“Ok, I don’t do memes, but…”, began the quotation from our favorite banana-eating Bucureştianite, even if photographic evidence of said fruit consumption has long since fallen by the wayside during the continued evolution in self-identity carelessly tossed in upper right hand corners.

The point was I can relate to his sentiment.

I don’t do memes either. But when you’ve been tagged to join the conga line, there is something hard about thrusting up a middle finger and telling friends to take a long walk off a short pier. Unless you are the last of the famous international playboys, in which case you may cause stoic martyrs to pretend to be indignant over nothing.

So, what about Braşov?

When the television cameras and radio microphones were pointed at me, that’s precisely what I was asked to discuss. Oddly enough, I stared blankly ahead in a panic for so long that the taggage went on all around me, reaching deep enough into the domeniu de conspiraţie de crosstaggery such that any attempt to escape would result in failure.

Yes, but, what about Braşov?

Hmmph, well, if you really must insist, then I suppose it’s about time we got on with it. Hadn’t we then? Yes, to be sure. Otherwise, one might find oneself ranting somewhat incoherently and avoiding the point which has never been known to happen on these pages, dear reader. In fact, that reminds me of the time…

Without further ado.

Three things I love about Braşov

• It often feels like the perfect balance between small town and big city. Here you can find most anything you want to seek, with few exceptions. Yet nothing is too far away. And people still like to know the folks living in their neighborhood.
• There is a deep and rich sense of history reaching far beyond the regime of recent memory, beyond the modern Romanian state, beyond the previous Hungarian state, beyond the Saxons who documented the city in the early 13th century, beyond the Pecheneg who ruled before them, beyond the forced acceptance of Christianity upon pain of death, beyond the life and times of the fabled messiah himself. There are many layers to be explored.
• Everytime I go outside, there’s always someone who catches my imagination and runs away with it.

Three things I hate about Braşov

• Time flies by very quickly.
• Racism somestimes still bubbles just beneath the surface. Some of my Hungarian friends secretly fear/hate Romanians. Many of my Romanian friends secretly hate/fear Hungarians. Their main point of unity is in disdain for Roma.
• Whenever I am accompanied by a female, perfect strangers suddenly make it their business to inquire with a disingenuous grin as to whether I am married, attempting to keep up a dilapidated cultural front regarding sex and matrimony.

Three places in Braşov I like to go with friends

• Festival 39 was introduced to me by the Griviţei Ambassador de Gara and since become a nice place to take the occassional guest for a beer, cocktails, and blues/jazz (or trance during celebrations and holidays).
• Your apartment. Why not? I don’t always feel compelled to live it up at retail. I should be able to have at least as much fun at your place.
• Kebab House: home of the world’s greatest shoarma. You don’t want to eat there often, but trust me when I say you do want to eat there.

Three things an American would not understand about Braşov

• Racial tensions won’t affect you, because each ethnic subgroup is very open and accepting of people from far away. Even more special than other foreigners, you come from the magic land that makes all those movies.
• All the people smoke 7 packs a day. Constant chainsmoking. Everyone. Including the respiratory therapist blowing rings in your face while inspecting you for signs of lung cancer.
• Pizza. Your disbelief will start with the menu itself, as you find yourself faced with very specific types of pizza you are allowed to order. Most of these will seem like bizarre choices, unless you’re partial to combinations like tuna, corn, and eggs. Deviation from those pizzas which are defined in the menu will only result in confused waiters or pissed off window clerks, neither of whom understand the concept of ordering a pizza with custom toppings. Your perplexity will come next in the idea that each person gets his own pizza, which makes more sense once the food is being served and you find your pie is the size of a tea saucer. You’ll come close to losing your mind when you realize how regretfully thin and limp the excuse for dough is. You might lose some hair when you find there is no marinara or pizza sauce on your pizza, but instead you’ve been cheated with a thimble full of dyed-red corn syrup. The lack of cheese will flabbergast you. But what shocks you the most is you can see there’s no sauce and no cheese precisely because your miniature pizza is dearth of the very toppings you were pigeonholed into ordering in the first place. In the center will be your egg, surrounded by several nibblets of corn and garinished with a chunk or two of tuna. Just as your bloodpressure is causing your veins to pulsate noticeably, you realize all the locals are digging right into their meals as if nothing were completely wrong with this picture. In fact, you’ll enter momentary brain freeze as you witness the 13 gallons of ketchup (with extra water and extra sugar) they drown each slice in until the flavor of their wafer resembles that of cotton candy. What will keep you out of a catatonic state is faint comprehension that this daring sociological expedition of yours to the very reaches of sanity only set you back a mere two or three bucks.

Fanciest neighborhood in Braşov: Poarta Schei, where I lived for some time.
Ugliest neighborhood in Braşov: Saturn, adjacent to where I live now.

(If you feel up to it, I’d like to tag My Ghosts, Bulizunk, Csikszereda Musings, Just a Guy in Transylvania, and Working Definition. Care to follow the meme and give your answers in pattern? That’d be great.)

This entry was posted on Saturday, October 14th, 2006 at 3:31 pm and is filed under Food, Society, 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.