Prologue 002 - The Illegal Sausage Operation

Bucharest has a mind and a momentum of its own. Coming from blue sky Florida - leaving sun world - entering gray world feels like I’m crossing a threshold.

February is cold and damp. Not “moody Seattle gray.”

Not

”romantic Paris drizzle.” A Soviet era gray jungle. Concrete poured by men who did not believe in round shapes and throw pillows.

Midsized Romanian skyscrapers own the sky like enormous Jenga blocks. I abhor cookie cutter suburbia… goes against every city-boy instinct I have. Bucharest is monochrome, unapologetically brutalist in some areas and filled with WHAT-IF.

What-if Romanians despise black Californians. What-if this overly enthusiastic American rents the wrong Airbnb, in the wrong neighbor, from an Airbnb owner who treats him like his Purebredded-Prize-Black-American?

I had no concept of what a real enemy looked like until I looked up and saw thousands of bombers flying over head.

Not planes. Pigeons.

Dear lord, the pigeons. Puff’ed up with yesterday’s food scraps.

More than China’s population and far from passive. These are think-necked, ex-street fighters. They waddle like flat-footed Tren de Aragua. According to Eastern European folklore Romanian pigeons plot.

Every Golden State Warriors hat is a target. Every freshly washed car, slow moving pedestrian a moving opportunity. They circle downtown dropping gray sludge free from consequences.

I’ve come here for one thing, but decided I’m gonna leave with two…

First - A rip roaring good time.

Welcome to Romania, baby.

ENTER THE DACIA

Listen!!… Hear that?

That’s the sound of acquiescence.

I am sitting in my Airbnb host’s Dacia. Imagine a tuna can with asthma. A Flintstones era vehicle that sounds like it chain smokes between traffic lights. The engine doesn’t just start, it throws temper tantrums.

Driving our rusted stagecoach - my personal maniac - he answers to Micu or Andre, mood depending. Should’ve been my first red flag. Five-foot-five, built like a retired circus bear and smells faintly of salami and Newport. A McDonald’s connoisseur who collects sweater-based ketchup stains on sweaters the way hedge fund managers collect Rolexes.

If this ride goes horribly wrong, do me one solid. Add “pallbearer” to his Facebook profile after Airbnb Host and Amateur Cultural Ambassador.

He grins at me with the joy of a man who has either found fifty Euros or misplaced his meds.

“Alex,” he says. “Today I show you real Romania. We go eat MICI. Traditional Romanian restaurant.”

Pausing for dramatic effect.

Inside someone house.

We lurch forward. Not fast. But forward.

Our rusted casket wheezes through intersections like an asthmatic dinosaur wearing a diabetes patch. Between the Dacia’s shallow breaths and death rattle, it occurred to me?

This is where a man learns who he really is… WAIT

SOMEONES HOUSE???

?

Serious Question. Where would you draw the line?

Where do you draw it… in kindness or confusion… when you’re 5,000 miles from your trusted Trader Joes and your Airbnb host knocks on your door like he’s rehearsing for that here’s Johnny scene?

Let me set the stage… 

Romanian apartment doors are built like vaults. Part iron slab part concrete. Thick enough to survive a .50 caliber round or mutant bear attack. I admired it the way straight men admire ripped gym lords.

Romanian doors say: “You Safe Here”

The apartment itself was a perfect Soviet cube. Functional. Warm. Stoic.

Every morning after a perfectly flakey croissant and black tea.

Boom.
Boom.
Boom.

Not a polite knock. A summoning.

“Alex!” Micu’s high-pitched voice pierced six inches of weapons grade door.
“I miss my Black Man today.”
“You have plans?”

Americans call this boundary issue.

Micu never asked, “Need more towels?” or “Is the Wi-Fi okay?” No.

He stood there. Smiling.

Just smiling.

And every time, instead of asserting myself — instead of saying, “Micu, my guy, chill” — I smiled back like a politician avoiding a direct question.

Closed the 1,500-pound mutant-bear-proof door.

And told myself this trip is about rebuking sameness.

AN OLIVE BRANCH

Next Morning

Boom.
Boom.
Boom.

Micu appeared holding a tray of strawberries. Bruised strawberries, slightly sad looking and lopsided. Presented like an apology bouquet from a man who probably Googled “How would Kanye apologize to Kim?”.

I ate every single one standing over the sink.

No sugar.
No rinsing.
No dignity.

Somewhere around strawberry six, something clicked.

Micu doesn’t fear me.

Back home, my existence arrives pre-labeled. Six feet tall. Bronx-born. Bay-raised. Draped in an overpriced luxury artifacts.

In America, I carry social expectations.

Here?

I’m just Shape.

A man eating unwashed fruit in a concrete cube.

Maybe Micu didn’t see “Black man abroad.”
Maybe he saw “friend.”
Or maybe he saw “interesting American with strong calf muscles.” It’s Eastern Europe. Who knows.

But for the first time, I felt unarmored.

The Summoning

Next morning

Boom.
Boom.
Boom.

“Alex! My black man. You put on sneakers. I take you to Romanian restaurant.”

Of course it’s illegal. Of course it’s inside someone’s home. Of course I’m going.

I did not fly across the Atlantic to live safely.

I didn’t liquidate years of accumulated sameness, sell two cars and loads to stuff just to order room service and watch Seinfeld reruns in a foreign country.

I came to see who I am without the algorithm. Without the performance. Without the curated, optimized, American sheen.

So I followed the circus bear into his Dacia.

Into the wheezing intersection.

Into whatever sketchy, underground, possibly-health-code-violating sausage operation awaited.

• Shape