Here’s a travel tip for you longer-term straini: don’t have packages sent to you in Romania.

Your first surprise will be to learn that the Romanian Post Office does not deliver packages to you. Spoiled western, how dare you expect service. How silly of you to think that merely because the package contains your address, it might therefore actually be intend to arrive at the inscribed location.

You will instead get a slice of dead tree with a hand-scrawled note, perhaps legible if you squint carefully with your head cocked to one side like a curious dog after a pepper spray attack, which announces that a package has been received.

Just not received by you.

It’s not because they postal carrier stopped by your house to deliver the package and found you not at home, as you might believe. It’s simply that Poşta Romana could not be bothered to try in the first place.

The notification will indicate the date you are allowed to retrieve the package. In that past, showing up one a different day might result in you being unable to obtain your package.

Never mind that you might be away from your apartment because you went to the seaside. Never mind that perhaps you have business obligations scheduled for the particular day assigned to you.

Feeling sick? A tad forgetful? Twisted your ankle? Detained by police for questioning after a particularly colorful evening out on the town? No excuses. The notice clearly stated the date you were permitted to come to the post office.

Granted, the locals have begun a campaign to convince me that change has come to Romania and, perhaps, these days you’re given a 3 day grace period before the package is return to whence it came. One person claims a week, which is not entirely unreasonable, if true.

Mind you, showing up on the prescribed day (or shortly thereafter) during regular post office business hours is not advised. Rather, the paper alert slipped into your mailbox will let you know what hours of the day you will be allow entrance.

So, mark your calendars and set your alarm clocks.

In the recent past, the window of opportunity to collect packages was typically a scant handful of hours, but recent paradigm shifts in customer service have vastly expanded available service hours to almost a full eight.

This gives you plenty of time to sneak out of the office or ditch school in order to travel to the post office and find out if your package still available.

For those of you receive packages outside of Bucureşti, I recommend going as early as possible. In all the other Romanian cities wherein I’ve received packages from the outside world, you are often met by bitter employees working at a snail’s pace.

Typically, they’ll attempt to batter you with a confusing stream of paperwork and identification checks. Often, you must deal with one or more of their colleagues as the staff enjoy a good game of monkey-in-the-middle as much as the next bureaucrat.

Keep your patience, stranger. For what lies next is the fearsome Customs Officer who will glower at you with disdain, tear your carton asunder, and rifle through its contents hoping to damage whatever it can. When this ritual ends, they will point to one or more objects which require a dubious tax for which they issue no receipt whatsoever.

Congratulations, you’ve just bought the post office staff dinner.

Ah, but in the shiny happy sophisticated magnificently glorious beacon of ubermodernity, the capital metropolis of Bucureşti, you will more than likely will not have to subject yourself to unnecessary customs harassment.

However, don’t expect to go to the post office just down the block from where you live. That would be entirely too easy. Too convenient. Too logical.

No, no.

Check your package notification for the welcome news that you will be required to fight your way across town to some distant post office located somewhere you’ve never been before, so you can enjoy the adventure of becoming lost in the city.

But the best news of all is the pick-up depot has been carefully chosen to exist in a strategic location. A neighborhood famously awaiting your presence with open arms, straine.

Unde? Pantelimon. Drum bun!

Right about Christmas time, I took a little walking tour around part of the Decebal neighborhood to get a sense of how the season is celebrated and experienced by locals.

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?

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?

In the US, the traditional way to pay for metro bus fare is when you board the vehicle. You enter only from the front door near the driver, not the rear door. If you have a pre-paid monthly pass, you swipe it. Otherwise, you put cash into the collection device until it beeps happily. Exact change preferred.

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…

In 2005, you could find netcafes everywhere in Bulgaria. That’s all over now.

The independent internet cybercafes have all closed their doors. Not only in Sofia, but in pretty much every town throughout most of the country.

It seems that in just the past few years, Bulgarians have made the big switch en masse to owning a home computer and getting internet access, not unlike how the Romanian market has evolved during this same period. Advertisements are plastered all over the towns, announcing high speeds at cheap prices.

The internet providers not only put Americans to shame by offering speeds we cannot even buy, but they do it dirt cheap. 16 Mbps for 15€ in Bulgaria. Compare that to the United States, where you can only get a limp 6 Mbps and this slow crawl will set you back a whopping $40 or more each month.

And on top of it all, they provide wifi routers for all their clients by default. Yes, Virginia, a free wifi router –by default– provided by your ISP and preconfigured to be secure. That’s how it ought to be.

The economic impact should become obvious in 5 to 10 years, as Bulgaria leapfrogs from poverty to relative wealth. A strong internet infrastructure, very desirable real estate at growing (though reasonable) prices, and a well-developed tourism industry (Romanians should learn from their neighbors on this issue) all contribute to the boom.

Travel tip: Tourists can forget about finding internet cafes. They’re gone. Not just in the capital, either, but all across Bulgaria the well is dry. You can bring your iPhone or Eee PC and find hundreds of wireless connections on any given block, but you’ll also find out they’re secured.

Unless you’re in country for long period of time and get a 3G laptop modem, the typical tourist should prepare to be confined, largely, to your hotel for internet access. Make the effort to find out if any area eateries offer wifi by chance. Odds are they wont, since laptop-toting clients are still rare. If you get lucky and find one, you’re ahead of the game.

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.)