

         Doesn’t anybody else see how easy it will be for the next Hitler, the next Kim Jong Il to raise to power?  We are breeding a horde of robots, of blind slaves to serve the next dictator! We are not breeding people, we are breeding SHEEPLE!!! Soon enough the next dictator will raise and find a flock of sheeple on their knees, ready to obey their orders just because their teachers told them so. 

         Power to the sheeple… 

And then there was silence...

         (Originally posted on Jul 15, 2007 - 13:46)

         Have you ever been confronted with your worst nightmare? 
         I am facing mine right now.
         A few months ago I noticed that my left ear was itching more than normal. At first I thought it was just a minor infection and I certainly wasn't going to subject myself to the major pain in the lower half that is to try to find a human doctor in this country, so I just didn't. Even when the slightly annoying itch became a major annoyance I still thought that the quest of trying to find a normal doctor was still not worth. But then, a couple of weeks ago I noticed that slowly I was starting to lose hearing.

         Coincidentally in that same period I was talking online to a lady who happened to had lost her hearing permanently after a misdiagnosed and mistreated ear infection. She had read my last blog entry and she was asking me about Elisabeta and I was trying to explain to her how does her voice sound like. 

         Now this is a daunting task. How to explain the most beautiful voice that I know to a person who can't hear? As I said before, I am not a poet so I simply can't do a good job of it. I tried to imagine how would it be to never be able to hear Elisabeta's voice again. Chills run down my spine and a fear like a cold hand, gripped my heart. It was a sobering experience. 

         In the next day I had an audiogram test made and it showed that both ears were affected, the right one considerably so and the left just below the average. Time to brace myself and try to find a human doctor. 

         The person who made my audiogram recommended a doctor and gave me her mobile number. I called her and the conversation was like this:

Me: Buna ziua, as vrea sa fac o programare...
Dr: Numai saptamana viitoare
(I would like something quicker than next week so I was going to say "am o infectia in ureche si as vrea sa vad un doctor cat mai repede posibl, puteti sa ma recomand un alt doctor, va rog?")
Me: Am o infectia in ure... (she cut me off)
Dr. (raising her voice) AM ZIS NUMAI SAPTAMANA VIITOARE, NU INTELEGI??? Daca vrei saptamana viitoare, bine. Daca nu... (she hanged off the phone).

         Well, now you understand why I emphasized "searching for a HUMAN doctor" above and why I was so reluctant to do it.

         My reluctance, contrary to what some people who claim to be my "friends" believe, is NOT because I am "afraid of doctors". It is just because when it concerns my health, I am allergic to being treated like merchandise by "people" who are supposed to, expected to, sworn to treat patients as humanly as possible.
         So after that call to the doctor I tried another who was recommended by a friend but the doctor was in vacation. 

         The company I work for is a medical company and the clinic MedCenter is part of it. So in the next day I talked to our HR girl to get me an appointment at that clinic. She called and of course, the doctor was in vacation and she would come only in the next week and I didn't want to wait until next week.

         Then the HR girl said there's a clinic right close to my place, down Barbu Vacarescu. Alright. I left work early and went there. Well, it turned out to be a gynecology clinic... Oh well, I dismissed it as just a mild case of mistaken orifice identity and kept searching until it was already the next week so I went to see the MedCenter doctor. 

         I explained the situation to the doctor and she said she was going to have a look at it. First she didn't know how to turn on the overhead spotlight on the examination chair. She had to call the cleaning lady to tell her how to do it. I know she was the cleaning lady because while I was waiting for the doctor I saw her collecting the garbage and sweeping the floor. The lady came in and showed the doctor where the on/off switch is. 

         The doctor examined me and said I have a major fungus infestation and it is clogging the ear canal and she said she'll try to clean it. She took a huge stainless steel syringe and when she tried to operate it, she didn't know how to pull the piston out. And guess what? She called the cleaning lady to tell her how to do it. 

         Huh? A doctor who doesn't know how to operate a syringe? Hmmm... Scary! Anyway she came back with the cleaning lady and a big plastic sheet that looked suspiciously like a shower curtain, undersea fishes and algae pattern and all. She covered my upper body with it and asked the lady to hold one of those kidney shaped trays under my ear and she did some serious washing with oxygenated water and with some powerful water jets from the oversized syringe and after several attempts it worked. I heard a popping sound and then I could hear better. I was so happy that I forgave the doctor's mechanical and electrical inabilities. She made an appointment to clean the other ear the next day.

         Next morning as soon as she arrived she called the cleaning lady to help and started the procedure in my left ear. It was tough. Several attempts after and she said we need an aspirator but the clinic doesn't have any. So she said she will take me to the Coltea hospital. 

        We went there. She parked her car at the back of the hospital and we took a back door. On the way we passed the garbage storage area. Read it: "HOSPITAL GARBAGE", get it? And there were nurses around it smoking and talking. We entered the hospital. It was a nightmare! It was like a horror movie. Something out of SAW or... have anyone seen The Last King of Scotland? Do you remember that seedy hospital in a poor village in Uganda where Mrs. Amin went to do the illegal abortion? Yeah. It reminded me of that hospital. 

        Filthy corridors, stained walls, sick people crowding the corridors, people on stretchers and wheelchairs, people with blood stained bandages, babies crying, children complaining, old people coughing, the smell of medicine, chloroform, alcohol, cheap air deodorants and other unspeakable odors, flies buzzing around, stale hot air, rusted equipment, instruments so old that the chrome is worn off, showing the brass beneath, instruments stored in rusted metal boxes covered in yellowed gauze... 

       I heard it was the first big hospital in Bucharest. And it certainly does look like the Dacians founded and supplied it. 

         The doctor left me in front of a consultation room and asked me to wait in the middle of that crowd.
         I waited and watched.

         In a room behind me, an old communist doctor was examining and yelling at a patient when a very well dressed and obviously rich couple, ignoring the queue outside the room came to the door. As soon as the doctor spotted the couple, his expression changed from anger to the patient to a smile with dollar marks eyes ($)($). He tells the patient to wait outside and he "poftiti, va rog" the couple in and closes the door.

         In the room in front of me, another big old communist doctor is attending another patient. A little girl, probably around 5 or 6. He puts the girl on the chair, orders her to open her mouth, take a look inside. With his hands he jerks the girls face up, looks inside her nose and tells her parents that she needs an operation. Just like that. Lightning 5 seconds examination with no instruments and the diagnosis is "she needs an operation". The parents asked him "but, but doctor, isn't there anything you can do?" And the doctor yells: "I said she needs an operation! If you don't want her to spend the rest of her life with her mouth open like this she has to be operated!!" and before the parents can say anything he looks out the corridor and yells "Next!".

         Remember that I was emphasizing that I was looking for a "human doctor"? Well, these are NOT examples of it.

         My doctor comes back and ushers me to the same room as the big operation-thirsty, quick-with-the-knife doctor.
          She puts me seated on a chair, grabs a yellowed, filthy-looking rubber hose hanging at the wall, asks me to hold it while she picks a nozzle from a rusted tray covered with yellowed gauze. She connects the nozzle to the hose and asks the nurse to turn it on. After a few false starts, the motor started chugging and coughing and finally turning. making a noisy racket. She then inserts the nozzle in my ear, hitting the clog and my eardrum hard. I squirm and tried to pull my head away. She tells me "Don't worry! it won't hurt!" Huh?? Hellooo?? Does she think that if she says that it doesn't hurt I will believe it and pretend that it doesn't hurt like hell as it did??? Or did she believe that I almost jumped 3 meters to the right out of sheer joy of having my ear painfully poked?

         She tried a few more times, every time poking my eardrum hard, making me jump in pain and in the end making my hearing even worse. She got angry (probably because I didn't believe her suggestion that the pain she was causing me was actually pleasant) and gave up. I told her that now I hear even less and she said of course, you keep moving while I'm trying to help you!

         Huh? So should I just let her pound my eardrum and pretend that the pain is not there?? She said she will prescribe me a solution for me to put in my ear that will help dissolve the clog and she will only treat me again after I do that. She had to fight with the other big communist doctor for the pen to write the prescription and told me to come back the next day. Yeah right. I will NEVER EVER go back to that place EVER DAMN AGAIN.

         So I was back to zero again. Searching for a human doctor. The HR girl of my company tried to convince me that THAT hospital is the best ENT hospital in the country and I should go again. Yeah right. Maybe it was the best by the time the Dacians were conquered by the Romans. Or maybe it is, if you have a wallet big enough to make the doctors smile with dollar marks on their eyes.

       Other friends suggested me to go to other hospitals. But I am decided. I will NOT walk into any horror movie ever again. I want a human doctor who works in a private, 21st century type clinic. 

        And surprisingly, I was recommended a doctor who has a private clinic very close to my place, by none less than Elisabeta "La Contessa" Marin herself. The doctor use to treat opera singers when they have vocal chords problems.

 

         So this is my worst nightmare. Losing my hearing. Not being able to listen to Elisabeta's voice or Bach's music anymore.
I got myself an appointment for tomorrow and I really hope everything will go well and I will have my hearing back soon enough.

P.S. - I haven't posted an update on this case in the period when my blog was originally published so, in case anyone is wondering:

        I went to see the doctor recommended by Elisabeta and she found out that I didn't have any fungus infection. What I had was even worse: I had a bad Staphylococcus Aureus infection.
         Fortunately, after a long treatment including some potent antibiotics I got cured and my hearing restored to normal.

Between infinity and eternity

         (Originally posted on Jun 18, 2007 - 23:15)

         My grandfather lived in a farm several kilometers away from the city where I lived in Brazil.
In the farm's yard there was a big granite rock that used to be warm in the evening after basking in the sun the whole day.

         In clear nights I used to lay down at the top of the rock, looking up at the sky, admiring the stars.
         As the place was far away from the city the skies were dark and pinpricked with hundreds of thousands of stars and when I laid there and looked up, I would have nothing but darkness and stars in my field of view and then the illusion of being afloat in deep space was so real that I had to put my hands on the warm rock to reassure myself that I was still on Earth. The sensation was so exhilarating that after reassuring myself that I wouldn't fall into space I would lay motionless and concentrate on the stars just to feel it again.

         I am telling you this story because this is the closest analogy that I could find to another sensation that I want to talk about.
         The sensation that I feel when I hear a certain voice.

         I have never really liked soprano voices. I mean, I don't dislike them but I didn't like as much as I like baritone voices. I have this kind of "allergy" for high pitch sounds. But of course I've had my share of favorite soprano singers and the top names were Barbara Bonney, Kiri Te Kanawa and Emma Kirkby.
        When I was in Japan I've seen them live in concert, as well as Mirella Freni, Della Jones, Angela Gheorghiu and a few others.
         But even though they are all considered the best of the best, none moves me like this one single voice does.

         I'm talking, of course, of Elisabeta Marin.

         After the first time I've seen her on the stage of the National Opera in the evening of April, 29th I've been following her carreer and attending her every concert and I just can't get enough.
       I am surprised.
        Never in my life I've felt anything like what I feel when I hear her singing. The closest that I can get of an explanation is what I wrote in the beginning. It's not exactly like that but it's close and stronger.

         Whenever I hear her singing I feel my heart beating faster and faster sometimes so fast that I feel my hands go numb. My breathing also accelerates. The hair on my arms stand up and I feel a tingling sensation in my spine.

         And then what comes next is something that I can't explain properly because I am not a poet.
         It's a feeling like floating like a mote of dust in the morning sky, suspended somewhere between infinity and eternity, watching galaxies and suns and planets, life and consciousness evolving and perishing, atoms as massive as suns and universes smaller than atoms and all the wonders of the universe swirl in front of my eyes, drawn by the music of cosmic harmonies at the speed of light, but with a reassuring warm rock at my back.
         And in the exact moment that the aria ends I am hurtled back to Earth. Back among mortals again with an empty, longing feeling like thirst. Thirst to drink more from the fountain of her voice.

         And when she sings arias like Un Bel Di Vedremo or Vissi D'arte, it's like she pours pure, distilled longing and sadness over the foundations of the music and every time I drink from them I can't avoid gathering tears in my eyes. Running tears. Er... pouring, actually. Ok, I admit, I cry. I cry for I feel the sincere longing and sadness in her voice. I cry for I know the longing and the sadness that reside in the uncharted reaches of her pure heart. I cry for I know where this longing and sadness come from

e diedi il canto
agli astri, al ciel, che ne ridean più belli.
Nell'ora del dolore,
perché, perché Signore,
perché me ne rimuneri così?

         Like Tosca, she offered her singing to the starry heavens so that they might smile more brightly and I have asked myself why, O Lord, have you repaid her this way? For I see the brilliance of her talent wasted between the deaf walls of the national opera. I refer of course, not at the stage, for on stage she receives the recognition that she deserves from the public that loves her. I refer to the direction of the national opera, and I still need to summon titanic efforts to avoid any references to southern italian families.

         But it seems that fortune is finally turning her a smiling face for last week there was a contest in Galati: Concurs International de Canto “Dunarea Albastra” and I am very proud to announce that Miss Elisabeta Marin is the winner of the FIRST PRIZE and all the respect, privileges and admiration that come with it! It was the first edition of this contest and she won it! 
       This, ladies and gentlemen, is history in the making!
         And I am sure this is the first of the opportunities that will open to her because she deserves them.

  

 The winners of the International contest "Blue Danube": Elisabeta Marin, Adrian Marcan and Cristina Ioana Damian

         Dear Elisabeta,

         Happy birthday and congratulations for the result of the contest. I am sure this is probably one of the best birthday presents you could wish.
And well deserved it is for I know how hard you worked for it and I am very proud of you.

         I thank you for the joy that your singing and your friendship bring me.
You are the brightest star in our musical firmament and now that the doors for your bright future are open it's up to you to walk through them.

42

         (Originally posted on May 17, 2007 - 01:28)

         42, also written as "forty-two", is a number that, if you are counting correctly, comes after 41 and before 43. It is made of two digits, both of which are even numbers. 42 is also an integer and natural number.

         According to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, researchers from a pan-dimensional, hyper-intelligent race of beings constructed the second greatest computer in all of time and space, Deep Thought, to calculate the Ultimate Answer to the Great Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. After seven and a half million years of pondering the question, Deep Thought provides the answer: "forty-two." 

         The reaction:

         "Forty-two!" yelled Loonquawl. "Is that all you've got to show for seven and a half million years' work?"

         "I checked it very thoroughly," said the computer, "and that quite definitely is the answer. I think the problem, to be quite honest with you, is that you've never actually known what the question is."

         There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something more bizarrely inexplicable.

         There is another theory which states that this has already happened.

         Curiosities about 42

         - The atomic number of molybdenum

         - The number of teeth wolves and dogs (canines) have.

         - Scientists calculated that the Hubble Constant, the rate at which the universe expands, is 42.

         - The light leaving a rainbow is spread over a wide angle, with a maximum intensity around 42°

         - The number of minutes it would take a theoretical "gravity train" to travel to any point on earth.

         - In one Grand Unified Theory, the Georgi-Glashow model, the inverse of the coupling constant is approximately 42.

         - 10! (10 factorial) seconds is exactly 42 days.

         - In Geometry, a solid with 42 sides is called a tetracontakaidigon

         - In binary, 42 is 101010.

 

         - In the Messier catalog of astronomical objects, object M42, is a magnitude 5.0 diffuse nebula in the constellation Orion, also known as the Orion Nebula

         - In the New General Catalogue object NGC 42, is a spiral galaxy in the constellation Pegasus

         - The planet Uranus' north and south poles face the sun 42 years before switching, (example) the north pole experiences 42 years of summer and 42 years of winter and vice-versa.

         - In January 2005, Asteroid 2001 DA42 was given the name Asteroid Douglasadams, named for the author Douglas Adams that popularized the number 42 and died in 2001. With even his initials in the provisional designation, Brian G. Marsden, the director of the Minor Planet Center and the secretary for the naming committee, said, "This was sort of made for him, wasn't it?"

         - The number of generations from Abraham to Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew

         - According to the Book of Revelations, 'The Beast' will hold the Earth for 42 months.

         - There are 42 lines on each page of a Gutenberg Bible.

         - In the common computing language codification, ASCII, the decimal code '42' represents an asterisk - ' * ' - which is another common computing symbol used to represent a wildcard or an indicator of "everything"

         - The code number for the Microsoft .NET platform is 42, since it is their answer to "The Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything". It also happens to be the building number that the Microsoft .NET CLR is built in. Coincidentally, it was the 42nd release build which was ready to ship as the final version 2 .NET framework, and so is present in the file version (2.0.50727.42) of every binary file

         - 42 is the default number of days a password can be used for before expiring in Windows Server 2003.

         - If you search "answer to life, the universe and everything" on Google, the calculator function will display '42'

         - The number of hours that the potion caused Juliet to sleep for (Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act IV, Scene 1, line 105)

         - If you rearrange 'tea for two' you get 'for tea two'

         - In Japanese, 4 (shi) and 2 (ni) are together pronounced like "going to die". Because of that, in Japan, 42 is considered as a disastrous number

         - There were originally 42 columns and 42 figures from Greek myth in the Parthenon

         - The age at which Elvis Presley died

         42 also happen to be the number of years that I complete today.