The way my hazy recollection works I believe you were gracious enough to endure my loquacious prattling about the epic excursion through Targu Mureş which landed me in the backseat of a scholar named Andrei, who would play the kindly benefactor in dropping me off on the northwest outskirts of Cluj.

Google map with overlays by Wikimapia

Fortunately, I knew precisely where I was. I struck out down the road in the direction of my birthplace confident that while I might never make the coastline, surely I would soon find myself in the suburban village of Baciu where I had friends to welcome me.

As an aside, there is precious little else which can attract the attention Romanian locals than an a large backpack steering some hapless, unkempt human being decked in ridiculous garb, who is clearly declaring himself an American lost off the beaten tourist paths.

Firstly, the native Romanian would never place a bag on his or her back, but firmly clutch it in hand lest it somehow get away. Secondly, as a general rule, people in the nation of Romania have never seriously considered the style and comfort of shorts in the summertime.

It may be a holdover from the centuries where churches told people what they were and were not allowed to do, say, think, and wear in most every facet of life because it seems that unless one is at the oceanside and hunting for sex on the beach, it is wholly unthinkable for a Romanian to bare his or her ankles in public.

On second thought, it’s probably because they fear death by curent.

For those of you who’ve not yet made the pilgrimage to this crossroad of history, let me indoctrinate you with the brazen oversimplification that you, too, can play Spot the Romanian in America, the UK, or wherever you might be from.

How? You’ve only got to keep an eye out for one of the two outfits they wear.

In places as varied as Sintra and Venice, I’ve seen Romanians standing around idly in groups numbering no less than three where each member of the gaşca is dressed in some variant of matching tracksuits by brands like Adidas or Puma.

The loud hoodlums will have their head shaven short precariously near the skull with a starkly unblended swath of hair lightener indiscriminantly slapped across some portion of their hair. They’ll gawk at every female that passes by.

When in doubt, you may take final confirmation by noting they are all but shouting excitedly at one another, perhaps punching one another in the shoulder, and listen for the dead giveaway of “pula mea” being repeated endlessly by the alphamale.

From Vienna to Kirkland, you’ll find the second form generally walking somewhere with purpose in a leather shoes, dark blue jeans, and a tight shirt enveloped in a black leather jacket. He often travels alone so as to optimize his availability for flirtatious engagements.

He will never sport a buzz cut. Hair defines this archetype into one of two subcategories. One will keep his hair dark and trim in a regular, somewhat-boxy cut as if to emphasize a business money approach. The other will have longer, straggly hair often tinsled with bits of gray as the artistic defiant.

With no exception, they’ll always be polite and engage in mostly serious conversation when presented with some opportunity to gain a business relationship or introduction to your attractive friend. In both cases, when encountering a target open for approach, they’ve got their priorities which do not include you.

“My god! I’ve seen Romanians before!” See? I can read your thoughts.

“Yeah, but, what about the chicks?”

Oh, right, well that’s an easy stereotype to perpetuate. Just find the beautiful women. Work up the nerve to approach whichever ones have luciously big, dark eyes and long dark hair with some semblance of fashion sense different from the boring prudes you prefer to ignore.

If they’re friendly to everyone without exception (even you) and speak excellent English with a distinguishable accent (which they believe does not exist), then you’ve made your mark. Confirm by calculating the percentage of flesh she is confident in revealing.

But, beware, she’s far smarter than you would possibly credit her for.

Okay, time to head trouble off at the pass. It’s infinitely foreseeable that one or two readers might get their tail bent out of shape over insisting that such generalizations could never hold true for the entire population who are quite different from the above sketches. Mostly, this person refers to themselves, of course.

Da, da, da. Deja ştiu. Glumesc!

We all know that once you’re in-country, the Romanians are just as varied a population as any other nation on this dirt ball. But we’re talking recognizable stereotypes. Y’know, like the ones you cling to: Americans are fat, lazy, rich, ignorant, self-aborbed, gun lovers, and bible thumpers.

I, too, object to condescending portrayals of entire cultures because I don’t fit the mould either. For example, one those seven things isn’t true about me.

It took me a few blocks of walking to realize not only would I stray wildly off-point in a future blog post, but I had lost every bit of confidence as to my present location. Everything was new and nothing looked familiar.

The simple fact was I’d never been on this damn street in my entire life.

Admitting defeat before Lolita lost all faith in my ability to be honest, I fumbled through my wallet desperately searching for the ten digits which could sound the alarm before I could be kidnapped by roaming gypsy caravans and never be heard from again.

There, there. Dry your tears. It all worked out.

A friendly voice at the other end of a mobile phone connection would make arrangements to safely transport me from my present uncertain whereabouts into the comforting arms of Baciu, where I learned a small event was soon to include me and some kind of plant which produced alcohol.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Staring into the eyes of every driver as the old Dacias passed me, I kept a look out for a small white 4-door sedan with two middle-aged adults in the front half. Until at last, the look of recognition gave way to smile and broke into a wave.

Ördögi was here rescue me.

Ismét.

This entry was posted on Saturday, March 3rd, 2007 at 6:22 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.