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.

The epicenter of Szekelyland appears to have entered into a loose Transylvania alliance with Cluj to defeat the scourge of Denmark by extending its considerable forces throughout the land. Romer!can has obtained rights to an exclusive photograph which surfaced as proof of the action.

Officials and experts in Braşov are currently assessing facts and analyzing the impact this unexpected campaign will have on the Romanian landscape. Initial reports indicate the offensive is limited in scope, but may alter life as we know it.

Stay tuned for further updates as details are uncovered.

Update: According to extensive personal research since 2003, it’s seemed like Tuborg Strong has been the beer of choice among income-earning, urban-dwelling Romanians not drinking at home. There is some anecdotal evidence that Carlsberg has managed to shove enough advertising down the throats of Bucureşti that residents in that specific city might actually believe it is “possibly the best lager in the world.”

Oh, the Force is strong with that marketing budget.

Basically, when one is out with friends who like beer and have a job, the party tends to revolve around Tuborg Strong more often than not. As a result, it’s fairly unusual to find a hip place in Romania which does not offer Tuborg Strong on the menu.

This trend may be explained in part by the stereotype that club-going Romanians spend more to avoid drinking cheap beer in public to impress their friends, which certainly sounds plausible since much of the rest of the world shares this phenomenon of underbudgeted pretenders living well beyond their means for one night a week in order to front to prospective bedmates at the local bar.

I like to think the answer is a little more basic than that. The fact is that Tuborg Strong has a higher alcohol content. One bottle of 7% strong beer can often impact people to nearly the same degree as two regular beers. That alone is attractive to some drinkers.

Since that seems to be true, you can next factor in the relative cost benefit. Essentially, most folks get more inebriation per leu with a higher alcohol content brew like Turborg’s Royal Export.

The last reason is taste, a highly subjective matter directly relative to one’s beer sampling experiences and personal preference. In this part of the world, the sour mash malt taste is a desirable contrast against the sea of milquetoast brews sold everywhere, the occasionally sickly sweet blondes, and the rancid products of Turgu Mureş. Tuborg Strong is one of the better tasting beers.

The market for such beer has essentially been owned Tuborg Strong. In addition, Tuborg has it’s regular “Gold” beer, a bland run-of-the-mill drink, and the seasonal Christmas Brew, a stronger beer with an excellent flavor comprised of maltiness, balanced spices, and perhaps a little nutty undertone.

It seems the international companies who acquired all the previously Romanian-owned brands have gotten more aggressive about promoting those brands to the the people living in the very country from which the brands originated. I mean, why invest in buying out almost every single brewery in Romania and kill each brand?

Seems much smarter to crank up the production rates and rake in a very healthy profit selling beer under a local name to consumers who have no idea the profits are leaving the country. Very clever, if you ask me.

And that’s what’s been happening. The folks formerly from Cluj started to promote Stejar 7% Strong Beer, with its’ sour malt taste I first found available for sale in late 2005. At roughly half the price of its’ target competitor, Stejar has gone from unique curiosity to a regular staple product at many stores in Braşov, where it now outsells Tuborg Strong by a very large margin at some places. I understand they’ve started to promote it on television these days, which is a sure sign of brand commitment.

I’d count that experimental counteroffensive as a success, then.

Now, Ciuc has entered the fray with their new, “limited edition” Winter Strong Beer with it’s 7% alcohol content. Once again, this beer seems squarely aimed at dethroning Tuborg products. In this case, we get a two-fer. Being based on a sour mash flavors, the beer joins Stejar in rebuffing the Tuborg Strong brand. But, in this case, it’s specifically a seasonal beer with noticeable winter spices in it, which competes favorably against Tuborg Christmas Brew.

Well poised for victory. Lemme put it this way, I tried and liked it very much. I find the combination of a winter ale with higher alcohol content to have quite pleasant during my first investigation. Not to mention, it’s got that famously delicious Miercurea Ciuc water as the primary ingredient to smooth out the taste considerably. I suspect Ciuc will probably earn a little brand loyalty from me for the remainder of the season.

And Tuborg, in general, seems to be in trouble. Watch out for what surely must be diminishing sales revenue reports. Torpedoes like these will sink just about anyone.

There’s a downside. As Ron pointed out, it’s essentially a crime against humanity to package good beer into plastic bottles which damage the flavors. So who would bottle their pride and joy into such a terrible environment? Romania.

You see, in Romania, shocking as it might seem to advanced civilizations, the stores here still charge customers an actual amount of money per bottle.

That’s right, you pay extra for the privilege of glass. The price of the bottle generally has nothing to do with its’ actual value, but instead is typically calculated according to the price of the beer it contains.

So, if you pick up a bottle of Noroc or Skol, you’ll pay something like 5 cents a bottle. If you get a sticla of, say, Tuborg Strong, then you can expect to pay something like 25 cents a bottle.

It might sound trivial considering you’ll get your deposit money back when you return the bottles. However, many people just do not want to part with the extra cash. It might be because their budget is tight. It might be the returning bottles is highly inconvenient.

It might be that they’re afraid of breaking the glass and losing the money. It might be the average buyer understands they’ll get some minuscule discount on the actual beer price for buying a 2-liter bottle quantities instead of half-liter glass.

However you slice it, plastic bottles are very popular in Romania. That probably won’t change until the highly profitable brewers stop charging money for glass bottles to the stores. Of course, it would be helpful if the country finally got a real recycling program in action.

And, yes, there would need to be more of that individual pride for one’s country sufficient enough to shame the many many glass bottle breakers from continuing to litter the streets and parks with dangerous shards leftover after a moment’s “fun.”

Plus, it appears that Ciuc Premium Winter Strong Beer is only sold in 1-liter plastic bottles, anyway. I’ll have to suffer with plastic residue affecting my otherwise yummily-different beer until the season is over. But not because Ciuc set up it’s winter headquarters in Poiana-Brasov to host Campionatul Distracţiei replete with snowbunnies. Nor because they have an online hockey game. Just because it’s good.

After the sales season, I’ll return my strong beer purchases to the Stejar brand. Except when I’m out, of course, because then I’ll be ordering the far more expensive Tuborg Strong in public. Y’know, don’t want the raven hotties to think I’m cheap or anything.

After surviving the long haul from Braşov, Lolita and I waited outside the main theatre in the centru for what seemed like an eternity, but was only mere moments before being accosted by brown-eyed devil who insisted on carting us around to be amazed by the sundry offerings of his dilapidated village.

Cristian directed his personal servant to transport us in a horseless carriage directly to his residence such that we might be received by a medical professional and unload our packed gear. I botched my effort to sound reasonably cultured when I blurted out a polite greeting which ended up sounding like something along the lines of “umpa ray bean ay!”

As no one was able to overlook this blunder, our gracious host quickly whisked us away from others and onto the raw streets of cartierului. He insisted on a typical Romanian sprint seventeen miles across town, as if the world might suddenly end, and obliged me to engage in conversation between breaths.

Once a safe distance from his relatives, he no longer seemed to be ashamed to be seen with us and it was then that our miniature parade through the centru got underway. In usual fashion, I interrupted the proceedings early by inquiring as to which of Romania’s three most common heroes was portrayed in yonder statue.

Stefan cel Mare? Mihai Viteazul? “Avram Iancu,” came the reply.

Now, for those that may not recall, Iancu was a swashbuckling bad ass about 150 years ago. During the centuries when the Hungarians subjugated most Romanians into serfdom, Avram’s family was one of the rare lucky ones to have managed to liberate themselves out of serfdom and into being peasants.

This lofty rank in life wasn’t exactly satisfactory to Avram, so he took advantage of the permission granted to him to attend school. There, he excelled and even managed to propel himself further in life by being accepted to law school. These days it wouldn’t be a stretch to say someone’s rolling over in their grave with regret over their decision to indulge Avram.

Back when the Hungarians freed themselves from Austrian rule, Avram was hopeful the new Hungarian leaders would extend freedom to the Romanian serfs. When they refused, he became disenchanted with the revolution. He realized the Romanians were going to have to agitate for their own liberation.

Thus, he entered the seedy underbelly of complex armed political struggle and aligned himself with the Austrian government who promised to free the Romanians from bondage, although they balked at the notion of an independent Romania free from their own oversight.

Avram led military campaigns against the Hungarian army, as part of his pact with the Austrians. Things got a little complicated as the Poles entered the fracas on the side of Hungary while Russia assisted the Transylvanian Romanians and the Habsburgs.

Classic European warfare. Lots of yummy death back and forth. Alliances shifting slightly now and then. Everyone trying to play off their allies for their own purposes. Even the Romanians were fractured amongst themselves into separate factions in the conflict.

In the end, Romanians achieved the end of their serfdom in Transylvania, but were forbidden to create a unified state. Avram Iancu was ultimately arrested by the very powers helped to victory, only to be freed after popular protest, and then promptly had all his possessions confiscated by state. His last attempts at statesmanship were soundly rejected by a fearful Austrian court.

From there, he slumped into a sort of madness, wandering the Apuseni mountains as a pipe-playing alcoholic until his death. Even today, his legend is memorialized in the unflattering Avram Iancu-brand palinca sold across Romania.

And then you’ve got the statue, of course, in downtown Targu Mureş. For a foreigner such as myself, it’s important to note that the city, also known as Marosvasarhely, has long been populated by a majority of ethnic-Hungarians who are unlikely to be partial to honoring the man who helped Austria regain control of Hungary after the revolution.

And so it was at this point, early in the tour, that Cristian made it abundantly clear that sometimes a town’s most important details can be big. Quite big.

With such poignancy, who could possibly be bothered with additional historical seriousness? Not I, said the fly.

We turned toward a discussion of The Plans for the remainder of my visit. I insisted on eating soon, but readily agreed to his proposal of the general principle of doing authentic, cultural Romanian things.

First we would tour the town in order to mock its many interesting aspects and generally be derisive towards any notion of inherent value. After that, we were invited to engage in the very bowels of what it means to be Romanian by witnessing the thrilling spectacle of a national soccer match on a big screen with a room full of diehard fans. Follow up with a brief night cap, then sleep because the next morning he would take us on a journey to see a surprise delight which was unique to the area.

Of all the various key buildings to see, I must admit the sight of the beit knesset stopped me in dead in my tracks. So majestic compared to the blocky communist architecture of its neighbors. And yet the neglect was saddening, as if someone had left the garden untended and the broken gate ajar.

It’s well-known that I tend to brag about Braşov having the world’s greatest shwarma kebab. Ever jealous, our host had indicated the world’s second greatest şoarma kebap could be found in Targu Mureş and my anticipation of this treasured find began to build.

Little did i realize that I was about to fall victim to the hoax of the century. As we reviewed our culinary options, I brought up this notion of meat on a stick and pressured our guide on the topic until he revealed that “could” meant “possibly” because he really had no idea who, if anyone, might have a decent kebab in the whole city.

Imagine my abject disappointment.

Blind from starvation, we randomly selected the nearest purveyor of said goods. It was empty inside, which is rarely a good sign. Travel tip: eat wherever throngs of locals eat as you’re very likely to find the best food in those places.

When it comes to gastronomical adventure, you can count on Lolita to be up for the challenge to prove her quality. Eschewing the vaunted kebap offerings, she instead confidently ordered one of their famous deep fried dachshund ear sandwiches.

I stoically played the fool much to the amusement of Boston’s finest in journalistic observation when I stubbornly demanded to be served the world’s second greatest kebab. Oh, this shoarma might not have been large in size, but it certainly looked good.

Ask anyone who dated hotties in their youth and you’ll quickly find consensus that looks can be deceiving.

Rather than relive the sordid memory of its’ aftertaste, please allow me to summarize by saying I once ate boiled football leather slathered with snail secretions and placed between two chunks of car tire for a sandwich that rivaled… nay, surpassed… the texture and flavor of this abomination.

After that scandalous debacle, my host had the good sense to quickly revive my spirits by bringing me into close proximity of cute girls with beer. None too soon, I might add.

I was to learn we would watch fotbal under her kind attention. Foat-bawl. Just say the word and let its richness roll off your tongue. Yessireebob, the big national sport of Romania! And, lordie, “we” were up against our much hated rivals, Bulgaria - that unruly nation of savages to the south.

Upon the sociological advice of the local sherpa, I remained armed with a camera ready to capture these typical Romanian fans at the very peak of emotional outburst in their native environment glued to whatever soccer game is broadcast over the television.

Like clockwork it happened. The tension was building as the forwards drilled down field. Romania was about to take an early lead. Everyone was on pins and needles… and then, the Romanian team missed the goal.

Several minutes had already past and my beer was starting to get less than cold, so I opted to put the camera down and focus on enjoying the experience first hand.

Now mind you, the only reason I understood any part of the goings-on in the game was because those around me occasionally translated bits and pieces in my own tongue. For, you see, the ballyhooed big screen television was, in fact, a fuzzy, semi-colorless 3-inch dot located 17 feet away and I could almost distinguish some sort of motion if I squinted one eye while covering the other.

Try as I might, I was simply unable to mimic the enthusiasm of the sportsfan masters surrounding me in this bar inside a hotel basement on a side street of a small town in the middle of nowhere Romania. Fortunately, around the time I had a second Ciuc, I noticed the folks around me were feeling smugly confident as Romania had scored two goals by the half.

During the barrage of product commercials aimed at impressionable male viewers, the few intellectuals in attendance put the game out of mind and instead debated the relative philosophical merits of Albert Camus versus Max Stirner as might be applied in practical, daily situations such as a no holds barred, caged death match.

The second half of play didn’t get too much of my attention. Instead I devoted my time to nobler pursuits such as flirting with Lolita who proved an admirable adversary. We only paused long enough to join in the occassional chorus of voices in sarcastic refrains, “prientenii stiu de ce.”

At some point I became aware that both angst and tension were palpable in the air as the game clock was winding down and the Bulgarian barbarians finally scored a goal with but a mere 2 minutes left in the game.

Alas, the big wheel keeps on turning. There are some who say Romania is cursed in soccer. Others wisely say the players are simply unprofessional and unable to rise to the level required to play seriously in Europe. The fotbal stars may burn bright, but they burn fast.

And all that’s left are a trail of ashes while the opposing teams roar back to clean up the mess, by scoring a second goal just moments later.

“Hey, Bob, let’s watch the instant replay again in slo-mo on the jumbotron!”

When your soul has been cleft in twain, your deepest desires ripped asunder, and highest hopes dashed against the jagged rocks hundreds of meters below the cliff you found yourself buffaloed over, you must seek refuge in the only sanctuary capable of plying salve to such raw and open wounds. A hallowed place of healing.

No, gentle reader, we’re not talking about the places which sell you candles to offer in pagan sacrifice to invisible men in the sky. Alas, such smoke and mirrors are not enough when your injury is actual and not imagined. We must reach deeper than rote ritual if you seek to wash away pain.

Aşa e, copii. It’s time to drag your sorry sports-absorbed self into the nearest overpriced bar. Along the way, I discovered myself underfunded and had to secure a minor loan from a nice friend until later in the evening when I could repay him. Once safely seated, my close friends saluted me in the traditional Targu Mureş greeting.

Once imbued with a loss of inhibitions, thanks to repeated fueling from another heroic Romanian liquor — Stefan cel Mare-brand vodka, to be precise — the mystery man captured in this photo skillfully regaled the entire tribe of miscreants with side-splitting tales of his misadventures overseas.

Thanks to Big Steve in a shot glass, the table was privy to self-deprecating humor on a new level. One such yarn hinged on a cultural faux pas regarding marijuana brownies, while another involved declarations of proclivity for stealth nudity. Hence, to all present, he was clearly deserving of his bestowed rank as Magic Commando.

As the festivities progressed, I found myself entertained by the antics a gentleman who fancied himself a marketing professional. Or soon to be, anyhow. Radu’s snickerworthy banter shone the spotlight on key aspects of his nearly complete university education in marketing, which apparently consisted not so much of class attendance, but a more practical application of the trade by way of binge drinking and the derivative tomfoolery.

If you see this face within resumé distance of your human resource department, warn the boss!

All good things come in extremes, so it was necessary to befriend Dan who provided the alkaline to the acid. He barely managed to nurse half a beer over the course of a couple/few hours, but did reveal some details about his deliberate and methodical rise through the civil engineering world, where progress is not to be attained through appetite for power but only allowed to one’s self after the current position has been thoroughly explored and mastered.

If you see this face bidding on a contract for your city’s infrastructure needs, vote yes.

It was well past the witching hour when an ever-dangerous prowler decided to kick the groove into full swing with a dancing marathon that would prove as premonition of a future episode of Romericanism involving a stripper pole, the details of which are unlikely to grace these dispatches.

I wasn’t exactly sure in which order people began to drain away from the group table, but I do know our little band of beligerents was the only thing stopping a very tired waitstaff from being able to go home to sleep. We decided to pull on our Justins and amble through the louvered, swinging half-doors.

One member of merrymakers checked into this seedy non-stop store on the outskirts of the Targu Mureş badlands, while the other two looked on in astonishment before being sucked in by the siren’s song themselves whereas I remained distant and aloof, clinging to a light pole to keep from flying off a spinning planet.

After piecing together bits and shards of memory, using the glue of others’ hazy recollections, apparently I made to the home of an indie emo music fan, whereupon I engorged myself on unknown foodstuffs vaguely resembling bread-like substances and something akin to processed cheese food product.

Thereafter, a fight broke out for the right to sleep!

Criminals in the room began extolling a propaganda campaign to convince me of the fun to be had in staying up a few more hours without a wink. It took some persistence, but I did manage to negotiate a final acquiescence.

Sweet slumber.

Yet, it was only to be had for two hours! The nefarious malcontents saw fit to attempt waking Lolita and I up. At first, we were so deep in sleep we did not hear them standing next to our pillows, bickering over strategy and tactics for the disruption.

Although, eventually, I mentally resurfaced without a sign just as our host was reaching for the gavel to declare a verdict of mercy. But it was not to be. The defiant voice of an evil woman insisted on equal slaughter for all whereupon we were summarily awoken to begin the trek to another slice of Targu Mureş.

Given that some troops had battled the darkness without any sleep whatsoever, it should come as little surprise that people were having difficulty with the otherwise normal process of inserting one’s foot into one’s shoes.

As proof that I constantly think of my readers and devote my efforts entirely to entertaining you, I had remembered a comment from mamaligagirl about how I didn’t include the quintessential mailbox sets from block apartments in my photo essay on Romanian mailboxes.

While my effort was focused on houses, there’s no doubt that apartment mailboxes can be fascinating in their own right. Until a full collage comes, I did remember to snap this fascinating sample for your previewing pleasure.

If you can find this particular set somewhere in Romania, then be aware you’re trampling the nest while owl spotting.

Once outside in the crisp morning chill, I was reminded that every country has their share of bucktoothed rednecks. How to find a bemulleted Targu Mureş hick? Here’s your sign! Look for the fake 4×4 Tonka toy, complete with duct tape accoutrements.

Miles of walking afterward, we reached the crossroad of a responsibility quandry. We spotted a couple of cute pups in the street with no mama dog around to prevent them from dodging the loud monsters driven by angry early-morning types who believe there are already too many caini in Romania.

It’s easy to see that such people feel it would surely do the public some good to dispose of these street vagabonds before they become a menace to society. Whereas I see downtrodden life in need of assistance from those capable.

Our first move was to scoop the little tots up. Unsure of how to handle it from here, the discussion quickly turned to the idea that we have to go soon or we’ll miss the awaiting event.

So, we shortly came up with a plan: find an open gate (let that be a lesson to you Romanians to always lock your gate) and put the dogs inside the enclosed property so they can live just long enough for another member of the human race to determine the value of living things.

It can be said Ceauşescu’s legacy is the myriad concrete block apartments which ubiquitously infect the landscape of all Romania’s towns of note. Those who have lived here their entire lives find that each slap of cement looks the same as another. Without their blasé cataracts, I still notice the infinite variety within these national scars. Perhaps because the injuries aren’t my own.

Equally interesting to my fresh eyes are the seemingly endless rows of drab garages which often serve as the barrier between this block and the next, which makes it simple for children to know if they are staying in the front yard as instructed by the mother who pays no attention to them - just in case she yells down at them from her 9th story balcony.

Stumbling some distance ahead, I caught my first glimpse of the crowds gathering for the long-promised extravaganza of Targu Mures.

Crossing the bridge with its side fences painted as green as the grass growing on the span itself, one tends to feel like a virgin being led one-way across a threshold to a new experience one would not easily forget.

America is sometimes seen as the orphan of Europe. Seeing this gathering was akin to meeting your mother for the first time, as this piaţa de vechi turi clearly gave birth to the famed American swap meet.

Much to my pleasure, it was a tax collector’s nightmare where a hodge podge of citizens simply up and decide to conduct commerce between individuals without bothering to invoke the mystical authority of government regulators into interfering in transactions.

A relic of the past. Rows and rows of anonymous people putting the free market in action.

When we left the vendors to their trade, the fog was beginning to lift on our sleep deprivation and we sought a little fun for ourselves elsewhere. Mica distracţie means “a little fun” but, being of good taste, I leave the remainder of the transliteration as an exercise for the reader.

Looking back on the landscape, I felt there was a certain indication of the juxtaposition between man and nature, even if man is a part of the very nature he seeks to cover.

Fortunately, not all life along the riverside is bland. The remain small enclaves of richness tenaciously clinging to survival in spite of those who seek to rule all they see.

As hometown of the two worst beers in all of Romania, the city of Targu Mureş is most accurately defined by hop aficionados as being the very intersection of bad taste and shamelessness.

Remember, kids, just because the marketing department designs the package to say “premium beer” doesn’t make it so (see Radu, above). Avoid both Dracula and Neumarkt like the plague, as each may very well contain precisely that.

Besides, if you’re actually thirsty, why not try a different product imported from Austria and prominently featured in Targu Mureş which will energize and eroticize you after just a few sips?

As I admired the various possibilities involving the people around me and a little Tantra, I eventually became aware of a Roma woman who had left the store in question and was now looking at me curiously. She motioned to my camera and quipped tersely.

I smiled and nodded. She repeated. Oh! Right… take a picture. Click, click.

Through the kindly translation of others, I conversed with this human seen only as a gypsy. She was hoping I might be able to remit her a print out of the photograph. As I showed her the resulting image on the LCD of my dSLR, I explained it wasn’t practical, but she was welcome to log onto the Internet to print herself a copy.

She thought that was a grand idea, until she realized she would have to pay someone to get online and make a copy.

Money doesn’t come so easily for us all. Below the facade of a young woman with a smooth skin, bright eyes, and gaily-colored garments lies the truth of her reality borne by the multitude of cuts and scars peppering the tired, wrinkled hands of a hard worker.

Another forced march across the non-bustling streets of Sunday morning Targu Mureş planted us temporarily in front of a somber statue in the centru which serves as a holocaust memorial warning onlookers not to repeat the mistakes of Europe’s hatred and frustration.

However, when Cristian directed my gaze to the side plaque, I was immediately shocked. The ethnic-Hungarian who designed the sculpture probably would have never undertaken the commission if he were to know the plaque would be the masterpiece work of a blatantly xenophobic scumbag in the revisionist vein of demagogues like Gigi Becali or Vadim Tudor.

To subtly placate the naive, the writing dares to refer tongue-in-cheek to Jews as “our brothers” which is far-fetched phraseology in a nation where I hear anti-semitic remarks about as often as you hear typical Americans berate muslims these days.

And lest you be tempted into deluding yourself to think it possible that an enlightened Romanian free of hate were the author, you need only read on.

The right-wing ultra-nationalist pig completely denies any responsibility on the part of Romania for the actions of Ion Antonescu who sent hundreds of thousands of Jews to their death after decades of incitement by the likes of Corneliu Codreanu and Horia Sima.

As if ghostwritten by the ignorant school boys of Noua Dreapta, the text goes on to blame Hungarian bogeymen for the rounding up of Jews en masse and the inhuman decision to ship them off like so much cattle to the slaughterhouse.

Of course, the penultimate responsible party is claimed to have been Romania’s erstwhile partner, Nazi Germany, which is euphemistically characterized as the archenemy who is about as far away from the pure and kindly intentions of Romanians as one might be removed.

It sickens me to imagine the glee with which the author carefully crafted this faux history to undermine any value in the statue whatsoever. It is so patently obvious in any reading but the most ignorant to see the sword behind the drapery.

To boot, it makes no mention whatsoever of the hundreds of thousands of Roma happily purged by Axis Romania in a frenzy of taraneasca purity.

Wretching.

When I was finished shaking my head in disgust, we hoofed it in the direction of the ancient citadel of Targu Mureş. Along the way, we had to navigate through a veritable herd of wedding guests streaming out of a nearby church. From there, the four of us played Wizard of Oz and followed the yellow brick road.

Once inside the confines of this old fortress, we stumbled upon a modern stage and lighting set. It looked as though it were ready for a laser light show, but instead of The Wall the banners announced some local journalism award ceremony where talking heads pat one another on the back. I might have watched the gala, but there were no seats available.

I was befuddled by a sparse collection of communism-inspired modern art pieces strewn about the premises.

I was keen to explore more of this rich, local art scene and was rewarded by fate with opportunity to view the featured photography exposition. Once inside, I got the impression that old ethnic-Hungarian men from Targu Mureş seem to enjoy taking nude photos of plump, young women and then monochromatically tinting the results using random color choices for no particularly apparent effect.

Near the exit of the photo gallery, I met a ducky bloke who introduced himself as Wilhelm Von Hinklemauser, a tourist from Austria who had attempted to find inspiration in pozele we had just perused in order to bolster the marketing of a new erotic beverage he invented.

Being nothing more than a mere American, I could only offer a vague alternative suggestion regarding how the picturesque citadel tower might be construed as a phallic symbol thrust upward inside of the lovingly encircled walls of a fortress.

He shrugged my brilliance off as though it were mere gunoi.

Thusly, it came to be that such genius visions were carelessly discarded instead of gently resting in the intended receptacle.

I rejoined the sleepless portion of our touring crew and together we trudged ever onward like zombies, unsettling the nervous senior citizens trying to enjoy their dimineaţa on peaceful strazile of lovely Targu Mureş.

These same pensioners are fond of proclaiming that -prior to recent significance of Avram Iancu’s horse’s dangling ouale amongst the youth of Targu Mureş- the real town treasure has been the magnificent sewer system imported from abroad, except one who swore it was a sign of imminent Hungarian invasion. “Votaţi PNG!”

My alarm subsided as nearby scenery reminded me that the pervasive Romanian Orthodox Church was not only skilled at collecting vast sums of money to enrich clergy, but also was adept at invoking God to misguide a sufficient number of young men necessary to die in successful defense of the nation. We’re were going to be safe, afterall.

We managed to finagle a ride from local pretty boy Bula Andreiescu who needed to pay off his debt for having lost a bet the previous evening when he ill-advisedly claimed -with all the swagger of a revived Howard Cosell- that the Romanian soccer team would easily win the subsequent match because “the Bulgarian team sucks… sucks like this!”

What’s that you complain about? Accuracy regarding the above photo? Well, once in a blue moon, dear friends, I make the determination that a little artistic license is necessary to tell the story.

Enough of your buzzkill; next stop: Klausenburg!