As hard as it is to pull myself away from grotesque insanity, let us try to move on for a bit to give pause in consideration for a beautiful thing in Romania. This corner of the world is truly blessed with plentiful rodie.

Most of my dear readers are perhaps unaware of one defining childhood moment which lingers in the memory of some family members. You see, my American friends, while I am not exactly sure of which specific year I gained fruit-based notoriety, you may rest assured that it did occur.

According to the rarely erring pages of personal history, it was widely known that I had a rather strong penchant for red juice. (No, not that kind.) Of course, such things come in bountiful variety, be it cranberry juice, a derivative such as cran-apple, mixed berry juices, watermelon juice, currant juice, cherry juice, raspberry juice, the darker shades of red tones like grape juice or lighter shades of pink grapefruit juice.

In my world, tomato does not count as a fruit. Bollocks to what the scientists say! No tomato juice for me, thank you very much. However, I have drank strawberry juice (not my favorite) only for the sake of it being red. Not exactly a juice, per se, Hawaiian Punch was also a favorite.

It so happens that one of my parents was rather adept at manipulating fruit into jams, jellies, dried fruit pieces, even homemade fruit rollups. Not to mention other deserts. Well, in the pursuit of making aforementioned jams and jellies, one is required to obtain fruit juice. And that is best done by purchasing large quantities of fruit and then manually squeezing those fruits in order to release the raw, natural juice. Clearly a bit of work.

On a particularly hot summer day, I took a brief respite from playing G.I. Joe with the neighborhood kids and came inside for a cool glass of pure water. I opened up the refridgerator door with its trademark squeek and was reaching for the water when I felt a mysterious blackhole pulling my center of ocular gravity towards a gallon-sized glass pitcher glistening in the dim glow of the 2-watt bulb. Lo, it appeared to be some sort of juice. Red juice.

With instinct as my unfailing guide, I immediately pounced upon the ruby god! Surely, no one would mind if I were merely the first of many to wet my beak in this dizzying concoction. In my rush to find a cup, it’s true that I did nearly spill the entire vassal. Yet, the Fates were smiling upon me, dear reader.

A sniff. Pour. Sip. By golly, it sent electric shocks right through me. I kid you not! I was lit up like a Christmas tree, enflamed in epicurean passion, drowning in overwhelming beverage lust. A slurp, then guzzle.

Another glassful. And another.

Psychic, eh? Right, I drank it all. The shadow of a twinge of guilt was banished by the bright sun in realizing we could just buy more of it. No one need feel as if they had missed out on this divine drink. The stores would be there tomorrow. A minor inconvenience at best. And off I went to play outside.

The key to the story is that said parent had slaved for approximately three whole days patiently squeezing the individual kernels of pomegranates! I’m sure you can appreciate the subsequent rage soon to be direct at me in our story timeline.

Alas, I am not the first to have gone to hell over a pomegranate.

“For over 5000 years, civilizations have revered the pomegranate as a symbol of health, fertility and regeneration. Many ancient cultures believed pomegranates held a mystical secret and possessed powers beyond explanation.” (According to multiple plagarizing sources.)

Pomegranates are highly tasty and extremely healthy, but it’s generally been a little hard to find the juice. Particularly way back when I was a strapping young lad. Today, there is a company selling pomegranate juice in stores across America, but it tends to be a little expensive. Amazon will sell you a bottle via their website for $9.99 plus shipping.

But, Romania is paradise! Here you can get pomegranates and pomegranate juice in large supply at rock bottom prices.

They call the fruit “rodie” (ro-DEE). It’s everywhere. Stores, fruit vendors, hypermarkets. Not only as the raw fruit, but in affordable juice. It runs approximately 6 RON, the new Romanian Lei, which works out to about US$2 (or just under €2) for a bottle of the sweet, sweet nectar of life.

Do you have any idea just how many pomegranates I’ve eaten or how much pomegranate juice I’ve drank since moving here a few months ago? Allow your imagination to gallop untethered. And now let it fly freely. Nope, you still have no idea. I can only say that there is such a thing as “heaven on earth” and the rodie supply in Romania is surely it.

But this natural crack can cost a pretty penny in quantity. Brother, can you spare a dime?

IF you would have managed to turn off your television, you might have noticed the US and the EU holding hands as they stepped off the cliff to the sounds of a snoring populace.

We encountered a new life form. According to Romulanian mythology, O Mic Dejun Ursuleț can be found along with Santal Fructe de Padure.

McCoy subsequently issued a vaccination against space madness.

To boost crew morale, we beamed up the most awesomest rapper… ever.

Advance sentry units detected ditangian crystals.

After careful planning, I boarded shuttle Tiderian bound for Posta where there is no @#*%! intelligent life.

Attempts to locate ultimacity via tracking device failed in @#*%! bimbocratic shruggery. A brief layover was opted for in order to resupply.

Man cannot live on bread alone.

A polite group of tree-men life forms waxed philosophically about the whole thousand points of light thing in the central park.

We docked at spacestation Zorba on what happened to be its maiden voyage, so a nice chat was had with the enthusiastic owner using both Romangleza as well as Grecaneşte after engorging at the trough…

…whereupon it came to light that Zorba has the VERY FIRST cloth napkins in the entire known Braşoverse! These imported delicacies were gratefully used after an extensive satiation.

Passports, visas, and other documentations were collected prior to and upon arrival to the distant star Festival 39.

Local custom dictated the consumption of mass quantities of beer. I received traditional Braşovian greetings from the Griviței Ambassador de Gara.

I discovered the humor of Escherian logic while taking a photo of a reveler taking a photo of a celebrator taking a photo of a partier. Literally. There were enough digital cameras walking around to start a war.

There was also an inordinate amount of indoor snow which resulted in several vicious battles as factions sought to smother one another in holiday cheer. Ultimately, this lead to much traditional dancing and folk singing by Iepuraş, Princessescu of Piața Unirii.

At some point, an impromptu gift exchange occured.

Imagine my surprise as the wall itself slammed down the fist of justice, declaring a lack of jurisdiction and therefore mandating a change in venue.

Unburdened by gravity, I floated past time.

Unburdened by sanity, time floated past me.

In the fog of space madness, the Mare Partyuri continued largely undocumented but resulted in anecdotal evidence the next morning.

End transmission.

What were the odds of that upgrade? It was only yesterday that I casually shared a photo showing snow in Braşov and told y’all how it had gone away without coming back so there hadn’t really been any snow for a while but then this run-on sentence just kept going until a near overload of ludicrousity (if that’s a word, which it might be…).

When I woke up this morning, I spent a minute or two debating whether I would only open one eye or two. Eventually, that shifted gears to general semantics like degree of openness and length of contiguous openinity (play along, now). Once the sleepies had been removed, I was surprised to find other out-of-focus, light-colored objects seeming to fall. Surely, it could not be snowing!

To my amazement, it was!

With the Revealing of the Kitchen, yesterday, it seemed natural today to go ahead and release the prequel: A New Home. While two colors, it is one building. A 2 story house with basement and attic. At an unknown point, the owner (post-communist, I believe) expanded by adding a very long structure which has its own attic and basement as well. Why? They wanted to outfit both sets of attics and basements into liveable areas, so they could artificially split the entire structure into several separate apartments.

That’s where I live. I rent the main floor of that right-hand addition. The off-white, creme colored section. You can see it has 5 windows and a big green door. It is pretty big inside with an entry room, comparatively large kitchen, large walk-in storage area (where the water heater is!), bathroom with jacuzzi-style tub, “huge” living room, and a big master bedroom. Half the apartment has a green faux-marble tiling, while the living room and bedroom have beautiful wood floors.

The attic above and basement below did not get complete renovations, so no one lives there. That gives me much desired latitude in playing music loudly. Plus, in Romania, the people are very much used to having noise from neighbors, which would make complaints very rare indeed (unlike US apartments, where people call the police about “disturbing the peace” if they can hear a fly crawling on your side of the wall). Hooray! I’m an audiophile.

Now, the other part of the building (tan/olive) is fully inhabited, I believe. I don’t go snooping around, but I see enough people coming and going. Plus I seem to recall the landlady mentioning something to that effect.

Yes, those are her garden gnomes on the grass. In the summer, she apparently had picnic tables and a barbeque grill on the lawn, so tenants could have outdoor parties. Not too shabby! There’s also a spot for parking a couple cars behind the gated entry (the “garage”). Three cars, if you’re really brave or desperate.

Otherwise, park outside on the street. As you walk out of the property — through the people gate, not the car garage gate — the street looks something like this (below). Left hand picture is what you see if you look left. And… well, make the calculation.

Let’s pretend you’re me for a moment. It’s time to pick up a couple items from nearby stores. You turn left and walk down to the end you see in the photo. Turn left again. One of the first things you see is this cute little “vegetable and fruit” store.

Alas, your attention is drawn a little further down the sidewalk where you see Laura looking smart, all decked out in her cute early-winter casual look.

She appears to be staring across the street. At what?

An ugly little store, which appears to be selling a combination of electrical christmas decorations, insurance products, and first aid kits (required by law to keep in your automobile). I’m not really certain what other mysteries await inside.

Distractions aside, we walk down the street just a bit and it opens into Piaţa Unirii. There are two main pieţe in Braşov and this is the lesser of the two, located in Poarta Schei. (The other is Piaţa Sfatului where all the expensive shops and restaurants are conveniently organized for tourists with American dollars, my friend.)

The small structure in the foreground is a very old community well. I might be crazy, but I am under the impression it was built in the 1600s. (Any readers know for certain? Let me know and I’ll make the correction.) The blacktop immediately surrounding the well is considered a “taxi station” (one of several spots in town where taxis congregate).

In the background is a very pretty building which I understand houses some apartments on the top floors. A local shopkeep mentioned she believes it owned by “The Church” (as they say). That info is not confirmed, however. On the bottom floor are two or three curious little shops. And, in the far, far background you can see Sfântul Nicolae church.

Mind-boggling, isn’t it? I find it completely stunning and will share more detailed photos of it in the future. Built in 1392 from wood, Sfântul Nicolae is the oldest Orthodox church in all of Romania. Various reconstructions and additions were undertaken in 1495, 1594, and 1739. Immediately adjacent to it is the very first Romanian school in history, established in 1495. (Note: with all the various empires controlling Transylvania throughout recorded history, this is the school to have first specifically taught in the Romanian language. And with knowledge, comes power.)

One last diddy for you. I read in one or two places that Romanians love their ice cream. Apparently that holds true even in the winter.

I’ve gotten a number of questions about neighborhoods, apartments, and general living conditions. You know, “do Romanians live ghettos?” and the like. Americans intuitively understand that the east European economies are not as strong as the States. Wages are dramatically lower. Standards of living are lower. Purchasing power is lower. And it’s all true, on a relative scale. But some of the realities may interest you. I don’t see too many people living in grass huts or scores of homeless sleeping in parks. Families don’t huddle together for warmth in heroin safehouses while sirens wail outside. No drama needed.

Some caveats, first. Like any nation or city, there is a wide variety of living conditions often separated in caste-like groupings of laborers, professionals, merchants, and political elites. In other words, the obvious: different people live at different standards. Just like you. Another familiarity is the concept that cities have their “nicer areas” and their “rustic areas.” (A few months ago, I was in Hollywood where it’s easy to experience the thrill of driving down a high-end shopping boulevard which, at one intersection, instantly and abruptly changes into crackwhores, gangbangers, and pawnshops. Amazingly, each side of the side of the crosswalk seems to keep to itself without affecting the other.)

But let’s judge a book by it’s cover, shall we? Like many Romanian cities, Braşov is a mix of inspiring home design from years past and stark, ugly concrete apartment buildings of the Nicolae Ceauşescu communist era. I am extremely fortunate to have found a cozy spot in the beautiful, historic Poarta Schei neighborhood in Braşov. The other month, I nabbed a snapshot of the first snowfall from my porch. This vantage point shows the old-style home architecture and beautiful Sfântul Nicolae church in relief of the stunning Tampa mountain.

The snow stuck around for about 2 weeks before disappearing. Haven’t seen a flake since!

Marvel at this example of the quaint Braşov homes you can still find aplenty.

But even a place as beautiful as Braşov could not escape the wrecklessness of tyranny.

Just last week, I drove the jaw-droppingly gorgeous highway to Ramnicu Vâlcea which follows the path of a river through ancient canyons now forested and dotted with fortress ruins. But Ramnicu Vâlcea is more representative of the other type of cities in Romania. Few old buildings or other nicecities. Instead, these cities are overwhelming bleak at first blush with little in the way of eye-candy.

Another typical neighborhood feature? Here is the intra-building foyer where children can play on swings, old Dacia cars are parked, and people clean their rugs all in combination. It is a common sight throughout all the neighborhoods Ceauşescu destroyed and built up during his socialist dictatorship.

Not the first place you’d choose to live, eh? Same for the Romanians, actually. While the USSR was dominating half the planet, the Romanian government seized all property for the state. People were often re-assigned new places to live (including a huge consolidation of rural families forced into the new commie concrete apartments, for better monitoring no doubt). After the violence of 1989, when Romania began making reforms, most folks simply inherited ownership of the property they had been assigned to live in under the previous regime, regardless of where they might have historically lived. (Frankly, property reparation is a legal quagmire rife with counter-claims and corruption these days, but suffice to say that the summary I gave is largely truish for the vast majority.)

It is true that some folks have relatively simple apartment interiors and plain living conditions compared to many American single family homes. So, what’s a Romanian to do? Same as anyone not born a supermodel. Regardless of which city you live in, you make the most of what you do have and work on your inner beauty!

After all, the outside of those ugly Ceauşescu buildings don’t always tell the whole story. Many folks have worked hard to renovate the inside of their apartments into something completely different. Others are a makeover in progress. To be honest, when you go to visit someone’s apartment, you never know what you’ll see!

Take a look at this interior of an apartment I rented in Bucureşti, the national capital.

No Corian counter tops or Delta faucets, hmm? That lovely, little place was tucked away inside an ugly communist era building on a dreary side street. (Granted, it is nicer than most, but it goes to show you not to assume what lies inside.)

The following photo would be considered close to typical. (For disclosure purposes, I should admit this is actually one corner of my fairly large kitchen! Not terribly impressive, I’m afraid. But it’s actually better than most I’ve seen. Heck, my little gas stove is actually brand new.)

Imagine if those were older and more worn. Then you can get an idea of some of the more simple environments many people live in. I wish I had more photos along those lines, so you could continue to see typical indoor arrangements. But not everyone is champing at the bit to fling their doors open to the American photographer wandering past so they can have it posted all over the internet. Instead, I can continue showing you some of the nicer places I’ve been.

Here is the kitchen in another Braşov apartment I considered living in.

Below is the kitchen in a Ceauşescu apartment I rented in Braşov.

Check out this living room in a Braşov apartment I considered moving to.

Before you go: take 1 minute to view this typical home in Cluj. The Woods did a great job depicting their living conditions.

I hope you get a glimpse as to the living conditions of some people. Not everyone lives so fashionably, but even the plain and simple arrangements are clean and liveable. People don’t usually sleep on a bare mattress flung on the dirty floor in the corner of a darkened crackhouse.

Until I can get more photos of the simpler style, try to recall US furniture from the 50s, 60s, and 70s… simple, inexpensive and practical. And bear in mind the average living area has far less square footage than most new American houses, because the Romanians tend to live in city apartments or small homes in the countryside.

I do not have photographs of the poorest nor of the most posh. But I trust you got the notion that while folks here are not as affluent as Americans, they are not necessarily living in dire straits either. Most folks happily survive in environs which many Americans would recognize as normal or acceptable. (Just think about the bad neighborhoods in your town. You know the ones that make you uncomfortable. Romanian conditions are clearly better than those as you may now realize.)

And I would like to reiterate that even families living in “poor” conditions (which, again, are hard to get photographs of) are generally improving their interiors every year, through renovating floors and tiled walls or purchasing new furniture. One piece at a time, Romania is nipping at the heels of western European living standards.

As Rareş once said, “it’s quite okay!”