In Braşov, garbage day is on Luni. Even if it’s raining. The trucks rumble around town, picking up the individual garbage cans from the Poarta Schei houses (just like what happens in the US) and the large train of bins that are a fixture of the concrete bloc neighborhoods.

I don’t really envy their job of slopping through the mud trying to guide a stinking, uncooperative bin full of festering rot while that one wheel wobbles like a flag in the breeze and the other three simply have a hard time getting sufficient traction in the ooze to overcome the various pothole hazards. But it pays. Aşa e, nu?

What caught my eye was the difference between American garbage collection and Romania. Across the pond, the gritty can-handlers frequently spill things here or there while lifting barrels. The mess inevitably remains on your curb or driveway… possibly blowing across your neighbors lawn. (Unless, of course, the homes in your Houston neighborhood are worth more than half a million. More than a million in Seattle. More than 3 milli in L.A.) Meanwhile, the Romanian guys actually sweep up the large, scattered piles of junk that weren’t even created by themselves! They briskly go about the task of cleaning the mess created by the careless residents themselves. It’s a contrast on two levels.

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