How to Lose Friends and Identify Warblers
~ Your Slow Descent into Bird Watching: A Romanian Field Guide ~
Prompted by a short piece in The New Yorker titled Your Slow Descent into Bird Watching, I felt compelled, perhaps even morally obliged, to offer my own account of how an entirely reasonable human can spiral, with almost comic dignity, into the feathery madness of this so-called hobby.
It all started with a blackbird (mierlă).
At first, you just liked the sound. That morning whistle. Thought it was a car alarm at first. Then maybe an enthusiastic kettle. But no - a bird, apparently. A blackbird, you’re told, by a suspiciously confident friend who “just knows these things.”
You scoff. Birds are fine. They fly. They poop. You move on.
Until one day… you don’t.
You start noticing them. The little fluttering ones. Sparrows? No, too... patterned. Could be a finch. Possibly a dunnock (brumăriță de pădure), which you only recently learned wasn’t a sneeze.
Suddenly, you have opinions on tail length. You find yourself saying things like: “Clearly Corvus cornix, not Corvus corone - the neck plumage is totally off.”
You feel powerful. Conflicted. A little ashamed. You google quietly, incognito.
Next thing you know, you’re at Decathlon comparing binoculars and muttering darkly about lens coatings. You start using the phrase “migratory corridor” in casual conversation. Your friends stop inviting you to brunch. But you don’t mind, you’re by the lake at 7AM with a lukewarm flask of coffee and an irrational hope for a crested tit. (pițigoi moțat)
Then comes the field guide. (Romanian edition, because you are serious now.) You highlight it. You dog-ear pages. You leave it lying open on your nightstand like it’s a volume of Rilke.
Your bookshelf rearranges itself. Gone are the history books and grim Nordic thrillers. In come laminated checklists and books with covers featuring marsh warblers (lăcari de mlaştină) in suspiciously flirtatious poses. You begin to plan your holidays based on avian density. You refer to Brașov as “underappreciated for its woodpecker diversity.”
Soon, the descent is complete.
You own a rain poncho.
A weather app just for wind. Another one for recognising bird sounds. You say things like, “I’m not twitching, just casually observing with intent.”
You have thoughts on bird feeder hygiene.
You are, in short, lost.
And yet… so very found.
But the true turning point isn’t serene. It doesn’t happen on a scenic hilltop with binoculars poised and a kestrel (vînturel roșu) hovering meaningfully in the distance. No, it happens during a hangover.
You’ve had a night out. Nothing criminal, just your usual cultural indulgence - beer, friends, maybe some niche debate about Bauhaus typography. You crawl into bed at 2AM, your head gently humming, the room politely spinning.
But then - chirping.
Not the poetic kind. Not the delicate rustling of leaves stirred by a robin (măcăleandru) composing a sonnet at dawn. No, this is aggressive chirping. A sustained, almost militant vocalisation from some avian sadist perched three feet from your window, auditioning for Wagner. You bury your head in the pillow. It’s no use.
What ornithologists rarely mention is the crucial role of dehydration, regret, and half-digested shawarma in one’s transition into a birder. (This could be an entire chapter in the bird watching field guide: The Hangover Awakening - the moment you shift from bird-resentful to bird-aware.)
It unfolds in stages. Like grief. Or enlightenment. Or salmonella.
1. Denial
“That noise? Just traffic. Or construction. Couldn’t be... biological.”
2. Anger
“Shut up, feathered demons! Go scream at someone else’s window!”
3. Bargaining
“If I throw breadcrumbs... will you migrate to the neighbour’s balcony?”
4. Depression
“They’re never going to stop. This is my life now. Chirping is forever.”
5. Acceptance
“That was a rather melodic chiffchaff (pitulice mică), wasn’t it?”
Just when you think the drama is over, a nuthatch (țiclean) materialises on your balcony ceiling, cocks its head, stares like a tax inspector, and departs before the shutter clicks. A moment later a juvenile redstart (pui de codroș) crash-lands, takes flying lessons off the drainpipe, and graduates with honours. You realise you’re now providing on-site work experience for passerines.
And so, you sit up. Gently. Your head pulsing in sync with what may be a blackcap’s call (silvie cu cap negru). You reach - without fully knowing why - for the guidebook.
You rise, groggy, perhaps a little dramatic. And you see it. A flash of feathers. A beak in silhouette. Something in your foggy mind clicks. You flip to the section marked “common urban garden birds.” You stare at the page, lips slightly parted. Is it...? Could it be...? A great tit (pițigoi mare)? Or - dare you dream - a lesser whitethroat (silvie mică)?
This is no longer a hobby. This is a compulsion.
And like all great compulsions, it is both absurd and oddly noble. You are tired, broke, and socially sidelined. But by God, you can distinguish the call of a chiffchaff (pitulice mică) from that of a willow warbler (pitulice fluierătoare). And on certain rare mornings, before the caffeine kicks in but after the mist lifts, you feel - just for a moment - that you understand the world. Not in any grand or philosophical sense. Just... in feathered fragments.
Final takeaway: One day you’re mocking birds at dawn; the next you’re explaining to a friend why a pair of €2,000 Swarovski binoculars is a “sound long-term investment.” And that is how the blackbird finally wins. Oh, and you will eventually get your friends back; just invite them round at 5 a.m. Tell them it’s brunch. When they complain, hand them the spare binoculars and whisper “Acceptance.”
Geographical note: I do not live in a cabin in the Carpathians. Just a block of flats in Bucharest, mercifully three minutes from a lake, and apparently the preferred departure lounge for every songbird on the municipal payroll, plus the occasional kestrel stopping by for take-away pigeon or sparrow.
