Oh, yeah, baby! It’s that golden season here in Romania. Time to hit up your local roadside vegetable salesperson and nab yourself some farm fresh porumb.

Looks good, doesn’t it? Alas, t’would seem beauty is only skin deep…

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Back when I was living in Braşov, the onset of summer meant I would often see pre-teens swarming through the branches of trees lined along the sidewalks of low traffic sidestreets.

Leaping from branch to branch swiftly, the nimble monkeys would throw down small fruit to their eagerly awaiting comrades who squabbled over the droppings as they plummeted from the sky.

Somehow I had the constant misimpression they must be violating rules of some sort by stealing fruit from the trees which did not belong to them. A rather backwards notion typical of someone who grew up in a country where everything is owned and nothing is free.

The reality is these are city trees belonging to the public in general, as you probably guessed. What a concept.

Back in those glory days of living in Romania’s best city, I never bothered to investigate the tree climbers or inquire as to what they were up to. A simple explanation of “they’re getting fruit” seemed obvious enough to not warrant further research.

Living in Bucureşti now, I noticed same phenomenon on the idle streets of Rahova. Recently, after coming home from an shopping trip, I watched the trees in front of my apartment get attacked by a gaggle of rambunctious scions from the bloc.

Feeling protective of “my” trees, I looked into the matter and soon discovered just what it was these children were desperately hoarding.

Locals call it zarzane. It also goes by the name corcoduşe. I’d never seen one before, so it was wildly exotic in my view. I sniffed around a bit, but there was no clear aroma to hint at the flavor inside.

I recruited a helper to assist me in collecting a few, then took them inside for a quick rinsing. Always wash your fruits, kids, because Bucureşti is a very dusty town and you probably don’t want to suck down toxins with your otherwise healthy snack.

I figured I hadn’t seen anyone else die from eating them and you can’t come this far without ingesting a taste, so I cut one open to have a preview of the contents.

The firm innards consisted of a juicy, grape-like meat but there was a large almond-shaped pit in the center. The mystery fruit basically resembled something of a minature, green plum.

I picked up the smaller piece and, like a native, popped into my mouth skin and all. The taste was delightfully sour — as a grapefruit has a sort of pleasantly bitter flavor — which was, essentially, rather agreeable. I nibbled at the other half until there was only the seed to spit out.

“Quite okay.”

Hungry for the new zest, I devoured several of the powerballs in rapid succession like a squirrel gnawing at acorns. I finally understood why the neighborhood rats would risk injury to seek out these pearls as they emerged from the trees. Fantastic.

Searching online brought few answers forth, but eventually I learned that my hunch was correct: it’s a type of plum. I’m no botantist, but I understand it’s some form of yellowgage plum or a dwarf golden plum apparently. After some preliminary study, I might speculate this plum could perhaps be the source for the French-developed greengage plum.

Romania is where plum trees were first domesticated. This country figures to be the world’s 3rd largest producer of plums, with several cultivars supposedly being native to the region. All these plums are commonly used by villagers to make jams. And palinca. Lots of palinca. Heaps of palinca.

A veritable passel of palinca.

Palinca (or palinka for our Magyar friends) is a very strong, home-brewed plum alcohol roughly 140 proof with a distinct taste. Often classified as a having a brandy pedigree, palinca is cousin to Serbian şliboviţă and distilled in a manner akin to Irish poitín.

In both Romania and Hungary, the double-distilled palinca is a key component of life. It works as a pre-meal apertif to build your appetite yet also sees plenty of action an after meal digestif. Many people can be seen drinking it any old time.

While technically illegal to craft moonshine (thanks to alcohol corporations buying off politicians), the truth remains the real deal is produced at home by countless families across the land in both clear and yellow colors, depending on where it ages. The stuff you buy in stores doesn’t quite lend the same authentic experience as you would get from a bottle given as a gift by countryfolk.

There’s an 80 proof single-distilled variation called ţuica which is extremely popular among Romanians, going so far as to claim it is traditional to start any meal with a shot of this potent plum liquor. Foreigners and beginners should definitely start here before moving up to palinca.

With Romania being such a significant source of plums, there’s been a concern about Plum Pox Virus for the past 100 years. PPV seems to have originated in Bulgaria and is spread by aphids who carry the virus for less than one hour before it dies.

To protect crops, a number of genetically modified plums have been experimented with. Romania eventually became a dumping ground for GMO tests organized by wealthy international corporations eager to find a willing host starved for cash in the 1990s.

As EU ascension neared, most of these programs have officially been killed. However, I’m led to believe that not all GM strains were terminated and transgenic farming still continues, leaving Romania in the uncomfortable position of possibly having its’ large plum supplies susceptible to being tainted by cross breeding with the altered genes of such trees.

Maybe someday we’ll all learn that PPV-resistant plums present no harm to humans or other creatures in the ecosystem. For now, we simply do not know all the answers.

To protect biodiversity of this important crop, we should hope Romanian authorities take their ecological roles seriously and protect this culturally significant food from contamination during testing.

I’d hate for anything bad to happen to this little green wonder when I’ve only just discovered its’ existance.

Travel tip: Feel free to reach right out and grab some plums off public trees lining the roads of Bucureşti, Braşov, and other towns across Romania. There’s nothing illegal or unethical about it. That’s what they were planted for.

Eat ‘em early, people. Around here, they seem to come out in late May and early June. By the time it’s getting late in Iunie, the green plums lose their bite, turn mushy like squash, and give off a color of caution yellow.

Occasionally, I’ve been an outspoken critic of Romania’s apparent lack of interest in participating in neighboring economies. Those synaptic flares generally boil down to the distasteful observation of Romania drinking in too much of the outerworld in comparison to seemingly non-existant projection of itself.

Some moments it seems Romania could have a long-term economic disadvantage when I read about Austrians buying the banks, Dutch buying the breweries, Czechs buying energy concerns, British buying the property, French buying the car manufacturers, Swiss buying the ice cream makers, Germans buying the insurance conglomerates, and so forth and so on.

Rather than build lasting commercial empires, I worry about a future where Romanians have already sold everything like an international rummage sale when the economic games have only just begun.

Will the macro point of view be one where Romania only exists to be drained of its’ wealth potential? It’s a vampiric scenario to think of so many Romanian companies having their profits siphoned outside the borders.

From there I get to ranting about how various foreigners are taking possession of historical treasures, the radical absorption of massive amounts American culture through the entertainment and food/beverage industries, the rapid influx of retail brands from Hungary, the loss of seaside tourism to other parts of the Black Sea, and more.

When I rarely, if ever, hear about Romanian-owned companies exporting Romanian brands to the outside world, those are the times when I wonder what is happening to Romanian culture? It is really disappearing before our very eyes?

I hope I am overlooking some obvious and substantial enclave of Romanians who take pride in ownership, build some great businesses, brave the economic wars of entering new markets, and bring some of those profits back home.

A new generation of Romanian business leaders who don’t salivate over the exit strategy of quickly selling out to the nearest stranger with sacks of cash and then blowing it all on some wildly lavish escapism.

A bumper crop of serious entrepreneurs yearning to construct stable empires to hold.

Romania needs such iconic figures who breed successful outreach strategies enabling the nation to compete in the European Union and internationally without simply becoming a wilted plop of resources to be leeched.

Hungary, Bulgaria, Serbia, and Ukraine all represent logical markets for exporting Romanian-made products and Romanian-performed services sold under Romanian brands of Romanian-owned companies. There’s a ready audience right across the border just ripe for the taking. Do it.

While I clearly do not subscribe to the completely xenophobic or isolationist philosophies of Romania’s more, er, colorful political figures, I am unequivocal in my observation of a huge imbalance between foreign ownership and Romanian ownership.

The long and painful history of the Romanian peoples should not end with indentured servitude. Ba nu.

To lighten the mood, I’m hypocritically quite overjoyed to report on my latest findings in international commerce happenings here in the central economic hub of Bucureşti, colloquially known as the hot buzzing zona Rahova.

After much longing and despondent searching since prior excursions to the wilds of Sofia, my intrepid scouring of the busy Sector 5 streets has revealed someone finally imported the unbelievably fantastic Zagorka lager of Bulgaria into Romania.

Time to get on the clue train, you hip kiddies. Be the first one on your block to be super marfa. Ask about it at your local store (just like I incessantly badgered mine). Amaze your friends with your new-found sophistication by tipping back a glass of deliciousness.

Noroc!

In Romania, the official census reports over 80% of citizens indicate they are members of the Romanian Orthodox Church. Anecdotally, I can attest that most of those have never read the Bible they claim to believe in and, when pressed, have little idea of what the Bible actually says.

Yet, there is a deep christian history in Romania, including other denominations largely hailing from the Transylvania region. There you’ll find a noticeable representation Roman Catholicism with parishoners of mixed ethnicity under an ethnic-Hungarian majority.

Dig deep enough and you’ll find that the intriguing Universalist Unitarian church has its’ origins in Transylvania when people in the region were among the first to throw off the shackles of unenlightened dogma which has been a typical feature of Catholic and Orthodox churches.

These days, the country of Romania has no official national religion prescribed although the relationship between church and state remains a convoluted tangle of influence and occasional corruption.

Romania officially recognizes 16 religions who are are, thus, granted the privilege to preach. An interesting linguistic factoid is that the official legal term for each religion is “cult.”

As much as the consititution appears a hodge-podge, I’d say someone definitely got that one correct.

Ah, but can’t we all get along? Da!

Check your crosses, stars, and cresents at the door. It’s the modern world and our beliefs can be kept close to our bossom while opening ourselves to the cultural aspects that make Paşte a special experience in Romania’s quiver of heritage. Sure to pierce the heart of even the hardest atheist.

What you really need to understand is that the week of Easter in Romania is best experienced with your tongue. The traditional cuisine during the religious holiday includes some downright tasty and delectable treasures you won’t find anywhere else.

Prepare yourself for an excursion into the best of Romania’s culinary offerings. It’s not all kebabs, my pet. Nossir! There are delicious desserts afoot, lurking around the local shops of your friendly neighborhood bakery just waiting for discovery by the cunning and patient foreigner.

I’m talking about pasca and cozonac, my American friends.

Oh, the glory! Walking to the nearby pastiserie on Ferentari, next to the closest kebab stand. It’s a closely held family store which serves the neighborhood with freshly baked pasteries. And during the holy week, you can snag yourself some plain-paper wrapped packages of cozonac and pasca.

Holding it in your hands, the warmth wafts into your skin and immediately endears itself to you. But then the scent broaches your nasal passages so that you immediately fall into a deep love and are barely able to contain yourself from ripping open the paper and burning your hand just to get a hunk of the hot love flirting with your senses.

You’ll have to find the strength to discipline yourself long enough for the journey home, where you can unwrap the aromatic spectacle which is Romanian cozonac — a sweet bread most often found around holidays. The dark brown loaf is continues tantalizing you with it’s physical beauty.
Yet you know inside lurks the amazing taste your nose is trying to warn you about.

A sweet bread seemingly from the very depth of Romanian history itself. Swirling with chocolate goodness, packed with local walnuts from area farms, replete with raisins as you seen grown in the yards of so many homes, and then insiduously trapping you with the bait of turkish delight.

Mesmerizing, is it not? Aye, but there are dangers yet remaining, my friends. Is it possible that Romania could offer two tempting treats to coincide with its’ ostensibly religious observations? You better believe it, bucko.

Waiting for the oven-fresh batch of cozonac took about 30 minutes, but I had to suffer the pain of refusing to eat it immediately so that I could wait another hour to obtain pasca from the very busy bakery of my new home.

Was it worth the effort? You tell me!

Say it with me, now: pah-skah. Pasca. Just look at it. Find a napkin to wipe your chin, because I knoew you’re drooling. This is the Romanian version of cheesecake, boys and girls.

Take a sweet cake recipe, then hollow out a bowl. Fill that with a mixture of telemea cheese, sugar, and a handful of raisins. Cover with a decorative batter-top. Bake and then sprinkle with coconut shavings.

It is my considerably studied opinion that this delicacy is best tasted hot. And then room temperature. And then cold. You must try the entire spectrum so the rainbow of flavors can run the gamut of your taste buds.

There is not anything on this planet like pasca.

So, do yourself a favor and find a knife. Slice yourself from freshly baked cozonoc, so you might revel in its’ cocoa-nutty goodness and chew upon its’ rahat innards, while being sure to include a nice slice of Romanian pasca cheesecake.

No words can describe it. Just dig in and chow down.

Back in America, you’re all hunting Easter eggs with little kids. I admit, it’s a fun pastime. A cute affair worthy of Kodak moments. But what about the food? Oh, we have marshmallow chicks, jelly beans, Cadbury eggs, and other goodies.

Yet, I’m here to tell you nothing compares to hot, fresh cozonac and pasca.

One must experience it for oneself to know the truth of the words I speak. Maybe it’s holy spirit filling me, but I call upon you to gaze on the greatness of this Romanian fare. Ye shall not know paradise until ye hath tasted of cozonac şi pasca cand it’s fresh.

Maybe you’re persistent. Maybe you’ll ask me about the American chocolate rabbits. Chocolate coins. Chocolate this. Chocolate that. Chocolate heresy.

Back Stateside, there was a tempest in a teapot when a well-known artist specializing in food creations decided to create a tribute to Jesus using only chocolate as the basis for his homage. The most radical elements of christianity immediately leashed out in a vindictive campaign to eradicate any such art.

Why? Well, some theorize the objection is that chocolate is dark brown in color. But, even though the West tends to portray Jesus as having been some kind of blonde-haired, blue-eyes eurocentric member of the master race, most intelligent people realize that Christ was a semite who most likely would have had dark, if not curly, hair and brown skin.

It could be that an objection was the Messiah was portrayed naked. Yes, in the nude. The son of God? Ah, but is there really shame to be had in nakedness? Does not the Bible say that man was made in the image of God? Was not Jesus embodied as a man? And if God therefore must have a penis, would it then be a sin to demonstrate that clearly Christ had one as well?

They’re just questions. No need to be a reactionary animal about it.

No one should have felt compelled to make death threats to the artist. It’s just a sculpture. Not a crime. It’s just a man. Not sacrilege. It’s just God’s image. Not heresy. It’s only a sex organ. A penis.

Frankly, considering the lack of theological study on the factual details of the matter, I think the artist went out of his way to be generous.

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?