“It’s not purse… it’s European!“

Few Americans who watched any amount of television in the 1990s can forget Seinfeld. Easily one of the funniest shows ever made, it was Seinfeld who introduced the concept of a purse for men into the American consciousness.

Guys have been carrying bags around since the Stone Age. Tools, weapons, food. Native Americans had satchels. European imperial armies had messenger bags. Don’t forget backpacks, bookbags, et cetera. There have been and are a wide variety of uses.

But somewhere along the way, we have collectively drawn a line between such bags which might be used to transport some object from Point A to Point B, as being entirely different from the concept of a purse. A purse is a female item, popularly. It is a utilitarian piece of equipment, but not in the same connotation.

A purse is generally known as a tool women can use daily to tote around their various necessities, such as mobile phones, makeup, keys, tampons, loose change, gum, needle, perfume, hair clips, candy, and any number of other objects. A common point of humor is the large amount of things some women carry in their purses just because they cannot stand to be without some random possession.

Of course, there are small purses, too. It’s been my experience that these are generally restricted for use almost-exclusively when a woman is dressed up for some formal social occassion. It serves primarly as a fashion accessory. But it’s not normally the purse of choice because it’s just too small to carry everything she wants to drag along everywhere she goes.

Given that the accepted cultural understand that purses are a chick thing, the majority of guys are loathe to be associated with said object because it might call into question their manliness. Extraterrestrials need look no further than at some young couple where the lady has pratical need to ask the guy to hold her purse for a minute. His reaction is that of one being offered the plague.

Note: There is a side benefit to this behavior. Women generally feel safe about being able to maintain a shroud of mystery over the contents of her purse as whatever man lucky enough to be around her would be highly unlikely to ever violate the sanctity of purse privacy in order to pry into the bowels of it’s bottomlessness, for fear of being outed as a closet purse fetishist.

To the girls, this whole fear of purses is laughably ridiculous and/or pathetically cute, depending on the occassion. I secretly suspect many women might share the desire that their man grow up enough to not worry about how strangers might judge him for hanging on to a pleather bag for a brief time. And some men do.

Have you ever seen them? Sure, they’re older and more mature. Grown ups. Adults. Isn’t it wonderful that your lover and partner has outgrown his youth and blossomed into an open-minded, liberal guy? If only that were true.

You clearly didn’t see them well enough. Standing around with your purse loosely in their hands — an easy target for any pursesnatcher — because they don’t want anyone around to think they might be attached to such an object. More often than not, these men have some gray hair. They never look other men in the eye.

Dejectedly waiting out this purgatory until you come back to claim what isn’t his, he’ll stand there looking miserable to anyone who can read body language. Sheepishly rubbing a toe into the floor, eyes cast downward, one hand in his pocket, mumbling numbers to himself as he counts the seconds. Ever notice how fast he gives it back to you, upon your return?

That’s love. His sacrifice for you.

While you think he’s a big boy now, it’s only half true. He’s only big enough to be able to bear the excrutiating humiliation of possessing the fearsome purse for an eternity of suffering just because he doesn’t want to see you roll your eyes at him in disgust. You’ve just become slightly more important to him than the random strangers passing by.

It’s a struggle. And an accomplishment.

In the Seinfeld episode, the main character is a man who is carrying a small satchel. Bag. Sack. Pack. Something just big enough to hold his wallet, keys, and something else small. The humor bit is his then-girlfriend who teases him mercilessly for being so unmanly as to carry around what she sees as essentially being a purse.

Obviously, he stumbles over himself to justify why he’s got a man purse, but mostly all he can muster are limp denials that it isn’t a purse at all. Trying very much to defend some semblance of masculinity, he makes the appeal that this bag is part of a new forward-looking trend for sophisticated men. Millions laughed at his desperate last-ditch explanation that it was “European!”

Of course, it’s a cultural gag. In America, when we want to posture some new product as being fancy, exclusive, or savvy we tend to package such things as being “European.”

What’s hilarious to me is that marketers on the Old Continent reverse the tactic. Suddenly all the products Europeans should view as modern, quality, and hip are pitched as being “American.”

It works, too.

So began this American misconception that European men commonly carry purses. It continues over a decade later. And it brushed up against me when Leilouta shared the contents of her purse and subsequently snickeringly invited me to show off my european man purse to the blogosphere.

Grin if you want, but it’s now my turn to defend my ample quantities of testosterone by declaring I do not carry a murse. Nossir. As I grunt paleolithicly and scratch myself in forbidden places, I’m proud to confidently set the record straight that I’m something of a manly man who carries naught but a wallet.

What, praytell, do I keep inside it? Disappointingly few items. My wallet holds a Texas driver’s license, a Visa card, a business card of a Brasov friend whom I’d call in the event of being kidnapped by maurauding bands of gypsies, and a handtorn piece of paper with the scribbled email address for the talented brother of a remembered Booterstown girlie along with phone numbers for a close friend in Cluj, a brilliant pal in Bulgaria, and my personal psychologist.

Since every Romanian categorically believes all Americans are fabulously wealthy beyond the limits of imagination, I would be hard-pressed to dash their fragile beliefs. Not being one to disappoint, I therefore sometimes carry proof that I am indeed a multimillionaire.

Interestingly, I’ll point out that the whole man purse phenomenon is actually an American thing now. It seems there has been a brief period in which some Americans (under the delusion that since purses are the new European fashion statement for wealthy and sophisticated men) have been snatching up very expensive leather shoulder bags from well known luxury brands.

I will testify that while the sight of a man with a purse-like object is still rare, one is infinitely more likely to encounter ambivalent hormone displays in the United States rather than the European Union. Hate to burst the bubble, my American friends, but that purse y’all carry ain’t European. It’s just you believing the hype.

Whatever you do, let’s try to all agree on terminology. You can label such a thing as a purse if you really feel the need to tacitly insult the guy carrying it. However, you should never use the phrases man bag or man sack as those carry entirely different sexual implications outside the scope of this post.

Satchel, overnight bag, carryall, commuter bag, messenger bag, haversack. These terms are all acceptable as not violating the manly code when discussing one’s man purse. Be aware there are some lame euphemisms to avoided, such as valise, possibles bag, sash pouch, hip bag, fanny pack, attache, clutch, pochette, and bandolier. Yuck.

If you’ve got the chops to handle the occassional missive of our post-nascent social media, then I would tag The Egyptian’s Wife, Stingo, GangstaGyrl, Lost in America, and RamPage to consider throwing open the hallowed doors hiding your personal secrets. Show us what’s in your purse!

“But, Romerican, I’ve seen you carrying a murse!”

Oh, oh, that. Heh. No, no, you misunderstand. See, uh, that’s a very functional piece of professional equipment, not some man purse. It’s a daguerreotype slinger from Adorama. Really. I love it. It holds everything I need and I couldn’t live without.

Oh. Hey! No, wait a minute now. Aw, c’mon… don’t look at me that way…

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.

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…

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.

According to the Surgeon General’s Warning, it’s probably not in your best interest to be stuck in Tismana well after 21pm with little idea of where “here” is when you’ve got no place to stay.

So, when the locals appear unanimous in promoting the accommodations of the local monastery, you have to bite the bullet and see truth for what it is.

Conspiracy.

I can assure you, dear reader, as one who graduated summa cum laude from Paranoid State University that I know a Stephen King novel when it’s unfolding in front of my very eyes. Sinister locals spy the unsuspecting foreigner with his tender, juicy meat and they poison your Haţegana bere to dull your senses.

As night draws near, they begin to anticipate their fair chance to ensare you. Where will you be staying, O road weary and helplessly lost traveller? A moment’s hesitation on your part is all it takes for the trap to be sprung.

Take heart, my friend, the hooded priests at the dark, forboding monastery down the long, dark, winding dirt road are eager to extend their special brand of hospitality to the wayward stranger. And, around these parts, we know the unique food they serve is to die for.

Enter zombies, murmuring: Brains… Braaiinnsss…

I thought long and hard over the issue, mostly because I thought of you. Da, you. If I stayed the night in a monastery hidden amongst the sticks and weeds of remote Tismana, I should be able to walk away with some better stories to tell. Anticlimatic though it may be, it is true that I ultimately realized a need to stay on schedule for returning to Braşov to address some prior committments. Alas, you are left only to imagine what might have been.

Leaving the bar, we walked against the stream of teenagers and 20-somethings headed in the opposite direction to revel all night in the very bar we had just left. While it was quite dark along the unlit streets of Tismana, the locals could smell our difference, see the shape of our backpacks, and hear our flowing English as they stopped to stare at our passing.

Whut was they a-speakin’, Billy Ray? I reckon I dun properly know, Sally Mae, but it a-sounded kinna like thems jibberish ya hears on that there gol’dang ol’ telebishun thang when those ants a-stop their dancin’ on it.

I nibbled away on small bag of unshelled, roasted, and salted peanuts that I’d picked up along the way at some point from somewhere. Having not eaten, it was most welcome to share the gastrointestinal space along with the beer sloshing around inside. When the package was empty, I noticed there were no people out on the streets and could just start to see the highway ahead of us.

Once we made it to DN67D and crossed over the eastbound side, we thought of attempting negotiations with the two open roadside bar-ettes about the possibility of using the restroom. Either they didn’t have one or you’d have to buy a beer in order to use it. Besides, one door was blocked by a surly woman about 30 who looked as though she might snap your neck like a chicken.

Here it becomes an advantage to find oneself on a desolate little highway without lights in the pitch dark of night. One or both of you can simply do an end-around an abandoned railcar and initiate the visceral commune to become one with nature. Bark at the moon.

This particular stretch of road was not conducive to hitchhiking. At some point, there supposedly used to be a train station here, but it appeared to be long gone. There was almost no traffic. Definitely no lights by which one might read a sign. We opted to hoof it a couple kilometers to where a lone bulb could create our silhouette.

Upon reaching the corner of oblivion, a military/police authority in front of the official state building across the street from us (and the precious light) hollered to get our attention and find out what exactly we were doing there. As if he had caught a couple of spies or disaffected citizens trying to sneak across the border of the Iron Curtain, he simply could not believe we had walked to this very spot in order to hitchhike to Targu Jiu.

No amount of logic concerning the light and sign readability would dissuade him of his belief in the ludicrousness of our explanation. He had started out curious, but now somehow felt something was wrong with us — probably due to his defensive training background. Instead of getting into his car to drive home, as it had appeared he was starting to do when we first arrived, he began raising his voice louder in instructing us to turn back to Tismana.

Not suggesting, mind you, but insisting. He began to walk closer to us, his feet on the edge of the opposite side of the highway. We stood under the light with our thumbs out and sign held aloft. Only three or four cars, in total, had passed us the entire time we were walking along the road before. It seemed hopeless.

He probably thought we were ignoring him, like a couple of deranged hippies or something. I mean, really, hitchhikers? Here? At this time of night? His agitation grew and I was beginning to feel certain that he would assert some kind of authority to detain us, even if there was no real reason to do so. Mostly, he was agitated that we were not obeying his instructions to go back into town.

Just as things were about to come to a head, a miracle happened.

A shiny silver Dacia slammed on its brakes and jerked the wheel over, nearly killing us in the process of creating a nuclear bomb-sized dust cloud. Lemonmouse rushed over to secure our place in the vehicle, while I looked back at the shocked military/police guy and fought back my urge to gesture my exact feelings about him with a single digit.

I began to unstrap my heavy backpack as I approached the maşina. Lemonmouse looked at me then said matter-of-factly and without hesitation, “you are sitting up front.” So I put my bag in the back, opened the passenger door and sat down with a mulţumim mult. I turned to smile at our host, but my facial muscles refused to cooperate once I found myself I starring dead into the eyes of our naked driver.

Mind you, he may have been wearing a thong for all I know — I didn’t look down to verify. His thin, long chest was bare to the cold air of night and I had caught an inadvertant glimpse of his hairy legs. That was enough for me to keep my eyes on the road for most of the journey, lest I accidentally discover validation of my sixth sense.

The car itself seemed as though it were made of paper as it shuddered visibly from the force of the wind as he pummled the engine to its absolute maximum, the frame bobbing and weaving with each divot and crest of the uneven road we flew six inches above. He thought the concept of Campionatul Mondial de Bere was novel and readily agreed that Haţegana was a fantastic beer.

When questioned about life around Targu Jiu, he thought the economy was in bad shape with good jobs being hard to find. He felt that being a miner was pretty much the best possible source of income in the area, even if there were dangerous risks to such an occupation. However, he believed that in a few years time the economy might pick up and offer a better life to area residents in a distant future.

He asked if we were going to the train station or bus station and offered to take us to either. The raising of his eyebrows signalled his surprise at our claim that we intended to continue hitchhiking from Targu Jiu back to Ramnicu Valcea since it was now at least 23pm. We asked if he knew a decent place to get some fast food such as a pizza or kebap.

Here he could display his considerable skepticism and expertise about where an American might want to eat, should there be something halfway acceptable at this late hour on a Sunday. Ultimately, he decided not to take us to a joint with inexpensive fare. Instead, he drove directly to a restaurant he said was fantastic and dropped us out in front of a very busy terasa.

A couple handshakes and 5 RON later, he took off as we waved goodbye. Turning around to face the restaurant and noticing it seemed to cater to an upscale clientele of Romanian yuppies, I realized I was much hungrier than I had thought. Backpack and camouflaged shorts be damned, I was going to find an empty table in this establishment and git me sum grub…