When I first came to Romania as a tourist back in May of 2004, I felt very much the part of pioneer. It was a far away land of which I understood very little.

I had managed to learn a few basic words before arriving. I had read a few reference books on history and culture. I had a very dear friend who thoughtfully arranged some introductions with her old friends for me to meet in Braşov. And I had made a couple of friendly contacts chatting with some guys over the internet whom I could meet in other parts of the country.

I had been warned to watch out for beggars and thieves. Warned to avoid instant-friends who would attempt to take advantage of my relatively better economic status. Warned to absolutely not trust anything any romanca would say, because they’d lie through their teeth and sell their own mother just to get a visa.

That’s about the extent of my preparations. Armed with a camera and credit card, I stepped aboard the plane to travel halfway around the world alone. Yeehaw.

At the airport, my first contact was with Romanian taxi drivers whom I shook off until the rental car arrived. I climbed inside and left the terminal in search of the highway north out of the Bucureşti metroplex where I learned how to drive like a local.

Most everyone I met during that trip was extremely friendly and quite helpful. I bumped into one or two Romanians who try to leech off you because they think you’re rich and will pay for their everything, but fortunately I learned this stereotype of scamster is a very rare breed not at all representing Romania.

I’d even go so far as to argue the opposite is true.  There are far fewer thieves in Romania than bogus rumors would have you believe because most people respect one another.  While friendships can develop quickly because of mutual interest in cultural exchange, Romanians are incredibly hospitable and generous, not leeches.  The ladies are unfairly maligned; most have more of a moral compass than many of their Western counterparts.

For anyone else having trepidation about coming to Romania because of things you may have heard, let me assure that I survived rather well on a policy of being open without being put into any compromising positions. Actually, I had a total blast and felt very good about the new friends I had made along the way.

So much so, in fact, that I came back for a second dose a few months later in October. Again, I found myself sucked into a series of adventures I’m not sure I’ll ever forget. By the time I was back home in the United States, I realized I was developing a crush on Romania.

I would have to go back a third time. But when?

It took a little longer than I had hoped because late 2004 found me overwhelmed with business commitments which precluded any return to my beloved Transylvania in early 2005. My plans had been dashed against the rocks of responsibilities of the time. But I kept a little candle lit for Dacia.

Then, in the summer of 2005, things began to change for me as those turbulent days came to a close. I underwent a complicated thinking process about where I was and what I wanted to be doing. Some might call it soul searching. Others might call it a mid-life crisis, although I’m not so sure I’m old enough to qualify for that one just yet.

After casting about, it hit me. I wanted to go to Romania.

This time I wouldn’t be a tourist like before, but I would actually move there. Sell almost everything I owned in America. Craigslist, eBay, Amazon. I dumped it all on a fire sale. It was a Romer!can Sales Event! Everything. Must. Go.

My friends were in a state of disbelief because they couldn’t comprehend making such a change, plus they weren’t too sure where Romania was anyway. I mean, it’s like -uh- over there somewhere, right? Aşa e.

I think my sisters, parents, and other family members were probably caught off guard by such a dramatic move, but they towed the party line of supporting the big change.

The main question: was when would I come back?

Gazing into the oblique crystal ball isn’t an easy task, even for a tarot-toting fortune teller.

My best guess was that I would be in Romania for two to three years. Beyond that, I couldn’t be sure as it was just too far away to know.

The plan was to come here, see more of Romania, get more into the culture both traditional and modern, make friends, have a life, and generally jump in with both feet. Sink or swim, I was going to uproot and replant here. And I did.

My intention — as one or two of you have alluded to — has been to write a book about Romania. Something that makes Romania more accessible to the West, because I think Romania is unjustifiably marginalized as being radically different when I feel it’s actually quite similar to the rest of Europe and even the United States.

You’re not freaks. Nothing to be scared of.

I want to see increase political ties. I want to see increased commerce. I want to see a major uptick in tourism from Americans, British, Australians, French, Germans, and others.

Not necessarily budget-restricted backpackers on a hike or a sleazy businessman passing through overnight to blow 50€ on a half hour with an independent escort service. I mean regular tourists. Young couples. Older couples. Families, even. Groups seeking historical travel opportunities. People improving their tans on the Black Sea. Ecology buffs interested in the Danube Delta.

Of course, I cannot control all that. But my desire was to publish a book about Romania as I’ve come to see it, not the anachronistic way much of the West continues to pigeon-hole it. I’d like to share both the impressive and the idiosyncratic.

And I will. Wait and see. It won’t be too long before I can update you on this matter in the future. Keep your credit cards defrosted so when the checkered flag waves, you’ll know what to buy Bunica for Craciun.

This little blog has served as part of my preparations as a dry run and trial balloon. All the conversations you and I have had via this crude medium have meant a lot to me. Your hospitality and insight have been invaluable.

Now, about a month ago, I’d just reappeared after an unscheduled hiatus, the reasons for which I explained and apologized. Since then, I’ve been attempting to keep our various threads active. Yet, we still have much more to discuss from both 2007 and 2006. I can’t write as fast as it all happens!

There’s a catch, however.

I know you. My readers aren’t particularly stupid. I don’t attract that type. You’ve read this far and you could feel it coming. That little lump in your stomach. And your instincts served you well, my friend.

The news is that I’ll be leaving Romania.

The party who contacted me back in May have continued to keep an open dialog after I originally declined the unexpected and very interesting opportunity so that I would stay in Romania.

But the negotiations escalated to the point where I can no longer reasonably refuse what I find set before me. Honestly, it’s a strong enough offer I’d be a fool to say no.

As recently as early May, I would have bet the bank on my staying in Romania at least another year, if not longer. Yet, it would seem my original guesstimate was accidentally right. At least two years? When I leave soon, it will turn out to be almost exactly two years. I find it hard to believe.

I have already begun the process of getting my ducks in a row. I’m still not quite sure what to do with all the stuff I’ve accumulated here in Romania, but the hard decisions are in motion. In about one month, I will no longer live here.

Feel like giving me a piece of your mind? You may get the chance to do exactly that.

My rushed schedule is a bit “catch as catch can” but I’m committed to hosting a Texas-style barbecue for any readers who want to meet the guy behind the mask. That’s right; I’ll be personally grilling up some southern BBQ just for you. We’ll get ourself a big piece of beef, maybe some pork ribs. I’ll concoct some Romer!can barbeque sauce from scratch.

A regular hoe-down, y’all.

Where? That’s still up in the air. I’d very much prefer to have the party right here in the city of Bucuresti, but that depends on finding someone who feels comfortable opening up their home (okay, your porch is good enough) where we can have access to a grill, turn on some music, maybe a little wifi (if you’ve got internet, I can handle the rest), let people bring some beer (of course!), and generally turn your little place into the friendly darn homestead this side of the Rio Grande.

Any volunteers? Email me directly and let’s make a deal.

When? Unless there’s a darn good reason not to, I think we’d be looking at the afternoon and evening of Saturday, July 28th. I figure it’ll be safe to show up about 3 or 4pm so you can watch the master chef at work. We’d probably eat about 5 or so. Toss in a little time for chatting and drinking a beer. I figure most of you will head home by taxi around sundown. Of course, we could always take the party elsewhere if we’re still going strong…

Please post a comment and let me know how you feel about this plan. If it’s a bad idea, I need to know. If enough of you would come out, then I’d say let’s do it. If you would considering letting me BBQ at your place, definitely let me know.

As for the blog, we’re not done yet. Not by a long shot. I’ll be writing throughout the month, followed by a brief pause in early August as I get re-adjusted to Houston, then resume for as long as we’ve got a conversation about Romania. If you’re willing to stick around (even if it’s just to boo me), then I’ve got some more tales to tell and things to share with both my American readers and European audience.

Will I come back to Romania? O sa vedem noi.

It’s a crystal ball thing again, but I feel confident I’ll surely be back on vacation more than once in the nearish future. As to whether or not I’d move here, the future is uncertain at this time, but I feel favorably about the notion of finding myself a nice little bungalow (maybe on the seaside next time) where I could re-integrate myself with this second home I’ve come to love.

If you’d have me.

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…

(more…)

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.

It’s not my intention to point blame at anyone or claim that any one group has the right idea, but I’ve been meaning for some time now to point out an idiosyncratic disparity between most Romanians and most Americans.

I think in all cultures we have small children and oblivious adults who may eat their food using their hands directly over the kitchen floor. Possibly even another room’s floor. This generally results in particles clinging to one’s shoes (in America) or house sandals (in Romania) where it’s then tracked all over the place.

But that’s not most people, right? Cred ca nu.

I think most people attempt to eat over something besides the floor. I’ve personally been seen leaning over the kitchen sink while eating under certain circumstances. Anything to avoid spills onto the floor which can dirty up the place, basically.

In America, this often takes the form of a plate. With the possible exception of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, Americans generally eat over a plate. It could be polystyrene or paper, but generally it’s just your ordinary ceramic type plate you’d use every day.

We may use the small plate to hold pizza near our computer workstation. We may use the large plate to serve barbecue on the porch. We may use whatever plastic bowl was handy just to keep muffin crumbs from falling on kitchen tile.

Even at the kitchen table, whether a meal or a snack, Americans typically use a plate because we find it both portable (in case there’s need to move) and easy to wash (one might argue we’re leneş because we have automatic dishwashing machines, but it’s easy to spalat pe maini).

It’s just kinda what most Yanks do.

Not the Romanians! Ba nu!

No, in Romania, it’s long been my observation that plates are generally reserved for pre-planned, scheduled, formal meal settings. And sometimes not even then. Plus, if the plates were used, they’re not always used carefully.

While there are no doubt some exceptions to the rule among my readership, the simple truth is that Romanians just eat right on the table. Spilling crumbs, fragments, pieces, and portions. Dripping sauces, creams, fillings, and dressings. It all goes on the table without hesitation.

If you put some bread in front of any three Romanians, for example, the table top will in short order be cluttered up with enough flakes and dust to go toe-to-toe with the sawdust covered, peanut shell riddled floor of a stereotypical Texas bar.

Grabbing and tearing, clutching and sawing. The bread just gets no reprieve. The masa is a total mess. And it’s foarte normal around these here parts. That’s simply how I’ve seen most people eat.

And why not? It’s easy enough to wipe up a table, isn’t? Certainly can’t be any more difficult that cleaning up a bunch of plates when you’ve got no washing machine.

Besides, some people don’t even wipe. I’ve seen it!

That’s right, some folks’ll just up and fold their plastic table cover like a giant tortilla, march right over to the open kitchen window, and shake out the residue left from five people eating four times a day for the past two days right down on top of the porches and heads of the estimated 57 people who live in the nine apartment bloc floors below.

Clearly, living on the first floor has it’s disadvantages. In addition to cigarette ashes falling on your head or shaken carpet cruft flying in your open window, you must also add wet and dry table muck to your list of lower etaj dangers.

If you put a plate in front of this proto-Roman, they’re likely to snort derisively. Some just give you a blank stare. I’ve heard them ask me before, “what is this farfurie pentru?” as they chomped on something crumbly which was spilling haphazardly over all creation.

Once I have coaxed them into allowing a plate to be placed beneath them, there is generally almost no acknowledgement of its’ presence or purpose.

A sisyphusian overture on my part, clar.

It’s taken me all this time to get used to it. And now I am tolerant to these alternative methods. One way is just about as easy as another, depending on details and personal preference.

Anything to keep the floor from getting filthy any faster than it will by default.

To set the context, I should admit as background material that I’ve never really been comfortable with police in the United States. It may come as a surprise to some Europeans to learn that the typical American does have a healthy distrust for our police force.

We tend to characterize them as either lazy pusharounds sitting in their expensive squad cars all day with only enough effort required to munch down some papanaşi or else as overbearing, testosterone-hopped meddlers who corruptly interfere into the private business of others just as an exercise of personal force.

It seems like they’re never in the right place at the right time. They manage to avoid all enforcement against real crime.

Instead, you end up with a kindergarten girl arrested and charged with felony, a little boy put in lockdown for 9 days, a teenage girl handcuffed for talking back, a college student arrested for writing an essay, a woman arrested over marshmallows, man arrested for wearing a t-shirt, or people being arrested for standing on a sidewalk.

Arrested.

But it’s not just that. It’s that eery experience that many cops just tend to throw their weight around. Telling people what to do when they’ve no real reason to interfere. Turning on their lights and siren in order to justify running a red-light when there is no emergency. Busting your chops during an unnecessary traffic stop.

Shocking a college student with 50,000 volts for not leaving a university library as quickly as they would have liked him to. And then threatening to shock other students for questioning the abuse.

Yeah, such trust doesn’t exactly come easy in the “land of the free.”

Let’s be balanced about it. Being a cop isn’t exactly an easy job when the rare case of actual danger rearing it’s ugly head. In those unusual moments, police have a tough set of duties to perform while trying to comply with performance regulations. The general public can certainly be some real jackaninnies.

While they deserve public respect, in theory, for helping keep order, the practical reality is disappointingly often one of ineptitude and/or malfeasance. If you combine that with how criminal records of even a minimal or errant nature can destroy your life, it’s not wise to remain blind to clear evidence of abuse.

Hence, a goodly number of intelligent Americans keep a healthy distrust for law enforcement.

I told you all that for a reason.

For once, to my surprise, I’ve actually enjoyed having police officers in Romania who walk the streets. They provide a presence that deters some uncivilized action and bolsters support for the broken window theory (hat tip: OwlSpotting).

I’ve mentioned previously how I liked having poliţia comunitara walking in the Braşov neighborhoods after dark. Sure, they look imposing with their commando-style uniforms and big weaponry, but I’ve never seen them harass a living soul.

The simple act of being seen, in the flesh, on foot, is enough to keep a variety of miscreants in order.

Additionally, I’ve mentioned how my particular neighborhood could really benefit from a minor police presence. Having a couple officers walking a beat here after dark, maybe circulating twice or so, would be enough to keep some of the bored youth from feeling free to wreak a little havoc.

(Mind you that I’m not suggesting we import stormtroopers to suppress normal human activity. No one would care for the kind of police bully tactics you see in the United States. It’s generally not necessary to randomly knock heads to keep some minimal sanity in an area.)

Meh. I’m probably just getting older. The A-G-E is having its’ way.

In Romania, or perhaps I should clarify by saying in Bucureşti, it’s very common to see pamphlets extolling the virtues of the local police force. They seem geared toward promoting a dialogue between citizens and law enforcement.

The basic thrust is to reassure you, the perhaps distrusting citizen, that local police are serving your neighborhood and are available for you should have the need. Encouraging you to dial a phone to ask for help in curbing antisocial behavior.

In the United States, I might have mocked such sentiment or even found it disturbing. But this is a different place with a different culture, different needs, and different history. Here, I find it to be something of a nice touch. An attempt to reach out and say, “no, seriously, we really are here to help.”

The kicker is there’s just a little more to it than just a simple public relations campaign waged by police to improve its’ image amongst the rank and file populace. Part of me doubts it could have possibly been that simple in Romania.

No, what could be more natural, folks, than having public service messages… paid for by a commercial entity.

But wait; there’s more!

It’s not the local pizzeria or beauty salon. Oh, no. What we really need is something more ironic. So, we’ll make sure the private company printing and distributing such fliers is perhaps even tinged with a little scent called conflict of interest. Perfect!

Yes, friends, we’ll have promotional materials for our police department paid for by… a private security company!

Why stop there when you could go much further? Put on your thinking caps and try a little harder. It won’t take too much effort to find a stunning way to further undermine the credibility of public relations campaign. All you need is a brilliant idea…

Aha, use your firm’s name to push the very envelope of irony!