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?

Travel Tip: Always, but always, support your rustic street vendors on the backalley ribbons of non-tourist zones. If a kiosk can survive selling wares to nearby residents, then it must be “quite okay” and non-lethal.

Stand proud in recognition that such venues remain sufficiently mysterious enough to give you that rush of adrenaline that comes from taking great risks to eat like the native.

Valid for the purist seeking authentic experiences in any city, town, and village. Braşov is no exception to your guiding principle of avoiding chains, franchises, and other tainted commodity establishments while visiting strange, far-flung lands at the outer realms of the known world.

Leave the guidebook at home and go get lost.

You may find the very purpose of your life was to set out as the intrepid explorer who would unwittingly discover the thrills of being the first alien to unearth a quaint little pastry shop and to shed the light of publicity upon it.

Most often, you’ll find it conveniently buried down a quiet, dusty street surrounded by bloc apartments filled with suspicious residents who peer out from behind protective curtains anytime their sixth sense signals the alarm that a foreigner has breeched the cartier perimeter.

For example, you just might stumble upon such a hidden gem while larking about the Florilor neighborhood of Braşov, Romania, in which case you’d be ruffling the feathers of the cloistered neurotics busily spying on your radically unfamiliar walking style in the vicinity of Str. Branduşelor, Nr. 50 A.

Like a sweet-toothed moth drawn toward the bakery’s light, your subconscious detects the cheerful colors of handcut vinyl stickers spelling out words you don’t understand as they slowly lose contact with the glass and find their edges peeling.

As your ciliary muscle relaxes, shelves upon shelves of pasteries reveal themselves to you. Language is no longer a barrier to comprehension. Step closer, stranger, and witness the menagerie of flavors unknown.

Sweet bread, the length of a forearm, smothered in chocolate may beckon. Perhaps the siren song of pastry shaped like polish pretzels will dance in the air. Then again, the sugar-dusted puffs stuffed with Turkish Delight may prove irresistible.

Of course, any red blooded American will recognize the unmistakable patriotism of apple strudel which has the honorable distinction of service as Official Pastry of Texas initiated just days after former Texas governor George W. Bush declared “Mission Accomplished” in Iraq four years ago.

Thoughtful photographers will survey all the various options on display before meditating deeply over the consequences of any given choice. Chaos theory clearly states that in such extreme circumstances space and time will crumble in the vortex of singularity, thus provoking bliss (academically referred to in Latinish flanc cu caşcaval).

Whatever the outcome of your particular adventure into the vibrant lives of kiosk food salesmanship, you can look forward to bragging to your friends and family about your predilection for cavalier approaches to comestible consumption.

A giant among mere men, you know no fear.

Never, but never, devolve into self-defeatist second guessing about why the woman behind the counter got upset by your taking pictures of the little shop. Or how it was absurd she would not divulge the name of the company despite it being painted on the outside of the building.

Don’t worry yourself trying to make sense of what her motivation could have possibly been for insisting you speak to the owner (whom she had no idea when or if he would ever come next) in order to verify the street address so you could publicize the yummy goodies on the dark and scary internet.

Instead, focus on the positive speculation about whether the merchants likely kept the money local by hiring their neighbor Mihai to defend them once you belatedly find out the company was suspended by national authorities concerned about the dramatically unsanitary conditions used to prepare the very pastry you ate.

This may shock you.

Frankly, I find it obscene.

Yet, I’ve no choice, dear reader, except to drag you down with me into the very depths of hell against all semblance of good taste or sophisticated manner.

You must accompany me along this twisted path to multicultural enlightenmentation. The darkside of integratorious amalgamation and multisourced influentationalism. That seedy underbelly of common acceptancism. This very cesspool of EU ascensionalistisms.

Got your mental visa?

Let us embark then, my depraved friend, for a rude awakening.

The scene: an apartment in Bucureşti.

In the starving circle of the southwest cartier of this newly accepted European capital city. At the peak moment of integration, celebration rings out across the urban landscape. Not far from Ceauşescu’s behemoth, we, too, strive to participate in the moment at hand.

Amidst the new tiles covering last year’s peeling paint, we have just witnessed the glorious ingenuity of the indefatigable Romanian ethic. The purity of our cause has released unto us grapes which were grown, fermented, and sold in Romania. We are on the very cusp of satiating our most debased evening desires perchance to dabble in but just a wee bit of vino.

Acum, me intelegeţi mai bine, nu?

You see, it all started off so innocently. With the cork no longer enslaved to its glassy captor, libations were free flowing. And it never hurts to have an appealing guide when setting out upon such a journey as this.

I know what you’re thinking. Everything seems so pleasant. How was I, simple me, to know we would all be unceremoniously betrayed?

What you fail to understand is just how mashable this new Europe can be. Ideas seems to increasingly free-flow from one group to another. The resulting pollination brings some consequences I’m not at all sure we’re collectively prepared to accept.

Granted, my past history includes a venue which has enabled me to see the benefit of agricultural purity. So, understand I’m predisposed toward unadulterated beverages whose content is beyond reproach.

All of this roughly translates into the idea that there are circumstances where one ought not pervert particular drinks. Perhaps I was poorly educated.

Nonetheless, I have adverse reactions to situations whereupon certain sacrosanct liquids are imbibed under impure conditions, having effectively been infected with gastronomical toxins.

Should I change? Nu cred.

And so it is I bear witness to you of an unholy practice currently occurring in Bucureşti, if not elsewhere. Oh, if only we could call upon our religious leaders to save us from certain corruption then we might not have had our assumptions shaken and stirred.

Alas, we are alone in this place and this time.

Yet, hold fast. For it did happen.

Indeed, much to my dismay, the perversion took place before my very eyes. I stood there drop-jawed as this unholy practice unfolded.

Despite the blinding stupor, my instincts fumbled about for the camera so I might capture her nonchalant routine. As I snapped away and lost yet another piece of my precious cultural virginity, she remained willfully ignorant of my gasps and sighs.

Trust me when I relay to you my being abjectly flabbergasted by the crime undertaken which must have been invented by a stark raving mad Tepeş. There are no words to describe the horror. The very savagery burned my eyes.

I stood speechless while Shaitan took physical form, pouring himself into, amongst, amidst, around, between, and as part of the previously unscathed weyn.

Are you immediately repulsed to the point of physical convulsions by the mere sight? Then you are American or Americanized. For it is a vile transgression unfit for the lowest dregs of the most corrupt society. So completely illogical, Spock would spontaneously combust. It is, quite simply, beyond any reasonable comprehension.

Unless, that is, you’re astute enough to factor in the cultural debasement engendered by ascension into the European Union. Perhaps Tudor and Becali were correct all along: the flea-ridden mongrels will seep across the border and impregnate Romania with their foreign-tainted filth.

Yes, brothers and sisters! Listen up and embrace the truthiness!

Sure, the fashion magazine wackos will tout this as progressive integration and even as evidence of Bucureşti trending towards diversity in beverage service, but the fact is someone has to draw the line somewhere.

Stop the madness. It’s all fine and well to allow pizza delivery and kebab vendors, but when you start messing around with the wine, kids, you’ve crossed the threshold.

You might mumble some mealy-mouthed excuse about how adding cola to red wine is considered a legitimate drink in several nations. You could even protest that it’s immensely popular in many places. I won’t even listen to apologist claims that this has been practiced by some Romanians for years.

It seems this appalling behavior has a name: kalimotxo.

As your better, it is incumbent upon me to awake you from your wayward strayings. Kalimotxo originates from the Euskaldunak in the Pyrenees of the European Union, an isolationist raft of paleothic DNA surrounded by an ocean of Indo-European language.

They created the drink back in the 1970s as a response to poor economic conditions. Traditional recipes call for mixing the cheapest red wine available in equal parts with a very particular brand of famous cola in order to produce an inexpensive beverage with a unique flavor.

From there, the disease has spread across other parts of Europe and even now threatens the purity of our wine here in Romania. You might say that I should drink my wine normally but still allow others to ignorantly fabricate noxious drinks of their liking.

But, I ask you, how can we condone the actions of foreign invaders when they damage our own heritage? It’s well known that the Basque peoples are often associated with terrorism. If that’s true, we should be invading them not embracing them. Particularly if they have any oil.

And here’s where the conspiracy gets thick, my brothers.

All these science researchers with their so-called pursuit of truth and supposed facts have been studying the genetic make-up of Euskaldunak because their origins are shrouded in mystery. It may be a surprise for you to find out they did not come extraplanetary aliens, but the reality is they are the parents of Britain.

It’s easy to see the connections still running through their common blood. First clear your mind of all the things you already know about how Blair’s England produces fascism, employs censors for teachers, works on totalitarian data keeping over its chattel, and spies on its serfs in a manner straight from Ceauşescu’s wet dream. We just call that: being shady.

Where the common point of DNA reveals itself is in the liquor, dear reader. If you thought ruining wine with cola was bad, check out what our Brit friends do. They destroy quality beer by watering it down with ginger ale or Sprite (which they mistakenly call “lemonade”). Like their post-Thatcher government, it’s immoral and disgusting. But they call it: beer shandy.

In Spain and South America, there has been a rapid spread of “Calimocho” as it moved beyond the Basque territory, spilling over into the impressionable minds of poor youth elsewhere.

So, too, has shandy seen expansion off the British Isles into Scandinavia and Germany as biermischgetränke, where I personally first was dumbfounded by the proposition of murdering good beer by stabbing it with 7-Up.

Things have gone completely overboard as shandy is at the center of newly accepted practice of marketing to women. In this case, Germans package watered down beer as a natural health drink with the subtle implication being that a woman can “handle” it. Blech.

Who are these nihilistic nutjobs torturing beer and wine?

The horrible pollution of quality alcoholic beverages cause a great emotional stir deep inside me. Both kalimotxo and shandy are the negative results of EU integration which must be uncategorically rejected and, indeed, expelled from the faux sophisticates of Bucureşti.

We must turn our backs on the Euskal-Breton invasion and decry it as Satan’s ploy against the great unwashed masses!

For, it is evil.

And, just as when mankind was created 6,000 years ago from garden clay under an apple tree, even today, the naturally wicked female uses her charms to beguile honest men into joining her sins.