Anytime you relocate a domesticized animal into a new environment, you’ll note its’ instinctive reaction is to nose around the immediate surroundings on a first-hand fact-finding mission which leads to evaluation of the suitability of the given area for secure habitation.

Dogs run along, pressing their snout against trees in search of territorial markings. Cats operate much more cautiously, relying on their eyes and ears just as much as sense of smell.

On the other hand, goats and sheep tend to just start eating.

Now, I’d already received a couple well-intentioned warnings from Romanian natives who raise their eyebrows in seriousness and spoke to me in concerned tones, “this is considered a ‘bad neighborhood’ so please be careful.”

My general approach is to take note of such observations, but also to take them with a grain of salt because a great many of these designated areas aren’t really that bad. Smile politely, nod in affirmation of comprehension, acknowledge their care for your safety and thank them for the information.

It’s a little hard for me to stifle a chuckle, except I appreciate the intentions of the advice. Yet there’s always the part of me which feels obligated to explain that I was born and raised in L.A., whose greater metropolitan area has a population equal to about half of all Romania.

“Serios. Deci, many people think acest cartier is dangerous. Be careful.”

“You think that scares me? I’m from Los Angeles. We invented gangs!”

It is true that my new location is filled with poor people. It’s not so much the ghetto-looking concrete blocks in a horrible state of disrepair. Rather, the subtle key is in clueing into the detail that there are no beggars here. They know there’s no breadcrumbs to be found from my neighbors.

I’m sure some people might conclude cartierul meu must be gasca-infested because all the young men dress like extras from an MC Hammer or Vanilla Ice video. It’s more likely they only mimic American TV to impress the herds of 14 year old girls dressed up like miniature sex workers parading all over town.

It’s always possible I misunderstood the advice from my kibitzers who may perhaps have been referring to the rush hour traffic. You see, every evening each and every single resident of the city clones him or herself at least four times and then miraculously pulls a full-size automobile out of thin air.

Subsequently, as if cued in concert, millions of people suddenly drive into backstreets and alleys like blood cells filling a capillary where they next co-ordinate a rendition of Handel’s Messiah by car horn while simultaneously outputting sufficient carbon monoxide to surpass Mexico City’s smog density.

At least, that’s one way to summarize the area when you’re gathering scents of the territory.

But, as a recent student of the Capratic School of Acclimational Theoriology, I’ve concluded that the only reliable method for determining the inherent rauness or bineness of a particular Romanian neighborhood is to venture out-of-doors for personal inspection of its’ agile comestibles infrastructure.

I’m here to tell ya: my new neighborhood fantastic!

Wanna know why?

Sigur.

It’s like this, partner. Near as I can figure, if mathematics is the language of deities, then I reckon the relative morality most any neighborhood in Romania could be judged based on whether or not it has a dismal kebab-to-kilometer ratio.

I suspect the invisible man in the sky wants this here Romer!can to be blessed with the bounty of all the heavens, I tell you what. Hoooo, doggy!

Why, just down the street a ways, there’s a local shaorma kebabery within easy moseying-distance. Judging by the thinness of their clients, it seems like a form of health food. You’ll find it on Calea Ferentari, right next door to a “meat and cheese shop” (which apparently allows dogs inside).

Yessir, the big city is taking fine care of me already. Unlike the backwards haphazardry of Braşov, I got the impression food service employess in the capital may have actually washed their hands sometime during the past several hours.

And to top it off, you can really get a sense of the deep concern for public health seen elsewhere in the European Union by noting the high quality safety precaution of a fabric-based hairnet.

I gotta admit, kids, it’s really great to be able to stroll down your street to the main drag and find the cluster of magazini encircle your very own neighborhood şaorma vendor. Hot, juicy meat on a vertical spindle rotating gracefully before the soothing caress of gas-flamed fingers.

Carve some meat before the customers’ very eyes. Couple it with a handful of cartofi prajiti. Add some cabbage, onions, three pieces of pickle, a little ketchup, some curry-tinged mystery sauce, and wrap it all up in warm lipie. Sell it at 8 RON for a mica and 10 RON for a mare.

In case you’re grabbing a quick bite to go, but need to continue on to some other destination, you’ll be happy to find a convenient taxi station right there. Unlike the United States where you generally must call a taxi (unless you’re in front of a hotel or airport), in Romania taxis tend to gather in designated zones.

If you’re local, then you know where the ones near you are. And the ones near your work. And the ones near your lovers. And the ones near your parents. And the ones… well, since a great many Romanians never actually call a cab, you can see why it might be important to know the spots where the city says they’re allowed to gather.

Just down the street seems awfully convenient to me. Yeehaw.

Bear in mind, on this particular junket, the intent was to survey the surrounding environs. There’s no sin in deciding to walk a little further down Ferentari. When you get to the intersection for Calea Rahovei, there’s a massive bustle of activity.

Seven hundred and forty eight billion automobiles. Swaths of pedestrians line up on the street corners jostling for the green light when they swarm like mosquitos in a Louisiana swamp. And then there’s the electric trams of the light-rail system whizzing past every other second.

One of the stores on the corner has the logo of a green cricket and a name written in an undecipherable script font. Inside, they’ve got piles of real, actual lettuce from local farmers which had been a rare find in Braşov, no matter where you shopped.

Here, they also sell lipie and hummus. At a random store! Previously, such luxuries were only available to me via Braşov’s giant Carrefour megamart. It’s great news because this new store is roughly as far away from me now as Carrefour used to be. Otherwise, I’d be in dire straits during involuntary hummus cravings.

Now, I really knew I was in the big leagues when checkout time came along. When I produced a cascade of folded plastic bags from my pockets, in order to bag up my goods, people stared at me like was some Vidor hick who slackjaw stumbled into the 5th Ward.

It’s impressive. After being in Braşov all this time, I had nearly forgotten what it’s like to have a store not charge you an arm and a leg for thin little bags to carry home the stuff you bought. That’s right, you outlanders in the Transylvanian wilds, you get the pungas for free!

Buying some vegetables from a farm-direct street vendor? They’ll give you a free bag. What if you pop into a magazin to pick up some brewskis? That’s right: free bag. I think I’ll be able to quickly re-adjust to this normality.

I know my readers. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And you’re right. There was another shawarma kabob stand in the vicinity. It’s kinda kitty corner from the green cricket mini-market. As if to trigger your subconscious longing for fresh meat, it is appropriately named The Lion.

The friendly gal working the shop sliced some chicken off the rotisserie into Lebanese flat bread. Throw in some french fries. Cabbage, pickles, and an onion salad was piled on top before plying the shaorma kebab with a funky ketchup-like sos “picant” which was more sugary than it was spicy. Typical sweet sauce Romanians seem to love.

She sells large shaorma for 11 RON, but I had ordered the mica for 9 RON (just under USD$4). I got a little carried away in gnawing the Turkish wrap about half way before remembering you might like to see how it looked. You’ll just have to forgive the tackiness of the bite marks .

Glory be! Directly next door is a third vendor of saurma kebap. Rejoice in hallelujah, brothers, for the land is bountiful indeed. Espirito santo. Amen.

The tickler is this place advertises being open non-stop and it’s not a far walk from where I sleep. Plus, it seems to attract a steadier stream of clientele, which is normally a sign of tasty wares wherever you see locals lining up.

Melissa’s offers other food like şnitel (a super-thin chicken breast which is breaded and fried before placement on a burger-like bun) and kebab chifla sandwiches. True to form, however, I bypassed these inferior offerings and instead opted for the much-treasured shaorma kebap.

Lemme tell ya, despite the bad attitude of the grumpy employee, the şaorma from this kiosk was — bluntly — outstanding. Tender, moist white meat just dripping with an amazing flavor. They had a delicious “hot” sauce which was a distant cousin to salsa in both texture and flavor.

Pile the breast in insanely large amounts, couple with fries, bury it in varza and onions. Add that salsa-like stuff, shove in a fistful of pickles. Avoid the pickled, green chili peppers covered in some kind of decade-old waxy, dusty mold. Watch the guy struggle to roll the lipie which holds it all together.

11 RON later, you’ve got yourself a mare saurma. Or, if you prefer, you can shell out 9 lei for the small version. I’m satisfied my gamble was the right decision. And to prove it, I ate the entire thing without even nabbing a picture.

It was that good.

No need for you to feel dejected. I didn’t entirely rip you off by excluding all the salient details. I was able to make good on your expectations.

You see, my friends, directly across the street on this very busy intersection was yet another kebab stand. Only this one looked oddly familiar.

That’s right, you sharp-eyed eagle! Melissa’s has a second location on the other side of the strada. I don’t know if they felt threatened by Leul or just wanted to compete with themselves for business, but there you have the double take all the same.

Ever reliable, you can trust in me for complete inspection of all sordid details, dear reader. I’m sure you can heartily agree it would be wholly unromer!can if I were to let such an opportunity for comparison go to waste. Oh, you’ve little idea the sufferings I endure for your literary pleasure.

I saddled right up to the order window and my journey to the dark side was complete. I’ve no guess as to what Melissa pays her employees, but this fellow was as disinterested in my enthusiasm as a mule shown the annotated and unabridged Emily Dickinson collection. Frankly, I remain somewhat surprised I could coax him into completing an order.

Maybe he’s got a second job because that red hat carried the official golden arches of McDonalds. Plus it matched the deep, red bags under his eyes which betrayed how tired the dude must have been. Still, he summoned the strength to persevere the ordeal of assembling another kebap.

The hypnotic turning of the protein morsels kept me in a trance momentarily, until I noticed that the green peppers at this location were looking reasonably fresh which meant I had to demand the inclusion of five or six onto my kebab to fire it up a little bit. Giddyap.

Half asleep, this guy doctored up my meal with oodles of fries, large quantities of cabbage, a healthy portion of ceapa salat, copious pickle slices, and three scoops of the picant sauce. The lipie was clearly undersized for its’ plentiful contents, but I had to get one more thing.

There was some strange black flakes in a small, metal bowl. I’m not 100% sure precisely what they were, but it seems they were some kind of chargrilled pepper casings blackened to the point of being brittle. I requested the application of this midnight dust onto my culinary consortium before parting with 9 RON for the small.

And there you have it, folks.

The enhanced flavor provided by the grilled pepper bits cannot be overexaggerated, nor left off any future kebap excursions. In fact, I can say, without reservation, that this is the world’s greatest kebab. Braşov’s greatest is still worth a visit, but this fourth dimension of local shawarmacity now reigns as the undisputed king.

You’re wondering how in the world did I manage to eat all four kebaburi on the same afternoon. The answer is quite simple. Adeverat. It’s that you’re oversimplifying this presentation into a single event, when it was actually staggered successively.

Oh, Rahova, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

Four, actually. You cannot complain about the kebab situation. I think I’ll be able to surive somehow. And those who told me Rahova was considered a bad neighborhood are clearly wacked out of their gourd.

But, in fairness, it’s not exactly the land of milk and honey over here. You need to be aware that it’s entirely impossible to find a pizza non-stop to deliver to sector 5. In that arena, Braşov has clearly got Bucureşti beaten by a thousand kilometers.

I mean, really, this is the capital city… and there’s no non-stop pizza livrare la domiciliu. That’s pathetic. Even Ramnicu Valcea has better service than Bucureşti. It’s embarrassing. Shameful, even.

How in the world do you people survive?

These and countless others are now full. I’ll see you on the other side.

I had been rescued in Cluj on my way to Baciu by two of the kindest people you’ll ever meet in Romania. In their company, I’ve often felt as though I were something of an adopted son.

I first met Ördögi and Édesanya three years ago while a driving across all of Transylvania by myself, without knowing the language and carrying some relatively expensive (read: theft-worthy) camera gear.

While I wouldn’t necessarily recommend my cavalier stylings to every American during their first trip to a nation which outsiders sometimes derisively dismiss as a country of hackers and thieves, I must admit I had a total blast.

On my very first trip to Romania, I had picked up a rental car at the airport after battling with taxi drivers. I hit the highway and noticed all the scantily-clad, beautiful women lined up for hitch-hiking alongside the road.

Two seconds after pondering whether or not I should play hero to some damsel in distress, the realization of this activity I’d never seen before hit me with a big: Oh!

Not the big O, ladies.

I remember heading north straight toward Braşov on DN1 without a clue as to how to get there, being stuck behind slow semi-trucks stuck behind even slower Dacias packed with enough passengers to make an Indian train look empty, and watching the occassionally wreckless BMW go flying down the middle of the two-lane highway at a million miles an hour right between the moving tons of trucks on either side which moved over a few inches and blinked their headlights in rage.

Those of you who have ridden in my car before already know that I fancy myself something of an urban sport driving champion. The idea of high velocity zig-zagging in between other cars while you close your eyes, dig your fingers into my upholstery, and beg me to drive like a grandmother is something I enjoy.

But, you see, my friends, back Stateside things work a bit differently. In the US, I’d be switching lanes. One to the other. Darting in and out of openings as they shimmered into being. Yeehaw.

Here in Romania, it is quite an unfamiliar environment altogether. There are no lanes, per se. Just a single lane in each direction: these low-flying pilots were diving right down the middle of death, creating a rift in the sanity like Moses parting the Red Sea.

I was home.

The stamp in my passport was not even an hour old by the time I’d studied the seventh German-made missle to suddenly veer out from the orderly line behind me and barrel fearlessly through the oncoming traffic as though speedy arrival were more important than life itself.

The tension was built up within me as I pressed my head against the driver’s side window, yo-yoing my eyes between the the rear-view mirror of cars behind me, weaving side to side in search of a gap in traffic, and the behemoths ahead who would certainly crack for only the five seconds I would need to announce my intention to joust with the grim reaper.

And then I saw it. A fateful chink in the stream of tanks which shuddered my car in hurricane force winds as they blew past. I let off the gas a little to create a bit more ramping-up distance between me and the semi-truck in front of me, then dropped the car into a lower gear and slammed down the pedal to the floor.

My machine whinnied like a whipped mule and — a mere moment before smashing into the back of the diesel fuel trailer in front of me — I cranked the steering wheel hard to the left, thrusting myself directly over the center line.

One problem. I had rented a severely underpowered station wagon.

Defiantly gritting my teeth, I choked back the panic at the discovery of this fatal flaw and determined that I would at least die like a man. Behind me were two disbelievers frantically honking and flashing their headlights to indicate I was a fool who should get out of the way to let their faster cars whiz through the temporary vortex.

To the right of me was a string of semi-trucks, the nearest of which I could see the shocked face of the driver in his rear-view mirror as his flailing mouth furiously condemned me to hell for threatening the lives of everyone around.

Ahead of me was an army of metal machines whose leader was spastically waving an arm outside his window in the international language of, “Move back into your lane, idiot!”

Like some rediscovery of Judas, I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw the Bavarian driving machines were re-orienting themselves back onto the right side of the road where other northbound cars eagerly made room for them in the impending crisis each alert driver clearly saw.

There was no way I could overtake the semi-truck to my right. The looming death ahead was galloping at a breakneck pace and closing the distance.

What could I do? Drive.

I guided my plastic coffin toward the right as close I dared. The tie-down flaps of his cargo were literally slapping my tinker toy. And as he maneuvered his rig to the edge of the highway itself — rightside wheels kicking up rocks and dirt — I settled in snugly beside him.

The approaching semi-truck understood that I would continue my little game of chicken, so he also moved his eighteen-wheeler as far off the road as possible, sending dust and pebbles to attack the long line of trucks bringing up the rear.

I wanted desperately to close my eyes as the moment of impact came. I would be lying to you if I said my heart did not skip a beat. Everything unfolded in that sickening slow motion which stretches the time for each horrifying detail of the highway accident now taking place.

I was unable to close them.

They were wide open as I held my breath when the oncoming truck careened past me, just a few inches to my left while a few inches to my right was the other beast. Although the wind was shaking my frail little rental car, I fought the steering wheel to stay on course.

Fifteen centimeters on either side of me was certain fatality. It was a glorious rush and I was reminded of something I’d once seen in a movie.

I’ve loved the thrill of driving in Romania ever since.

Of course, on this occassion, the astute reader will remember that I had been hitchhiking rather than commanding four wheels of fury. I was in Baciu, a small suburban enclave best described as an “urban village” in my way of thinking.

It has all the characteristics of typical village life but just happens to be a few minutes from the major city of Cluj. The roads are all made of dirt, except for the main drag. People all seem to know one another and all about one another. There’s a reserved curiosity obvious in their eyes when they see you: the stranger.

Searching you with unspoken desires to mine all the details out of you, until you’re just another person they know the dirt on. Someone they can judge. Feel smugly superior to in some way. Backbite. Fortunately, I was the protected guest of locals.

From outward appearances, the husband is very polite and quite productive, but those who know him are familiar with his deeply mischievous alter ego. His gracious wife has the green thumb of Theophrastus, makes the best gulyás this side of Lake Balaton, and is remarkably intelligent on any number of subjects.

This was hardly the first time I had been a guest of Ördögi, palinka master extraordinare, and Édesanya, protectress of Romer!can. In fact, it is the normal protocol for me to engage in translated discussions with Édesanya to catch up on the recent goings-on as Ördögi positions himself for our regularly scheduled battles.

The epic wars we engage in are legendary. I’ve been pathetically intoxicated in their home, completely at their mercy, more times than I should publicly admit to. It seems part of the routine. Ördögi can usually best me, but I’ve slowly improved over time.

My first ever such victory was during a trip to Budapest where Ördögi just happened to be on business as well. Providence granted me the opportunity to garrison the redoubt in a battlefield other than his home and I was able to seize the advantage, late at night in a cellar bar in downtown Pest.

Once on neutral territory, I took the high-ground (reminiscent of Sun Tzu’s teachings, not Nicomachean Ethics) and plied my hapless victim with tantalizing descriptions of liquors he’d never tasted before. Before long, I was taking him around the world.

Ever had Jack Daniels? “Nem.” Let’s get a shot!

Ever had Malibu Rum? “Nem.” Let’s get a shot!

Ever had Tequila? “Nem.” Let’s get a shot!

Ever had Sambuca? “Nem.” Let’s get a shot!

Ever had Kahlua? “Nem.” Let’s get a shot!

Ever had…

Last thing I remember he was fighting to keep from passing out on a subway around 3am. I have no idea if he made it back to his hotel or not. I do know that it wasn’t me who had the 7:00 meeting in the morning.

If you think that’s bad, you should just allow yourself to imagine how often my arch-nememsis has had victory over me. Sometimes I’ve retreated gracefully, but he’s also completely routed and slaughtered me before as well.

Best believe payback is a bitch.

So I can strut my stuff in the daylight, I should boast about how I beat Ördögi in a duel on his own territory once. It was only once, mind you. It may have taken me two lazy days to recover from the fog, but I did survive. Meanwhile, the king of mischief was utterly dominated as proven by the 36 hours he spent sleeping which would be followed by yet another full day of recovery.

Let us all agree that Édesanya was not particularly pleased.

That was the past, of course. Recent, but past. On this particular visit, I’d been teased with something else altogether. Something about the corn fields up the hill. Something about a palinca tree. It wasn’t so much an invitation as it was a goading.

A dare. A double dare. A triple dog dare.

Was the wise and grizzled Ördögi poised to deliver a dish best served cold?

Okay, campers, as promised the other night, a free beer to whomever can accurately tell me where this is from.

(No cheating; you know who you are. Offer redeemable only in America and Romania, but is transferable. Expires in 3 months.)

Last night, I hosted a small dinner party for some friends. Things managed to come together more-or-less according to plan. Or, at least, it seemed to be that way for a while.

Ron, an American reader of this blog, had come on his third visit to Romania — birthplace of his wonderful wife Maria — and managed to smuggle in some very rare beer from New England.

Lucky sort that I am, the beer was destined specifically for me. Very cool.

Although the first speculation was I might go to see him in Sebeş, we ended up settling on a plan for him to come visit Braşov instead. They arrived earlier than expected and had some trouble with the hotel (who had cancelled their reservation in an apparent attempt to hike the price up belatedly). But they found another place and managed to do a little shopping along Republicii.

Bunissima was with me when Ron called late in the afternoon to verify my address before arriving by taxi around 18:00. After bringing the couple up the elevator in order to secure my precious (and delicious) beer, we headed out on foot for the nearby Carrefour.

He’s thinking about moving to Romania and I wanted to expose him to the megamart offerings he’ll find upon relocating. Of course, he’d already been to the fine Kaufland store in Alba Iulia which has a wide selection, but ultimately pales in comparison to Carrefour.

While we were browsing through the electronics, alcohol, and fresh produce, he tried to convince me that Braşov had a Kaufland store as well. Of course, I know my town and that’s a load of hogwash. He had the nerve to actually claim the Kaufland store was nearby.

So, after some push and shove, I bet him a dollar.

Loaded up with a varied selection of beers and wines, plus the ingredients for the night’s meal, we stood in line for half an eternity in order to check out from one of the dozens of cashiers working the evening shift. Once we had escaped, it was a short trek back to the apartment.

On the way, he pointed out that across the street from Carrefour (and closer to the McDonald’s) was a brand new Kaufland sign that had just been erected in the last day or two.

Only days before, I had walked the same length and do not recall seeing it. And it didn’t matter that Kaufland isn’t opened for business yet, he was technically correct-ish.

He insisted on American money. I coughed it up.

Now, the proper plan had been for Romer!can to do his kitchen magic for the evening. I had planned a veritable feast of fajitas, a dish at which I excel, in amounts large enough to feed eight adults. It must be clarified that Bunissima is a master at making tortillas from scratch, so she got things started while I attempted to entertain our guests.

By the time Mara, the always fun friend of a friend, and the fiendishly humorous Bradutz arrived near 20:00, I found myself making conversation and idling away the time… while poor Bunissima discovered herself abandoned in the bucatarie.

Fortunately, over the course of severals dinners past, I can at least lay feeble claim to the cop-out that I’d trained her well in the fine art form of mexican food.

Rareş, the oft-mentioned Griviţei Ambassador de Gara, showed up in the company of an independently-minded Teo around 22:00. He’s a constant spectacle and she was a riot herself.

Rareş and I have talked about Ubuntu before, off and on. Since my living room had essentially been turned into an internet cafe with multiple seats, I slipped very comfortably into the role of show-off by loudly demonstrating for everyone just how flippin’ impressive my new Beryl-on-Ubuntu is (thanks to C. Ovidiu for the prompting).

With eight of us packed into a single apartment, the noise got a little loud between the streaming music, the several conversations, all the beer, all the wine, and the sound of Bunissima gloriously man-handling the kitchen in front of a revolving audience of curious inquisitors.

I’m not precisely sure what happened with the time. We could measure it in alcohol consumption, but I don’t remember anyone paying too much attention to that. My best guess is the huge, nearly single-handed effort to cook food for everyone, despite the comical interruptions of almost everyone distracting our chef heroine, resulted in a massive dinner served up near the midnight hour.

The guests paraded through the kitchen one after another.

Grab a plate, find a fresh tortilla handmade from scratch, place a portion of branza cedar down a center stripe, scoop some spicey chicken fajitas on top, doctor it up with the secret recipe for Romex!can fasole de boabe, balance the enzymes with a sumptuous Spanish rice, cover it all with shredded lettuce, and top with patent-pending homemade Romex!can habanero salsa.

The fun part is watching people use three hands to try rolling the whole beast up into a giant-size fajita burrito they can wrap their mouths around.

Repeat as necessary until clothes no longer fit comfortably. Between the copious amount of adult beverages which had been consumed and magic post-ingestion expansion of Bunissimexican food, the crowd was on the verge of becoming intolerably leneş.

I wisely opened up the bottle of ţuica to help finish off any survivors.

In the ensuing madness, the plasticky table cloth was discarded and a frenzied game of Quarters broke out as we flooded the neighbors with the growling opera of Rammstein.

“Drink!”

With only two Americans pitted against a vicious cabal of Romanians, it wasn’t long until the homeland was secured from foreign invasion. Several repeated tinks in a cup was all it took for some new legislation to be handed down concerning the abolition of limba straine.

“Bea!”

I feel safe in assuming that while some folks may have passed out in the back of 2am taxis during their voyage home, they probably had a fun night by the time it was all said and done. You might even be tempted to think the whole shebang went off without a hitch.

Nu. During the evening, the bathroom door broke.

And by that, I mean it broke again. You see, friends, about a month or two ago, there was panic in the Romer!can household when an unnamed individual became trapped inside the bathroom because the handle refused to open the bolt.

After one attempt at using a screw driving to take it apart failed, a hammer was applied to force it open. But the magic lock stayed effective and kept one person out and another person in. Surrender came with the removal of a glass pane to allow the trapped party to climb out to safety.

The landlord’s elderly father came the next day to fix the door. I thought for sure we’d end up with a new handle, latch, bolt and all. The original pieces were bent and smashed from a hammer and strewn about haphazardly after meeting with a screwdriver.

You have to understand the mindset. Not only does a landlord naturally not want to spend a single bani to fix anything in their rented-out apartments, but the old man fancies himself something of an engineer. It took him a bit of work, but he slapped the apparatus back together and bluntly announced it was guaranteed to never break again.

Try explaining that story to your dinner guests several weeks later.

One minute, you’re all having fun. The next moment, you hear someone knocking from inside the bathroom door. Jiggling the handle does nothing, fidgeting with power strokes yields nimic. The person is trapped inside!

The immediate solution is to devolve back to what worked last time. Remove the glass and invite all your friends to squeeze in and out of an empty pane in order to use the bathroom. Spread a robe across the hooks inside to act something like a shower curtain for the slightest illusion of privacy.

So, cheers to all the people who survived last night! For me, it was gravely embarrassing. For you, it became a laughing matter. Our spirits never dampened, except from additional libations.

The old man has been called. He says he’ll be here in 10 minutes…