by Peter H Frank | Nov 30, 2015 | Culture, Life in Romania |
You can learn a lot about a society by the way people drive. The problem is I’m just not sure what that is.
I always found driving in New York City relatively easy. You raced up or down the avenues timing your ride to the timing of green lights. You did everything you could to avoid going crosstown. You cut in front of anyone. You swerved around potholes in the middle of heavy traffic after a pretend glance in the mirror. You battled other cars, avoided fighting taxis, and you knew pedestrians would run. And
as your car sped forward and you flew down the streets, you knew all was ok because everyone was doing it, like the instinctive fluid motion of a school of big fish.
Yield straight and left.
Driving in Mexico City was not quite the same. There, mostly you crept onto the city’s main streets and basically parked, sliding forward at about the same pace as the sun overhead. And while you kept an eye out for thieves, vendors in the road would walk past your car selling ice cream and water and garment bags and pencils. If you ever got as far as an intersection,
you knew whichever car’s bumper was the first one to arrive had just won the right to move the next inch. There was competition to be sure, but never did I find it aggressive or mean.
In Dallas and New Jersey and Baltimore, driving was simple. Most of the roads were straight. There were always some madmen around but everyone was so afraid of dying that people generally took care. In Los Angeles, it was like driving in a video game only a lot less believable. And in Washington, D.C., with all the avenues on diagonals, traffic circles and one-way streets, half
the drivers were lost, so you were always in good shape if you had any idea where to go.
In England, simply put, driving was boring. Except for the fact that everything was on the wrong side of everything, traffic moved politely as if everyone was waiting in a 60-mile-per-hour queue.
Yield everywhere.
Even driving a taxi 12 hours a night in Philadelphia was ok. It wasn’t the traffic and other drivers you worried about anyway. It was the ranting, gun-wielding passengers – who were almost as scary as the Yellow Cab’s Teamster bosses.
No, it wasn’t until I got to Bucharest that I truly learned to fear driving. It’s not the roads or the traffic that make traversing the city so scary. It’s the other drivers and pedestrians and the fact that all the lights are put in the wrong place. (In case you’ve not been here, the signals are sadistically located
Yield some more.
before you go through the intersection so when you find yourself halfway across an expanse of pavement about the size of Bermuda and you begin to see other cars moving at you, you have no way of knowing if you should stop where you are or play bumper cars up ahead. Even when you do stop in time, if you have the unfortunate luck to be the first at the light, they are now so far to the side or somewhere above you, you need to wait for the very helpful and friendly honking of the 20 cars behind you gently intimating in unison that the light has turned green.)
But then slowly you learn that to survive driving here, you must master only two things. Yes, only two things. Firstly, you have to assume that everyone is driving rationally and carefully just like you and then you must dismiss that thought entirely and instead anticipate them doing precisely the opposite of whatever you would expect.
With no right on red allowed here, you apparently have to wait to yield until you have the green light.
After you do that, then you’ll discover that whatever you’re now thinking is also not at all what they’ll do and instead you should anticipate that what’s most likely to happen is whatever is inconceivable for you to imagine them doing. And finally, you learn that’s not what they’ll do either. Once you know this, you’ll begin to be fine.
Fine, that is, until you run into the second small problem: pedestrians. (And please know, of course, that when I say “run into” pedestrians, I mean that literally). You see, because the streets are too long and there are not enough lights, the city is strewn with a few million random crosswalks painted anywhere someone wants one, across little streets, across big thoroughfares, a few that cross highways and one or two on airport tarmacs. It really doesn’t matter. What’s vital to know is that it’s your job as a driver to stop (now that sounds Communist to me, no?) and the way you know to do that is you must watch for one of the few million small signs, made of a blue invisible substance, that are somewhere not near the road. So as you’re driving and praying that the car to your left doesn’t suddenly swing right for absolutely no reason just as the guy backing out of his driveway into the road without looking will stop in time for the car driving along the sidewalk to pull into your lane you also are expected to be searching for some sign that you can’t see to warn
you that in seconds an old lady is about to step in front of your car.
Got it? Ok. Now that you understand this, let me tell you the really strange thing about driving here. There are no Stop signs.
That’s right. And when I say there are none, of course, I mean I’ve seen three. In the entire city of 2 million people, each of whom appear to drive eight or nine cars. Yes, three – and two of them were in the same place.
Don’t ask me why. For some unknown reason having to do with the homogenous Dacian-Latin-Saxon-Slavian-Magyan culture or perhaps an endemic genetic Bucharestian fear of octagons, the idea of Stop signs apparently never arrived here. Personally, my theory is that everyone expected the Americans to bring them when they got here at the end of World War II – and we know how that worked out.
I have no idea what these yellow boxes mean, but if I were you, I would yield here, too.
Now, for those of you who have never driven between here and the US, let me tell you that in America there are Stop signs everywhere. Even in parking lots and alleys and at the end of one-way streets. If there’s room, there’s a Stop sign. It’s part of our national philosophy: “If in doubt, make them stop.” (And if you’ve seen recent stories about our police, you know what I mean.) And if we don’t make you Stop, then we tell you to Go. No weak, in-between indecision for us. No sir. Because as Americans, you should know, it’s always more important to make a definite decision than to worry about being right.
And the fact is, in most of this country, there are plenty of Stop signs. Yet here? Instead, in Bucharest, everywhere, you are ordered to Yield. Not Stop. Not Go. Just Yield. In other words, don’t stop unless you have to – and if you do have to, then go ahead and pull out into the intersection and make the other guy yield to you.
One of the three Stop signs in Bucharest.
In a way, it makes sense. Of course, when coming to an intersection where there are busses and bicycles and cars and motorcycles and trucks and scooters and baby carriages and skateboards and shopping bag-laden old women chasing trams that are speeding left and right with another couple roads that all come together, you’re likely to consider the idea of stopping just a little if for no other reason than to miss out on a sudden and painful fire-consuming death. I also suppose Yield signs everywhere help avoid the complication that other cities suffer when they must explain that, though it says Stop, the sign also tacitly contains the concept “and then Go. ”
In some ways, of course, “Yield” is less harsh of a concept than the order to “Stop.” But given the decades of Communism when “Yield” was how you lived unless you wanted to go to jail, wouldn’t you rather read a sign that is more democratic and generally more honest? Yes, a sign that more accurately reflects the values of society. A sign that honestly conveys how people think and drive. I wonder what shape we should use for a sign that announces: “Warning: If you don’t hurry up, the other guy wins.”
by Peter H Frank | Nov 3, 2015 | Culture, How I Know I'm Not in New York, Life in Romania |
Source: http://www.evz.ro/constanta-lumanari-in-memoria-victimelor-tragediei-din-clubul-colectiv.html
“The March”
“Remus, hello! Over here!”
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
“Oh, my friend, it’s been a terrible few days. Just terrible.”
“Yes, I know. It’s unbelievably sad. You were at the march on Sunday?”
“Of course. Something had to be done. And thank god, 12000 of us showed up to show our solidarity.”
“What an incredible tragedy.”
“Horrible. You know, we just can’t sit by anymore and let this kind of thing keep happening. That’s why we marched. To do something. Something real. Something with impact. Something that will change things. To tell people we won’t tolerate this.”
“I hope so. This was a terrible …”
“People should not be able to get away with this.”
“I agree. The owners of these clubs …”
“I don’t mean just the owners. I mean the people who are responsible for this. The people in charge. In charge of society. Who are supposed to make things better. The people who let this happen.”
“Like the inspectors …”
“I mean the politicians. I mean the government agencies whose job it is to protect us and enforce the laws and make sure we are safe.”
“Yes.”
“You know, some of these victims were so young.”
“Yes.”
“It’s not fair. And there are people who were elected and appointed and are being paid a lot of money to ensure young people like these have a future.”
“Yes.”
“We pay these politicians to keep people safe. To protect them. To protect them from others. To protect them from themselves.”
“Yes.”
“And make sure they have a chance to live long and happy lives.”
“I know.”
“And be productive and be part of society. These were beautiful people. Innocent. And our neighbors and fellow Romanians. And there are people whose job it is to make sure these young people don’t get hurt and that they have a future. They are the ones who failed.”
“Yes. And you know, the older you get, the sadder it feels. When you reach my age, you realize more than ever that so many were really still children.”
“Yes. That’s right. Children. And these politicians are the ones to blame. They are the ones who need to go to jail. They have failed in their responsibilities. It’s criminal. They need to start enforcing the laws and making sure that these young children have a future. The police need to do a better job. The inspectors need to do a better job. The people we elect need to do a better job.”
“I agree. And you protested all that when you marched.”
“Well, no. It wasn’t the right time. We’ll do that later. But trust me, that’s what we were thinking. We need to stop this. And we mean it this time.”
“I hope so.”
“Really, it’s so painful. I feel so helpless. We all felt helpless. There’s nothing we can do to bring those people back. The tragedy is over and it should never have occurred. People need to care more and stop looking away. Somebody should have stopped this tragedy before it happened.”
“I agree.”
“Everyone deserves a chance to live without their lives always in danger. Everyone deserves to be protected. We need to force people in charge here to start doing their jobs. It was such a tragedy for those families and friends. It is such a tragedy for this country. To see lives destroyed like this is such a waste, such a terrible waste. You know, the real tragedy for this country is all the wasted potential these young people had. Don’t they realize we are all in this together? It’s not just the powerful and rich who matter. We are one society and everyone should be cared for. The real guilty people are those who could have stopped this.”
“I completely agree. There really is no excuse for not protecting this country’s children.”
“None at all. And we’re going to stop this.”
“Like those poor kids who died in that fire.”
“Absolutely. ”
“And the malnourished children who are living in villages.”
“It’s unforgivable.”
“And those kids on the street I see every day, not going to school and having no future.”
“Exactly.”
“So you’ll be going to that march?”
“What march?”
by Peter H Frank | Aug 24, 2015 | Culture, Life in Romania |
Several months ago, I came across something in Bucharest that was so unexpected and so
much fun that I was thinking to write a blog post about it. Until, that is, after a bit of effort, I was able to convince myself no one would find it interesting. So I eagerly and happily relieved myself of the chore.
Then several weeks later came an article in The Guardian titled “The secret history of 19th century cyclists” and, well, I decided maybe I was wrong. (Never had I realized the bicycle was such an important feminist tool.)
Still, I let it go. No one would know. Then The New York Times crept up with a story last month about the history of bicycling and the fact that some of its history was being enshrined in an ex
hibit at The Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. It seems the great American suffragette Susan B. Anthony (of the disastrous one-dollar-coin fame) once said cycling did more than anything else to emancipate women. (Apparently it was related to giving women the freedom to shop more quickly, or something like that.)
So, it seems, the world wouldn’t leave my laziness alone.
Maria Mihăescu, nicknamed Miţa Biciclista, pictured here in an undated photo from the late 1890s or early 20th century.
But that’s not why I’m finishing this post. No. Not really. I’m finishing it because I don’t think I’ve lived anywhere else in the world that would have placed a plaque on an old house in the middle of a city for a woman who accomplished what this one did. And I thought you should know.
The woman I refer to is Maria Mihăescu, otherwise known as Miţa Biciclista. Now, for you Romanians out there, I know I run the risk of prompting a laugh, announcing I’ve just discovered something like coal in Newcastle. But to you non-Romanians (and you know who you are), you too might find this as interesting as I. (And as a bonus for persevering, I’ll teach you a sweet little nursery rhyme at the end that you can sing to your kids.)
Now, I don’t want to boast, but I’ve lived in Bucharest for six years and I’ve visited maybe three museums already. Well, two, if you don’t count the Museum of Peasants where I only go to the gift shop. (I’m told the rest of the place is very nice.) I walk a couple miles most days and more than twice I have stopped to know where I am. The fact is I still marvel at everything, even though I stop to read nothing. To be very honest, I’ve probably read just a handful of plaques the entire time I’ve lived here. You know the ones I mean – those square engraved stones on the front of houses that announce for history that “the guy who lived here for three weeks in 1862 was rich and a dentist.” (See one 
pictured nearby. He was apparently a “prominent personality” when he didn’t have a flashlight up your nose.)
The fountain, outside her front door.
But back to my story. So there I was, ridiculously early for a meeting on a hot afternoon in a neighborhood in Bucharest that I thought I knew well. To kill some time, I needed to wander. A lot. Slowly. (Did you know there’s a water fountain stuck right in the sidewalk at the corner of Strada Biserica Amzei and Strada General Christian Tell? Neither did I.) And, lo and behold, I found myself a plaque.
“Miţa,” it said, “the Cy
clist House.”
At first, I thought this was only slightly interesting. They made bicycles here, or maybe Miţa, (pronounced: meetza) whoever that was, had been in the circus. But then I reached the end of the sentence: “…the first woman to ride a bicycle in Bucharest.”
The plaque.
Well, well. How about that? People back then sure had a lot of time on their hands, I figured. They must have been sitting outside their homes every evening waiting for someone to go by, just like now when you get eyeballed by those lines of friendly stone-faced citizens in all of those villages that you find yourself crawling through so you don’t get a ticket as everyone who lives there is sitting on wooden benches out by the road so they can stare at the strangers and feed the mosquitoes.
Yes, that must be what happened: In the sleepy streets of Bucharest one evening before 1900, all of a sudden, one old guy says to another: “Was that a woman who just rode by on a bicycle? By golly, I reckon that was the first woman in this great metropolis who ever sat on one of those contraptions.”
So, there you go. Within days, it was confirmed, and hurrays and huzzas were shouted all around. And this little woman from Dițești was honored and feted for finally having the gumption to give the two-wheeler a death-defying go.
And if you, too, just now, thought anything similar, then you, too, would be so far from right, you wouldn’t even know it was out there.
The house.
Because this sweet Miţa Biciclista was not that kind of sweet little woman. How to put this genteelly? Our heroine, Miţa, it seems, was a very good rider. Yes. Oh, yes. Very good, indeed.
King Ferdinand (who, by the way, husband of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter).
In fact, she was so good at riding, she was invited to ride the king’s bike. And, it seems, she probably rode it several times. That’s apparently why King Ferdinand gave her this classic Baroque mansion in a great part of town.
(The house, by the way, which sits on a corner, is right across one street from the French Embassy, which seems appropriate somehow, and right across the other from a big church, which actually in some ways also seems appropriate.)
And Miţa didn’t stop there. She also is said to have ridden the bikes of many prominent men, including some very famous artist, a Nazi-sympathizing Prime Minister, and the Portuguese King Manuel, who asked her to marry. She was also said to be the first lover of King Leopold of Belgium. It seems these men all liked her bike riding very much.
Yes, indeed. Miţa was some kind of woman. According to various things written about her, this daughter of a clothes washer, petite as she was with blonde hair and blue-green eyes, knew what she was about. She earned her nickname from a journalist who had fallen in love with her (if the dates are right, when she was 13 years old). She was also nicknamed Miţa Cotroceanca because of the gossip about her relationship with King Ferdinand, who lived at Cotroceni Palace here in town. Then in the 1940s, she married a general and eventually her finances began to suffer before she died in 1968 at the age of 85, presumably her bike-riding days well over.
The church, Biserica Amzei.
And while, I suppose, she’s no Susan B. Anthony, she did make a mark on the history of this country. Consider this from a somewhat overly serious article in the Journal of Gender and Feminist Studies last year. [Some proofreading changes have been made to the original.]
“…we can say that the functions and meanings of the bicycle get reconfigured through history, moving from means of transportation (18th century) to means of emancipation for women (20th century). As a consequence, in Romania we have Miţa Mihăescu, also known as Miţa Biciclista (Miţa the Cyclist). A controversial character of those times, Miţa the Cyclist becomes an exotic appearance in a society where the public/private – male/female dichotomy is strong, the public space being male dominated. Miţa the Cyclist is the first woman that pedaled wearing pants in Bucharest, breaking the social gender norms derived from riding a bicycle, and also through the outfit she chose to wear. I believe that Miţa’s deviations from the social norms were tolerated by the male dominant society thanks to the fact that she was a male chaperon, this label justifying her behavior to society. But still, in her case the bicycle was a symbol of emancipation, she was a woman that no longer depended on a man to travel in the public space, an independent woman that decided on her own the aspects of her life. A modern figure, Miţa was frequently mentioned in the Furnica magazine, thus certifying her modernity and the curiosity that she arose all around her, thus becoming the attraction of interbellum Bucharest.”
Yet another writer described her this way:
“The bicycle with a silver handle belonged to a thin and elegant daughter of Eve, with black curls, silk purple tight pants, with a pinkish blouse that freed fluffy sleeves, with tall boots and white silk headgear, wrapped around in white veil, from which two large needles Madame Butterfly style arose.”
So yes, here she is, Miţa Biciclista. Not a national heroine, perhaps, but a Romanian woman we won’t soon forget. (Thank goodness.)
Furnica magazine.
Indeed, I’m told by my wife that when she was a kid (not all that long ago), she often heard children shout out a rhyme (apparently, only when no parents were near). So now, all together, let’s sing it loud:
“Coana Mița biciclista
A căzut și și-a rupt pizda.”
Now, for any of you out there who have forgotten your Romanian, this translates literally to: “Madam Miţa the cyclist, fell down and broke her pussycat.” (Except her cat wasn’t there.)
Yes, indeed, perfect for kids. And anyway, in Romanian, it rhymes really well.
So now you know why I decided to write this. How could I not? What other woman do you know earns a nickname, a house, a plaque AND a dirty nursery rhyme just for riding a bike and leaving her cat at home? Ah, the good old days.
And where else but in Romania could you find such a plaque? In fact, how many other places would you find such a woman?
by Peter H Frank | May 29, 2015 | Culture, How I Know I'm Not in New York, Life in Romania, Politics |
“A Tall Blonde”
It’s been a very busy spring, but after an urgent phone call from my Romanian friend Remus, we had a chance to catch up.
“Hey Remus. Over here!!”
“Hello, my friend.”
The Romanian Parliament. [Source: http://www.rri.ro/en_gb/parliament_to_resume_its_activity-21585]
“Yes, yes, I want to talk to you.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Hang on a second.”
“So, how was the US?”
“It was good. Wait, wait.”
“What are you looking at? Oh, the news.”
“Look at that. There goes another one.”
“Another one?”
“Yeah. See? Another government official – this time a minister – heading off to jail. It’s unbelievable.”
“Yeah. It’s great isn’t it?”
“Well, I don’t know if it’s great. It’s good they’re catching them. But it’s sad.”
“No, it’s not sad. It’s great!! Listen, listen. This is what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to become a politician!”
“What?! Remus, what?! What are you talking about?”
“Yeah, that’s great, huh? And it’s because these guys are going to jail. Thank god for jails, right?!”
“Remus, no, it’s not great. But wait. What are you talking about? How are you going to be a politician?”
“Ah, it’s fantastic! I should have thought of this years ago. Let me tell you what happened.”
“But….”
“Wait. Wait. Let me tell you. So my sister has a new boyfriend.”
“Ok.”
“Yeah, just a couple weeks. Anyway, she’s talking to him on the phone the other day and he says, just suddenly, ‘I want to make your brother a politician.’ Yeah, that’s right. Just like that. Do you believe it? The guy says he can get me into parliament with no problem and I won’t have to do anything.”
“Remus, hold it. That’s really strange. Even for you. What are you talking about?”
“Well, you know, he’s a politician. And he says he knows all the right people and there’s nothing to it.”
“What?”
“Yeah, that’s right!!”
“Has he met you?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, nevermind.”
“Can you believe it? Seriously. A real job. Can you imagine? Great food. Free trips. Nice clothes. A car. A car with a blue light on top!! No responsibilities. And so much money, I won’t know what to do with it all.”
“Remus, I don’t think it’s…..”
“Have you seen those guys’ watches?? And their houses????? They have like 10 of them. Oh, and girlfriends!!??? Who knows how many of those?? And the guy who cuts my hair said some of them even get paid in gold bars. It’s like free. All you have to do is get elected. Or appointed. Or whatever.”
“Remus, wait. Really. I’m completely confused. You can’t just come out of no place and suddenly be in parliament.”
“Ha. Have I ever told you how American you are? Of course you can. Where do you think these guys come from? And the best part is, my sister’s boyfriend says there is a huge opportunity right now. He said there’s really a need. Uh huh. That’s right. He said the country’s about to run out of them. In fact, he said if things keep going like they’re going, there won’t be any politicians left!! So he says for the good of the country, I have to do it.”
“But Remus. You don’t have any experience. In fact, you’ve never actually had a real job. Not for long, anyway.”
“Yes, I know. I know.”
“In fact, when we first met, you had no idea what you were doing.”
“Yeah, I know. My uncle owned the company. They fired me after he went to jail.”
“Remus, I was going to fire you!!”
“I know, I don’t have any experience. You’re not the first one to mention that. My sister said the same thing, but then she told her boyfriend. And you know what? He said that’s perfect!! He said none of the politicians have experience. He said it just gets in the way. He said it’s better if you come in with no ideas at all.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he said they even make fun of the guys with experience. They call them, umm, techno-rats, or something.”
“Yeah, I think the term is techno-crats.”
“Yeah? Maybe. Anyway, who wants to be called a rat? Not me.”
“Ok, ok. Not to be completely negative, let’s say this is possible. Let’s say you’re just given a seat in parliament. And you don’t have to do anything. You still have to show up, right?”
“Of course. That’s why I get the car. It is a real job, you know.”
“Ok, but when you do show up, you’ll need to know something – or pretend to know something. If nothing else, you need to know enough so you’ll know how to vote.”
“Oh, that’s easy. The guy said not to worry. He’d let me know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yeah, he said someone would stop by my desk before anything happened and let me know what to do. He said that’s how everybody does it.”
“Ok, but what if you’re asked a question or something? What do you know about parliament? Or the government here?”
“Listen, I went to school. I’m not an idiot, you know. I vote.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, once. Almost.”
“Ok. So you’ve read the constitution?”
“Hey, dude, leave me alone with the constitution!”*
“Remus. What are you 12? You can’t say things like that. But wait. Ok. This is really confusing. Ok, but let’s say it’s possible. So what part of the country are you going to represent?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you have to be a senator or whatever from somewhere.”
“I know that. But I don’t know. My sister didn’t have a chance to ask him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when he was talking to my sister, someone stole his phone.”
“Someone stole the guy’s phone while he was talking on it!? Really? When did that happen?”
“A couple days ago.”
“And…”
“And?”
“And what did he say when he called back?”
“Yeah, well, he hasn’t been able to. Not yet.”
“No?”
“Maybe I’ll get a blue Maserati.”
“What? No wait. What do you mean he hasn’t been able to?”
“They’re not really supposed to have phones.”
“Who?”
“The prisoners.”
“The guy’s in prison?!!!!”
“Just for a little while.”
“What?”
“Ok, a couple of years.”
“A couple of years?! This guy, your sister’s boyfriend – or whatever – is in prison?!”
“Yeah, but he said it’s ok. He said the months are going by pretty fast.”
“Months? Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You just told me they’ve been dating a few weeks. You mean your sister started dating a guy who’s in prison?”
“Yeah, but hey, it’s not like he’s a bad guy. He’s young. He’s really nice. She said he’s really well-prepared.”
“Well-prepared for what?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what she said. My sister said he’s really cute. Well, she hasn’t met him yet. But from the TV, she said he looks really cute. Short, yes, but cute. Anyway, he didn’t really do anything wrong. My sister said he was just doing his job.”
“What? What do you mean she hasn’t met him yet?”
“Well, you know that she’s on that dating site. She’s had a bit of a problem finding a boyfriend, you know, that problem she has. Anyway, apparently this guy was a bit bored and, well, I guess after a few months, he got lonely. So they met on the site. Now they’re dating.”
“I don’t know if I’d call that dating exactly.”
“It is for my sister.”
“Well, yes. I suppose.”
“And he said it’s not so bad for now. It’s like a reunion. The best part, he said, is that when he gets out, he knows lots of places to buy things tax free.”
“Yes, I suppose he would.”
“Maybe I’ll get a Rolex.”
“You know, Remus, this is not a game. This is very serious stuff.”
“Well, maybe. But it’s just politics.”
“Just politics? Remus, it’s criminal activity!!”
“No, it just looks like that. My sister’s boyfriend says it’s that Basescu and that other lady. And I’m telling you, I think he’s right. And you know why I think so? You know how I know? Did you see a little while ago the head the investigative agency here got arrested. That woman. Whatsername. The one in Paris. I mean you know what her job was? She’s the head of the investigative agency for the WHOLE COUNTRY. And then, THEN….the head of that something integrity office – the NATIONAL integrity office! You hear me? IN-TE-GRI-TY!!! – I mean, c’mon. Seriously. How’s the guy in charge of this country’s INTEGRITY going do something wrong??!!! They wouldn’t let him if he tried!!! So when THOSE TWO get arrested, you know it’s political. No sir. Someone is trying to get rid of them. Someone definitely set them up. You know what I think, it’s that lady Kvetch. Well, and Basescu.”
“You mean Kovesi?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
“No, you said Kvetch. Kvetch means….”
“Whatever. And probably the Americans too. It’s you guys. You know that. You do.”
“Remus….”
“Ok, maybe not all of you. But you and the Europeans and probably some others. They don’t like us. You know, if you were Romanian, you would know that. They never liked us. You don’t know our history. Nobody likes us.”
“Remus, I really think you might be missing something.”
“No, I’m not. And you know what? You know how else I know it’s political?”
“How?”
“You don’t think I know the constitution? You asked me about the constitution? Ok. You know the most important thing in the constitution?”
“No. What?”
“You don’t know? I know. You want to know the most important thing in the constitution?”
“Yes, please. What are you talking about?”
“The most important thing is that we are a democracy. It says it in the constitution. Right? Romania is a democracy.”
“Ok. I don’t know that it says it that way. But yes, it’s a democracy.”
“And what’s the basis of a democracy?”
“Well, it starts with the principle that…”
“I’ll tell you. Majority rules! No more single guy, no more single bad guy can tell us all what to do. We vote. And you now what? We do what we want. And the majority rules.”
“Ok.”
“So let me ask you a question. This lady bigshot Kvetch says all the politicians are crooks.”
“Well, no, I don’t think she ever said that.”
“Ok, but she acts like it. So let me ask you, if they are crooks, then they’re not doing anything illegal.”
“What?”
“Well, because if she’s right, and everyone is a crook, everyone would be a majority, wouldn’t it? So if everyone does something, it can’t be illegal. Majority rules. See?”
“Remus, what? What? Wait. What?”
“Hmmm. Uh-huh.”
“Democracy doesn’t mean you just let people go because everyone does something.”
“No? Everyone parks on the sidewalk. You see any tickets?”
“Remus, I don’t know.”
“I wonder what color I should dye my hair.”
“What? What? Hey, are you listening to me!!?”
“You ever notice how many of those guys dye their hair? They’re old, they’re like, I don’t know, they’re like over 50 – oh sorry – and they have hair like, like, I don’t know, like Smiley. Hell, no one has hair like Smiley, I mean not if you’re more than 20. So what color do you think I should be?”
“Remus, I think your hair is fine. I think, be to honest, you have a lot of other things to worry about than your hair.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Well, you might have to write laws.”
“Don’t be silly. Politicians don’t write the laws.”
“Huh?”
“Politicians here don’t write anything. Even in school. We hire people for that. That’s why we’re politicians. C’mon you’ve been here for years. Don’t you know anything?”
“Oh, now it’s WE’RE politicians? That was quick. But wait, when did you say your sister’s boyfriend was getting out of prison?”
“In a couple years.”
“Well, for one thing, there’s an election next year. You’re going to have to run in an election.”
“Ok.”
“Well, that is going to require some preparation and some money. Remus, you don’t have any money.”
“No no no. My sister told him. He said he’s got a couple friends and money was no problem. Whatever I needed.”
“Wait. No.”
“Yes. He said he can call them anytime – well, I guess when he can find a phone – and they’ll bring over whatever I need.”
“No no no. Wait. You can’t do that. Remus, I don’t want to be visiting you in prison. You can’t just take money from strangers. You’ll need to report it. To someone. At least, I’m pretty sure.”
“Ok.”
“Well, that’s a lot of paperwork. Do you know how to do that?”
“Paperwork? Like what?”
“I don’t know. In the US, any donation more than $200 has to be publicly disclosed. So you have to keep track of it, give a receipt, report it, send in forms. Things like that.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m pretty sure we do that here, too.”
“Really? You have the same law? That’s good.”
“Yes, almost the same. Except I think it’s the opposite.”
“What?”
“Well, the guy told my sister something about the fact that I needed to keep track of any money I get over a certain amount.”
“Ok.”
“To make sure no one finds out. I think that must be the law.”
“Ummm, Remus, I doubt it.”
“Well, maybe not a law exactly. But, he said, that’s the rule. So that’s what we do. I guess we just do that voluntarily.”
“Yes, maybe.”
“We wouldn’t want anyone to get in trouble for denying the right to secret ballot, or secret giving, or whatever.”
“No, of course not. So what did that boyfriend say will happen when he gets out in a couple of years?”
“What do you mean?”
“When he and the others get out of jail.”
“Who?”
“The politicians.”
“What about them?”
“They will want their old jobs back.”
“Why?”
“For the same reasons you want their job.”
“Well, I don’t know. I don’t think they can do that. That doesn’t seem fair.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“They can’t come back. They were in prison.”
“I know.”
“Are they allowed to do that?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem right. I mean, they almost destroyed this country. They can’t come back and do it again! Can they? And kick me out of a job.”
“I don’t know if you can stop them.”
“Well, we should. We should figure out a way.”
“Yes, actually, this time, I think I agree with you.”
“They can’t take my stuff.”
“I don’t know if that’s the right reason. But you know, it won’t be that easy.”
“Wait. No. They can’t have their jobs back. They won’t have lived anywhere. They can’t be politicians if they don’t live someplace.”
“Remus, they still have their house. Or houses.”
“You mean they get to keep them?”
“Well, it seems they do.”
“Really? That’s not right.”
“So they’ll just become mayor or a senator again.”
“Oh.”
“And actually, I think they still have most of their money.”
“Really? You think so? Even the money they stole?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Then why did they bother sending them to jail?”
“They broke the law. They were sent to jail to punish them.”
“That’s not much punishment.”
“I don’t know. Prison’s not very nice.”
“Really? You don’t think so? I know some villages they should send them to if they wanted to punish them. I mean really punish them. I know one, it’s way up north…..”
“Remus.”
“Yeah, ok, right. Anyway, if they really want to punish them, they should take all their money and their girlfriends and stuff.”
“I’m not sure they can find it all.”
“Oh, yeah It’s hidden, huh? Like in Madagascar or someplace?”
“I guess.”
“You know if they started finding it all, then you know what?”
“What?”
“Then I say then we give them a choice. They can either give back all the money they stole – which would be everything – EVERYTHING – plus maybe a little more to teach them a lesson. And let’s say if they do that, they could stay out of jail.”
“Ok.”
“Or, we’ll make them a deal. They can keep it ALL – no matter how much it is – ALL of it – we won’t even look for it – if – IF – they move away and never come back. Never visit. Never call. Never take my job.”
“Hmm. You know, Remus, sometimes you’re a pretty smart guy.”
“See?”
“That really would be interesting. A fresh start here. A real fresh start. You know, yes indeed, that might be just the thing. You know what we could do then? Remus. Hey, you know what we could do then? Remus?”
“A blonde. That’s it. Definitely. I think I’ll get a tall blonde, maybe from Moldova.”
###
FOOTNOTE: * Special thanks from Remus to UNPR Senator Ruxandra Jipa.
