Bite Me

I have been bitten.

Two puncture marks four centimetres apart on my left ankle testify to the passage of a bloodsucking visitor last night. They don't waste time in Transylvania.

But immortality does not beckon just yet. No, this is not the result of Count Dracula's kinky foot fetish, but rather the nocturnal feasting marks of a coven of bloodthirsty mosquitoes.

Having unwittingly tenderized my own flesh by virtue of last night's chicken kebab and lager marinade, I woke up this morning to find seventeen angry swellings of various shapes and sizes covering my fingers, hands, arms, toes, feet and legs. One bite in particular, on the inside of my right arm, can only have been left by a rabid pterodactyl, or at the very least a mildly miffed bald eagle.

And boy do these buggers itch. As I struggle to contain my frustration, my superhuman efforts to refrain from tearing strips of my own skin off only serve to make me look like a sexual deviant in the delicious throes of an auto-erotic massage.

Sipping my wine on Piata Mica, the smallest and quaintest of Sibiu's holy trinity of medieval town squares, I am all too aware that the sun's slow descent behind the magnificent Saxon cathedral signals the opening of another all-you-can-eat buffet at Chez Jean-Marc.

Sure enough, within minutes I can sense the falsetto vibrations and light tread of the first hungry diner on the back of my neck.

Bon appétit.

Techno Train

The English Channel has served us well. With the insignificant exception of a handful of disoriented Romans, some Norman bastard in a longboat and a few unhealthy rats in the 17th century, it has pretty much kept out most unwanted guests and annoyances.

In recent times, it has even served as a natural barrier against the aural scourge that is Euro Pop, leaving our continental cousins' shameful taste for formulaic disco electronica outside our front door.

Unfortunately for me, I am no longer on the safe side of the sound barrier. I am on the slow train from Timisoara to Sibiu in Romania and all my own past musical sins have come back to haunt me in the shape of my current train carriage companions.

Sitting diagonally opposite me in an 8-seat compartment, two frisky young Romanian girls are canoodling openly. Their hands are roaming and fumbling so wildly that I start to get my wallet out, convinced that this cannot be for free. Very rapidly, though, my surprise turns to annoyance. It is not their sexuality that is disturbing me, however, but rather their taste in music.

They each have an earphone connected to a 1980s Sony Walkman cassette player (!) and the aural distortion (for music this is not) being played at full volume would incite poor Vincent Van Gogh to slice off his other ear. Every single song that I am forced to endure sounds like a handful of medium-sized ball bearings bouncing around a tumble dryer on its highest spin cycle, with the occasional deep rumbling sound of a wild goose passing wind. That this music is clearly putting them in the mood for some jiggery-pokery is beyond comprehension.

I stand up to go to the toilets in order to relieve my poor ears as well as my bladder, only to return thirty short seconds later, with my face ashen. For the sake of public decency, I will refrain from relating in graphic detail the horrors that have just confronted me, suffice to say that Timisoara's only Indian restaurant must have done a roaring trade last night.

With sight, smell and hearing annihilated, I attempt to protect my two remaining senses by simultaneously stroking my moleskin coat and eating a Kinder Bueno. So much for a peaceful scenic train journey through Romania's heartland.

But my luck changes within ten minutes. The train pulls into a station and the girls get off, still joined at the hips, lips and various other body parts. I swear I can see steam rising from their clothes as they jump off the train and head for the nearest barn.

As the immaculately dressed ticket inspector enters the compartment to check my ticket, he spots my guidebook and smiles at me. "You are alone now until Sibiu," he tells me in perfect English "enjoy the beautiful views."

And he is not wrong. Calm has returned to my world, and the scenery is also changing. The monotonous farming countryside dotted with power stations and disused factories has given way to the rugged mountains and lush forests of the Transylvanian Alps.

I am entering Dracula country.

If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em...

Wizz Air Flight W6704 to Timisoara
Scheduled - 08:10
Estimated - 12:00

Wondering briefly whether tearing my toenails out with a pair of pliers would be more fun than spending four hours at the departure lounge of Luton Airport, I remind myself that I am still on holiday and decide to indulge in a spot of people-watching.

As I survey my pauper's kingdom, I soon establish that there are two clear breeds of animal in this low-budget human zoo. Dotted around the lounge are pockets of Eastern European migrants dressed in navy 1980s Adidas tracksuits, leather flat caps and mountain goat overcoats. They are taking this delay in their stride, animatedly discussing the soaring cost of cabbage and exchanging the latest mullet-grooming tips. Here and there, a handlebar moustached is twirled distractedly.

An escalating argument to my right draws my attention. The more hirsute members of a group of Romany gypsies appear to be remonstrating with each other for regrettably checking in their violins and accordions, thus missing out on a huge cash cow with such a large audience at their busking mercy.

Also congregated in small groups, but far more noticeable, are the bands of Ibiza-bound Home Counties chavs dressed in clothes so white and so bright that I am forced to pen these words from the sanctuary of the Sunglass Hut stand. A veritable sea of 3/4 khakis, pink polo shirts and dazzling white trainers reminds me why I will never explore Spain's Mediterranean coastline.

These two groups may be polar opposites on the social spectrum, but today they are united in their unquenchable thirst and the beer taps flow uninterrupted at the bar. It is 8:50am.

With my faith in humanity eroding fast and my patience wearing micro-thin, I must do something quickly or perish in this gene pool of mediocrity. Weighing up my limited options, I choose my only path to salvation and make my way to the only person who can help me redress the balance.

'One pint of Kronenbourg, please!', I order cheerfully at the bar. I am on holiday after all...

Perfect Timing

BBC Radio 2 News Report - Wednesday April 8th 2009:

'Security forces have regained control of the presidential palace buildings but tensions remain high in the Moldovan capital Chisinau after mass protests and demonstrations following the victory of the incumbent Communist Party in the recent general elections. The British Foreign Office advises against any immediate travel to the area.'

I am travelling to the area. Fairly immediately.

Even by my supremely chaotic standards, travelling to Europe's poorest and most corrupt country the week after a general election may have merited a little more consideration. With a sense of timing more prone to disaster than a wheelchair-bound lemming about to launch off a 60m alpine ski jump, I must have somehow known that a random group of 10,000 communism-intolerant Moldovan mofos would decide to complain about not being able to get an extra Sweet & Sour Chicken McNugget Dip just before I decided to grace the country with my presence.

With the cherry trees in blossom and its welcoming Mediterranean climate, Malta is a nice place to visit in April, or so I am told. But somehow, the ancient Saxon citadels of Transylvania, the breakaway republic of Transnistria and hordes of rioting Moldovans just sounded more 'happening'.

Hmmm, the news must be overreacting. I pick up my reading material to reassure myself:

'Whether you are a lifelong resident or a fresh-faced visitor, submitting to police shakedowns for bribes is a fact of life in Moldova.', the Lonely Planet guidebook to Romania & Moldova begins, rather promisingly. Having read the two remaining pages in the 'Dangers & Annoyances' section, I am no longer merely concerned with the potential financial extortion that may await me. No, a combination of the rabid packs of wild dogs, urban bears, gypsy bandits or organ thieves should be more than enough to cut me in my prime. No wonder Dracula is a myth in these parts, he plainly bit off more than he could chew...

But the reality of my mission is simple and beautiful: I have a burning desire to explore every square millimetre that this planet has on offer. And on the eve of my trip, I feel so electric that I could boil the kettles of a thousand teas. I have been hiding in the bushes for far too long. I am about to sneak out of the darkness and crawl on my hands and knees, getting my jeans dirty with the soil of curiosity. I will shuffle up to the window, pause for a moment, then open it gently, quietly and unnoticed. And I will look inside, and discover with wonder and awe a new world with the enthusiasm of an innocent child.

I am about to hit the road again, and I can't wait.