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!

For some inexplicable reason, there were a number of identical white envelopes slapped into each and every mail box in my apartment block today. They were hand delivered. None of them had an address, name or stamp affixed to them which usually means it’s an advertisement.

Americans might be surprised at the notion of a lack of a stamp. In the Soviet Socialist Republic of America, it is actually a federal crime to put anything inside a mailbox unless it has postage affixed. Individuals may be fined up USD $5,000 per infraction. Organizations, up to $10,000 per instance.

Meanwhile, in the free-wheeling bastion of libertarian paradise, Romanians are free to shove anything they want inside your mailbox without needing a stamp. Coupons, business cards, flyers, notes, catalogs, ads, adverts, and even advertisements.

Then again, in Romania, I’ve never seen anything with similitude to a letter or package which had paid postage on it that did not require me to report myself to the assigned People’s Communal Postal Collective Facility Co-operative Department for the Romanian Bureau for the Office of Ministry of Poşta Affairs in order to surrender my passport and volunteer for interrogation of crimes against the state.

But I digress…

In my excitement, I tore open the envelope with trembling hands. There was a greeting card inside. Someone was thinking of me. Me. What could the important message be? I just had to know!

Holy amazement, Şatman! I was momentarily blinded by the glorious colors striking me with such festive charms and warm glowing love. A touching arrangement of heart-felt joyousness was splayed out tenderly before me, ripe for the taking.

Upon a grass mat, symbolic of rural Romanian work ethic and all that is good about our great-grandparents who toiled endlessly for various masters over the centuries, was layed out a bundle of precious wheat — the very backbone of bread which is essence of Romanian cuisine — encompassed in dandelion weed flowers.

Breathtakingly colored eggs hand-crafted by artisans (possibly disciples under direct tutelage by Nicolae Grigorescu) were followed by a single, incomplete egg made of gold which seem to foretell of wealth to be fall me according to the sender’s unspoken wishes.

Atop it all, in the glory of Jesus, was superimposed some burning Christmas candles, to keep me warm in this late April winter weather, snuggly nestled in a wreath of Christmas holly to invoke images of the saviour’s twig and berries.

I felt exhaulted in holy hosannah highest! The light of love was filling every void within me and beginning the healing I’ve needed so much since my soul was cleft in twain by recent political horsepucky. Someone cared enough to send the very best.

But who?

I thought perhaps one of my stalkers readers had tracked me down and my espionage cover was blown. Yet, it had to be someone else because they’d used a buckshot scatter approach to spam the neighborhood instead of targeting me. Perhaps I wasn’t so special afterall.

Unable to take the agony any longer, I pried open the card to discover my secret admirer was none other than…

…the sub-mayor of Sector 5 in Bucureşti, the one and only Daniel Marian Vanghelie. The premonitions of C. Ovidiu are coming true; the antics of this politician already seem to be rewarding me with ample blog fodder.

What could be next?

Perhaps a scandal showing Vanghelie used public funds to design, print, and/or distribute these political reminders and brand-building tools while shuffling the spreadsheets to show it was money from his own pocket?

Oh, heavens no!

Ever since the corruption-riddled PSD political party kicked Vanghelie out of their party for supposedly being extraordinarily corrupt beyond even their unfathomable depths, Danny Boy has been working hard to keep his nose clean.

So, they let him back into PSD and made him co-captain of Bucureşti.

As a deeply religious family man, Vanghelie just wanted to inform me that the rising (presumably on hot air) of his Romanian Orthodox God has given him the privilege to wish me a Happy Passover (Easter)… and something about a much better souffle teasca.

Pardon me while I revel in the sincerity of friendship on this Easter Thursday.

For over a year, I’ve entertained notions of being a Trabant driver in Romania. Pick up a plastic dart, then modify it to the extreme. A kind of eastern Europe “pimp my bucket” vision.

Raise the rear suspension, slap on a whale tail, hood scoop, ground effects, the neon light on the under carriage, chromed out, darkest window tinting possible, spray it down in a glossy jet black with a series of flames burning the sides.

With great vision, you could make the baddest Trabant on the planet.

Oh, sure, the locals would trip. Not like many people around here would throw away money tricking out a Trabant when most people hate the car with a passion.

But, there’s always someone who will plush out a Trabant, turn it into a 4×4 monster, make it into one kind of limo or another. I fantasized I’d be one of those nuts who make you shake your head in wonder.

I’ve had a change of heart lately. The Trabant itself turns out to be a real pain in the rear axle to drive, due to two-stroke, two-cylinder engine complete with manual choke.

Plus, I like a number of other older cars which are just as exotic to my eyes like the Citroen 2CV, Renault Dauphine Gordini, Fiat 850, and others I’ve seen in Braşov.

Bucureşti has dazzled me with a new obsession.

It’s the Aro M461 whose primary duty was off-road military service, akin to the American Jeep. Check out the photos of the 1971 trek across Africa in an M461. Granted, when beautifully restored, these trucks seem to fetch a pretty penny for this part of the world.

There may not be a lot of nostalgia for old cars in Romania right now, but as more time passes the wounds get healed, average incomes rise, and the number of wealthy people grow.

That should mean an improved market for restored classics. Any idea what something like this would sell for in another 10 years? Hard to say for sure, but I love this beastie.

I want one.

Now!

I may have it wrong, but I think while discussing the in/convenience of glass beer bottle returns relative to mandatory deposit costs and flavor benefits it was Csiki Andy who may have been the one mentioning a lack of recycling in Romania.

I’m proud to belatedly report that recycling has gotten underway in the beautiful city of Braşov. I’m not sure that’s Scripcaru’s way of making up for poor water management, but you have to love that anything is happening at all.

Sure, it’s a crude start. Yet, I was pleased to take note of such a very unexpected initiative on this municipal front.

As I recall, the recycling program took it’s first wobbly steps around the Christmas holiday. This truck circulates to various neighborhoods in search of large goodies. The driver stays seated on his duff, while the other(s) hop out.

Generally, they first go after any available wood. Sections of tree trucks, collections of branches, piles of cut lumber, left over window frames, pressboard, and other lemn things. I’ve also seen them score a bathroom sink, old tires, metal pipes, leftover carpet, and other various bits.

The guys working the beat seem able to lift and throw just about anything into the back of the rig. However, in the rare event something weighs just too darn much, there is a handy if underutilized crane attached to the truck. Watching it work reminds me of the 25-cent prize machines stuffed with quibbles you could never grasp with the 3-fingered claw.