Once upon a time, there was a fractured body of people living in southeastern Europe who served as little more than cannon fodder in the proxy wars of empires and spent their lives as serfs for the enrichment of their boyar overlords.

Approximately 150 years ago, the discontent for this servile existence was building across the land. People you never heard of toiled endlessly, wrote prolifically, and endured prison to bring about political unity, modernization, and the independence of a territory called Romania.

Two of them were Alexandru Ioan Cuza and Mihail Kogalniceanu, both Moldavians who together — with the help of others — freed peasants from feudalism, established a national education system, developed a modern army, and dismantled a vast church land-control scheme.

But the monarchs of European empires were loathe to recognize legitimate Romanian independence and would not let it last for long.

To help his land-owning cronies, Ion Bratianu thought it best to betray his erstwhile allies and arrange for the importation of a Napoleon-approved member of a German dynasty and have him installed as king under the very nose of their former Austrian masters.

And so it came to pass, boys and girls, that Romania was once again ruled by a foreign monarch. A German prince by the name of Karl von Hohenzollern Sigmaringen took control of the Romanian people, instituted a new paradigm protecting boyars, and over saw the adoption of the first Romanian Constitution which institutionalized anti-Semetic intellectualism to the extent of burning synagogues, beating Jews in the streets, deporting Judaic citizens, and fostering the persecution-to-death of Jewish Romanians.

Karl also organized Romania to join in the Russo-Ottoman war in an effort to legitimize Romania’s independence. It is this action for which “King Carol” is most popularly remembered.

With the outbreak of World War I, Karl wanted to side with his German kin and their Austro-Hungarian allies, but popular Romanian sentiment forced him into the uncomfortable position of casting his lot with the Triple Entente of France, Russia, and Britain. In fact, it is speculated that his desire to align Romania with Germany against public sentiment contributed to his sudden death.

The royal baton was passed to his nephew Ferdinand for lack of a direct heir.

What we modern folks can deduce is the takeaway here is the monarchy was essentially a form of influential political showmanship. A contrivance. Celebrity. There was nothing inherently traditional in having a native Romanian king. Expedient politics at best.

Ferdinand is heralded for his military acquisition of Transylvania. After him, things got increasingly cloudy, ugly, and meaningless. His rotten kid Charles (Carol II) was busy sleeping with half the women he met and abdicated his claim to “the throne.”

So, rulership was left to the grandson Michael (Mihai) who did not really rule, of course, due to his being only 5 years old. At some point, Carol II awoke from his drunken sex-crazed stupor and came rushing back to Romania to assert his right to be king and, in the politics of the day, some fools let him take charge.

He wasted a ton of money horsing around with his privileges and, when challenged, banished the parliament to form a dictatorship as was happening in other parts of Europe. He was eventually ousted by pro-Nazi military strongman Ion Antonescu but not before he escaped with some trainload of Romanian treasure.

Antonescu nominally declared young Mihai to be “the king” as he went about putting fascism to work in Romania. And we all know what happened there. World War II.

Afterward, when it was clear the Third Reich would not be owner of the globe, Mihai managed to find a little bit of guts to join the communists in tossing Antonescu out on his ear. Too little, too late. Mihai found himself unable to muster any semblance of control over Romania in this modern world. And he was exiled by the Soviets who gave him a pile of cash for his troubles.

Well, now, the communist time is mostly over. There are some remnants of regime still living in PSD (Socialist Democratic Party) such as Adrian Nastase who awarded Mihai the “Man of the Year 2003″ amidst speculation of financial tomfoolery.

Mihai had a daughter, Margarita, who did some work in UN circles of health public policy. After the revolution, it seems the entire “royal family” suddenly all quit their respective jobs and started agitating for a piece of Romanian celebrity by posing as philanthropists obstensibly concerned with the plight of orphans.

Then again, in 1990 she was stopped by Romanian police as she tried to smuggle valuable paintings out of the country. It would not take a large stretch of imagination to imagine she was hoping to sell those works of art in order to pocket a fair chunk of change.

Seeing opportunity to re-cast herself as a dignified member of royalty, Margarita (Margareta) stopped sleeping with British politician Gordon Brown for whom she was simply one of many consorts. Instead, she saw a public relations opportunity to marry an actual Romanian man. And she did.

She tied the knot with Radu Duda, who graduated from Iaşi University as a major in theater and cinematography and spent a lifetime distinguishing himself as an actor on stage and on film as a colleague of Oana Pellea. Interestingly, documents in 1989 implicate grand Prince Radu as a co-operating informer for the Securitate during his many unusual trips abroad during communist times.

However, since the moment he stumbled into fortune, it seems Radu has disowned anything to do with acting. Indeed, his own egotistical website geared for mythological self-promotion clearly states that Radu no longer enjoys any cinema at all, despite his wife’s enjoyment of what he despises.

Interesting, a man who spends his entire life in acting takes an about-face and announces his distaste for cinema.

For you see, dear reader, after marrying into “royalty,” Radu suddenly joined the Romanian National Defense College. Oh yeah, just like that. At the tender age of 42, he graduated. A quick stint at the George C. Marshall College and some program for Senior Executives in National and International Security.

Now what? We’re supposed to believe this art student is a serious military strategist?

Someone does. With connections inside the various factions vying for control of Romania, Radu managed to get himself seemingly-instantly appointed to the rank of Colonel in the Romanian army. I gotta admit that’s some serious string pulling which must be well greased with cold hard cash and political favoritism.

Yessir, a stage actor turned into a military leader with a handful of years. I trust you’re astute enough to see through the smoke and mirrors on this nonsense.

But what happened to our dear friend? Oh, well, he’s been out touring as a “special representative” of the Romanian government in order to secure various military contracts including, for one example, a very seedy interaction with BAE Systems who appears to have paid “Prince” Radu some portion of US$14 million in exchange for a contract where Romania buys naval ships.

So, here we are. The “Royal House” of Romania is not from Romania. They’ve sold out Romanians and seized properties such as Bran Castle and other places. They’ve repeatedly promoted the persecution of Jews. They wasted Romanian money for a century while the people starved.

The “Royal House” failed to demonstrate any constructive leadership in Romania and, indeed, fought democratic reforms. In modern times, they play the role of celebrities for the very small segment of society which even marginally acknowledges their existence.

And yet, today, they still play a role in politics. They are involved in the military, political bribes, national defense, and other non-trivial pursuits all while pretending to care about orphans in Romania as some sort of cover during the blatantly ruthless profiteering from their nefarious deeds.

But what gets my goat is this.

The Romanian parliament has been all too quick in handing off prized property such as Bran Castle and Peleş Castle to these so-called royal heirs when there is nothing to be gained. Yes, the Communists seized the properties in the name of the people. No, the “Royal House” has no real, legitimate claim to the value.

In fact, when it’s all said and done, all these pretenders want to do is wrestle temporary control of those physical assets, which were made or bought under the sweat and tears of average Romanians, so they can sell them back to the government for millions of dollars.

It seems to me that, historically, practically, and reasonably, these people have very little basis to inherit large sums of Romanian tax dollars.

So, why would members of parliament give away these national treasures, so that a family of foreigners who did practically nothing to deserve it get to re-sell it back? Why, essentially, give away a boatload of cash to these celebrities?

It’s a giveaway of your money. A further, unnecessary burden on the poor.

Apparently, you’re still chattle. Your sufferings mean nothing. And some of your people continue to starve in order to enrich the stolnici.

As sure as Alexandru and Mihail are rolling over in their graves, no one questions a thing.

With Romania about to join the European Union, there was bound to be a special moment of history happening in the capital city of Bucureşti and your humble servant would need to be on hand.

I’ve been fairly outspoken in the past about my general dislike for this particular government seat. Each time I have visited Bucureşti, I walked away shaking my head in disgust. Its’ complete lack of charm is so very much different from the rest of Romania.

In Bucureşti, there were always armies of glue-snuffing street urchins. Shady criminals follow you down streets angling for a chance to pick your pocket, until they realize you’ve caught on to their approaches. Dirt and garbage swirl around with abandon.

Rickety public transportation on the very verge of collapsing just as you step aboard. Unending streams of anonymous block apartments dominate the view. Rude people bustle about in a hurry. Road traffic is a mess. Restaurants are overpriced.

Yeah, I’ll make no bones about it, kids. I’ve never much cared for Bucureşti. In fact, I regularly advise tourists to simply skip the city altogether and visit the rest of Romania which, in direct contrast, is far more pleasant and beautiful.

Nonetheless, my stoic nature pushes me ever onward to suffer for your amusement, dear reader.

The 2007 Revelion wasn’t going to be just another celebration of a new year. No, no, it was going to be hand-in-hand with official admission of Romania into the EU. In other words, a momentous occasion which happens once in a lifetime. And there are some things you just can’t miss.

I took the intercity train from Braşov to the capital’s Gara de Nord (that’s the northern train station, yankee). Inside, the terminal is currently undergoing a little renovation. Nothing overwhelming, but nice to see anyway. Outside, I noticed a distinct curtailment in the amount of panhandlers and pickpockets.

Immediately, I began to wonder if this is a nationwide trend. I’ve noticed that the train station in Braşov has become increasingly cleaner for many months now, as though perhaps the government and its police force were finally doing something to curb the past reputation. It’s a welcome improvement.

Fortunately, an unnamed party arrived to greet me at the front of the station and guide me to Neli’s apartment in Circul Foamei where I would be staying a few nights. He helped me navigate the variety of public transportation offerings to his regia. From there, we scored a ride in his cousin’s Dacia wagon to the apartment so I could put my things away.

The cousin dropped off four poor souls near the Palace of Parliament. My knowledgeable guide began leading me around the parts of Bucureşti which I had not seen before, in an effort to tour me around some of the more interesting sections of town.

We crossed the Dambovita and I found the famous Saint George Hungarian restaurant. Happily, I saw the very interesting Palatul Voievodal. We paused to check out Hanul lui Manuc, then went up into the delightful Lipscani area. Going past the gorgeous little Kartell Cafe and a disappointingly campy-looking jazz club on Strada Doamnei, we dumped out onto Calea Victorei which was lit up for the festivities.

A goodly number of folks were out walking the streets to take in the colors and sparkle of the decorative atmosphere hinting at the celebrations to come. However, my companions disagreed with me and thought the night was alarmingly devoid of humanity.

A matter of expectations, I suppose.

We headed toward Piaţa Universitaţii where the epicenter of partyuri would thrill untold numbers of Romanians the next night. While plenty of police were on hand to monitor car and pedestrian traffic in the area, expert technicians were all over performing due diligence in testing rock music instruments, public sound systems, huge LCD displays, lasers, and beautiful blue spotlights.

The various streets intersecting at Piaţa Universitaţii had festive holiday lights in the shape of icicles and road-straddling arrays of European Union symbolism. It was rather attractive as my first taste of any sort of Bucureşti pride, which I’d always felt was lacking previously.

I opted for a short stroll down Bulevardul Nicolae Balcescu of the decorations as unmolested pedestrians crossed the street between surprisingly patient waves of modern automobiles.

I spent a little time mulling in the night vibe and glimpsing the various commercial offerings in the neighborhood.

Nickered for the evening, I was chaperoned acasa aboard one of Bucureşti’s fancy new metropolitian buses. With fairly comfortable seats and sparkling clean interior, it was easy to delude yourself into imagining such modernity was rolled out just for Romania’s EU ascension celebrations.

After a comfortably long snooze, the next day started out with a city-wide cloud cover which provides smooth and even lighting for photography but promptly fuglifies your pictures with that drab skyline in the distance of whatever you’re shooting.

Armed with camera, it was time to take the two eggs I’d eaten outside into the wild urban environment of the hitherto least impressive European capital I’d ever had the misfortune of wandering. Yet, after last night’s guided tour, I was feeling better about the prospects for enjoying myself.

I made sure to nab a shot of what was probably the most beautiful building available in the neighborhood I was staying in. It typifies the state of the surrounds, but the positive note is that the local people did not consist of gun-toting street gangs you might expect to run afoul of in similar looking settings of North America. It’s just run-down, not overrun.

Walking down Calea 13 Septiembre, one felt as though Bucureşti were merely a ghost town conspicuously absent of human life. I was darn near the only person outdoors. Perhaps it was the freezing cold weather wise city inhabitants were avoiding or perhaps they were involved in gatherings of family and friends. I’m not sure, but the streets were empty.

It takes roughly ten minutes to schlep your dogs to witness the great beast of Romania. On previous trips, I’d never managed to see Casa Nebunului with my own eyes, but this time I was entreated to a grand spectacle of impressive and gorgeous failure.

Under the despotism of Ceauşescu, “the People’s House” was intended to demonstrate the independent might of communist Romania, as personified by the ego of its’ dictator, of course. I wouldn’t doubt there are still a few communist pensioners who are nostaligic about Casa Poporului.

The rest of us, meanwhile, can look on it today as an eye-openingly immense structure which is the second largest in the world, but incredibly ugly to the point of being obtuse. From what I understand, it was under construction 24 hours a day for five years with three rotating shifts of some 20,000 workers each. You can’t waste such a thing, so it now houses the national parliament among other things.

From there, I retraced the steps of my sherpa from the night before, back across the river and into the Lipscani area. As time goes on, I am increasingly burned out on European churches, but I thought I’d better take at least one photo to give you an approximation how the majority of Romanian biserici appear.

Not all the buildings are run down, distasteful or just plain old, of course. The capital city of Romania boasts a sufficient number of modern glass buildings with the familiar western corporation architecture. Granted, they still had some lingering local flair provided by touches of that ubiquitous Romanian concrete.

Central Bucureşti has plentiful 19th century buildings lining the streets of the old city centru. Most of them have an appearance of Habsburg stylings, although I’m certainly no expert on exterior design. It’s just standard European beauty comprised of columns, statues and bas reliefs oft borrowed from distant Greek and Roman origins.

The above photo is from one side of the Romanian central bank’s regal headquarters constructed in 1889. Banca Naţionala a Romaniei was founded in 1880 approximately coinciding with the introduction of Romanian Lei, whose name is derived from the Dutch word for lion, as the national currency denomination.

Prior to BNR, the Romanians had been using, almost exclusively, foreign currencies from dominant foreign powers which had controlled most of its’ territories for centuries.

Next up is the ornate roof of the National Romanian Library which was formed after the unification of Romanian states in 1859. Sadly, it is scheduled to be replaced once the Ministry of Culture obtains funds to complete construction of a new library building begun some twenty years ago.

Despite the impending closure, I found it interesting that the library currently has a wheelchair-accessible ramp as though it were trying to qualify for ADA compliance, which is hardly a current priority of the Romanian government. Simple, cheap and effective, the ramp grants alternative entrance to this institution of knowledge.

Over six months ago, I saw a spectacular church through the views of a broken mirror and I’ve been rather keen to locate it’s seemingly hidden presence in the tangles of Bucureşti. This time I did manage to stumble across it, mostly by accident. Eagerly, I snapped away a dozen photos in the hazy lighting, of which this was about the best I could muster.

It’s a preciously intricate piece of the Russian Orthodox Church financed by Tsar Nicholas II in the early 20th century. Sometime shortly after the Bolshevik revolution, the Romanian state confiscated the property.

Today, the temple belongs to the Romanian Orthodox Church who has named it after Saint Nicholas, no doubt a tongue-firmly-in-cheek reference to the original benefactor, and has designated it as the preferred church for university students in Bucureşti.

I headed back down Bratianu in order to scope out the pre-darkness light displays on the Teatrul Naţional where LCDs beamed digital images of waving Romanian flags. Interestingly, this is also home to a milkbar decorated in honor of the Romanians who started the Dada anti-art phenomenon.

Unlike some fire departments, the pompieri of Bucureşti were available just in case of problems. They set up trucks in various locations, including these on Bulevardul Ion I.C. Bratianu (the five-time elected prime minister of pre-communist Romania).

Strands of light draped over tree branches like so many electric fingers beckoning you closer toward the center of celebration.

We went underground into the metro station to nab a quick coffee and pass a little time. Only the latter part happened. We had taken up one of the few remaining tables near the entrance and tried to flag down the sole waiter who was very busy.

Every time we caught his attention and attempted to get menus, he would give us the finger (not that one) to indicate he would be back in just a minute. However, he never did bring us menus. Over the ten-odd minutes, he somehow found the time to serve other tables, including people who came in well after us.

We got our own menus from the To Go counter and plotted our ordering strategy. Myself, I was going to order the Mexican Vanilla coffee, basically a cappuccino with Kahlua and vanilla extract, for something like 9 RON (the price of a whole pizza in Braşov).

Another fifteen minutes passed until we could force him to stop long enough take our order. We began to relax and have some conversation. But at some point, one of our band realized he had been waiting another twenty minutes without ever having been served the damn coffee.

Hey, Julius Meinl coffee house! We left without ever getting our drinks. None of us will come back there again. Ever. Do yourself a favor and fire everyone. Next time, hire a manager who knows how to schedule staff and hire waiters that care about customer service. Kthx.

Having wasted our time at the Julius Meinl excuse for a coffee shop, we headed up the non-working escalators and onto the surface streets. It was now dark and a huge crowd had gathered at Piaţa Universitaţii. There was a line of ants working its way through the bee hive, so we joined the conga line and made our way through the mob.

On stage at Piaţa Universitaţii was the Romanian rock band Voltaj (American readers can see it looks like Voltage). I wanted to stay here to enjoy the show, since I like the group and there was wiggle room to find a decent photo shooting position. It was expected we would see President Traian Basescu make a speech here around midnight.

I was undermined by my tovaraşi who did not care for Voltaj and thus wanted to head over to nearby Piaţa Revoluţiei where another concert was being held simultaneously. Not wanting to be separated from the tribe, I begrudgingly gave in and joined my friends pushing through fields of bodies.

Look, it required some serious effort to part the seas of planted humans and make our way across thousands of elbows feeding into a side street that lead to Piaţa Revoluţiei. Not fun, but somewhat expected given this high-draw venue. Along the way, street vendors sold all kinds of weird party accessories.

Lit devil horns, wizard hats, glow sticks, and even cans of beer. The Romanians seemed to be in the spending mood as a surprisingly large portion of the population were decked in or wielding these various trinkets. In addition, I think ever third person was clutching a bottle of champagne for that big moment.

Upon arrival at Piaţa Revoluţiei, I was rewarded by the drab, repetitive sound of dance pop which is indistinguishable from hundreds of other corporatized music stars from a multitude of other countries. On the big screens I could see some attractive woman in her mid-30s with long wavy hair and beads of sweat trying her hardest to be the next Madonna or Janet Jackson.

The music was crap. Her voice was interspersed with the breathing of someone unprepared for a vigorous workout. Anda something, if I recall, was her name. Basically forgettable. Her backup dancers consisted of some fairly ugly men dressed in faux-ghetto costumes which gave them the appearance of cheap, worthless pretenders.

Oh! But did I mention the female backup singers? Yeah, they were fit and flexible, mostly naked, and shaking their money makers in hypnotic fashion. Life is good. I cracked open a half-liter cutila de Stejar which I’d been smuggling in my camera bag and made the most of what entertainment was offered to me.

Ah, my revenge came soon enough. Around roughly 23:00, Voltaj had left Piaţa Universitaţii and now took the stage at Piaţa Revoluţiei and my friends had to put up with it.

I noticed that most of the over-40 crowd was leaving Voltaj to make their way toward Piaţa Universitaţii where Basescu would be speaking at the top of the hour. A couple songs later, it was half an hour before midnight and we’d regrouped for the trek back to where the president would be speaking.

We made our way down the streets along with thousands of other people, many of whom had open bottle of champagne or plastic two-liter bottles of Burger. All the while, we were carefully watched over by uniformed police officers on hand to contain any potential extra-celebratory behavior by tipsy revelers.

The wall of onlookers began to draw in closer and closer as we neared the outskirts of Piaţa Universitaţii. Finding a fountainhead through the corpses, I wedged myself into a steaming pile of flesh and received unrepeatable rebukes for my troubles.

Personally, I’m pretty sure a tumbleweed would find it easier to break through the broadside of barn than it was to chisel through the forest of leather coats and blue jeans planted along the north side of the intersection. With my photography equipment fairly safe in my camera bag, I put my hands together like a monk and tried Mosesean parting.

With some luck, we managed to make it almost parallel to the outer edge of the national theatre before an aggressive cacophony of vocal males trumpeted the news that the wrought-iron fence I was pinned against was the end of the line because a fire truck was blocking any attempt at progress.

Momentarily bewildered as to how I’d ended up in a corner pocket and trying to analyze a potential exit from this maze of excitement, I had a small sense of sorrow for the thin train of people who had trickled behind my friends to follow the trail we had blazed. They were trapped, too.

Most resorted to osmosis, melting into the weeds of audience. Desperate to find a photograph-worthy vantage point, our quartet regressed back into the sea of madness. Throngs of smug Romanians took advantage of the molasses to gleefully poke and prod at my unprotected flanks as I met resistance from the immobile wall in front of me.

Resilience is the key, my friends. Unrepentant for the error of our ways, I poured myself into every hairline fracture. Shoving old men and knocking down old ladies, I trampled over all obstructions and clearcut a new path through the wilderness. Or so it seemed, for a minute.

Then it came.

That familiar voice of President Basescu addressing the gathered crowd. We paused mid-journey to soak in unmistakable joy springing forth from the public address system as he spoke to the people. In tandem, mouths closed and all eyes turned to Teatrul Naţional.

His positive message soberly focused on both the successful striving which had gotten Romania accepted into the European Union and on the opportunities that lay ahead for those who recognized the responsibility incumbent upon themselves to create a better life.

There was a palpable sense of relief at hearing the official words declaring that Romania was, in fact, a full member of the EU after all this time and effort. Many people basked in the glory with grins as wide as the Danube, while a number of others quietly broke into tears.

It was an outrageous high.

For a nation of Romanians who have been maltreated and enslaved for centuries, kicked around by European superpowers, rarely ever in full control of their own lands, survived the horrors of brutal dictatorship, and often discriminated against as second-class even today, to be recognized as important partner in the future of Europe and accepted on par as a legitimate, independent, and recognized member caused such an immense pride that it was unswallowably stuck in the caw of everyone I could see.

The triumphant culmination of what is sure to go down in history as the very first chapter in a very bright future for the Romanian people. And a better chance for all who live within her borders.

A grain of sand in the hourglass to be savored.

Then came the counting. Cincişpe, patruşpe, treişpe, twelve, eleven, ten…

When it occurred to me that the speech had actually ended, I tugged the arms of my compatriots and dove afresh into the now pliantly dazed sardines which had trapped me in a spot where I could hardly see anything. Making a beeline toward a less condensed section back where I had been some 20 or minutes ago, I glided through the chanting assembly.

Just after it struck midnight, I found myself in a small gap of people. Large enough for the four of us and we could see the national theater much better. North, south, east and west of our location, the zombies were starting to reawaken from the bliss and press inward on one another yet again in eager anticipation of the fireworks show which was sure to follow.

My location might have been embarrassingly subpar for photography, but I encourage you to imagine that were you to see the display with your own eyes, you would have found the entire tableau to have been sublime. Camera phones taking pictures, small children hoisted into the air, champagne uncorked, the waving of blue, gold, and red.

Snap, crackle, pop. Whoosh, boom!

I wish I had been able to do more justice to the long and varied explosions above, but I was literally stuck with just enough room to listen to the oohs and aahs from all around me. Untold sums of money later, the budget had been exhausted and the skylights slowly drifted to an end.

But not the party. It had only begun.

Traditional Romanian folk music filled the air of Piaţa Universitaţii on this special Revelion. On any other night, a large number of people might have scoffed at hearing the old songs played the old way on old instruments by old men in this age of manufactured junk like Britney Spears and Trei Sud Est. Not tonight.

To my surprise, strangers grabbed the hands of their neighbors and people seemed to spontaneously break into the hora, that uniquely Romanian circle dance. And, yes, my friends, I put my camera away and this Romerican clutched the palms of those unknown so I could join in the hora.

Quite frankly, I’m not precisely sure how long it went on. I did somehow have the presence of mind to capture a few moments before they had passed completely.

Once the fireworks were over and spontaneous hora dancing subsided, the crowds began to thin out a little. Many older people and families with small children were heading home. Others may have gone on to other parties. Some stayed at Piaţa Universitaţii to mingle and even continue small pockets of dancing.

After a minor incident involving misplaced apartment keys, I found myself heading back in the direction of Piaţa Revoluţiei. There, the concert was still happening as a Romanian rock band entertained a large crowd of mostly under-40 partiers speckled with a few senior citizens here and there.

If I’m not mistaken, I believe it was widely-popular Timpuri Noi on stage who was jamming out the tunes. In the spirit of European Union ascension, the champagne-chugging Romanians were enthusiastically reveling in the classic EU fashion of criticizing American politics, greed, and war — an element of European culture no member state can ignore.

Not limited to just bitching and moaning, the guitar grinding boys from Timpuri Noi also prescribed a solution to the “American problem” which dripped with sarcasm, using our own cultural computer lingo as analogy for the changes they demanded the world’s greatest power needed to make.

I think they were suggesting a course of action for the 2008 elections.

After the rock show ended, the piaţa was closing down. Custodial crews moved in to start cleaning up the scattered litter and smashed alcohol bottle shards reflecting the spotlights of the stage. Law enforcement brooded over the departing partiers as we headed past the central university library with it’s Christmas tree decorated with EU symbols.

Stumbling down the dark street of Bis Enei, some folks headed home while I went straight back to Piaţa Universitaţii where the celebration was still alive.

By this time, the majority of responsible adults had indeed left. A few older folks remained behind to find young, attractive dance partners in the hora circles still spinning in the streets of the piaţa. Seizing the moment, I, too, jumped into the mix and clasped the hands of strangers as we twirled over broken bottles slowly grinding glass back into sand.

The live band on stage played muzica populara for the rings of EU citizens dancing and drinking their way into a new era on the welcoming streets of Bucureşti, where I finally had my first good experience with people I’ve never met in the capital city of the country I call home.

As I recall, my head touched a pillow around seven in the morning.

Between 16:40 and 16:45 on Sunday, December 17, 2006, an unknown arsonist started a blaze in a local cartier of Braşov, Romania.

Within minutes, residents from the block apartments began gathering to assess the danger and organize a hazard containment plan to protect their neighborhood. I heard the sounds outside and went to the porch to see what the commotion was about.

My first reaction was that the fire department should be called because the trash fire was rapidly growing into a full blaze directly next to a building whose contents might either be electrical or mechnical (think: oil, flammable materials). There were also cars parked nearby and a lot more trash on hand. Who could know how nasty things might get?

Using a cell phone to dial 112 (the equivalent of America’s 911), the call was answered by a dispatcher almost immediately. When she understood the nature of the emergency, the dispatcher took down name information and then quickly transfered the call to Braşov’s fire department.

Answering the phone around 16:51, the pompieri representative sounded as though he’d been awoken from a semi-sleep stupor induced by watching old Married With Children episodes. Half-heartedly, he asked if the fire was big. Well, let’s see, I don’t know what big means, but this is decent-sized and growing. It’s threatening a small building, additional trash bins, and some nearby cars.

The public safety official pretty much lost all interest. If it wasn’t big enough to cause screaming panic on the part of the caller, then the entire thing would probably resolve itself and burn out like a small campfire for roasting marshmallows. He seemed to fumble around for a pencil before lackadaisically going through the motions of asking for the location of the fire, whether anyone had been burned, et cetera.

He then advised to call again, if the fire got worse. Thanks for calling. Bye now.

Sure, I hadn’t really expected 18 ladders to appear from nowhere, but I had expected a professional fire department properly trained in modern public safety standards to send at least a single truck to the scene pretty much right away. To have a pompieri emergency operator basically yawn at reports of a fire, well, frankly, it brought questions about Romania’s fitness to join the European Union.

Fortunately, a few people living nearby were already carting buckets of water to and fro the neighborhood bar de zi to douse the flames.

Their action was a crucial tactic in the face of Braşov’s failure to send pompieri. There aren’t many ground-level water sources in the area from which to fill buckets and it seems no one owned a hose. But the guys managed to keep some water flowing toward the fire, like a line of ants each carrying a single drop.

It seemed to help at first, but the fire had struck gold and resurged with intensity as regular citizens inhaled the toxic smoke of burning plastic, rubber, and chemicals and literally walked on burning embers with tennis shoes trying to toss buckets of water on the heart of the blaze.

Between the bucket brigade, dirt shoveling residents, and an old man standing around to direct action at anyone who would listen, the untrained fire fighters waged a pitched battle for approximately 20 minutes before the fire reached a manageable state.

Without the help of paid city officials, they began dismantling burning objects from the fire with their bare hands and rolling each hot item in the dirt until the flames subsided. Then, they’d return again and again to repeat the process. Ironically smoking cigarettes all the while.

Men from the block apartments continued to watch the dying flames for some time thereafter, occasionally kicking dirt onto a nearby pile of burning trash or scooping out hot coals to dump in mud wet from snowmelt. With things seemingly under control, I began to lose interest like many others.

The remnants of the fire smouldered on.

In fact, later that night somewhere around 22:00, I began to smell strange fumes in my apartment. Going back to the porch, it was easy to see that the fire had re-started itself some hours later. I suspect it had managed to light a car tire, or something similar, on fire judging by the foul stench of the thick billowing plumes of deep black rising into the night sky.

The event leaves me to wonder whether it’s closer to the truth to say this is essentially a local problem between Braşov’s water supply and city mayor George Scripcaru, who is the ultimate executive in charge of fire department’s policy of not responding to legitimate emergency calls and thus directly exposing several of Braşov’s citizens to danger, or is this public service failure indicative of a wider problem across Romania where public safety officials just like Locotenet-colonel Ioan Rechitean (Inspector Şef of Braşov) and corresponding government politicians are wholly incapable of providing basic services to the citizens living within their jurisdiction whom pay the taxes for their income?

Prognosis is perhaps debatable. Prescription is obvious: change.

I’ve been goaded into an interesting viral blogtacularism where I’m to select but a single book which I would recommend wholeheartedly to those partial to reading and then explain my recommendation within a single paragraph.

I was originally tempted to hawk a seminal masterpiece of philosophy, then cajoled into mentioning an engrossing novel with clear political economy overtones, but ultimately decided on something which should be mandatory reading for anyone interested in Romania, native or not.

Available in both English and Romaneşte, it is my distinct intention to hammer home to you a burning desire to get your hands on a copy of Romania by Lucian Boia, pre-eminent historiographer of Romania who was distinguished both before and after the so-called revolution.

Professor Boia is a talented scholar on an important mission to openly and judiciously wade through the various propagandized histories that swirl a fog around attempts to understand Romania, a nation whose history has long-been a manipulative toy in the hands of whomever ruled the region(s). From the Dacians to the Slavs to the Romans to the Magyars to the Turks to the Austrians to Ceauşescu, serious attempts to understand the Romanian peoples have been subverted in favor of politically expedient half-truths which have had a lasting impact on how current generations of Romanians understand themselves. Romania is a brilliant, honest dissection of all the known factual information where the author goes a step further in inviting you to join in a realistic putting-together of the puzzle pieces so you might get a better grasp who Romania has really been all these centuries without feeling as though some vitrolic agenda were predetermining conclusions. If you have any interest in Romania, however passingly casual the fancy or gravely central to your core being, you absolutely must –without a doubt– beg, borrow, or steal Romania, tara de frontiera a Europei by Lucian Boia.

End your ignorance and go get it. Imediat!

(I would be curious to get literary recommendations in a single paragraph from Stadium Saint, Journey, and Pump Up the Valium. I do hope you three jump on the bandwagon. Oh, and as part of the taggery, it is my obligation to direct you to read the official rules about how to create your post on this topic. I look forward to learning about your suggestions.)

Craciun fericit, y’all.

It’s 2006; fifty years after Hungary’s anti-communist freedom fighters sought to throw off the yoke of oppression in 1956 by taking to the streets. Amazingly, the current day Hungarians have continued to elect those same (now, former) communists to hold high office. Those who fail to learn from history…

In a stunning media leak, the entire nation of Hungary got to hear a recorded conversation which Prime Minister Ferenc Gyurcsány (the equivalent Adrian Nastase as former-communist leader of the current Socialist Party) had with his corrupt socialist buddies wherein they discussed the various details of how they’ve lied repeatedly during past elections in order to win office.

Now, many Hungarians have previously asserted this was true, but only in the context of the underhand softball of political rhetoric. What this leaked confession represents is incontrovertible evidence to every Hungarian who might have thought the government was legitimate. Like the Romanian PSD, they engage in utter hogwash and smokescreen as part of their whatever-works approach to retaining power over the people.

“We lied in the morning. We lied in the evening,” he said. “Hungarians want to live like those in the west, but they are unwilling to adopt the western norms.”

“We made people believe that they have nothing to do, that we will give them happiness as a gift.”

Hungary is running the EU’s highest budget deficit and on September 1 submitted a tough austerity package aimed at bringing Budpaest in line with Brussels fiscal rules that underpin the euro.

What’s curious is when one applies a scholarly analysis to the contents of the tape, one might notice there are actually several positive aspects to the leak in that the Socialists really trot out the pomp and circumstance… beating the drums of confidence, strength, and true reform. A hail mary. It is possible to theorize this leak was intentionally acted out to influence the populace into rallying around the reinvigorated and newly-honest power brokers in the hallowed halls. Could it be true?

It’s an interesting idea. And one which analysts of Hungarian politics believe may very well have been exactly that: propoganda, directly from Page 1 of the classic communist playbook, designed to reinforce The Great Leader. Only it appears to have backfired.

My gut reaction is to think that the PM was probably having an honest conversation with his drones. He probably did beat them over the head with a speech about how their past lies and cheating have put them in a position where they really need to dig in and work hard to keep Hungary from economic collapse. A sort of inspirational lockeroom berating by a panicky coach during a hopeless halftime.

There is not much choice. There is not, because we have screwed up. Not a little but a lot. No country in Europe has screwed up as much as we have. It can be explained. We have obviously lied throughout the past 18 to 24 months. It was perfectly clear that what we were saying was not true.

We are beyond the country’s possibilities to such an extent that we could not conceive earlier that a joint government of the Socialists and the liberals would ever do. And in the meantime we did not actually do anything for four years. Nothing.

You cannot mention any significant government measures that we can be proud of, apart from the fact that in the end we managed to get governance out of the shit. Nothing. If we have to give an account to the country of what we have done in four years, what are we going to say?

I suspect it was probably a ‘real’ speech given to his lieutenants during a moment of supposed privacy. But someone leaked it, for the expressed purpose of deposing Gyurcsány. Not for any benevolent purpose. Just a raw backstab.

Who stands to gain? If the current Prime Minister were to resign, then the other ex-commies of the Socialist Party can slap all negativity on his scapegoated caricature while they themselves climb a little higher up the rungs. Afterall, someone’s gotta take the fall for the political party’s past psychopathy.

Hungarians are righteously pissed off. Last night, thousands took to the streets and exercised their collective muscle in a riot. Smashing buildings, lighting cars on fire. The people took over the state television station (akin to TVR) and then set it on fire, as a protest to eradicate the official apparatus of socialist lies. Police decked out in riot gear firing off tear gas grenades and blasting citizens with water cannons called for thousands of reinforcements and stormed the station to retake control. Classic stuff.

Sure, we can pause to all agree that riots are horrific means of demonstration, but I wouldn’t be alone in saying there are times when riots are a completely legitimate form of civil protest. Look back on history, most nations have “great events” involving riots. Even detractors must note that a riot does not quite reach the level of armed insurrection.

Hungarian law enforcement was obligated, of course, to protect the non-communist communists currently in power and lead a crackdown against the people. Apparently, 200 persons were injured as a result of clashes with police during the political protests calling for the immediate resignation of the lying prime minister. The Justice Minister has offered his resignation, but his cronies have — so far — asked him to stay.

Will there be a repeat? Will the Hungarian people come out again tonight to offer serious challenge to their government in one of the few forms left when faced with egregiously tyrannical overlords? You can bet the former-communists are better prepared for such an event. No doubt there will be a palpable tension amongst riot police as evening sets in.

Meanwhile, today, the anti-government protests continue as several hundred people are once again gathering in the capital this afternoon in what is currently a very peaceful, flag-waving vigil where participants want to see the former-communist socialist leaders step down from their positions in light of their admitted lies. Only a corrupt, powerhungry oligarchy would admit to a repeated pattern of sociopathic behavior and then insist on remaining in office despite the lies.

It’s dishonorable.

Not that honor means anything to a non-communist communist.

Stayed tuned for the next episode when scared politicans in Hungary stumble over one another in a rush to sacrifice a patsy or two in order to quelch the burning embers of most citizens, thus supplanting support for any further action and keeping their mafia squarely in control. Cha-ching. Yeehaw.

UPDATE: Sep 24

The violence of riots quieted down after a couple of night.  Happily, the peaceful protests continue with crowds estimated well over 10,000 each night.  Speculation, by some, is that the protests may reach as high as 20,000 people Saturday (tonight).  I’m glad to see the pressure continue on Gyurcsany.  In a symbolic gesture, he has suddenly decided to move his former-communist Socialist Party headquarters out of its historic location in a particular building that’s housed the communist party for decades… and into a new location to help create an air of change.  However, the people seem to still want him to own up to his years of dishonorable lies and years of failed leadership by resigning.  The buck stops here, Feri.