Why is it, that when a uniformed man with a European accent asks where we're going, we feel lucky if we actually wind up arriving there? It's as though we half-expect a border guard to say, “Rousse?? What do you mean you're going to Rousse? You can't go to Rousse, you silly Americans.”
Slovenia, not Slovakia, as I said in my Laibach entry of the other day. (Thanks, Andrei!)
I have this ritual: Check out uniform until guard notices. Look away. Sneak glance to make sure he's looking elsewhere. Check out uniform until guard notices. Look completely innocent. Check out uniform. Wonder how he's supposed to yank that nightstick off his back in an emergency. Check out cool boots.
I think police officers here simply think you deserve what you get if you're fool enough to jaywalk in Bucharest. Why issue a ticket? The person probably won't live to pay it.
And it was. By noon, the faucets were gushing. Of course, it was several minutes before they were gushing anything I actually wanted to touch, but at least the toilet would flush.
He has a tough-looking face that is chisled enough to really catch the shadows in a dim bar. The kind of face that surprises when it smiles and makes me wish I had the patience to be a painter.
There was an opening among the spines on top through which produded a sort of antenae with an orange eye on the end. It could retract this at will.
The message I got from tonight is, there is a dark side to each and every “great” country out there.
A couple of guys we met—one of whom has a radio show in town and another who works for a record company—told me and Mark that the vocalist has been performing this music since Nicolae Ceausescu's reign. It was illegal then, because the Communist leader didn't approve of any music with Western influences.
I didn't take into consideration the possibility that there might be naked people in the next room.
The streets all curve, so there would be absolutely no way to spot a band of marauding ninjas if they were laying in wait.
We wondered what will happen to the parks when foreign developers come. Maybe they will be turned into parking decks. That would be the worst thing that can happen. People don't have front porches to sit on here. They don't have yards to get them out of the house.
It turned out that the anouncement pretty much said, “Abandon all hope ye who ride trains. It ain't coming today.”
There was a giant Sirius Black-type creature who said very clearly he intended to swallow us whole.
It snows at night but is usually gone by morning. I'm glad. After one day of snow, I now always speak of the snow by a pet name I'm probably not allowed to use in this blog.
Pink striped stockings. Polka-dot stockings. Fish net stockings. Purple stockings.
They don't fly away here—they simply scurry under cars. They're very well fed, and every single one has Popeye muscles.
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