Arriving in Targu Jiu late at night by ocazie, I ventured through maze of happily chatting customers poised on the open terrace and into the well-appointed interior of the pizzeria when I’d been dropped off.

There was only one table available, in a corner under the plasma tv which played some unrecognizable, cheesy late-70s/early-80s American film with romaneşte subtitles on a Romanian station. We took seats and looked around for the staff.

And served we were. Hoo-boy! A stunning waitress handed us menus, smiled as she promised to come back, and then rushed her petite, slender figure off to take care of another table. Lemonmouse and I flipped through the plastic covered pages.

Normally, when I’m out to eat with Romanians, the waitstaff will notice I am a foreigner and start off the conversation by looking at whomever else is with me has that Romanian look to their face. Even when a waiter doesn’t think about the issue up front, they generally realize eu sunt straine about 5 seconds after starting the exchange and quickly switch their gaze to another member of our party.

Not this girl. No, sir. I’m not precisely sure what she said, but I’m guessing it was along the lines of:

“Sorry for the wait. Have you had a chance to look over the menu? What can I get for you?”

You might think the words glazed over me because of some distraction due to the intent electricity eminating from her light green eyes set above her pert nose or the short-jaw of her fair-skinned face beneath a tight wreath of dyed-red hair extending back into a long ponytail.

But you’d be wrong. Not only are my language skills still lacking, but I really didn’t expect to be engaged for a complete dialogue. I glanced at Lemonmouse, but the waitress didn’t buy my suggestion.

I tried again, this time turning my head away. Lemonmouse (understanding my intention) had just inhaled to speak when the waitress spoke rapidly, friendly, but directly at me once again… as if to cut off anyone from interfering. I turned back to smile. She smiled.

After a pause, I looked at my menu and struggled with “Eu doresc sa beau o sticla de Ursus, va rog.”

Satisified for now, she scribbled into her notepad. Lemonmouse announced a desire for “Silva Bruna la sticla” which was met by the waitress’ flat-toned reply of “okay” while she kept her eyes on me.

An eyebrow raised and a cheeky smirk, she asked me something about mancaţi. Ah, to eat. Da, da. “Vreau o pizza calzone dar fara ciuperci, va rog.” Maybe it was kinda cute from a perspective, but each time I grappled with the language she smiled more broadly as if I were some sort mentally challenged teddy bear. Or, being slightly flustered, that’s how I felt about it.

As soon as she finished writing it, her eyes lit up again as the courteous thought came to her that perhaps an American wouldn’t realize what he had just ordered. With a soft smile and gentle stare, she explained in a careful tone that a calzone was a folded pizza with the contents inside, et cetera.

Not wanting to offend, I politely waited for the end of the lesson in order to indicate that I understood the concept. Before I could, Lemonmouse leapt onto the trailing period of the waitress’ last sentence with an immediate, emphatic, and stressed “da, da, he already knows what a calzone is, don’t worry about it” in an aggressive manner which might be seen as rude in America but is quite common in Romania and the Balkans.

The waitress finally turned toward Lemonmouse and issued a double-eyebrow-raised, matter of fact speechette about how it was great that we all seemed to understand one another now. Meanwhile, I could see the waitress’ shadow growing a set of devil horns as an angry, yelling puppet on the wall.

“What would you like?” “Nothing.” “Okay.”

And we waited for our beers. The waitress would walk by when serving others, but look to make sure I was watching her. Positioning herself at the nearby table just in my view, while twisting and contorting her taught frame unnecessarily so as to make sure I got views from multiple angles.

When she finished, she glanced in my direction and had to do a doubletake as she found me, for once, staring back in a dedicated and intent fashion. Her high cheeks turned rose and the curtains lifted on all her teeth. She meandered off, tick-tock hips, to fetch two bottles and two glass mugs.

Not only did Lemonmouse get ignored during the pouring of my beer, but the second beer was spilled (obviously a conspiracy to slight my companion). I continued to get playful eyes from her. Eventually, I began to find it all cute, amusing, and perhaps even flattering.

Afterall, you have to picture me as having been out all day in the hot sun, a little dirty and sweaty for hours. I’m armed with a heavy backpack and camera bag. It’s late and my eyes show signs of fatigue. I’m wearing camouflage shorts, a plain ol’ tricou, and shaggy hair poking from under my camo bucket hat. And I’ve got this imam-style, daringly-red beard flying in all directions.

When the meal was over, we loaded up our gear and made entertainment for the slackjawed customers who followed us out with their eyes. Les’see now… which way to go? Seems to me there was a fastfood kiosk to the left and Lemonmouse needed something to counteract the beer… so, stunga!

There were a half dozen impatient people in front of us waiting their turn for the single girl working behind the glass to take their order, make the food, and serve it through a small opening. For once, no one seemed to care that we were speaking English. They disinterestedly avoided looking at us altogether. I nearly felt normal.

Waiting for eons, we had plenty of time to peruse the pork-laden menu. I wondered just what kind of salsa-like substitute would constitute “sos mexican” in the context of this street vendor’s menu. Lemonmouse found the coup de grace in the availability of chessburgers.

Armed with a schnitzel, we proceeded to harass some half-dressed, rather athletic guy about where we might find the road out of town. All the while he tried to convince us to find the gara or autogara, instead. It took some repetition and clarification before we all finally understood where to find the highway back to Ramnicu Valcea.

We wandered through the town, following the directions we’d be given. I was rather impressed with Targu Jiu. I’d been anticipating something of a hole in the wall, but the city turned out to be good-sized, fairly modern and quite vibrant. Lemonmouse was impressed with the array of chocolate choices available at the random magazin where we stopped, obstensibly for something to drink.

Once we reached the eastern outskirts of the city, there was only an unlit bus stop and a rickety magazin, guarded by a suspicious old woman, between us and the open road. We took out our hitchhiking sign and tried to position ourselves so it received some light from the lamp on the other side of the street while still facing traffic.

Except there was no traffic.

Sure, there had been a taxi who slowed down near us, hoping to get a fare, around 12:50a. Then there was that racing police car with its lights flashing who screamed by around 12:57a. As the excitement of our adventures thus far began to wear off, we realized the situation was getting desperate.

It was 1:03am.

A tag-team of new, white Mercedes Sprinters whizzed up to the magazin half a block away. Lemonmouse ran over to them to ask if they were going to Valcea. She knocked on the passenger window of the second van. The driver rolled it down partially and said we couldn’t have a ride.

I caught my first glimpse of the driver of the first delivery van when he approached Lemonmouse to find out why the second truck was being accosted. He had the same dark skin as maybe one-third of Romanians, but his face was much more round and he had a handlebar moustache.

Romanian readers just perked; didn’t you?

Lemonmouse explained that we were looking for a ride to Ramnicu Valcea, but didn’t have much in the way of money. The man looked toward me in the distance and indicated that, yes, we should get in the second truck. Grabbing up our bags, I scuttled over to the awaiting cab and climbed inside.

I gave a brief greeting to our blonde-haired, blue-eyed driver as he tried not to look at the two of us getting in, but instead searched from some sign from his boss that this really was okay. As the caravan got under way, I was tempted to try a little magyarul since the driver looked so clearly Hungarian in my eyes. But then there’s always those Romanians who look ethnically Hungarian and get offended if you assume incorrectly, so I decided not to risk it so early in the journey.

One elephant in the room of Romania is the long-overlooked inter-ethnic DNA swapping.

Our driver had something of an insecure grin, which might have caused other people to think he was unintelligent. In fact, he was just nervous. The ways his eyes stayed wide open without blinking, his white knuckles on the steering wheel, his aggressive braking around minor curves. Ultimately, we pried enough sentence fragments in response to my barrage of questions to determine this was his first night of work. Aham, the nervousness was understandable.

As I recall, my attempts at conversation and humor lasted less than ten minutes before the mighty defenses of his unwillingness to cohort with perfect strangers, as if we were a danger. This little thought amused me as Lemonmouse leaned closed and whispered into my ear ominously, “they’re gypsies.”

Oh.

So, it’s the dead of night and we’re out in the middle of nowhere as captives to the infamous bandits? Ţigani. Gypsies. Roma. The unwanted scourge of Europe. The untrusted wanderers across all corners of the globe. As if on cue, he popped in a cassette and introduced us to the latest from Nicolae Guţa.

Yes, my American friends, that is the king of manele. Manele is a strangely fun mishmash of pop, traditional Roma (Indian) music, Romanian lyrics, cowboy costumes, and hip-hop themes of money and women.

Some songs are really lame. Others are quite addictive. In our case, the cassette in the van happened to have a couple appealing songs so there was no need to shoot ourselves (as you were no doubt tempted to do while watching that video).

Fortunately, our hosts seemed to be in a big hurry and drove rapidly through the swoops and swooshes of Romania’s curvalicious highways. Along the way, we passed the scene of an accident. I could make out what appeared to be a post-human lump hidden underneath a sheet being carried by paramedics.

Once past the ambulance, I could see a jumping and thrashing horse, apparently both injured and scared, still attached to a disasterous pile of splinters that had once been a cart.

It looked as though some drunk shepard had been operating old school transportation afterhours when a speeding car probably zoomed around a curve and essentially smashed into the wood and probably ran over the semi-sleeping human inside. At any rate, it wasn’t too hard to guesstimate what tragedy had occurred.

Somewhere halfway to Ramnicu Valcea we pulled over to stop at one of those infamous icons of the Romanian travel landscape: the non-stop coffeehouse, bar, restaurant, minimart, and hotel wrapped into a single building establishments.

Our hosts went inside to browse through the racks and racks of manele cassettes on sale, while no doubt comparing notes over the identity of their hitchhikers.

They grabbed some espresso drinks. We got a Mountain Dew — which, by the way, is not only newish in Romania but also tastes a heck of a lot better because they use real sugar instead of that nasty high fructose corn syrup foisted on Americans. We all sat together on the terasa on a wood bench in the cold night air.

The interrogation began with the usual. America gives away free cheese, has streets paved of gold, and doesn’t comprehend what being poor is really like. It’s a Disneyland paradise, just like on TV, where everyone is sexy, buys a new car every 2 years, eats only expensive junk food, and generally goes around dropping loose diamonds of our collective pocket.

The biggest worries in America are which fabulous dress to wear today, which supermodel to have sex with, where we’ll invest this afternoon’s cash deposits, and what style we want our butler to tell our chef to cook the steak in.

And no matter how you try to explain that, yes, some people do have lives like this, but the overwhelming majority of Americans do not the typical Romanian just won’t believe you.

Granted, our life is a little easier on a number of levels. But most Romanians would be pretty shocked and/or unhappy to realize the basics truth that America is very similar to Romania.

Both countries have new German luxury cars and yachts for some folks, while a whole bunch of people live more modest lives that require working, and yet others still are barely clinging to a life where food and electricity are uncertain.

The caravan boss sneered disgustedly at my insinuation. I must be a liar.

But what did I think of Romania? After explaining how I thought it was a beautiful nation, with a rapidly growing economy that has huge opportunities for those who will but try, warm and friendly culture, combined with an amazingly rich history, he snorted indignantly. Why, if he didn’t have to be here for even another hour, he would leave immediately.

I guess that makes me insane.

We talked about local economics, the failure of Romania to compete effectively in regional markets, and the international impact of Romania joining the European Union. There were many points of disagreement, but some in commonality. In any case, he was far from ignorant, if opinionated.

Then there was the obligatory chat about Texas, land of rich oil barrons. Supposedly the home of George Bush, rich and most powerful man on earth. Inspiration for the Dallas tv show, which features typical rich Americans. Being me, I tried to steer the conversation to barbeques and such, but that didn’t fly too well.

He then tried to mentally pry into how Lemonmouse came to know me, where the obvious implication was there must be money involved. In his mind, either I was paying Lemonmouse for certain journey-inclusive entertainment or Lemonmouse was fradulently taking me for a ride because I was foolish simpleton. Maybe both.

Poor guy was visibly disappointed to find out that Lemonmouse has been to several countries outside of Romania. With me.

It’s been a while since I encountered this strange presumption before. A couple years ago I was on a train to Hungary with a couple Romanian friends of mine from Cluj, who are ethnic-Hungarians. We were busy making jokes in our compartment when the Romanian border patrol stepped in, demanding our passports.

After noticing I was an American, he looked my compadres up and down carefully, then turned to ask me if I really knew them. Like, were they kidnapping me or somehow stealing from me. I felt both like laughing at the absurdity of it and cursing him out for what felt like racism. Apparently, it’s just what some people think!

Silly me, getting ripped off by all my “friends.”

The driver boss did tell a funny story about how he had once parked on the side of the road to sleep during a long trip. When he awoke to relieve himself before continuing, he opened up the door and just let nature take its course… as might be expected in such a situation. But the splattering apparently woke up some schmuck who had sought refuge underneath the transport during the night. If the driver hadn’t had done his thing, that schlep might have ended up dead from being run over.

That ended the inquisition on a humorous note and suddenly the pressure was back on. Half-jogging back to the trucks, I began to realized that the majority of our discussions had obsessed around money. American money. And my being American.

I remembered how all the Romanians I’ve ever met, anywhere, have always, consistently warned me to never trust the ţigani because they will cheat you every time. This adamant portent echoed inside my belfry.

2am. Nowhere.

Back inside the cab, the younger blonde driver didn’t appear quite so nervous any more. Was his new-found confidence because he knew the plan his boss had waiting for us? He popped in some new manele music and turned it up a bit loud to avoid discussion as we pulled away from the last humans to have seen us alive.

Lemonmouse tried to get some sleep. I stayed awake and pretended not to notice the driver looking over at me now and then, but only for a moment before quickly turning his eyes back onto the road before I caught him in the act.

It must have been the beard he was curious about because we arrived in Ramnicu Valcea around 3am without having had much in the way of conversation or adverse incident. They pulled into the OMV gas station on the western edge of town, precisely where we had left some 12 odd hours ago.

Climbing down from the van, we had about 17 RON available.

But they refused to take it. Lemonmouse tried two or three times, yet the young driver flat out refused the money. I then tried to give the money to him without success. The boss was busy pumping gas into the truck, so I turned to shake his hand and offer him the money as thanks, but he refused.

My thoughts drifted back to something I had forgotten in our previous roadside conversation. He had told me twice, through Lemonmouse’s traduceri, that it was unsafe to be hitchhiking this late at night. Unsafe for anyone. Especially a foreigner. Especially an American. Because you never knew what kind of weirdo might take advantage.

In the moment, it had been a little puzzling and ominous. He had also said that was exactly the reason he picked up us. Because we seemed desperate and he thought it was unsafe for us to be out there. It was truth on its face; he wasn’t out to get me.

The Roma were trying to protect me.

I waved to the boss’ wife in the cab of his truck, but she just stared back blankly. As Lemonmouse started to walk away, I shook the hand of the Hungarian-looking gypsy and thanked him. He smiled shyly and waited for me to release him, but instead I quickly shoved the wad of bills in his hand. He protested, but I was already gone.

We walked across most of Valcea, in the direction of the apartment Lemonmouse had arranged for us, when the the gyspy caravan — those flashy Mercedes delivery trucks — passed us by. They honked horns and waved; I waved back. The two of us discussed the entire episode, including the mixed signals we had received as well as our own misinterpretations.

This entry was posted on Thursday, September 7th, 2006 at 8:25 pm and is filed under Living. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.