Take my advice; never travel to London at Christmas.

All the sights are there to see, of course. The cityscape is inviting with clean streets, polite denizens, helpful city workers, impressive architecture, decent pubs, and safe neighborhoods. One has every incentive to explore the multitude of offerings on foot.

Tired as I am of seeing so many European churches, the views at night can still draw moths to the flame.

Fortunately, there are more choices for the nocturnal tourist than the liturgical leftovers of London. Some of relatively modern sights are well worth a gander in the darkness.

I see you there. Pensively demanding examples.

All right, dear reader. How about if I smack you upside the imagination gland with, oh, say, the Tower Bridge? It might do. Perhaps you rather fancy the London Eye?

Maybe a stop in Piccadilly Circus. A stroll through Chinatown and Soho. Or just wandering Camden.

And if you get lonely at night, you can duck into any London phone booth to call a friend.

Just remember, tovaraş, Big Brother is watching you.

Despite a well-earned reputation for poor weather, London still manages to ensare the camera lens and captivate the visitor. Whether it’s the ring of Big Ben inside the clock tower of Parliament, an invasion of Imperial Stormtroopers, an exquisition original collection of Salvador Dalí, or interacting with local street performers, there are a variety of attractions to enjoy.

London is so energetic, you’ll find Santa playing rock-n-roll in the metro.

London is so exotic, even a urinal sports a penis.

London is so erotic, theatres feature porn for the dyslexic filmgoer obsessed with fat men in red suits.

You see, it’s not that you cannot have a good time; it’s just that you cannot get out. That’s the rub.

Catch-25, if you will.

For it is a well-kept secret that the entirety of the United Kingdom comes grinding to a halt in unison on Christmas. You can guess the usual suspects: attractions, museums, stores, shops, restaurants, and more.

But I wouldn’t waste your time, devoted reader, with closures of the obvious.

No, no. They close down the subways. They shut down the trains. They cancel the buses. They silence airport shuttles. The entire infrastructure of public transport is effectively dead. And tumbleweeds blow down empty streets.

The truth is hidden from travellers. Tourism websites make no mention of this vital fact. And it runs contrary to most of the rest of the world, which leaves visitors caught in a lurch.

Does your flight arrive in London (Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton, Stansted) on Christmas day? Plan on amusing yourself at the airport because you’ll never arrive at your hotel.

Heaven forbid you have to switch airports to make a connection. You won’t get there.

And what if you’ve been visiting London and your return flight departs on Christmas?

Firstly, you will have already booked your hotel in the central London area for the duration of your stay because you figure the morning will provide plenty of time for the one to two hours journey to your outlying airport. Piece of cake.

However, once your ignorance has been burst by faint rumors of uniform closure of public transport and airport transfer services, you might immediately and incredulously begin inquiring of tube attendants and train station personnel the nature of Christmas day services.

The pity in their voices, as they realize you’re not inside the English circle of trust, adds insult to the injury of their confirmation that — in fact — no transportation of any nature whatsoever will be available for tourists on the day in question.

You panic.

You’re going to have to blow your last day in town on a scramble to locate sleeping quarters nearer to the airport, after cancelling your existing reservations under financial penalty, and packing your belongings for the early and unexpected trip out of London before they shut down.

Madly slapping at the face of your laptop keyboard, desperately wringing the very neck of Saint Google for answers to your accommodation prayers. Booking systems show full hotels. Emails from inn owners politely turn you away. Small bed & breakfasts show no signs of life.

When a ray of light shines through the clouds, you seize upon it. A room. A pillow. Near the airport. Good enough. Now, you have to pack up all the things you weren’t quite ready for, instead of having a good time on your vacation to London because the bastards close down the city without bothering to tell anyone about it.

This all takes place on the morning of the day before you even need to be at the airport. Because, of course, you’ve got to check out of your current hotel and their policy says 11am. And, so, while it’s far too early to go to the new hotel 90 minutes away, you dump out onto the public streets carrying your luggage.

It’s then you notice you’re not the only victim.

In fact, much of the local populace seems to be spending their Boxing Day inside the hoity-toity glittershops of Soho which leaves the balance of London to trickle a rag-tag army of trolley dragging, bebackpacked, and exasperated tourists everywhere you look.

Apparently, these are your competitors who must have somehow learned about the blackout faster than you and subsequently booked all the hotels while you were still eating orange marmalade at breakfast tea.

Fast foward.

You spent a couple hours playing the part of baggage-toting tourist. It’s dark. You’re at Victoria station — which you had to walk to from another tub station which cost you $3 because the tube Victoria Line stops at Victoria station were cancelled — to locate the last bus of the night which will take your companion to her own outlying airport which, infuriatingly, is different than your own.

You’ve got to manage to traverse the city to the St. Pancras International train station where you can hop onto the last ride to your own airport so you can spend a boring night by yourself. Amazingly, Victoria station actually has outbound tubes on two other lines but not its’ namesake (which is the one going to St. Pancras).

You’ll have to go the wrong way in order to change lines and wait around for a $3 tube going back in the right direction. A costly detour which results in your being late to St. Pancras. In fact, just as you hit the escalators you can hear the last train of the Christmas holiday, which goes to your airport and for which you prepaid a whopping $26 fee, pulls out of the station without you.

A uniformed employee ropes off the tunnel and sends you back to the information booth for alternative transportation tips. That booth is now closed, though just one minute ago it was open. So, you ask another staff member for assistance.

“Take the tube to Victoria Station on the Victoria Line. If you hurry, there’s still time to catch the train to Gatwick from there.”

Explaining that Victoria Line doesn’t stop at Victoria Station earns you a surprised look. A bit of fumbling eventually suggests you can take the Northern Line south. Spend another $3 to Tower Bridge station where you may have a small chance of catching the train.

Zoom! (You’re gone.)

At the Tower Bridge station, the subway is crawling with metro workers trying to sweep lost passengers out of the rapidly closing tunnels. They’re not even running a full schedule tonight, but are closing down services early.

Apparently, the train left some time ago. Employees want to know why you didn’t just go to Victoria Station where you could have caught the train. After sharing the news of closure, you’re advised to find a bus to East Croydon.

So you head outside and talked to the few bus drivers that will bother to open their windows when you knock. None of them are going to Croydon and none of them know of a bus that will. Not around these here parts, stranger.

Talking with a policeman bears the suggestion you should probably just hire a taxi. Although, he admits, it may cost you $200 or more.

The two tube security personnel kicking stranded people out of the building confide that there’s a long shot to go to Elephant & Castle station for another $3 tube ride, but only if you leave right now, and maybe there you will possibly find someone who knows something.

Zoom!

Waiting for the next set of subway cars, it begins to dawn on you that the train has probably already left Elephant and Castle, if ever stopped there to begin with, while you’re still here waiting for metro. But what else are you going to do?

Of course, Elephant and Castle is your last stop on the tube because it’s a one-way roach motel. Humans come out, but they cannot get in. It’s closed. Talking to a security member, you’re directed to some roach-infested, coffee stained “mini-taxi” hole-in-the-wall who may take you to the airport.

They want $120.

Walking back to the tube station to check with a different uniformed staff, you get advice on how to catch the last bus out of town to Croydon. From there, you’ll be closer to Gatwick and may be lucky to find someone who can help.

Zoom!

There’s no telling how much the bus ride actually cost you, but your prepaid Oyster card is now empty. You can tell because the card reader is beeping angrily at you as you board the bus. You look at the driver as if to say, “wtf?” In the Christmas spirit, he shrugs a “whatever” and motions you to take a seat.

Seventeen days later, you’ve crossed three galaxies to reach downtown Croydon. Outside the semi-warm confines of the swirling the bus cabin, the crisp cold air of December nights has not deterred several hundred local kids who are staging miniature riots in front of several night clubs.

Apparently, you look a little funny in the dark, carrying your bags and trying to get your navigational bearings. Their laughter is reward for your efforts to entertain them. But where you can find a bus to Gatwick or a taxi or just about anything, really?

Who knows. The buses are dark. Sleepy drivers refuse to answer your knocks. Mini-taxi stations do not exist. Drunk pub goers seem to be draining the city of normal taxis, each time they stumble out of a bar.

You opt to walk around a little, hoping to find a street sign of some kind showing the way to Gatwick but for some reasons all roads to lead to somewhere else. You circle back to the downtown party riot laughing Croydoners, intent on stealing one of their cabs.

It works.

You manage to flag down an eager driver who sees your luggage, realizes your probable situation, and quickly pulls over with dollar signs in his eyes. Climbing in, he verbally informs you that since it is now after midnight and officially Christmas that his mileage rates are 150% of what’s currently shown on the meter.

“So, how much to Gatwick?”

He wants about $160, basically $10 a mile, which seems like a bit of highway robbery. You throw your bags inside, but do not get in yourself until you’ve had a chance to haggle him down a little.

He reluctantly agrees to do it for the rate on the meter (which you already know is double normal fare because of the holiday). You barely afford the fare with cash on hand. The legal fare eats up $122 to go less than 20 miles. And, sadly, you didn’t have enough in British pounds, so you had to suppliment with actual US dollars.

So, you’re at the airport. Hoorah? No, because you need to make it to your hotel which will cost you another $10. Time for the bancomat, frate.

Except it’s Christmas. So the charge for the airport taxi to your bed is now running $20. And it’s nearly 1am. So, yeah, like, uh, whatever. Let’s go.

The cabbie doesn’t bother to help with your bags. He can tell you’re not going to tip him. You get your hands dirty opening up the hatchback on his filthy wagon.

At long last, you’ve made it to the bed & breakfast! As the cab drives away, you hear the sound of someone coming to open the door you’ve pressed the buzzer on. A young lady answers with some trepidation and surprise.

“Hello. I’ve got a reservation here tonight.”

“Are you sure? We’re not expecting anyone.”

She lets you inside from the cold and the two of you try to sort out the difference of information. Fortunately, there’s a room available but the downside is she helps you realize that the taxi driver, in fact, has dropped you at the wrong place.

The names of the two B&Bs are similar, but this isn’t where you have a room booked. She’s super helpful, even at this early morning hour, and prints out a Google map of where your hotel is. A little over a mile down the road.

Saddle up your bags, it’s time for a walk down the dark streets of this semi-rural village. After a couple of minutes, you hear shouting behind you. You turn around and off in the distance you can see the same woman in her pajamas and slippers trying to get your attention on the windy and wet street.

You head back and she apologizes for having told you the wrong direction to walk. But, hey, instead of just leaving you to the wolves, she had the integrity to get her feet cold just to help you. So, you thank her profusely.

Time passes, like the cars pass you and you pass the drunks stumbling home.

And there it is! The destination you’ve battled for. Shivering, you rap at the windows, ring the bell, and shake the door handle for a good 10 minutes before giving up. The owners aren’t about to come let you in. They’re hiding inside like you’re some zombie attacking the compound bunker.

What will you do now? It’s well after 2am.

So, you load up your gear once more and hoof it back down the lane. Stick out your thumb in vain hope someone might stop and save your feet from the swelling blisters. But you end up walking over another mile all the way back again to the person you last saw awake.

You ring. Twice. She answers, clearly awoken after having just fallen asleep. She let’s you in, gives you a key, and settles the bill.

It’s nearing 3am. You need to use the pay phone to call your companion and make sure she arrived at her hotel with less trouble than you’ve had over the past 6 hours. But the phone won’t make international calls to a Romanian mobile phone and you don’t know the local London hotel phone number.

So, you ask the poor girl at the front desk if she could possibly turn on her computer and get the number for Holiday Inn at Luton becasue, you explain, the payphone won’t allow calls to Romania.

Her eyes widen.

“Romania? I’m from Romania.”

“Nuuuuu…. din unde eşti?”

“Petroşani.” Her wide-eyed gaze begs to know why you speak romaneşte.

“Aşa e. Am fost locuiesc la Braşov doi ani.”

It seems her family runs the guest house near Gatwick airport. And I was fortunate to have accidentally bumped into yet another example of Romanian hospitality on a dark, rainy night of endless struggle. Rooms were simple, clean, and comfortable.

A little small talk later, it’s time for somn uşor. And five hours later, I was on my way to Gatwick in another $20 taxi.

Thanks, Maria. You saved my ass that night.

As for the rest of you, here’s the travel tip: don’t count on being lucky enough to stumble onto the kindness of Romanians. Just avoid London during the Christmas holiday like the plague. Its’ depth of sucktitude is interminable and insufferable.

(Most photos by she, a few by me.)

Back when I was living in Braşov, the onset of summer meant I would often see pre-teens swarming through the branches of trees lined along the sidewalks of low traffic sidestreets.

Leaping from branch to branch swiftly, the nimble monkeys would throw down small fruit to their eagerly awaiting comrades who squabbled over the droppings as they plummeted from the sky.

Somehow I had the constant misimpression they must be violating rules of some sort by stealing fruit from the trees which did not belong to them. A rather backwards notion typical of someone who grew up in a country where everything is owned and nothing is free.

The reality is these are city trees belonging to the public in general, as you probably guessed. What a concept.

Back in those glory days of living in Romania’s best city, I never bothered to investigate the tree climbers or inquire as to what they were up to. A simple explanation of “they’re getting fruit” seemed obvious enough to not warrant further research.

Living in Bucureşti now, I noticed same phenomenon on the idle streets of Rahova. Recently, after coming home from an shopping trip, I watched the trees in front of my apartment get attacked by a gaggle of rambunctious scions from the bloc.

Feeling protective of “my” trees, I looked into the matter and soon discovered just what it was these children were desperately hoarding.

Locals call it zarzane. It also goes by the name corcoduşe. I’d never seen one before, so it was wildly exotic in my view. I sniffed around a bit, but there was no clear aroma to hint at the flavor inside.

I recruited a helper to assist me in collecting a few, then took them inside for a quick rinsing. Always wash your fruits, kids, because Bucureşti is a very dusty town and you probably don’t want to suck down toxins with your otherwise healthy snack.

I figured I hadn’t seen anyone else die from eating them and you can’t come this far without ingesting a taste, so I cut one open to have a preview of the contents.

The firm innards consisted of a juicy, grape-like meat but there was a large almond-shaped pit in the center. The mystery fruit basically resembled something of a minature, green plum.

I picked up the smaller piece and, like a native, popped into my mouth skin and all. The taste was delightfully sour — as a grapefruit has a sort of pleasantly bitter flavor — which was, essentially, rather agreeable. I nibbled at the other half until there was only the seed to spit out.

“Quite okay.”

Hungry for the new zest, I devoured several of the powerballs in rapid succession like a squirrel gnawing at acorns. I finally understood why the neighborhood rats would risk injury to seek out these pearls as they emerged from the trees. Fantastic.

Searching online brought few answers forth, but eventually I learned that my hunch was correct: it’s a type of plum. I’m no botantist, but I understand it’s some form of yellowgage plum or a dwarf golden plum apparently. After some preliminary study, I might speculate this plum could perhaps be the source for the French-developed greengage plum.

Romania is where plum trees were first domesticated. This country figures to be the world’s 3rd largest producer of plums, with several cultivars supposedly being native to the region. All these plums are commonly used by villagers to make jams. And palinca. Lots of palinca. Heaps of palinca.

A veritable passel of palinca.

Palinca (or palinka for our Magyar friends) is a very strong, home-brewed plum alcohol roughly 140 proof with a distinct taste. Often classified as a having a brandy pedigree, palinca is cousin to Serbian şliboviţă and distilled in a manner akin to Irish poitín.

In both Romania and Hungary, the double-distilled palinca is a key component of life. It works as a pre-meal apertif to build your appetite yet also sees plenty of action an after meal digestif. Many people can be seen drinking it any old time.

While technically illegal to craft moonshine (thanks to alcohol corporations buying off politicians), the truth remains the real deal is produced at home by countless families across the land in both clear and yellow colors, depending on where it ages. The stuff you buy in stores doesn’t quite lend the same authentic experience as you would get from a bottle given as a gift by countryfolk.

There’s an 80 proof single-distilled variation called ţuica which is extremely popular among Romanians, going so far as to claim it is traditional to start any meal with a shot of this potent plum liquor. Foreigners and beginners should definitely start here before moving up to palinca.

With Romania being such a significant source of plums, there’s been a concern about Plum Pox Virus for the past 100 years. PPV seems to have originated in Bulgaria and is spread by aphids who carry the virus for less than one hour before it dies.

To protect crops, a number of genetically modified plums have been experimented with. Romania eventually became a dumping ground for GMO tests organized by wealthy international corporations eager to find a willing host starved for cash in the 1990s.

As EU ascension neared, most of these programs have officially been killed. However, I’m led to believe that not all GM strains were terminated and transgenic farming still continues, leaving Romania in the uncomfortable position of possibly having its’ large plum supplies susceptible to being tainted by cross breeding with the altered genes of such trees.

Maybe someday we’ll all learn that PPV-resistant plums present no harm to humans or other creatures in the ecosystem. For now, we simply do not know all the answers.

To protect biodiversity of this important crop, we should hope Romanian authorities take their ecological roles seriously and protect this culturally significant food from contamination during testing.

I’d hate for anything bad to happen to this little green wonder when I’ve only just discovered its’ existance.

Travel tip: Feel free to reach right out and grab some plums off public trees lining the roads of Bucureşti, Braşov, and other towns across Romania. There’s nothing illegal or unethical about it. That’s what they were planted for.

Eat ‘em early, people. Around here, they seem to come out in late May and early June. By the time it’s getting late in Iunie, the green plums lose their bite, turn mushy like squash, and give off a color of caution yellow.

Every once in a while, I try to remind some of you the time has come for you to consciously consider alternatives to Microsoft software. Time to wake from the coma. The nightmare you’ve been living.

Macs are far superior and not any more expensive. Ubuntu can do everything you need and is totally Free and free. OpenOffice is more compatible with versions Microsoft Office than Microsoft itself. Internet Explorer is a toy for little kids; grown-ups use adult browsers such as FireFox or Opera. The list goes on.

Recently, I read Paul Graham’s both wise and funny essay. I’d like to share some choice quotes with you.

A few days ago I suddenly realized Microsoft was dead… No one is even afraid of Microsoft anymore. They still make a lot of money—so does IBM, for that matter. But they’re not dangerous.

I’d guess they were dead by 2005…. What killed them? Four things, I think, all of them occurring simultaneously in the mid 2000s.

The most obvious is Google… what later came to be called “Ajax.” And that was the second cause of Microsoft’s death: everyone can see the desktop is over. It now seems inevitable that applications will live on the web… The third cause of Microsoft’s death was broadband Internet…. The last nail in the coffin came, of all places, from Apple. Thanks to OS X, Apple has come back from the dead in a way that is extremely rare in technology. Their victory is so complete that I’m now surprised when I come across a computer running Windows.

Windows is for grandmas… no one who cares about computers uses Microsoft’s anyway.

I’m glad Microsoft is dead. They were like Nero or Commodus—evil in the way only inherited power can make you. Because remember, the Microsoft monopoly didn’t begin with Microsoft. They got it from IBM.

Microsoft’s biggest weakness is that they still don’t realize how much they suck.

If you use Windows XP, you’re going to keep hearing more things like this. The gauntlet has been thrown down and the writing is on the wall. I tend to agree with the guesstimate that Microsoft died somewhere around 2005. It’s over, folks. Definitely over. A chicken with it’s head cut-off may run around a little bit a lot, but it’s dead all the same.

If you use Windows XP and you’re comfortable paying fair money for a quality computer that makes your experience better, plan on buying a Mac next; they rock something fierce.

If you use Windows XP and need to keep your costs down, then download Ubuntu and install it as a dual-boot so your existing computer can have XP and Ubuntu at the same time in order to let you learn slowly just how easy it is to replace Windows with a quality operating system that’s free.

Wake up and smell the coffee. Or has your senility already set in?

Travel Tip: Always, but always, support your rustic street vendors on the backalley ribbons of non-tourist zones. If a kiosk can survive selling wares to nearby residents, then it must be “quite okay” and non-lethal.

Stand proud in recognition that such venues remain sufficiently mysterious enough to give you that rush of adrenaline that comes from taking great risks to eat like the native.

Valid for the purist seeking authentic experiences in any city, town, and village. Braşov is no exception to your guiding principle of avoiding chains, franchises, and other tainted commodity establishments while visiting strange, far-flung lands at the outer realms of the known world.

Leave the guidebook at home and go get lost.

You may find the very purpose of your life was to set out as the intrepid explorer who would unwittingly discover the thrills of being the first alien to unearth a quaint little pastry shop and to shed the light of publicity upon it.

Most often, you’ll find it conveniently buried down a quiet, dusty street surrounded by bloc apartments filled with suspicious residents who peer out from behind protective curtains anytime their sixth sense signals the alarm that a foreigner has breeched the cartier perimeter.

For example, you just might stumble upon such a hidden gem while larking about the Florilor neighborhood of Braşov, Romania, in which case you’d be ruffling the feathers of the cloistered neurotics busily spying on your radically unfamiliar walking style in the vicinity of Str. Branduşelor, Nr. 50 A.

Like a sweet-toothed moth drawn toward the bakery’s light, your subconscious detects the cheerful colors of handcut vinyl stickers spelling out words you don’t understand as they slowly lose contact with the glass and find their edges peeling.

As your ciliary muscle relaxes, shelves upon shelves of pasteries reveal themselves to you. Language is no longer a barrier to comprehension. Step closer, stranger, and witness the menagerie of flavors unknown.

Sweet bread, the length of a forearm, smothered in chocolate may beckon. Perhaps the siren song of pastry shaped like polish pretzels will dance in the air. Then again, the sugar-dusted puffs stuffed with Turkish Delight may prove irresistible.

Of course, any red blooded American will recognize the unmistakable patriotism of apple strudel which has the honorable distinction of service as Official Pastry of Texas initiated just days after former Texas governor George W. Bush declared “Mission Accomplished” in Iraq four years ago.

Thoughtful photographers will survey all the various options on display before meditating deeply over the consequences of any given choice. Chaos theory clearly states that in such extreme circumstances space and time will crumble in the vortex of singularity, thus provoking bliss (academically referred to in Latinish flanc cu caşcaval).

Whatever the outcome of your particular adventure into the vibrant lives of kiosk food salesmanship, you can look forward to bragging to your friends and family about your predilection for cavalier approaches to comestible consumption.

A giant among mere men, you know no fear.

Never, but never, devolve into self-defeatist second guessing about why the woman behind the counter got upset by your taking pictures of the little shop. Or how it was absurd she would not divulge the name of the company despite it being painted on the outside of the building.

Don’t worry yourself trying to make sense of what her motivation could have possibly been for insisting you speak to the owner (whom she had no idea when or if he would ever come next) in order to verify the street address so you could publicize the yummy goodies on the dark and scary internet.

Instead, focus on the positive speculation about whether the merchants likely kept the money local by hiring their neighbor Mihai to defend them once you belatedly find out the company was suspended by national authorities concerned about the dramatically unsanitary conditions used to prepare the very pastry you ate.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

Open the front door and a group of Roma suddenly burst into song. Your troubadours will either be all female or all male, generally two adults and at least 2 children per group. The tired faces rotely work through some holiday song without a hint of pleasure.

It must be Christmas time in Romania.

The singers are trying to pressure you into paying for the uninvited entertainment, much like a violinist playing table-side at an upscale restaurant. Performers intentionally attempt to create the appearance of entitlement as if some unspoken social contract obligates you to pay for something you never asked for.

Street musicians play in public squares and parks across the world, often with some hat or basket set up to collect the donations of passersby. But that’s not what this is. Theses carolers aren’t singing in hopes you may voluntarily toss a coin their way. No, they rang your doorbell and are singing specifically to you to obtain money through your guilt.

It’s like riding the metro in many European cities where some street kid boards the car and breaks into song. If they sang from the heart and hoped for some patronage, it might be well enough. But, generally speaking, the subway singer will directly approach various passengers at the end of the melody to directly solicit funds.

For a long time, it was common to find hordes of dirty children attacking you outside of train stations or in city centers, attempting to appeal to your guilt and charitable nature with false claims about being hungry. They target anyone who looks like a sucker and sink their teeth into you like a pitbull on a steak.

Of course, I never pay out of coercion. Why should I give in to their will?

I have no desire to encourage them to continue such an existence. Even if they are being forced to beg by tyrannical parents or kidnappers, I feel no compulsion to enrich their masters. I recommend everyone approach the issue rationally and refuse handouts that promulgate an abusive environment.

You may think this is always the poor and downtrodden left with no choice but to beg for food money without the appearance of panhandling. If so, you’d be wrong. Even wealthy institutions like the church pry into your pocketbook in the guise of holiday cheer.

The ringing of the doorbell may not be gypsy minstrels.

Instead, it could very well be a couple of well dressed Romanian men in their 30s. They’re knocking on your door to collect money on behalf of Jesus himself. In fact, they’ll tell you it’s good luck for the new year to allow them to conduct a blessing right there at your doorstep.

All you need to do is give money to help enrich the church. In return, they’ll say a little prayer and splash you with drops of supposed holy water. Aren’t you lucky? A Christmas miracle has delivered salvation to your home! Rest assured that they do represent the blessed Lord. Who would lie about such a thing?

Good christians always need more money from the poorest and most gullible members of the flock.

In the United States, you get seasonal phone calls from the Police Widows’ Fund or the FireFighters’ Childrens Benefit. Sometimes these brave heroes die in the line of duty to protect you. You. Left behind are the helpless wives who have no means of income along with the traumatized children who suffer the pain of having lost a parent.

It’s up to you, you, to make the choice to soften their tragedy. You see, although the government pays reasonable salaries to these public safety officials such that they can afford new cars and trucks, decent homes, high definition televisions, frequent parties, and other niceties all on a single income, they are but humble civil servants who were unable to conduct financial planning necessary to care for their families in the event of accident.

Never mind that the government pays compensation to the family when a loss occurs. The facts are that every day hundreds of women and children are starving in the streets because murdering drug dealers and arsonist hoodlums have robbed our fine city of its’ best and brightest citizens, my friend.

Now, you can change all that, right now. You don’t have to be the one who allowed families to be ruined. What’ll it be, my friend? $50 to help the police man’s distraught wife? $100 to put food on the plates of the fireman’s toddlers? How much can you contribute to this worthy cause?

Meanwhile, in Romania, there’s recently been a new scam afoot.

While riding the train to Bucureşti, a very nice Italian couple asked if I knew what was the story behind the people with lambs around town. Having not seen such a thing, I couldn’t really answer. They told me what they had seen three or four different times in the centru and up on Poiana.

Apparently, folks on the streets of Braşov had been walking around with little lambs in their arms. They approach strangers, classically targeting those who look like tourists, the well-to-do, and the gullible. The pitch is that you can have good luck if you touch the lamb or, better yet, have your photograph taken with it.

There it was: the Lamb Scam. The grifter’s freshest iteration of social engineering in Romania.

You see, the lamb represents the new year and serves as symbolism for God. If you pay it some attention, then you’ll be lucky during the next ani and your wish-upon-a-star come true. Or, alternatively, the lord of heaven and earth will bless your life for the upcoming twelve months because you’re a true believer.

Whichever way opens your purse.

So, you get to pet the cute little lamb or have your picture taken holding the lamb. You get some sort of generic blessing laid upon you. And presto change-o, you’re sure to enjoy good fortune from the mysterious forces that govern the universe.

I had not personally encountered such a thing, but over the next days I did check with some friends around the country. It seems this custom is fairly new. Several people confirmed having seen it for the first time in December 2006.

But some people in Bucureşti have said it is about 2 years old, which leads me to believe it might have spread from the capital to other largish cities in Romania after meeting with some success.

On the train, about 20 minutes had passed since the pair told me the first information I’d heard about this scam, when what should providently happen? Yes, the compartment door opened and a Romanian man in his late 40s thrust a sleepy bundle of billowy white in front of my face.

Being a baa-aa-aad boy, I immediately began stroking the creature’s head and chin which it seemed to enjoy. The man’s eyes grew large with euro symbols as he anticipated an easy sale. Others though I had just committed myself to paying the guy for his good luck blessing.

Not I.

When I had satisfied myself, I thanked him and turned to talk to my fellow travelers. No one spoke a single word of Romaneşte and avoided all eye contact with the man, not wanting to tempt fate as I had. You can bet that after a moment of silence he concluded that I must not understand how things work.

He proceeded to carefully detail the arrangement whereby I was now obligated to pay. Afterall, the lamb had done its’ job of bestowing me with good fortune from on high. Thus, the bearer was entitled to compensation. Things became momentarily heated when he realized I was not hip to the program.

I steadfastly refused to pay and he talked about bad luck and offending God before realizing I’d had had him before he could had me. Quite displeased, he eventually wandered further down the train cars in search of easier prey. And we all laughed about the incident.

Then, on the very next night, while traveling from Piaţa Revoluţiei to Piaţa Universitaţii after midnight during Bucureşti’s celebration, I walked passed a little Roma girl holding another lamb who was trying her best to flag down victims over the noisy atmosphere. With very little prodding, my companion that night reached right out and started petting the lamb.

The girl immediately launched into her sales pitch about good luck from God during the new year and so forth, which we promptly ignored. Once the fun moment was over, we simply walked on and she called after us in a vain effort to collect money for services.

If you shove a dog, cat, rabbit, lamb, or other non-threatening animal into my face, I just might pet the little beast. You’re not going to play parlor games which con me into feeling I owe you money for superstitious pleasure.

Talk of the Almighty might garner you a buck from a fearful sinner. Whispers about the smiling sisters of fate might earn you coins from those inclined to believe in magic.

But don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. I’m not the one.

Ain’t happenin’, Jack.