I know, I know; you’ve already read all about it in the morning newspapers.

But if you’ll just give me a chance to explain what really happened on the night before Craciun, you might not swallow all speculative balderdash in the indignant editorial pages or even the circumstantial evidence on file in police reports.

Allow me to relay to you the sordid happenings as I saw them with my own eyes. I was there.

With the recent onset of winter festivities, I’ve no longer been unendingly occupied with other pursuits as has been borne out by recommencement of publishing efforts on this humble blog.

Part and parcel to this awakening has been a slow resurgence in the sort of blogworthy adventurism that keeps you clicking the refresh button on your web browser.

Regular readers will take note that we’re in mid-story regarding the blazened trail of excitement from summer months, which will resume shortly. A couple insiders might be aware of an as-yet-unreported event or two which took place in autumn. And my fellow beer lovers continue to hold fast to the incorrect conclusion that final results of Campionatul Mondial de Bere will never see the light of day.

Alas, this tale has such a convincing element of timeliness that it simply must jump the editorial calendar and, with this preamble discreetly finished, present itself to you forthwith.

For the past several days, I’d been sleeping in. A lot.

Not just a mild snooze either, nossir. I’m talking about those wildly irresponsible coma impersonations where each appendage is floppingly stretched to its’ maximum reach as you hog the width and length of your entire bed, even partially diagonal, while the chucksilly grin on your face belies precisely what dreamsequences inflicted such molestation on the excess pillows gathered nearby.

When the well-intentioned alarm clock screeches at sufficient volume to cause the neighbors to groan with consternation but you steadfastly refuse to even allow the sound into your consciousness and so its’ torturous soundwaves permeate walls for the full sixty second tsunami.

Sunlight is blissfully absent thanks to the adequate shade defenses of the eyemask wrapped snugly around your noggin, as a perfectly natural conduit to a world where obligations are shirked and priorities indefinitely postponed.

Even the clarion call of nature cannot fully rouse you from slumber, but disgruntledly settles for merely inspiring a short sleepwalk to a place were relief is had. Once the matter has been, er, handled, your footsteps are indeed a slight bit quicker on the return journey to curl yourself under the soft arms of blanketry which you lovingly embrace, lapsing back into fantasy.

Sleep.

But on this day, the creative imaginings of my mind were increasingly loud and stunningly rhythmic, yet not at all in any way one might have otherwise liked. A blaring, a thumping, a shout — all pulling me by ankle out from under the peaceful world where I’d been hiding.

Caught in the updraft of reality’s tornado, I discovered the sounds increased in volume. They were also interspersed with some yelling and the giggly shrieks of ecstatic children. Coming to grips with the certainty of my slumber’s death, I surrendered to the realization that such noise could only mean I was in Romania at Christmas time.

Say, what’s this racket all about anywho? Why, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle iffin’ it don’t sound like a dadgum party!

Sure enough! Right outside my window was a sight to behold.

A staple of Romanian tradition, Colindatori are the official harbinger of Christmas. Small groups of Roma musicians wander the neighborhoods of Romania to bring their own brand of musical tidings to the ordinary people at home. They’ll often have a singer, nearly always have two horn players, and definitely have a nice loud drum to beat.

Much to the saucer-eyed delight of children, each troupe comes with the Capra — a magical Christmas Goat who jumps, dances and twirls to the beat of the music, spinning bright colors as if to hypnotize the awed youngsters.

The laughing children can often be seen racing up and down the streets and alleys, whopping and hollering to one another fresh reports of where the next Capra can be found in the neighborhood, before they all peel off in excited herds to witness the colorful Capra get his Christmas Goat groove on.

The Roma performers are only finished after the residents cough up the requisite annual tribute needed. Some folks give because their kids were entertained, others give colindatori some compensation for maintaining tradition, while a few people drop bills from the windows on a Christmas whim.

There’s no real need for charity, however. The Roma earn their money outright through this showmanship. And, judging by their fine shoes, designer jeans, and new leather jackets, I’d say they’re making out quite handily. Nice job, gentlemen.

Of course, I just so happened to catch the Capra during the very short moment where the man’s head pokes out of the costume. So, this photo is worthless to kids because the magic is just as lost as if Santa were seen putting on his fake beard.

Note the colors. While perhaps Ballmer should look into it, the Christmas Goat isn’t actually sponsored by Microsoft. What you’re seeing are the red, yellow, and blue colors Romania, plus a bit of tasteful greenery that — when combined with red — feels just friendly enough of an acknowledgment of the ethnic Hungarians who live in Romania as well such that the colindatori can collect bani from just about everyone.

Meanwhile, the Roma weren’t the only noisemakers lurking about. I’d scarcely gotten myself decently prepared to go out into the world, when there was knocking and ringing of doorbells. Near a partially opened entrance, I encountered a woman who struck up conversation.

She looked me up and down before beginning, as if to authenticate my identify through verification of my fashion deviation from Romanian norms.

“So, you are this so-called American?”

Caught off-guard, I nervously retrieved my Texan accent. “Yes ma’am.”

Unimpressed, she snorted. “And what would a cowboy be doing in Braşov?”

“I reckon I wouldn’t rightly know, little lady, but this here saddleslapper is gonna giddyap hisself out-of-doors to use this newfangled contraption for making pictures.”

She monitored me suspiciously as I locked my apartment door, then pressed the service button for the building elevator. As if to prove my ability to operate a camera, I lifted the viewfinder to my eye and squeezed off this shot of her dominatrix-like stance.

“You will take me with you,” she stated matter-of-factly, as though I had no choice in the matter. As the elevator door closed us in and we began moving down, she looked away disinterestedly and purred, “I am Natasha.”

“Imi pare bine,” I said, enunciating each syllable carefully to avoid repeating a previous mistake in greeting pronunciation. An uneasy silence followed the remainder of our ride, until we exited the building and took stock of the surrounding environs. Much of the snow had been melted off and I was eager to capture some glimpse of the xmasy atmosphere in Braşov.

“I’ve seen the PresCon holiday display from my balcony and want to photograph it,” I announced.

“Cum vrei.”

Like that, we were off. I futzed with my camera bag while passing a number of shivering locals as they hurridly popped in and out of the soon-closing stores lined up and down Calea Bucureşti. We turned the corner near the newly re-designed Nemo’s Bistro and Cafe, then I paused at a bancomat to withdraw some cash.

She was polite enough to stay some distance rather than violate my personal space during an ATM transaction. Moments later I found myself awkwardly explaining that I hadn’t taken out any money because the machine was broken as opposed to notions of an empty account. While it was true the screen told me the modem connection was dead, I got the idea that she really didn’t care one way or the other.

We continued our walk, passing the local LukOil gas station just after 5pm in the evening. There I found a clever om de zapada standing near a fire extinguisher just in case a fire broke out and threatened to melt him away. Unfortunately, he seemed to have dropped his credit card and not had the arms to pick it back up.

The sun was going away as I set up my tripod on a public street to get a few shots of the Craciun decorations at PresCon. Their sediu is directly adjacent to the main office for Roman which sells buses, construction trucks, and the like. Some years back, PresCon apparently bought Roman and owns the company today. Hence, the linkage.

Here we find my ridiculous attempt to capture a panorama of the scene.

Not only did I miscalculate the lighting in the quickly changing sky, but aside from the color gaffe I also seemed to have misplaced myself at what was arguably the absolutely worst possible location. What I should have done was reposition myself more toward the center of the span, then fired off my shots more quickly in order to minimize changes in light.

As it was, I simply have to admit to being distracted by a high-heeled vixen.

All was not lost, however. My sheer persistence in taking several dozen photographs did enable me to focus on the mechanics of the camera long enough to remember how to take at least one halfway decent photo.

It also gave me the opportunity to attract the staring attention of the two security guards at opposite ends of the complex who looked as though they might either shoot me, call the police, or else suddenly go to sleep.

Having satisfied my urge for clickery, I jostled the camera bag around and packed my equipment away. Every now and again, I felt compelled to glance over my shoulder to make certain my ladyfriend was not about to knock me upside the melon with a snowball from the white pile she was standing near.

On the way back to the apartment building, she seemed incredulous I might be finished taking pictures. When asked about my plans for the evening, I mentioned I had an interest in going down to the centru to find more sarbatoare-isms but first I planned on spending a little time writing about a book.

Somehow, as I rambled on aimlessly, she managed to invite herself over for an ice cold Holsten from my refridgerator. Describing my literature selection took a bit longer than expected. I recall hearing Zdob şi Zdub, BUG Mafia, and Sarmale Reci blaring away over my speakers. When I finished, I found myself standing on the porch with my own green bottle in hand.

I’m not really into giddy clubs full of pretentious and immature 16 year olds who gush over their idol House DJ X or D&B DJ Z, both of whom sound almost precisely like all the other DJs playing the spin-records-for-children circuit. The salad days are over, for me. Even if the music is pleasant enough to listen to, I certain have no interest whatsoever in “the scene.”

I think two people in Romania have seen me dance. She’s one of them. Meh; when duty calls…

On the other hand, I suppose I could open up the curtain a little bit more to let you see further inside the details. You see, it turned out that December 24th is her birthday. Yes, I’ve checked the ID card to be sure. Now, when a pretty gal wants to dance a bit on her special day, well, a gentleman and a cowboy are both obliged to do right by her. Yeehaw.

An unspecified number of empty bottles later, the hands on the clock were rapidly approaching the 9pm marker. Time to go, real soon now. I managed to change clothes quickly and prepare myself to go out for a bite to eat.

You guessed it. She beguiled me into offering a birthday dinner. Let’s rewind. I had to ask her to call several restaurants earlier to find out who was open until when, back when I was trying to write a post and hadn’t quite finished a round of suds. Most places in Braşov planned on being closed early for Christmas Eve.

A number of places were already closed. Many planned to close by six or eight. The guy who answered the phone for Cramele Lui Decebal typified the attitude when he explained, “We might be open until 8pm. So, you would need to get here by 6pm or we won’t serve you. But really you might not want to come at all because I think the boss might come any minute and just tell us to go home.”

Luck would prove to be on our side. When she asked, the polite gentleman at the very upscale bistro Poarta Schei Nr. 4 said the restaurant would open until 12. “Twelve?” Yes, 12. “Tonight?” Yes, tonight. Fantastic!

A few web clicks later and I was fully prepared to order the wholeshebang: the interesting combination of Roastbeef cu Pesto appetizer, Consomme Celestine soup (yes, soup!), succulent Muşchi de Iepure cu Rhabarber, and rich Parã în Vin (Burgund) for dessert. The menu sounded so good, they could roll me out the door for all I cared. Besides, one humongous meal a year won’t kill ya.

Will it?

With the restaurant asking for a name and phone number, we were all set. I dialed 321 111 and arranged for a taxi to come pick us up curbside. Reached for my camera bag and headed back down to the building entrance. By the time we arrived, the taxi was already waiting.

During the trip across town, I gave a quick call to Matt because I was curious what he was up to now that Hanukkah was over. Turns out he was the life of the party somewhere in northeast Romania.

When we reached the central park of Braşov, the cabbie pretended to not have correct change. He wasn’t trying to rip anyone off. It’s just a game in Romania. You can go to any kiosk, store, or other place of business and whomever you attempt to pay will act as though you’re paying a 13-cent tab with a thousand dollar bill. The routine is basically a shakedown forcing you to fish in your pockets for the precise amount of money being charged.

It’s as though the entire country is chronically underchanged and completely deprived of coins or paper currency. Heaven forbid there is anyone in line behind you or outside waiting for the cab while you scour various crevices in search of an elusive magic money dispenser.

Things were coming to a head when he realized that, just like we said, neither of us had exact change and, actually yes, we did expect him to be able to make change as any normal business in some other country would surely do. We squabbled over whether or not there was a nearby place to break the bill, but he knew as well as we did that there wasn’t much open in the area on Christmas Eve.

So, he gave in and produced a hefty wad of lei, begrudgingly parting with the proper amount of change for the taxi fare. We managed to escape his grasp without further confrontation. He probably drove off to the taxi station near Aro Palace hotel so he could complain to his colleagues about being forced to consolidate small bills into a large.

Once in parcul central, we stumbled across several couples braving the cold temperatures to hide on unlit park benches away from disapproving parents, necking until lips froze against flesh. The park itself was very clean as usual and it had a nicely conservative placement of various holiday lights in strategic spots.

Leaving the lovers to their make-out spots, we wandered through park toward a collection of government buildings. Not unlike the United States, here, too, many of the most impressive buildings are possessed by the bureaucrats who tell other people how to live their lives and then allay substantial taxes for the privilege of being subservient.

On this particular Christmas Eve, one of the most beautiful Craciun light displays was on the primaria where Mayor George Scripcaru spends his time approving plans for the next city-wide water outage. Who knows what else goes on in that building, but, to be fair, the attractive ladies in tight skirts who work in his office do know how make sure someone decorates that gorgeous building in dramatic fashion.

From there, it was a quick jaunt down Boulevardul Eroilor where they’ve placed (fairly recently, methinks) a giant LCD screen that rotates various commericials for the amusement of those people who don’t get enough advertising in their personal lives and enjoy seeing flashy moving sales messages while strolling down the centru.

The light display outside the justice building was quite attractive. Hopefully, most people are able to enjoy the decorations highlighting this spectacular piece of architecture without being there for some unfortunate purpose such as answering some minor infraction or other.

Next, we turned up Strada Republicii to stroll down its’ newly constructed cobblestonesque byway which remains in pristine shape despite the efforts of hundreds of thousands of insensitive nihilists who have insisted on trampling it with their dirty shoes in the past few months while shopping from area merchants.

Since Republicii leads to Piaţa Sfatului and is one of the prize gems of downtown Braşov, there is little surprise that the place was well decorated to create precisely the type of festive atmosphere that relaxes grips on wallets. There were several Christmas trees lines up down the center of the street and various lights handing down from overhead. All in all, it was a darn pretty picture.

The police on duty studied me carefully as I moved my tripod and camera gear up and down Republicii trying out various shots. Most passersby looked on a little bit with some interest but kept moving on to their destinations.

Of course, there’s always some dork who tries to impress his friends by pointing, laughing, and saying something like, “poze! poze! click, click! ha ha ha!” Yes, children, this is a camera.

Further in the distance, the crown jewel awaited for you to bask in the pinnacle of Braşovean festivality located in the epicenter of iconoclastic Piaţa Sfatului. With my mobile phone showing 9:40pm, it was time to hustle up the parade in order to be seated in plenty of time for the anticipated meal of grandeur. But, first…

Yes, my American friends! Step right up, step right up! Come one, come all — Witness the electrified glory that can only be found in Braşov! Drool in amazement! Stare in disbelief! Fill your memory cards! Brag about it online!

Beautiful, no? Asta e Romania.

There were various vendors on hand selling fresh popped popcorn, hot drinks and other assorted warm goodies to those merrymakers on hand to revel in the celebratory atmosphere surrounding Piaţa Sfatului.

There was a light rumbling in my stomach telling me it was time to head to the bistro. I sauntered over to the nearby Raiffeisen bank to siphon out a little dough well before receiving what was sure to be a pricey nota de plata. Doubling back over our tracks, we made our way down Strada Apollonia Hirscher towards Strada Poarta Schei.

Around the corner and down a block; le bistro era le inchis.

Reeling in disappointment and stunned into disbelief, we stood there like two fools just looking into the dark windows of an empty, cold restaurant. The birthday special treat collapsed before my very eyes and the mood swiftly shifted into gloomy.

We reviewed the discussion from some hours ago, when first surprised by the news this place would be open so late tonight. We had double-checked, verified, clarified, and left contact information the guy, even. I’d like to wring his neck!

Trying to pick up the shattered pieces before any tears could be shed by the crushed birthday girl, I forced myself to shift into high gear thinking of where in the world I could cart us off to when we knew full well that most restaurants we had called earlier in the day had planned to be closed by now.

First, we checked The Auld Scot Pub which, although a bar, serves a variety of great international fare (for moderate prices, nod to the wise) but while they planned to be open for some hours, it would be only for drinks and not food tonight.

Next door was Casa Hirscher, purveyor of Italian cuisine with top-notch service. We saw the place was nearly empty, but the host greeted us politely and went to inquire of the manager whether we could be served or not. The smile-covered answer was nu.

Where else?

Across the piaţa lay Bella Muzica, so I grabbed the crestfallen young woman and scurried to the other side. Down into the underground cellar now converted into a very nice restaurant specializing in Mexican and Romanian menus with very mixed service (often excellent, sometimes atrocious).

The insolent lady with a disingenuous smile at the entrance crisply denied us service, despite a short and polite discussion about how their restaurant was clearly full of patrons with a couple empty tables. She wouldn’t budge and some chef came out of the back to try and play bouncer in case of trouble.

10:22pm. Christmas Eve. Braşov, a sleepy little city infamous among young people for closing down all too early at night.

Undaunted, I remembered I had once been to an Indonesian restaurant just down the street called Gaijin (ignore the Japanese name). Their food might not have been terribly authentic, but it was nearly recognizable and had savory, if unorthodox, flavor. Plus, they had kept long hours in the past even without much clientele.

Just off the piaţa, you have to go down an alley to find it. The window was a little dark from a distance, yet there were some dim lights in the place so we kept going. After arriving closer, I saw the restaurant no longer existed and it was now some dank, decrepit hole-in-the-wall bar optimistically named Vogue.

Damn.

I was running out of ideas. Back on the street, I could see that Alt Stadt, an overpriced and only mildly amusing restaurant on the piaţa, was closed. Heck, even KFC was frickin’ closed. Popcorn wasn’t going to cut the mustard. The birthday girl was exasperated and my attempts to cheer fell on deaf ears. What could I do?

Aha! We had passed Pizza Roma about ten or so minutes ago and they still had customers. Back across the piaţa again, open the door, and greet the host. He apologized, with that familiar smile, they were no longer taking orders for dinner. When asked if he was certain, he offered to doublecheck but the answer came back almost instantly. Negative.

Perhaps Mado on Republicii would still be open. It wasn’t fancy and the service is mixed, but the food is pretty decent and the view is fantastic for people watching. Not bad at this point. I dragged her down the street despite her protesting about no longer being hungry. When we got there, Mado was long closed already.

Hmmm. There was another French-ish restaurant around here somewhere. Yes, Normandie just over on Strada Michael Weiss. The door was open and the lights were on! Inside and up the stairs, enter through the glass doors. There’s people at the bar, a large party in the backroom. It’s alive. But we’re quickly dismissed by a smiling waitstaff eager to go home.

How long can this go on? All this walking in high heels in cobblestone is taking its toll on her feet.

El Barrio has terrible food and is closed. Deane’s Pub seems to never be open on a regular basis, only carries pub fare, doesn’t usually serve late anyway, and is bloody well closed.

I know Four Roses is closed. I know Trattoria del Chianti is closed. I know Sirul Vamii is closed. I know Taverna is closed. Roata Norocului, closed. Rotmans, closed. Cerbul Carpatin, closed. Ceasul Rau, closed.

Closed, closed, closed.

There might be a long shot with Casa Romaneasca, the only surviving restaurant in Poarta Schei on the dark and lonely Piaţa Unirii. Chances are very strong that they are either closed or, at best, booked with a private party on a night like this, but I don’t really know so perhaps it can deal the final blow.

After that, we’re faced with McDonald’s or Kebab House. And tears are just about to run the makeup.

But, you know, back on one of the other streets, I did notice some lights in the distance seemed to indicate Pizza Iulia might be open. We better give that a try, even if I’ve never heard anything particularly spectacular about their offerings. And so, we trudged off on another wild goose chase.

We enter and the place is mostly dead, but there’s a few tables nearly finished eating. There are no employees around, so it takes a bit of wandering to locate someone on staff. He sees us and sighs, both his body language and eyes showing exactly how tired he is. But for us, this is the last shot for a meal.

I was ready to turn on a dime and head out the door because he was already nodding his head affirmatively. Yes, they were no longer serving customers tonight. Oh, but wait. Say what? The birthday girl understands his words better than I do. Hallelujah! He’s going to seat us at a table and take our order shortly. Hot diggity dog!

In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, we’d selected a table near the entrance. I got up to grab the couple of menus we weren’t given. Not wanting to push our luck, it seemed wisest to speed up the selection process. When the waiter swung by to check on us, the poor fellow got pounced on. Two Silva brunas, salate greceasca, and some caşcaval pane.

Disappointed at the size of our order, he tried to collect the menus from us. It felt as though he were quite relieved when we insisted on keeping them so we could order an entreé. It seemed like there was plenty of time to make a choice, so we keenly discussed the different options available at Pizza Iulia.

We were seated on some comfortable, plush red chairs. Wine glasses were already on the table, which also supported the weight of the sort of nice, heavy dinnerware which added a bit of confidence to believing menu descriptions could be trusted because someone somewhere took the dining experience seriously.

They had all the usual suspects like pork cutlets, ciorba de fasole (cu porc, clar), pork tenderloin, şniţel de porc, mushrooms stuffed with cheese sauce and pork, salate cu şunca, and a wide selection of different pizzas heavily laden with an assortment of pork-based meats.

When the waiter floated by within earshot, I managed to get his attention to ask about the specialitatea de şef which was mysteriously described as Braşovanean chicken breast. Touching his chin twice to help himself recollect, he explained that it was piept de pui on a plate with mozzarella on top which was then cooked. “Şi… sos?” Nope, no sauce.

Clearly, I would need to pass on that miracle of cuisine. The restaurant gave us a few more minutes to decide before we were reminding the waiter we existed. Not feeling quite up to the challenge of letting an unknown establishment in the middle of Romania late at night on Christmas Eve make some passing attempt to pull off an expertly cooked steak, I completely wimped out and sought safety in a pie with chicken afumat and black olives.

The dark-haired, luscious creature at my table strictly insisted on being brought Cordon Bleu (no doubt a ploy to prevent me from sampling her dish, while mine remained open to her palate) and cartofi pureé. The waiter nearly made it an entire meter away, when he spun around and apologized for having forgotten my order. I reminded him.

A short time later, the dark beer had been poured and appetizers were being placed. The breaded cheese was just as good as any other restaurant due to it being the typical triangle version of frozen prepared food all Romanians have experienced at restaurants across the country. (Note to self: I should invest in whichever SRL makes that product.)

The greek salad was not the kind you find stateside, but it was freshly made and had some great soft-boiled eggs on it. We had to wait a minute to flag down the waiter, who had inadvertently forgotten to bring us any oil and vinegar. Shortly after we were dressing the salad, he came by again to bring a small plate of seasoned bits of pizza dough (which I believed to be a crouton substitute).

We shared both appetizers and talked about how fortunate it was to find this venue still accommodating. Re-emerging from nowhere with his head down towards the ground, the only waiter working that night clasped his hands together and apologized again for being so tired tonight. That’s right; he had forgotten our order again right when the chef was ready to prepare it.

Most customers in the restaurant were now shuffling out, table by table. We nursed our alcohol until food was served. Everything was correct and looking fairly good. My pizza turned out to just great, according to both of us.

While her pork-stuffed chicken was reportedly good, I did get to sample the mashed potatoes… which were absolutely divine. I’ve no idea where the chef learned to prepare it, but he clearly had excellent instruction. So light, milky, and buttery. I haven’t tasted cartofi pureé that perfect in many years.

Only one other table was seated with a new group of three loud young people. The rest of the latecomers were turned away by the solitary waiter whose manager had finally called in the chips.

We bumped into some difficulties when trying to order dessert. It was explained that the chef was no longer taking orders. We explained the birthday, even offered to pay twice the menu price. But, somewhere in the back, a decisive şef had already put his foot down.

So we packed up our little party, hit the loo, left a very nice tip and took note under a streetlamp of the fact that it was just after midnight. After fighting so hard to find sustenance, some people might have thrown in the towel since the birthday was technically over. I, on the other hand, made no mention whatsoever of blasphemous legal minutiae.

On a birthday night after a close culinary call, I felt duty bound to ply this beauty with some inebriating liquids.

Expertly guiding her into the nearby Auld Scots Pub, I thought Natasha might be stolen by the collective power of the eyes of all the men inside the rather large main room who had turned to stare at her graceful entrada.

Lucky me, I found her perched daintily in a well-appointed leather chair beckoning me to join her alone in the corner. My breath quickened slightly when I was permitted to sit.

“Americans appear resourceful,” she observed. “I was afraid you would turn out as worthless as they say.”

Just when I had opened my mouth to insert my foot, I was saved by a friendly waitress who wanted to wet our whistles. Feeling parched, I felt it necessary to obtain a Kilkenny on draught as soon as possible. The minx had her mind set on o pahar de Tuborg la halba.

“Now, I insist you tell me something about yourself.”

I turned in the comfy chair to face her more directly and replied, “I am indeed a depraved individual. And my hypocrisy knows no bounds.”

“That much is obvious,” she quipped.

It felt almost like an assault on my very manhood. As though challenging me prove myself beyond mere words. I was momentarily tempted to stand up on the chair, shout out to the burly bartender, and discover whether or not he had any tampons I could borrow. But it might have come across as slightly uncouth.

“And what, praytell, are you doing in this quaint burg?” I queried, eyebrow raised.

Her eyes morphed into a burning pity when this mortal man seemed incapable of understanding the higher ends and means of a goddess. The change was instant, unsubtle, and brief. Without more than a split second hesitation, her look regressed to one of mild amusement and she lectured, “I am undertaking a project currently in progress.”

“A project?”

“Da.”

To hear her tell the depth and breadth of her varying ambitions, you would think she was trying to take over the world. Literature expert by day, huntress by night, an accomplished globetrotter, master of multiple languages, and burgeoning internet entrepreneur in, around, and between it all.

Yes, the earth would tremble before her. Only it wouldn’t be from the curvature she adeptly maneuvered. Rather, I suspect the grey matter behind the poise and sassy attitude might actually be good for something beyond discussions of mindless television shows or political gossip disguised as news articles.

Small minds talk about people.
Mediocre minds talk about actions.
Great minds talk about ideas.

Thick as thieves, the two of us dove directly into a whirling roundabout of thrust and parry as though two philosophy professors were fighting to be king of the hill on the one hand while simultaneously playing a game of chess with the other.

Or, perhaps, at least, some other poorly constructed metaphor that sounds pretentiously intellectual. Mind you, my main idea was about taking action to get another beer from some people.

You should never doubt my veracity in obtaining such lofty goals. Indeed, as you might well imagine, you are probably the only person who has had the fortitude to actually read this far and find this particular paragraph.

I suppose the other people never read much of it, preferring instead to simply scroll through the pictures while pausing to check out the hottie in the soft leather chair.

That’s your cue. Scroll up.

Go on; I’m asking you to. Afterall, I’m going to all this trouble detailing exactly what a crazy night this whole affair turned about to be. The least you can do is shrug your shoulders and do ask you’re asked. But come back, okay?

I managed to get two steins of Holsten la halba from the lively waitress who was keen on serving patrons well. This nefarious plan to casually steer my superior into imbibing additional grains appeared to continue without a hiccup. Noroc, sláinte, prost!

Thereafter the tickling talk teetered-tottered tenuously, threatening to topple toward a tumultuously turbulent trade of tempting teases. And it was there, in the chair, that I did stop and stare; sensing the dare to reach through the air to touch her dark hair; I thought of the despair we two might share if such a move were unfair, so I made a choice rare to stay my lair, not going anywhere, unless her I should scare.

I ordered two Harvey Wallbangers, a concoction I’d first learned of from salt-flat racer who spent time with a tank battalion in Alaska after working for Warner Brothers. Hat tip. Unfortunately, neither the Romanians nor the Scots on hand knew what the drink was. I found myself solidly drubbed with repeated accusations of snobbery.

With the pillory out of the way, we got down to the business of knowledge transfer. There were some minor conflicts regarding portioning and prices, but in the end our cooperation yielded a fairly decent cocktail much desired for its gear-shifting potential at late hours such as these.

To keep on pace, what you need to know is that the yakking and yammering went on and on. The bartender grabbed the hanging rope and rang the bell that signifies closing time is coming soon. As the tavern and restaurant patrons increased the pace of their drinking, we were just finishing cocktails. Soon, the bar became increasingly empty.

We had already become friendly with the waitstaff at the pub; they both laughed at our jokes and were nice enough to allow us to belatedly nab one last round of brewskis.

And then we closed the place down. The final customers. Those impertinent stragglers. Keeping people working quite late on what they once thought was Christmas Eve and now understood was really about a very special birthday supplanting Christmas altogether.

After confirming we were clear of fiduciary obligations, a nice tip was left for the bouncy gal who had kept us well serviced all night. She offered to call a taxi and we agreed. The first company she called did not answer the phone. She tried again without progress.

I gave her the phone number for another company, who answered. They told her that getting a taxi would be impossible at this hour because hardly anyone was working and each of them were highly busy. They recommended to just forget it. Ha!

Thanking all for being gracious hosts, we exited out the front taking our problems with us so the kind people could get about their own lives. We headed for the nearest street and cast our gaze down both ends in hopes of a greenlight taxi, but there was no movement to be seen.

I had to provide a small amount of assistance while adjustments were made to compensate for the unruly spikes of high heels who insisted on creating trouble by repeatedly placing themselves inside the soft muddy cracks between cobblestones and otherwise generating something of a wobbly platform for walking.

Somehow we traveled the distance required to make it to the actual poarta of Poarta Schei, where there is a taxi station. An empty taxi station. Braving the cold for a few minutes gave both of us an impatient pinch. She decided to call the taxi company to ask for a cab.

They barked something akin to “nu e serviciu aceasta dimineaţa” and promptly hung up on her. She leaned toward despondency, where as I was surprised and miffed. I unsheathed my mobile and rang the buzzards up.

“Hi, you speak English, right? Good. Listen, I need a taxi to pick me up at Poarta Schei taxi station right away.”

The dispatcher put me on hold for about 7 or possibly 8 seconds when I saw the taxi appear from nowhere like a majestic knight charging onto our battlefield. In case she had me on mute instead of hold, I spoke to the phone to indicate we’d found the cab, then hung up while flagging the driver down.

We climbed inside. He turned around and asked, “Are you the one who called?” “Da.”

Arriving somewhat near the apartment building, we piled out of Dacia Logan and paid the fare. Plus a decent tip for his speedy delivery. Careful not slide across the patches of iced snow on the ground, we stumbled into the bloc and interpreted the hieroglyphics on the elevator panel until it went upward.

Sufficiently soused at this late hour of 4:11am, I thought the night was surely over. But the slinky stalker slid her slender self inside the door frame. Mostly.

After securing some modicum of safety within the dwelling, she cracked open two beers and we debated whether to watch a movie. There was some difficulty in choosing from the available selection. Additionally, some banter was exchanged regarding the wisdom in eating foodstuffs to chip away at our present condition.

I casually asked if she had gotten everything she wanted for her birthday.

“No!” she answered defiantly. What else could she possibly want tonight, I flirted. “Anarchy and madness!”

Faced with such a proposition, what was I to do? I ask you, dear reader, although you do not know. How could I provide both subversive acts as well as produce hot food from my rabbit hat? There was only one thing to do.

We needed a sort of miraculous Christmas morning romericanistic mayhem. We needed a superhero.

We needed the only person you could count on to respond to such an dire emergency.

We called… Sheriff Clopoţel.

Shocked by our dilemma and duty-bound to honor our desperate pleas for help, she answered the call and immediately put forth a plan into motion. We would organize a posse comitatus and trot over to secure nourishment from the non-stop 24/7 McDonald’s on the road to Bucureşti.

Appropriately dressed for the adventure, the social insurgents boarded a rickety elevator and descended down toward the verboten streets of Braşov. Armed with pictographic evidence recording device, I managed to capture her gallant sidekick, another sunglasses bedecked member of the insane brigade.

Once unleashed into public, little could stop the the energetic leadership of Sheriff Clontopel as she guided us through the icey minefields and past a few mongrel canines who growled menacingly at our tasty thighs. My feet were unusually cold although I was wearing thick socks.

Along the way, Sheriff Clopoţel explained the vagaries of selecting a proper dogstick instrumental to the process of beating brash and disobedient men in order to bring them to heel. Such efforts entail the detours and excursions of snipe hunting in the wild urban areas of Braşov which are de facto precursor to acquiring aforementioned dogsticks.

As the wagontrain rolled onward, we found ourselves infatuated with amazing modern technology underlying the toiletry systems of Romania. Unlike neighboring countries, this land actually provides porcelain facilities for expunging one’s waste.

Being confused as to how to operate such an advanced apparatus, I let forth some interrogatories about correct form and etiquette in usage. I was rescued from ignorance by the enlightening demonstrations of our heroine, Sheriff Clotofel.

And then, at one minute past 5am, our marching pioneers were suddenly and deliberately attacked by Moş Craciun!

Leaping from the shadows, the dastardly deviant Santa Claus launched into his counteroffensive, bent on reclaiming the Christmas holiday from our previously conquered mindshare.

Fortunately, the previous efforts of Sheriff Clopoţel had paid off as she bravely defended us with her +9 Dogstick of Righteous Birthdayishness from otherwise certain doom.

The details of this tale are easily corroborated by other present at the scene of the battle. No, we were not alone in our darkest hour of pitched conflict against the well-armed and sportily-clad Moş Craciun. The spectacle was indeed witnessed by other citizens of Braşov.

Two innocent bystanders shook off the shellshock and managed to document the daring raid using their own camera, so that their testimony would be believed by skeptical friends and unbelieving family when retold for the sake of posterity.

They were stricken with perplexity at the sight of my footwear and snagged a photo no one would believe.

Sheriff Clobotel proved too much for the bearded devil in the red suit. Once disarmed, he was forced to relinquish stocking-stuffer lollipops in admission that this was indeed a birthday, not Christmas. He may have only acquiesced in the expediency of the moment, but it was a victory all the same.

St. Nick did make a request as a pre-condition for his surrender. The armistice was negotiated when Sheriff Clopoţel agreed that our troops must partake in the traditional singing of Christmas poems in exchange for the giftgiving, which would serve as acknowledgment of Craciun’s (subservient) existence.

The now-kindly Santa was cheerfully awaiting reception of his sung poem from Sheriff Clomonel but while she had agreed to the letter of treaty, there was no stopping her clever trickery as she burst forth into song:

“M-am nascut langa Carpaţi… mai… dintr-o mama şi doi taţi…”

Once the howls of laughter subsided, it was my turn to have a go at a bit of sing-song in order get my own fruit-flavored sucker. However, in my foreignness, I neither knew any traditional Romanian Christmas poems nor did I even understand that it was a poem I was supposed to sing.

Have you ever heard an intoxicated American at 5am after a night of revelry try to rap his way through a BUG Mafia song?

In tragic pain, Moş Craciun issued me a handicap value and I was let off the hook. Because he got such a gut-level laughter from seeing my feet, I also earned a lolly.

It was time to move on. A friendly exchange of Sarbatoare Fericit later and all these strangers went off in their different directions. (You guys rocked something fierce! Mulţumesc!)

Reinvigorated by the event, our column made doubletime towards the golden arches in the distance. There was much more snow along the way during a portion of the journey and my feet began to become wet in addition to being cold. As we crossed the main intersection, there were a couple of motorists who rubbed their hallucinating eyes and picked up their jaws from their laps.

5:10am, December 25th.

Before first foot had been set on McDonald’s property, the security guard on duty was already tracking our every sound and movement in disbelief. As we came into close proximity to his position blocking the door to the unlit building. I could see that Sheriff Clopoţel was preparing to subjugate him with the dogstick.

Happily for his longterm survival prospects, he was in a wide-eyed jolly state of mind with a huge grin as he explained to us that the store itself was closed but we were welcome to go through the McDrive and place our order. Behind me I heard the rent-a-cop burst out laughing as he looked below my ankles while I left footprints in the crunchy snow.

I thought we might have to hitchhike to the order window as we made our way to the drive-thru. Once again, Sheriff Cloputel came to our rescue by offering us a ride through the Braşov McDrive in her brand new, limited edition luxury PeJos-ul sedan.

The sleepy shift manager at the window was cool as a cucumber. His heavily darkened eyes were barely open most of the time and I got the impression he thought this was all just some crazy dream about work he was having. Either way, he took our order without freaking out.

To spread the birthday and Craciun holiday cheer, I gave him the lollipop I earned from Santa which actually caused him to open his eyes slightly more and smile briefly in the awkward way of someone who is completely unsure how to receive a gift they don’t want.

The mere presence of Sheriff Clololel armed with her vicious birthday dogstick was enough to provoke the guy into rushing the pouring of our drinks. After shoving them out the window in a hurry, he directed us to walk around to the front of the building so the growing line of taxis with their mystified drivers and giggling passengers behind us could place their orders.

Declaring ascendancy over the order window, we proceeded to capture the open territory in front of the premises.

Unwilling to chance possible retribution from Sheriff Clopoţel for his delays in delivering the food promptly enough, the night manager sacrificed his fairest maiden on the altar of bewilderment. Despite his misgivings, it turns out the hot food was handed over quick enough to not incur the blind wrath of our heroine.

As for the victimized cutie, she seemed to enjoy Circus Anarchanis quite a bit, including the butt-spankery dogstick of the mesmorizing saviour who brought fries and justice to all.

After posing for a couple shots with Sheriff Clonpoţel (perhaps hoping for a birthday autograph) to treasure this memory forever and involuntarily snickering loudly at my shoes, the girl returned to the warmth of her store.

The return trip made my feet even soggier, but I was comforted by the possession of pabulum which would soon put the damper on the fire in my head. The labyrinth back was free of interruption and we skedaddled home in no time at all. By the time we got onto the couch, our unprotected meal was still lightly warm. Good enough to eat anyway.

We found those two beers from before. A movie was started. We may or may not have finished the drinks, we may or may not have finished the movie. But for you, dear reader, this is where the relevant fact gathering ends.

If you disregard the admonishment of do-gooder conformists, then perhaps you’ll see how this whole thing unfolded into the yarn you’ve just heard. In retrospect, it’s all quite understandable and definitely unrepeatable. A night that will forever live in infamy, when a birthday usurped Christmas across an entire city.

The only thing is…

I still don’t get why people were laughing.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 27th, 2006 at 7:34 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.