The next day, I rose before the sun so I could strike out early, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. What I wondered to myself was did any of you just beleive that? Right, so, stiff and sore I stumbled from slumber slightly late as the sordid slacker I sometimes seem.

The first order of business was to check-in on little Azorel to make sure he was happy with his new owners. Thankfully, everyone seemed to be getting along swimmingly.

Azorel was already house broken, it seems. No matter how long he was indoors, he never once made a stinky mess of any kind. In fact, after only a couple days, he had learned to go to the door and whine if he needed to get out in nature. Deştept!

After a much needed power shower, it was time to saddle up and mosey out of the corral. It had been over 12 hours since I last had me some vittles, y’all… so guess where our first stop was? Yessir, time to fuel up for the long road home. Giddyap.

Travel tip: Bear in mind, kids, that when I say kebab I am using the term loosely. Kebap, whether döner or otherwise, comes a couple different ways.

Some places serve it wrapped up in flatbread like a burrito while many places serve it sandwich-style on chifla. Chifla is a bread that — forgive me — is roughly a cross between a hamburger bun and a croissant (ce qui vous prévoient, je suis américain).

But when you strut on up to place your order, it’s time to break out the correct terminology. What I’m really asking for all these times is the rolled kind, in lipie (lebanese flatbread). It’s known around Romania as shoarma. Pronounced roughly the same as shwarma, but instead of “shwa-arma” it’s more like “show-arma.” Same difference.

(Note: Ultratechnically, the Romanians should spell it “şoarma” as that would be the most romaneşte-ish. But they don’t.)

Shoarma, kebap. Do we have to fight about it? I call it a shwarma kebab. Just make sure y’all know which one you’re ordering. And be prepared to get surprised now and again.

As noted, sometimes “kebap” will get you flatbread instead of chifla. And in some places, “shoarma” will get you a pile of meat on a plate with no bread at all. You’ve been warned.

I ordered a shoarma (kebab) from the deliciously diligent gals at Simpatico, a non-stop fast food spot in Ramnicu Valcea. If you’re in town, trust me and do the same.

Yes, my American friends, that is a bottle of Gatorade off to the side. The “Cool Blue” flavor was remarkably similar to our Blue Raspberry, but I guess the former is easier to say.

Anywho, the thirst aid for that deep down body thirst has finallly made it’s way into Romania, which is a sure sign of guaranteed EU membership in January 2007. (The astute marketer knows that, now, Coca-Cola’s distribution of Powerade will be forthcoming immediately.)

By the time my gut was bulging and we had scored a water supply, it began to rain. We decided to take a taxi to the edge of town since it was 2 or 3 kilometers of wetness away. Fantastically, there was but the lightest of drizzles when we hopped out.

The bad news was somehow we misjudged the drop-off location. We realized we would be highly unlikely to catch a ride at this particular juncture since most cars would be turning onto a highway going elsewhere.

We had to hoof it on down the road a little, underneath the overpass to other side of the highway interchange to where we knew everyone was headed our direction — Sibiu. A little Roma beggar boy thought we might make good targets for coin dropping.

While most Romanians straight-out ignore them, I take a different tactic: I either speak to them in English or some broken Romanian, which confuses the heck out of ‘em.

I think it’s funny… since I’m not fooled by guilt emotions and understand their begging is a scam in the first place. Plus, I feel better about acknowledging their humanity and teasing them for such a ridiculous occupation rather than ignoring their existence. Each to their own.

Now, who is going to pick you up when it appears you have a little beggar as part of your entourage? Ding, ding, we have a winner! That’s correct; no one will want to give you a ride. Now, the boy was oblivious to this because he was intent on grifting some pocket change.

Amazingly, when Lemonmouse chastized him for giving us bad luck with getting a ride, he left in a hurry. Had he been a little more quick-minded, he might have seen the revenue opportunity in such a predicament.

Within three minutes of the vacancy, the thin driver of a large semi-truck squinted out his window to read our handwritten sign held aloft, then beeped his horn at us and squealed to a halt in the damp dust not far from us.

Time to snag those packs by the handle, jerk and lift. Swing them over to one side as you hoist them on a shoulder. Then, slopjog toward the awaiting vehicle while listing precariously so as to avoid losing your gear. Mind the loose gravel obstructing an otherwise clear path.

Lemonmouse swung the door open and perched on the first two steps of the ladder, so as to meet the driver eye-to-eye when confirming Sibiu as the destination and clarifying that we wouldn’t have much in the way of money. As is typical of long-haul truck drivers, money was the last thing on his mind.

“Nici o problema. Hai, mergem!”

Travel tip reminder: Hitchhikers should remember that semi-truck (lorry, to John Bull) drivers and young people in cars tend to be normal and do not care about money. Just get in and make pleasant conversation: that’s why they’re picking you up.

However, if your host is an older person or drives a company minivan, then you might need to negotiate a small fare as Romania remains the only place in the world where some people (fewer each year) still expect to be paid for a lift.

Lemonmouse called dibs on the relative safety of the passenger seat, which left me in the chairless middle section next to the visibly dirty man bearing a snaggletoothed grin with large gaps.

Not knowing whether the stained floor was less sanitary than the sweatstained muscle tshirt wrinkled over his twiggy frame, I did contorted myself into something resembling a half-crouch and tried not step on the paperwork or cassette cases strewn about the cabin.

Grinding into first gear just as the door came to a close, the red monster lurched onto the highway unevenly as the fuel tanker attached in tow sloshed its contents back and forth in a test of the suspension’s limitations which gave us a rather bumpy wavy jumpy initial kilometer during which I was jostled about and needed to use muscles long since forgotten just to keep from flying into the gear shift, over the dashboard, or onto Lemonmouse.

With start-and-stop traffic through a construction zone, I started to fantasize about the nightmare scenario of this beast being unable to stop in time and how I would most likely be tossed headfirst through the windshield screaming “la dracuuuuuuuu” as the fuel tank exploded with sufficient ferocity to hurtle me all the way to Braşov as a charred pile of glasscut bones while our maniac gyspy driver cackled and unfolded his satanic wings admist the flames of hell eminating from behind me.

Snap out of it. Book, cover, judge.

Once the ride smoothed out a bit on the highway snaking along each twist of the Olt River, we passed the beautiful monasteries and castle ruins where outdoorsmen fished idly. It turned out our dangerous cargo was merely milk and our driver was actually ethnic Romanian. Frankly, the dude was fairly smart, too.

He explained the process of how one sanitizes a petrol tanker so that it’s safe for transporting milk. He explained the European chemical warning system used by truckers, so emergency workers immediately know the contents of any spill should a truck turnover on a highway.

As if to prove his point, he pointed out the meaning of each of the three signs attached to the truck in front of us which was, in fact, carrying a highly flammable fuel of some kind.

Once he discovered I was from Texas, I had the chance to entertain him with discussion about President Bush and the war in Iraq, my denials of having ever seen a single episode of Dallas on tv, and reaffirming the stereotype of 10-gallon hat on cowboys who have gun racks in the back of their Texan trucks.

Our host was an avid fisherman and cook, so he proceeded to explain where one might find a variety of tasty fish around Romania. He’d been living in Germany a bit and had introduced his then-neighbors to several Romanian preparations of peşte.

During the process, he shared several recipes about how to make various condiments and entrees. In turn, I shared my recipe for Pui Zacusca (a Romerican original) and he speculated that it might indeed make a fine meal.

Then there was the story of his grandfather. Bunic (“boo-NEEK”) had been something of a loyalist to the monarchy dictatorship in the turbulent late 1930s and early 1940s.

As despicable as King Carol II had been in his abuse of Romania, absconding with national wealth, and generally derelict of any diplomatic competency, one must endeavor to keep in mind the primary alternatives were Ana Pauker’s Soviet-collaborating communists and the two factions of proto-Nazi fascists in Codreanu’s Iron Guard legionnaires or General Ion Antonescu.

Of course, the Romanian government under Carol wasn’t exactly tolerant. As part of a power grab, the Romanian king had made an uneasy alliance with both Codreanu and Antonescu in order to align himself with growing anti-Semitism and secure a powerbase by which he could control the nation.

Ultimately, as a reflection of his lack of principles, he granted much power to Antonescu with the understanding that The Legionarries would be persecuted for their excessive violence.

Make no mistake of misinterpreting favoritism toward the less-violent approach, he was decidedly anti-Jew. Partly because he incorrectly believed Jews were the force behind Bolshevik Communism and might unseat him from the lavish waste afforded by his throne.

His tactics tended to veer away from violence and instead implement a tremendous amount of social pressure against those Romanians who happened to be of Jewish faith. He actively encouraged them to voluntarily uproot themselves from the land of their birth and away from their Romanian brothers by (among other tactics) promoting propoganda of a utopian view about starting a new life in zionist Palestine.

But I’ve gotten off track, haven’t I? I tell y’all whut, we’ll save this fascinating historical background for another post in the future. Mmmkay? Otherwise I’m fixin’ ta write me a treatise on measure with Лев Никола́евич Толсто́й.

Bunic was among the troops who attacked the Soviet Union after Ion Antonescu turned the tables on the playboy king, usurped the government, and allied Romania with Hitler’s Nazi Germany in World War II. Against his personal will, Bunic was compelled to fight on behalf of the Axis through Bessarabia to Odessa and beyond according to the story as told.

Once the Soviets defeated Romania and absorbed its troops, Bunic was happy to find himself forced to attack the Germans although he, himself, was not a communist. After the war, Bunic’s pre-war desire for an independent, tolerant, non-communist Romania got him into some trouble with the new, anti-semitic Communist authorities under Groza.

He was relocated as a зек guest of the USSR gulag, лагеря, in Siberia where he was honored to receive re-education and awarded the opportunity to assist his comrades in labor duties for the glorious workers’ paradise.

Our driver explained that through some miracle Bunic — half-naked, half-frozen, and half-starved — managed to enamor a camp cook (female, if we’re to believe the tale) who later helped him escape literally in a basket of laundry.

Apparently, Bunic ranks among the rare persons who managed to escape a Soviet labor camp and somehow survive the long journey out of Russia. Still, Bunic made it back to Romania and rejoined the family he loved so much.

He carved out a simple life for himself amidst the communism in Romania and, after the events of 1989, passed on the story of his experiences to his children and grandchildren.

And now I’ve shared it with you.

All this serious conversation had drained the energy out of our semi-truck driver, who had been so involved in retelling the details he had forgotten to keep his foot on the gas pedal.

As a result, we were only about sixty percent or so completed with our journey toward Sibiu. Realizing that his own schedule was now in disarray, he opted to get more aggressive in lugging the swishswash missle around the Romanian highways to the sounds of Ghita Munteanu.

[kml_flashembed movie="http://www.youtube.com/v/9fTn98iAXTc" height="350" width="425" base="http://www.youtube.com" /]

The particular selection of songs we listened to from Ghita Munteanu were much more europop-aggressive and less romantic in style than the example in the video above.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say it was the pimptastic architype of manele about money and women when Roma try their best to imitate the bulk of empty-lyricked, unoriginal rap pretenders hyped to death on embarrasing music video channels.

After a heavy dose of manele, we arrived the intersection for the highway to Braşov and exited the truck with mulţumims accompanying 10 or 12 RON. Both Lemonmouse and I made a bee-line for the Noroc minimarket at the Petrom gas station across the interchange in order to take advantage of the restrooms.

Not being satisifed with an empty bladder, I picked up a sticla of unbelievably delicious Orangina Rouge. I was a little surprised to find the roadside store was selling it for cheaper than all other soda pop, which is generally the exact opposite of what you find in Romania. Needless to say, I was happy to quench my thirst at a bargain price.

Back on the roadsign with a freshmade sign, it began to rain on us.

It was funny to see the various brand-new Audi and Porsche automobiles zoom past because they all had one thing in common: an attractive, young, pampered woman in the passenger seat who would stare at us — thumbs out and getting wet — with a mixed expression of bewilderment at our volunteerism and a deeply-ingrained disdain for such proletarianism.

It wasn’t all hopeless. Someone took pity on us and veered a silver Dacia sedan off to the side without regard for the safety of nearby corn crops.

You know the drill; we booked it for the car lest some driver change his mind if we were too slow. Pop the doors open, verify destination, and announce we don’t have much to spend.

“E bine.”

I took the front seat and was relieved find this driver was fully dressed. Eager to make a fool of myself, I decided to strike up a conversation in romaneşte without any traduceri.

I managed to hack together some barely recognizable babbletalk to convey our enjoyment of the festival in Calimaneşti and failed attempt to find the same in Tismana. After that, I decided to pry.

“Eşti din Braşov?”

“Aşa, aşa, aşa…”

Another graduate of Paranoid State University! The conversation seemed to have died rather quickly with his reluctance to share any details about himself.

He was an average Romanian man of trim-n-fit build, fairly attractive, and in his late 20s. When I turned around to ask Lemonmouse to, perhaps, help translate something I wanted to say, the driver’s alert eyes were searching in the rearview mirror curiously.

He interrupted.

“What about you? Where are you from?”

I was a little taken aback, not so much at the sound of English since he was young enough to be thought as possibly being conversant, but instead at his excellent mastery of a distinctly recognizable west-coast American accent as if he’d lived Stateside for a decade. Well, how do, stranger!

“Texas.”

And thus began the obligatory discussion of cowboys, Dallas, and George Bush. The cheeky fellow had a jolly time stuffing each of his quips full of double entendres and capricious innuendo. At first, it seemed like something of a test to determined if I was a hard-ass or someone who could go with flow.

Well, of course, I gave him his tit for tat while he passed every car he could goad his Dacia into overtaking. In between sniggering at our volley of jokes and cursing out the cars who tried to block his passing, his interest in the standard subjects began to wane pretty quickly.

One jewel of interest was when he brought up the subject of payment for rides. Out of the blue, as if to clarify the muddied waters, he announced that he cannot stand it when hitchhikers attempt to pay him for a lift. The dude just came right out and said it.

“I rarely pick people up, but when I do it’s because they look interesting to talk to.”

With respect to Romania, he finds it ridiculous that some people pick up hitchhikers just to fish out a couple of bucks from some stranger. I agreed readily… and not out of self-interest.

And then, to cap it all off, the nonsense reaches its height when some greedy drivers try to demand the full price of an intercity bus or train ticket.

What’s the point of standing by the side of the road, if you’re not going to get a discount? I may as well take the damn bus instead.  Afterall, the rest of humanity knows it should be free anyway. Hear, hear.

However, our driver did explain the origin of the Romanian custom. Under Ceausescu everyone was “given” a job and paid very little compensation for their efforts. It was illegal to have a second job for supplimental income. Meanwhile transportation was unreliable.

Aşa e. At some point, folks began to offer a little hard-earned cash roughly equivalent to the price of state transport just to catch a ride with anyone and arrive somewhere on time. The few people fortunate enough to have cars back then were eager to seize upon the trend.

This form of populist capitalism could not be surpressed by the communist fat cats. And it just lived on into the Illiescu non-communist communist era.

Eventually, he felt comfortable revealing vague generalities about being an importer of goods, largely for the HoReCa industry. With my enthusiasm for Romanian tourism, I was frothing at the mouth to engage him in a very lengthy dialogue about the state of hotel companies in various regions of Romania.

One problem they encounter is that a good number of them depend on tour operators — you know, those huge buses full of people from Oriunde that puddlejump from sight to site — who tend to be fairly ruthless in their negotiation tactics.

Rather than opt for a reasonable rate which might engender a longer term relationship with a reliable hotel operator, the tour companies apparently hammer out the cheapest price without any concern about the viability of the hotel in order to squeeze every last penny of profit from a given tour.

For example, rooms which might normally sell for 60€ per night at Hotel X. A more experienced (dare I say, American) planner from a savvy tour agency should see some wisdom in identifying a win-win partnership wherein he might be able to create an environment where his customers were satisifed with a nice hotel offering good service. This supports his branding efforts by ensuring good customer experiences and, hence, word of mouth.

Now, the tour bus does have around 100 people (or more) on board. And he is in the game for profit. So, he will negotiate a favorable discount for his company who is, effectively, reselling accommodations.

But the intelligent decider will not cut off his nose despite his face.

Let’s peg the discounted price at 35-40€ per night, depending on the length of the deal and relative bargaining positions. The point is to make sure the hotel operator also makes money and you build a solid relationship.

From what I gather, the Romanian bus tours basically call in their chips around 20€, or maybe 25€, per night. If the hotel realizes it barely breaks even, they might normally complain (if less experienced) or try to negotiate (if more savvy).

What’s the response? Basically, it’s a threat: give me this price or I’ll just dial every 3-star hotel in town until I find someone desperate enough to take it.

And what’s the hotel going to do, realistically, if you offer to fill 60-80 rooms? They’ll swallow the hard lump in their throat and take it. But they won’t roll out the red carpet.

To make ends meet, they’ll cut corners anywhere they can including understaffing the hotel. Customers get subpar service and generally do not enjoy their stay.

The hotel understands that a bus tourist is unlikely to remember a particular hotel’s name, let alone promote it to their friends. In light of this likelihood, they’re willing to take the risk of badmouthing in order to scrape some profit out of the arrangement.

Most likely the tourist will simply blame the bus company for booking an undesirable location since it is the tour’s brand foremost in the customer’s mind. The bus company is short-sighted as it burns through hotels and disregards the value of customer experience.

After listening to his caricaturization of the scenario and bantering lightly over a few details here and there, I offered the response that hotels need to better position themselves such that they feel less obligated to stoop low enough to accept the bus operator’s offer.

Translation: get better at marketing and you’re far less likely to find yourself captive to the whims of whatever bus happens to pull into town.

He readily agreed and admitted that most hotels are skeletons in this area. They have paltry experience in any sort of rubber-meets-the-road marketing efforts, despite frequentlly invoking the word as if to summon pagan spirits.

Furthermore, he indicated that Romanian hotels often have poor management training, in general, which makes operation more difficult.

And then you have the disinterested owners who make their fortunes in some other business, but randomly decided to reinvest those profits in… in… oh, I don’t know… how about a hotel? Sounds like fun; wheeeeee!

When he incredulously probed the borders of my practical knowledge on the subject of marketing and hotels, I imbued him with an eye-opening plethora of realistic approaches through a solid drubbing of mini-lectures spewing forth from the, now, well-greased gears in my mind. Poor guy actually thought I made a little sense here and there.

Finally, it came my turn to launch into a tirade about Romania hotel furnishing, pricing strategies, customer service, and in-house restauranting.

Rather than lay it all out for you here, let’s keep our noses clean and just say that I had the poor boy silent for awhile as I brought to bear the brunt of undeniable emphasis regarding my somewhat refined opinions on the subject.

The ride and series of adventures came to an end all too soon. We entered the city limits of Braşov and our host offered to drop us off at the point in his journey which as closest to our destination.

At the north end of the Toamnei Loop, we parted ways. I double checked on the moola plank, but he stuck to his guns. Mulţumesc mult, frate.

We trudged back the last couple of blocks. With my first hitchhiking saga a success, I fell into a coma…

This entry was posted on Monday, September 11th, 2006 at 7:22 pm and is filed under Living, Travel Tips. 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.