For the first time in years, I celebrated the American Independence holiday.

Of course, in Texas, there’s no better way to celebrate the ideals of a people than by exercising one’s second amendment rights for a few hours.

These were but two of the finely crafted firearms I was privileged to wield. The only tragedy occurred when a typical Houston monsoon blew in and flooded the entire gun club in under 15 minutes of rain which prevented us from getting around to the Kalashnikov as grand finale.

Later, the sun came back while we were seeking refuge in a Mexican restaurant, like animals on the Ark. A short visit to a friend trapped in his home and then, afterward, came the 21-hour BBQ and hands-on fireworks extravaganza (replete with accidental explosion) in the backyard of a good friend.

Yeehaw!

I need a trim. But no matter where I wander along the beaches of Mamaia these days, it seems there’s no place to get a haircut.

Then again, all the seaside restaurants advertise fresh fish on their sidewalk chalkboard menus but don’t actually serve it. I suppose it’s a happily quirky tweenager of a burgeoning resort area just entering the squeaky voice period of its puberty. Give it ten years and this place will be smokin’ hot.

It feels as though I were almost acasa again. Dar, home is where the inima is.