Hi. We’ve talked about the Romanian Way before. How often we've needed to say to each other, simply because no other explanation can suffice, Welcome to Romania. Let me illustrate:
A tank truck goes up and down our busy street spraying a thin layer of water onto the pavement behind it. Washing the streets can be a good idea, except it takes more than just wetting them. But I guess it DOES get rid of some of the dirt, because the dirt that was on the street is now splashed onto my car. Perhaps it’s a dirt relocation scheme.
Romanians expect a lot of responsibility from their flowers. They plant them and give them a good start (in Spring, I suppose; we’ve been here only since early August), then let them fend for themselves. And that includes weeding and cultivation, and edging around the flower beds. Impeccable grooming is reserved for one’s hair (personal style is very big here), and certainly not for a public garden or lawn. I believe this might be a holdover from earlier thinking that reasoned—why mow your grass when you can harvest it? And in the country, indeed, they certainly do. It all ends up on the haystack in your back or front yard. Cut, raked and stacked by hand, of course. City parks, of which there are many and potentially very lovely, all seem to have that disheveled bedhead look of grass that’s about four inches too long. But this is a North American speaking here, with values clearly distinct from those out here. The litter problem is the same. Public space isn’t MY space; why bother? But long-term ex-pats out here claim that these situations are getting better by the year. In today’s meanderings about the city, we saw a mobilization of clean-up staff such as we’d never seen here before. There seems to be a frenzied attempt to put on a gorgeous face for the Bucharest Francophonie convention that’s gathering Francophones from all over the world this week. Every litter bit of cleanup helps, I suppose.
Security is a really big industry here. They say paying a guy in a uniform here is cheaper than installing video surveillance equipment. And there’s no point ever in saying “Buna sera” (good evening) to a video camera, is there. Millie just took some leftover desserts (party earlier today, Sunday brunch) over to our security man, on her way to do some weekend catch-up at school. It was explained to me that “security” is too official a term to describe him, but what else can we call him—he “keeps an eye on the place”, they told me. And he holds the elevator, helps with your packages if needed, does crosswords on the steps, and lends general friendliness to your comings and goings.
In the supermarket below our apartment (that term is generous as well, I mean the word super) there is a cadre of at least three security people at all times, and this establishment is only a bit bigger than your average 7 Eleven back home. They observe you in varying degrees of subtlety. The lifers (in uniform) kibbitz with the checkout personnel (2), barely look at you, and will even on a good day help you pack your groceries, while the young ‘uns, still needing to prove themselves worthy of a uniform sometime in the future, watch your every move. Indeed, these watchers-in-training watch like they are being watched how well they watch.
The other day, as I entered the Brico store (like a Home Depot), I espied an empty checkout counter straight ahead, and like we all do in any grocery store in Manitoba, I zipped through it unencumbered and landed in a clearing just beyond it, wondering which direction I should now take for my shopping mission. For today’s discussion, let’s call this point A. You know how there’s that frozen moment in time, just before a reprimand, when your brain registers that, for instance, there was security personnel at the door, and there was a sign that indicated the Intrare 15 steps to the right, and that you were in a frisky mood, and really pushing the envelope here. She barked a command, politely, mind you, that unambiguously indicated that I had transgressed the Romanian Way, and that I needed to utilize the Intrare like everyone else, and would have none of it, other than that I exit the way I had entered, go through the Intrare, and end up back at point A where I had intended to be in the first place. The correction circle route took about 7 seconds, but the dignity of her job had been affirmed, the uniform had exerted its authority, and another step in the Romanian Way had been learned by this newby still having fun.
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