Little more than one city block later, I could tell by the graffiti alone that the kids here were attuned to a more domestic style of mischief.

While I lament Romania does have a urban mural scene and seems instead awash in tweenage taggers, I was happy to see the folks living on Baba Novac (not Bob Novak) had more of a local flavor as opposed to the MTV-monkeys up in Decebal.

Yes, a little home-cooked boroboaţa is a preferred sight.

Who could possibly know what amazing feats of wonder might have driven the great artists of his generation to so adoringly pay tribute to his accomplishments with a salutation for the ages gracefully painted upon a rusted-out hollow utility box stuffed with precious gifts for the altar which now serves as monumental centerpiece for younger generation of visitors to Complex Rucar and promulgates Madalin to instant fame in the blogosphere.

Millennia from now, alien archeologists from uncharted space will marvel over the presumed religious significance of such a masterpiece of cultural… oh, I suppose I’ve gone too far, now.

Shall we move on to other examples of local craftsmanship?

An explanatory placard would go a long way toward increasing the odds of a body understanding just what in the world this might be. A piece of concrete communism, to be sure. But is this water fountain supposed to be an astrological clock opening a portal to the 4th dimension? A handheld gram scale amok? Aborted zodiac sign?

I suppose it will be interesting to see how it looks in the summer. Assuming the city turns the water on.

I still love the Trabant. It just seems the perfect toy.

Rather than dusted with snowflakes in Bucureşti, I can imagine this Trabant with some better air pressure loaded up with a couple surfboards and a full propane tank cruising I-5 just outside of Encinitas. All it needs is a custom paint job.

The only thing more natural would be a dolled up Barkas bus on the same stretch of highway.

I don’t know about you, friend, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and venture a guess that concrete was probably not the artist’s preferred medium. I mean, how’d we get this piece of work?

Make a mold of the face and basic head. Attach that little mold to a larger tombstone-style cardboard box. Turn the whole thing upside down, pour in some fine-grain quickset concrete and let it set a while. When you guesstimate the head might be relatively stable, then pour the junk mix over the top into the larger chamber.

When the base starts to firm up, flip the whole thing right side up and remove the mold. Inspect the face to make sure it’s workable. Then take some excess junk concrete ooze and begin fashioning a beard and hair.

Voila! Another advancement of the arts thanks to influential communist stylings. Cold and lifeless — both literally and figuratively –  the anachronistic overseer of the tovaraşi parked in stoic repose at the entrance of the public park off Baba Novac in Titan.

The smiley face graffiti cracks me up, because Cuza never struck me as a happy friendly guy.

On the other hand, Moş Korochun has always seemed the jolly type. So it was quite curious to stumble upon this electric light representation of present-dispensing practioner. I wonder why did he look like muppet eskimo characture, perhaps explained by having had his bulbs glued together in China, and, more importantly, just why is it he was giving all the children of Titan a crude gesture with his middle finger?

Contrarily, Frosty the Snowman looks as thrilled as a pig in slop. Atta boy, Frost!

I wouldn’t want you to think that cartoon icon of Americana was the only cold and happy thing in Parcul I.O.R. Nossir. There were, afterall, humans lurking about. Adeverat.

What a glorious sight, exiting strada Baba Novac!

Entering the park to find it teeming with life, aflutter with holiday buzz.  Giggling teenagers charged with hormones, young families opening the imaginative minds of small children to the electric glow of Christmas joy, and elderly couples drinking it all in as they quietly stroll along with a twinkle in their eye.

Whomever was in charge of decorating the park gazebo was probably not the same person in charge of decorating the park overall. Their execution was probably the best part of the park, given the small space, and I would humbly suggest this same person should probably be assigned the design of the entire park next year.

Here we find an awkward corporate sponsor. Whatever they paid for the promotional space was not enough money. The city will need to charge more to anyone wanting to promote their corporate logos at public events as well as laydown some ground rules as to thematic considerations.

Just look a this monstrosity. The bloated windbag stood out like a sore thumb, as the company made zero effort whatsoever to try and fit the holiday theme. That speaks volumes about the depth of thinking behind this radio station. A station so out of touch it uses an inflatable cassette player boombox with analog dials. Something kids have never seen.

During Christmas.

Hey, Itsy Bitsy, get off your duff and pretend to care about the kids and families, will ya? Strap on your thinking caps; enhance the mood and feel of the Craciun experience. Don’t detract from the fun with your lenes eyesore.

And while I’m spanking you, here’s a few other rants I’d like to shove down your throat. I suppose some PHB thinks the high-pitch voiceovers are adorable when they’re definitely not, but anyone can agree your radio broadcasts have entirely too much pointless chatter that the kids do not care about.

As if that were not bad enough, you play as many minutes of commercials as you do play songs. Possibly more. Are y’all completely insane? Have you any idea what a terrible experience that is?  Do you understand this devalues the ad slots you sell? Does someone have to explain everything to you? Raise the price, rotate fewer advertisements, and increase the quality of your broadcast mix.

Most of the songs in Romaneşte I’ve heard on your station suck: badly, really really badly. I cannot emphasize that enough. Really. You need some serious help in understanding what an audience is entertained by. Start by hiring a competent program director and get them involved in brand experience research.

Unless, of course, your executive staff is dumb enough to think they’ll survive for long now that kids are all getting online and have many more choices. Let me break it down for you: right now, at least one astute reader of this blog has picked up on the business opportunity and begun imagining how they develop a competing experience for the children of Romania. They can probably offer a better service for less money, leaving Itsy Bitsy a shriveled relic of a bygone era.

What dimwit thinks it’s a good idea to play so much music from America? First of all, rocket scientists, the kids do not understand English language. That should be enough right there to convince you to stop playing MP3s of songs extracted from American TV shows the kids haver never seen. It’s pretty lame when you stuff the broadcast with filler like worn-out 1960s American rock music with words the kids cannot sing along to.

And since you play Disney songs (for which I tend to doubt you have the license to play, as Disney is very protective of its music) which generally pretty good music quality compared to much the other local schlock your station pukes out on public airwave, one might argue the point that your actions may implant in impressionable minds the message that Romanian music is of lower quality, boring, uncool, and otherwise not worth listening to.

Here’s a clue: Take all that money you’re making from the 4 ads-per-song sales success you’re focused on and channel some of those funds back into the Romanian art community by funding the creation of new children’s musicians right here at home. Just think of all the money you’ll make from owning the rights to the characters and personalities you create: not only advertising revenue via radio and internet, but selling actual CDs in stores, repositioning your assets into TV, cable, DVD, and internet video mediums.

You make more profit when you provide a better quality experience for the kids. However, it will require the people at your helm let go of the greed lever. Set you sights higher and accomplish more.

In any event, stop repeating “asculta Itsy Bitsy” nine hundred times an hour. I feel bad for the kids.

Here’s how your station sounds: Asculta message, annoying voiceover chatter for 3 minutes, advertisement, commercial, advert, asculta message, Disney song in English, sleepy song in Romaneşte, asculta message, boring song in Romanian, asculta message, annoying voiceover chatter for 2.5 minutes, asculta message, American TV song, advertisement, ad, asculta message, commercial, advert, reclama, asculta message, fairly weak Romanian song, 1960s American song, asculta message, 2 minute voiceover about ustoroi, asculta message, promotion about attending church, asculta message, finally a pretty entertaining Romanian song, asculta message, American TV song, asculta message, annoying voiceover chatter for 4 minutes, advertisement, crap Romaneşte song…

Ad infinitum.

I don’t think I have the energy left to point out the myriad of disappointments with your website. My readers are probably sick to death of reviewing your many flaws, so we won’t get into the lackluster online experience focused on creating insecurity within parents your advertisers exploit.

Itsy Bitsy could be so much more than a logo filled with empty calories whose sole purpose is to turn a buck without regard to the experience kids have with the brand. I predict a more savvy competitor will obviate your existence in the near future.

In the meantime, let’s hope next Christmas you opt for something more creative than an inflatable object most kids have never seen.

It’s an uncommon pastime for me, as I tend to relegate habitual TV to the mindless. I don’t even own one of those infernal contraptions. Nonetheless, on this particular occasion, I managed to find myself in front of the idiot box when something very creative grabbed my full attention.

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What a clever advertisement.

The rich visual treatment was in National Geographic documentary style: exotic locations, ethnic garb, facial diversity. The audio track using a live orchestra to set a mysterious mood, introduce excitement by drum beat, and build a miniature epic crescendo. Well-cast voice over with a compelling script presenting the intriguing proposition.

If a person had never heard of Brand X or Brand Y, both of whom competed in manufacturing Product Z, nor had that person ever heard of seen that product before in their lives was asked to compare the primary products of the two brands, which product would they prefer?

This new Whopper Virgins campaign is an innovative evolution on a long tradition of direct comparative advertisements.

Last century, the boob tube brought The Pepsi Challenge to the world. The golden age of radio brought hilarious shows like The Bickersons, sponsored by the Philip Morris Nose Test. In 1930, Sears ran one of the earliest known comparative ads in print, touting their tires over specific competitors.

Burger King is adding their name to the history of advertising with Whopper Virgins by doing what’s not been seen before. Instead of trying to convince people to make a choice between products they know, the company makes a greater effort to actually seek out people who have never experienced, seen, heard of the brand, the product, or category. Total virgins.

The carefully-crafted aura of scientific explorers at the remote edges of rural humanity seeks to frame the advertised results as being untouched by influences, natural and pure. Hence, we’re to believe that all things being equal, people love the taste of the Whopper over McDonald’s Big Mac.

It’s not hard to believe. Mickey D’s slaps a minuscule disc of meat into a fryer. Yech! If nothing else, Burger King grills their bigger portion of ground beef over an actual flame to impart a little smokey char flavor while allow the fat to drip out. Whether you’re a burger fan or not, the difference should be clear.

But what Burger King attempts to say is that product knowledge and brand attachment are meaningless for taste. It’s an interesting pitch.

While it’s likely that the full, actual results probably do show most tested persons did indicate a preference for the Whopper, it’s also probable that we’ll never the finite details tabulating exactly how much of a difference there was. For example, it’s entirely possible that 40% chose Burger King, 35% chose McDonald’s, and 25% did not register any distinction.

One might go so far as to speculate the country folks were being polite in selecting the least worst food.

The masterful stroke of Crispin Porter + Bogusky, the creative agency behind the campaign, was to go the extra mile in filming a pseudo-documentary with “behind the scenes” action showing some character development, tactical planning, and a non-scientific cultural exchange of gastronomical diplomacy.

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What’s the impact?

You feel like you’re watching trustworthy people conduct a fair test. You see rural farmers dressed in traditional clothing mystified by first sight of a product we’ve been conditioned to believe common.

You come to agree the unbiased results heavily indicate the Whopper is the decisive favorite. You feel good watching the epicurean ambassadors of America go off the beaten path to share one of our treasures with folks who’ve never had the opportunity.

And so you don’t feel they’re elitist, the film closes with the American team enamored with eating delicious food they‘ve never seen before made by the villagers.

A superbly executed comparative advertising campaign.

But that never stops hack writers from click whoring with made-up instacontroversies to stir up a bees nest over whether the ads are “exploiting indigenous people” as though the very phrasing had any relevant meaning whatsoever in this context.

These types of cranky nutjobs actually compare this to putting a gun to the head of starving people, a notion which would indicate the pundits are completely and utterly batshit insane. The drivel and nonsense spewing forth from their acidic reactionary tongues shows they’ve never been to the places shown or talked with the rural people shown.

All the people in the video work hard, love their lives, have plenty of food, and enjoyed the experience unlikely to come again in many of their lives. It seems clear to me some of the bizarre commentators haven’t ever visited the Hmong or been around farmers in Maramureş.

The thing is, my friends, is I generally expect overreaction by fringe elements out-of-touch with reality, usually because they care too much about rescuing others to bother getting their information right about the situation they cavalierly thrust themselves in the midst of.

What I’m not quite accustomed to yet is Romanian reaction.

It’s not that I’ve never seen chest-thumping national pride cause uneducated Romanian youths to lose all perspective over a joke before. Just you try approaching a sports bar in cartierul Astra la Braşov while wearing a Hungarian football jersey, waving a Turkish flag, proclaiming sarmale sucks, and gesturing provocatively in the crotchular vicinity, while urinating on a Dacia 1310.

But the supposedly educated marketing and advertising bloggers? Lemme tell ya, these guys are out to lunch.

Take, for example, the hysterical insecure bleating of the hoi polloi with an inferiority complex pretending to be business professionals over at Marketeer.ro — which I noticed happens to use a nationalist green as its dominant color much like Noua Dreapta, Partidul Pentru Patrie, and Partidul Noua Generaţie (PNG-CD), though I’m sure it’s merely ill-advised coincidence.

These kids are totally out of sorts, jumping up and down like someone just called their favorite dollie ugly.

The original poster, Doru Panaitescu, starts off by stepping firmly in a big, steaming pile of cacat with a seething claim the video was shot in a Calaraşi village with a disproportionately high percentage of Roma inhabitants. Grabbing factoids from thin air, the racist implication clearly being that the hated ţigani are in some way to blame for inferred degradation of the mighty and honorable Romanian pride.

Hogwash!

Of course, he’s later corrected by the simple fact that the Whopper Virgins video featured “Transylvanian farmers” from Maramureş, just as Burger King truthfully stated all along. Sorry, Vadim Tudor, there was no grand conspiracy to inflect harm on overly nationalistic Romanian youth. No secret filming locations to undermine national confidence. No need to get one’s patriotic BVDs all in a twisted bunch.

The piece at Marketeer continues with efforts to bolster the self-importance of Romania, while dismissing Thailand as nothing more than a jungle and Greenland as some kind of ice cube. The author goes out of his way to belittle the other countries by somehow insulting their natural terrain, although CP+B and BK never made any such innuendo.

I love Romania but let’s get real, people.

In the commercial, the specific countries were essentially irrelevant to the point they tried to make, so much so that Romania is not even verbally mentioned, whereas the insecure writer at Marketeer somehow feels the need to awkwardly claim Romania is superior because it has… history. Does he mean to say Thailand and Greenland do not have history?

The blog spouts more drivel about the village with apparently too many ethnic minorities, even though it’s irrelevant. Then, there’s brief, non-academic generalities about fast food. And then half-hearted, mealy-mouthed, suggested about a possible protest demonstration, as if that will do anything other than point out the absurdity of participants.

It’s nearly laughable, really, except there’s a small bundle of like-minded folks egging each other on in the comments with inflamed reactions such as labeling this advertising as “cultural rape” and a few raised fists shouting for some kind of boycott initiative.

If these people represented the future of business professionalism, then Romania would be a joke.

One typical comment, from Misha, expressed disdain that mighty and glorious Romania be included in an American television commercial that also showed Thailand and Greenland. She’s upset about jungles and glaciers, you see. Her only conclusion is that since she is from Transylvania and does not recognize a Transylvanian accent in the video, therefore Americans suck.

That’s teachin’ em, Einstein.

Someone else thinks “we” should buy Burger King an atlas. It’s a little hard to grasp the deep intellectualism of this proposal, but I gather the idea is to show BK a map so they can learn where Romania is… even though they were obviously already here.

And then you have silly ideas like threatening to send emails to Burger King with a link to the “World Without Romania” beer commercial on YouTube, as if the corporate executives watching video on their iPhones will be driven to tears and buy lots of Ursus afterward.

No matter that the video was clearly produced only to create brand loyalty among Romanian nationalists in the first place, by appealing to insecure desires for recognition and exploiting a sense of lacking self-identity. The rest of world outside of Romania basically never saw it.

Why do these people decide to feel insulted? You’d have to make a very strong effort to feel slighted by the commercial.

Don’t worry, children, you can always get together with your angsty teen friends to make a video response. But it’s your own fault if you ultimately end up taking a really funny concept and creating it in a way that pretty much sucks.

Since that didn’t work out too well, if you promise to stop crying and sniffling then I’ll let you make fun of rural cowboys in Texas. That’s sure to perk you right up and make you feel you “got even” with someone. Although I do hope won’t mind when I laugh right along with you. Afterall, there’s nothing for a mature person to feel insulted over.

Quit your hypersensitive bitching and bellyaching. If you’d shut your pie hole long enough to catch your breath and stop hyperventilating, you might remember that none of this is about you. Or about Romania. It’s only a televsion ad. Aimed at American audiences. About selecting a hamburger. And making that choice because some people living in far away rural places who have no idea what a burger is might choose the same burger the advertiser wants you to buy.

I suppose there will come a time when perhaps a few of those people will realize how silly their reaction was. Hopefully those poor fools will change their perspective and come around to a more nuanced understanding of life around them and their place in the universe.

Anyone can say something stupid when they don’t think about issues before speaking. A great many people have done so.  Just not me.

In the broader picture, I tend to see wisdom in some of the comments posted to an advertising blog I read, where the more enlightened thoughts were about how overly defensive reactions of the few can mar what is ultimately a creative way of showing those differences that makes us all the same.

Clutching a camera with frozen fingers and surviving the occasional arctic blast to the face, this is what I encountered.

A little praf de iarna, gen. No thick blanket of snow, just a light dusting. Ştii? This was several days before the first real snow fell (which some people claim isn’t real at all). Make no mistake: the air was nippy enough to avoid any triple dog dare lurking about.

There you have it. Incontrovertible proof that Romania is no longer a poor country. Sorry kids, but when you start finding shops selling pet clothing (and actually seeing a few dogs wearing that horrid crap), then you’ve joined the ranks of the first world.

If you’re embarrassed to be seated at the children’s table, then you must stop asking for international handouts and stand on your own two feet.

Or else just stop selling pet clothes and then you can continue to pretend you’re still eligible for the kid’s meal. Cake. Eat. Too.

Alrighty then, I suppose we’d best return to our stroll post haste.

A local pizzeria stokes the wood-fired oven to keep the tables full of patrons and the delivery car busy. Icicle lights lazily strung about in fire-hazard glory, nearly imperceptible paper snow flakes scotch-taped to the windows in a wintery where’s waldo for only the most stubborn of teeth-chattering gawkers, and a happy little wreath donut on the door.

But, wait, what’s… that?

Why, yes, Timmy, Santa was just here.  He left behind several sacks of stolen currency and illicit drugs for Mommy and Daddy.  It just wouldn’t be the same without jolly old Saint Nick.  Now, off to bed with you, scamp, or else the red-suited fat man will break-in through the window to steal all your toys.

All across Bucureşti you’ll find Romanians have settled on their favorite decoraţii de Craciun, gen, which are variations on the same theme.: Moş Craciun breaking into your house to steal presents.

Think of it like the hoţi epidemic of the early 90s in Romania, only this time Andri Popa is dressed in a red suit and smart enough to wear gloves so as to not leave finger prints behind.

Different versions abound in most of the parts of Bucureşti I visited during the 2008 holiday period. I think it safe to assume that if some particular cartier wasn’t buried in these plastic icons of the americanized Santa, then they probably had at least a few.

If they were hip, that is; maybe your neighborhood is lame.

It’s always interesting to compare and contrast the residential buildings in a given area. Here, in Decebal, most of the freestanding homes tend to be fairly well taken care of with most of those, in turn, recently refurbished.

As the well-to-do invest in home improvements to increase the value of their asset, some neighbors sit idly by. For example, when you see a co-joined twin, one might be up to par while the other half wallows in the relative decrepitude of yesterdecade.

But I love the rare sight of traditional wooden gates in a wealthier pocket of town.  An artistic piece of craftsmanship serving as understated pride of heritage for an owner mindful of classic style, unlike so many plastic gadget obsessed nouveau riche flaunting their lack of culture.

I did not expect the nicer homes in this area to have gardens growing fruit and vegetables. And not because of the winter cold. Apparently, my preconceptions continue to be challenged as some members of the upper middle class in Bucureşti seem to find value in growing their own produce.

Who can fault them? Not I.

When it comes to technical development of modern signage, the evidence clearly indicates the capital of Romania is far more advanced than cel mai frumos oraş din ţara, gen.

Bumped into the home of the owner of the PC-Cooler.ro website. Seems they’re making out fairly well by selling tacky lights. If you’re thinking of starting a business, maybe an online computer parts store can catapult you among the well-off.

Easily the most dominant object on Mihai Bravu. It may not be taller than the nearby, depressing Ceauşescu apartment blocks, but it stands out by being surrounded by nothing visually competitive.

I’ve no idea which church it is, by the way.  I never crossed the street to get a closer look and find out.  You may be wondering why.  Perhaps I was forgetful.  Some might speculate I was leneş.

Or was it an entirely different reason?

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People tell me there was a time when fresh fruits couldn’t be had in winter. Certainly couldn’t be had in any variety even when the warmer seasons meant there was something available.

I remember the story told to me by someone in her mid-20s who still remembers the first time she saw an orange… but that wasn’t until after 1989.

Romania can be thankful those days are gone.

The ubiquitous amanet stores and kiosks can be found in every city, town, village, and hamlet in Romania. Often in great numbers. And often in quite proximity to one another.

These are pawn shops the criminals of yore would dump stolen goods. These days folks can pawn jewelry as collateral for a short term loan. If they default, that’s when other people come buy it at discount prices over mall retailers.

Travel tip: snoop around the amanet stores when you’re checking out Romania. Won’t take much of your time. You might just find a remarkable bargain in and amongst the gaudy stuff. Gold is gold, people.

I was struck by the dilapidated sign of a shoe repair shop. I suppose at one point it was shiny and electrified magic drawing in business from all the bloc-dwellers. Now, it’s a sad reminder of a disappearing era fighting for a breath of life between the disposable schlock sold for big bucks and made from toxic materials by small children in Asian sweatshops.

Imagine my surprise! An ecologically-sound dry cleaning company in a rundown strip mall along Mihai Bravu? Couldn’t have guessed that sight was coming. I’ll circle back there in the future to give them a little business and see what they can do.

What’s also interesting to note is the presence of a currency exchange kiosk inside the same store. Whether it has the same owner or not, maybe its presence serves as an indication that there’s not enough dry cleaning business alone to keep the doors open.

If the two merged, would they try money laundering?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I’m sorry, was that offensive? It seems some little teenie boppers watch entirely too much television, then attempt to replicate pieces of what they’ve absorbed. Monkey see, monkey do. Celebrating now what was once understood as a call for help.

The meaning was not heard.

A sociological nightmare of the triviality inherent in the expressions of a new generation. Only, this base glorification has spread to infect your sons and daughters, Romania.

Fact is, these kids have no clue what the gangbanger lifestyle is like and they would not last five minutes on the streets of south central Los Angeles. It’s only fun on MTV. The reality is something these haven’t bothered to comprehend.

On a related noted, I keep waiting for the evolution of spraypaint graffiti from merely mundane tagging to an actual art form. Where are the urban murals that depict the life of being Romanian in the city? Where’s the self-reflection and depth? Where is your story, urban Romania?

And while we’re talking about the ill effects of American urban hip hop influence, I must remark that there are entirely too many idiots running about with NY hats, spun to the side and tilted slightly upward. Most pop celebrities in Romania still have no clue how to develop their own style, but instead insist on copying the dressing habits of whomever sells the most albums in the United States.

Guess what, jackass? You’re not black. You’re not cool. You ain’t down. You aren’t remotely close to hip hop. And you sure as hell aren’t from New York. If you want to wear an overpriced, fashion-disaster ballcap with enough rhinestones to blind Glen Campbell, then conjure up some pride and buy one with a B — for Bucureşti: the city you’re from.

Bout reppin yo town, clown.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

A nice trend is the dramatic increase in bancomat outlets with privacy screens to protect transactions from being spied on. It’s nice to use an ATM without wondering who might be trying to memorize your PIN.

Particularly since Romanians are incapable of forming a straight line but instead build a nice curve by resting their chin on the right shoulder of the person in front. A strange habit of disorganization I’ve never gotten used to these past years.

Meh.

Many of the ATMs now play videos with sound when not in use, essentially being leveraged as advertising vehicles. I’m skeptical if there is a cost-effective ROI which has been documented in any studies.

I suppose when a lack of effectiveness is calculated, costs for this interruption marketing method will be justified by turning up the volume and perhaps projecting the video out onto the sidewalk. But I’m ahead of my time. For now, the chatter is merely interesting at the first couple encounters.

Also of note is the increased trend of bancomat machines proactively warning users to be on the lookout for any unauthorized adapters which might have been attached by thieves to read your card. Nice to see the banks addressing the problem head on. It is, afterall, in their interest to protect their clientele.

If you see a sign saying Exchange or Schimb, then you’ve found a money changer. Here you can change out your dollars or euros for the local currency, Romanian lei. Like the amanet shops, these can be found just about anywhere and are often in clusters.

Don’t ask why every population of 1,000 Romanians need a currency exchange. We can only speculate about the seemingly obvious answer and probably don’t really want to know.

Travel Tip: Be sure you see the 0% commission. If you don’t see that sign, don’t go inside: you’ll be paying an extra bonus fee designed for foreign suckers. Most places have the sign, so just insist on it.

This hand-painted police station sign was in all likelihood made during the communist era.  Interestingly the word Poliţia is easily visible thanks to it’s strong contrast whereas the directional arrow is buried in a swirl of color, as though it were more important under PCR to know the police were present and not so important to know precisely where.

Ho, ho, ho! Maybe the reindeer know Moş Craciun needs a little diagnosis and treatment this winter. At the very least, it’s nice to see the hospital has a sense of cheer. Big improvement over the last time I thought about Romanian health care.

Oh, this one had it all.  An electric star swoosh thing, the fashionable hanging-Santa-on-a-ladder motif, an English-language “Merry Christmas” sign, and rats’ nest of holiday lights.   And the name, oh heavens, the name!

Restaurant Pizzerie.  Hmm, I think it could be a restaurant and they might sell pizzas.  Never know for sure.  Use caution.

Best No 12.  If no 12, then what: 11, 13?  I’m at a loss here.  Aha, I see “No. 12″ as in the ancient sanskrit for Numarul Doisprezece, gen.  So, if we take the inverse derivative of the logical extension, this must be the 12th best pizza shop?

I decided to return at a future date to test that theory.

In all fairness, the many different shopping outlets and malls that comprise most of Bucuresti all seem to carry leftovers once destined for American stock shelves.  I’ve not seen any decorations for sale in romaneşte.  So, the 12th best cannot reasonbly be held responsible for the careless purchasing decisions of many Romanian stores who carry unsold garbage from China because of the likely sky-high profit margins instead of giving enough of a damn about Romania to order products actually intended for their own market.

Gen, merge şi aşa, gen.

This little doozy took the cake.

I mean, come on.  A non-stop internet cafe that also does shoe repair and sells discount houseware.  “Si mai mult!”

But, wait!  There’s more!  That’s right, Bob, call now and you’ll also get these fabulous, professional quality, titanium, hyper-action, genuine Ginsu knives absolutely free.  Order now!  Offer valid for a limited time only, while supplies last, no substitutes, subject to applicable sales tax, just pay shipping and handling, may not be legal in your state.

M & N.  Not M&M’s nor Eminem nor MNM, but M & N.  Sounds kind of like MNN when you say it out loud.  (No, not like JB.)

I’ve made a mental note to go back there and see if there really is internet.  A quick look-see through the geama reveals no computer workstations anywhere.  And there’s no wifi signal coming out of the place.  But, it does say Internet is several placess nonetheless and I can’t imagine they were just lazy enough to leave some years-old stickers and signs up.

Especially when, in addition to the cardboard Santa in the window, they also have the yellow stickering which  says “Merry Christmas” so clearly they’re keeping current on the messaging.  A mystery to be resolved.  Maybe I’ll also learn why they went to the trouble of making a custom Merry Christmas sign instead of Sarbatori Fericite.

Deci, aşa e. Decebal sure is interesting, gen. Ştii, y’all?

Et quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

There was a Halloween sugar overdose in late October.  A full month later came the unending amounts of turkey during Thanksgiving.  Then was a 30-day mad dash to put lights on the house and presents under the tree for Christmas.

Somewhere along the line, my perceptions improved.  Or the adeptness of soulless marketing shills.  Either way, I noticed that increasingly Christmas would “begin” immediately after Thanksgiving, as every shop in town immediately through up their decorations the very day after Thanksgiving as if to psychologically induce passers-by to empty their wallets for Christmas beginning immediately.

Later in life, I witnessed a change that was definitely new.  Some brazen store marketers would cross the line and beging putting up Christmas decorations a week or so before Thanksgiving, as a way of planting the seeds for the big After-Thanksgiving-Day Sale… which later became known as Black Friday (while a financial etymology, it nonetheless suggests the death of Xmas joy at the hands of blindingly overcommercialized saleshouting).

Last October, in Houston, Texas, I shook my head in disbelief as store after store rolled out the Christmas lights and other Santa-oriented decorations.  Before Thanksgiving.  Before Halloween. Yes, apparently, folks should be buying crap made in China for a full 3 months these days, just to keep up with the nonexistant Joneses of our TV-driven imagination.

But here in Romania, it’s the opposite situation.

Christmas is unable to be disturbed by Halloween or Thanksgiving, since they do not exist here.  And the merchants are only still at the beginning stages of overhyping the buying public into a comatose state of consumerism.

And yet, change creeps in.  Only, it is from the other direction, my friends.  Witness the encroachment found at a local grocery store in cartierul meu.

Uite.

In Romania, it means your home gets a special visit from an honored guest.  Over three different Craciunuri, I’ve received such unexpected noctural knockings twice.  Here’s how it works:

You’re at home peacefully relaxing with the faint inklings of song in the far distant background noise, when the bothersome sounds of a barbarian at the gates disrupt you.

The urgent rapping at your uşa repeats frequently as you scurry to open the door fearing news that your elderly neighbor may have passed away.  Sliding to a stop before your socks carry you into the wall, you fumble with the keys to unlock the entrance.

Flinging open the portal: there he is!  A sparkly-eyed man with a broad grin across his face nods at you and sucks in a large volume of air.  And, so, the singing begins.

A Gregorian-style song erupts from the large cavern above his chin and the stranger thrusts a painted picture of baby Jesus into your face as though it were a sheild warding away any sinful reprisals.

With the force of God safely holding you at bay, the man begins stepping into your abode without so much as a welcome or a wink.  The bold maneuver secures his ability to take control of the situation.

Fait accompli.

The faux franciscan hymnal incantation spews forth a melodious mumbo jumbo, calling upon the Hindu-sized parthenon of Orthodox deities — most of whom are cleverly disguised as mere “saints” with demigodly powers of protection — to both bless your home and frighten away evil spirits.

The showmanship of a shaman.  The words of a witch.  Your misperception of a priest.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, a substantially bulkier man steps out of the shadows and imposes his figure across the threshold of your home with hairy palm outstretched to receive the expected offering.

You see, while the man who is pretending to be a priest may have sang the song to protect you from the Devil and help you win the lottery in the coming year, the ritual affords him a certain dignity of distance from gelt of the temporal world.  A man of God should not perform Acts for compensation, but because the Lord commands him so.

Like so much an emporer’s new clothes.

Thus, the thugly sidekick steps in to give baby Jesus a helping hand in collecting payment from the superstitious rabble as well as coerce the reluctant victim who will invariably buckle under one level of pressure or another.

Cough up the dough, Jack.  It’s all part of the magic trick.

Granted, I’m a fair bit recalcitrant, so my reaction is completely different.  And evolving toward a new purity.  For example, in Braşov, I simply closed the door in the face of the so-called priest in his 30s wearing the şmecherii uniform of blue jeans and black leather jacket.

Whereas tonight, here in the Decebal cartier of Bucureşti, just before closing the door, I shared the season’s newsflash with Popa: “Dumnezeu e mort.”

Sarbatori fericite, fraţi. This Craciun, what should you buy for the loved one who already has everything? Why, the implausible, of course.

Because everyone should want their, umm… piersica… to smell like peaches.

Parfum de piersici pentru piersica dumnevoastra.

Fabricat in Romania. Vă mulţumim mult, Comceh!

Adica, daca esti un criminal legal… deci…

Truth is, I think it’s great in the sense of freedom. Despite the ubiquituous signs indicating alcohol will not be sold to persons under 18, no one is really bothering to enforce it.

Seems that most Romanians are pleasantly self-regulating in this social context. You don’t see kids out drinking illegally, but parents and older siblings feel comfortable asking a teen to responsibly pick up adult products.

In the sense that people outside Bucureşti seem to tend to trust each other, it’s a healthy sign.

When will you change? When will you change your neighbors? When?

Pretty simple, eh? Get on the bus. Pay.

The potential for any fiduciary shenanigans is severely curtailed by the absence of human exchange. Your bus pass was prepaid on the internet. If you’re paying cash, you toss coins into a machine that rapidly counts the total value. Ding!

Now, I walked you through that for the sake of contrast.

In Romania, the foreigner is often puzzled by the rituals of public transportation.

Tiny, non-descript signs indicate bus stops, though non-locals will never see such signs. The best bet for a traveler is to locate any large collection of loitering citizens. They’re either hitchhiking or waiting for a bus. Either way, it involves wheels.

If it does turn out to be a bus stop, the ride protocol initiates with jostling in close proximity. Children will rush between your legs. Grown men will shove you from behind. Old women will step on your feet as they slip past you in the shuffle. It’s all out combat as the bus rolls to a stop.

Tourists may note, between pinballesque shovings, there are multiple fronts in the war. Any place which might conceivably be a door is bumrushed by the crowds. Front, back, even center if the bus has 3 doors. Any port is fair game.

The primary objective of those outside the bus is to block any passengers from exiting the vehicle. By not letting any people get off the bus, entrants hope to claim a free seat.

Sound backwards? Not really. There is a tactical imperative to the strategy of obstruction. The bunicas, who prove Darwin’s theories by standing point guard on the surging would-be riders, communicate telepathically in order to coordinate a simultaneous backward lean.

Having been given 4 to 6 mm of leeway, the outbound passengers stampede ashore with the force of their exist knocking back the throngs of boarding people. A mosh pit breaks out as the two sides seasaw back and forth.

When the majority of debarked (that’s right! not everyone makes it off successfully), then the chaos flops forward precariously. They key is to leap in the air about a half meter from the bus, just in time for the people behind you to give you a good thrust. The resulting trajectory should arc you more or less inside the autobus.

Don’t bother looking for seats. There’s no way you had the experience or stamina to manhandle the cattle necessary to claim victory. They’re all taken. Age and gender and civility have no place here. First come, first serve. We have communism to thank for this equality.

Of course, you won’t be quite the last to board. When the driver grinds the transmission into a crunchy first gear, the ancient beast belches its’ displeasure and lurches forward under the strain of being overburdened.

You’ll notice the doors don’t necessarily close prior to motion as it makes good sport for passengers to bet on which of the persons running down the block in your general direction might have the athletic ability to fling themselves at the moving target and find some edge to dig their fingers nails into to keep from falling out to their death.

Alas, the show comes to an end. Collect your winnings or pay your debts, accordingly. We move onto the next stage: the realization you’ve been outfoxed by the clever folks on the side of the bus who do not have 4000 degrees of solar heat magnified by window glass. You’ll learn to appreciate the scientific process of maximum cloth saturation as you sweat like şaorma on the spit.

Click, click. Turn and notice most of the adults (not teens) are sliding ribbons of paper into a mechanical hole punch. Ah, self validation of their tickets. The honesty system, in effect. Afterall, the odds of being caught by the wily and elusive ticket inspector on one of his/her rare trips aboard the bus are slim to none. Next to impossible.

Panic! You didn’t buy a ticket, did you, foreigner?

“Ticket?”

Oh, yeah… no one told you how that works. See, in random locations scattered throughout the city (but never where you happen to be) are invisible salespersons selling tickets through portals from the 5th Dimension. Your challenge is sense the magnetic disturbance in the air caused by the presence of undetectable bus ticket kiosks, then take the inverse derivative of the cosign value of relative variance from the mean which will give you the WGS84 latitude…

Right. So teens sneak on the bus knowing they’re unlikely to get into trouble. Adults tend to pay for tickets out of some sense of civic duty. No order is really enforced or promoted. Your crime of being born elsewhere will result in your being a public transportation scofflaw in a foreign land.

What a jerk, you’ve become. You and all the rest of the disrespectiful tourists from just about any other part of the world. Worthless as a dog’s fleas leeching off the rest of society.

Travel tip: Wanna get around town easily and cheaply? Look for any dark box bearing an unspectacular sign with the word RAT in blue. Find that RAT and you’ve found the magical happyland where tickets are sold. Now, if you don’t speak Romaneste at all, buying said tickets will be the most entertaining aspect of your bus experience…