Mike Ormsby - Never Mind the Balkans, Here’s Romania

A book I recommend to those of you with a good sense of humour is Mike Ormsby’s “Never Mind the Balkans, Here’s Romania”. If you’re easily offended, this book is not for you. I’ve always liked to believe that Romanians love self-irony, have a great sense of humour and I really hope that we will never grow to be become proper Europeans as those who kneel on the altar of political- correctness. I know some of you might not like what I’ve just said (I got used to it by now), but I hope we’ll continue to be the plainspoken people to make jokes on ethnic minorities stereotypes – no malice behind these jokes, it’s great to enjoy the ethnical diversity, don’t tell me you’ve never teased your friends?

Thoroughly enjoyed reading “Never Mind the Balkans Here’s Romania”, it made me laugh out loudly at times, and I felt that Mike Ormsby might’ve been encouraged by our sense of humour to write such an honest novel. I might be wrong, so best way to go about this, especially since Mike has accepted our invite, is to add this to our interview questions.

I’d like to thank Compania for allowing us to share the following excerpt with you. I was a very difficult choice; I just couldn’t decide which chapter to go for. The fact that at this very moment I am on my flight to Bucharest did help, so there it goes, hope you enjoy reading it!

Travel Broadens the Mind

In Rome’s Fiumicino Airport, fifty passengers wait quietly in a long curving line for the Bucharest flight. Everyone looks tanned and wears bright summer clothes. Some carry bags from the glittering Duty Free. People chat in Romanian, French, Italian, English and some languages I don’t recognise.  It’s nice to be in Italy in July, with all the other nations. I’m near the front of the line, feeling calm and relaxed after a long weekend with an old friend (…). After about forty minutes, a group of five latecomers arrive – four young guys in bright T-shirts and gelled hair, with a heavily pregnant blonde woman aged about thirty.  I’m close enough to hear what happens. The guy leading the group plops five Romanian passports on the counter.
“We want to board”, he announces, “my wife is pregnant.”
“We’re not boarding yet, sir,” replies one of the elegant ladies behind the desk.
“Well, we have to go first. She’s pregnant. Look, can’t you see?” He jerks a thumb at the blonde woman, who obliges with a wince and a smile. The Italian official replies:
“Sir, when we board you can go ahead with her, but not your three friends. See the queue? Some people have been here an hour, so please go back to the back and…”
But he just shakes his head.
“She’s pregnant,” he says, louder, “and we’re all together.” The Italian lady ignores him. After a moment, he gives up and turns away to tell his wife. She folds her arms and rolls her eyes. The three men waiting with her swap horrified glances, as if they’ll never see each other again. One throws his hands in the air, moaning as if he is the victim of an international plot. But they don’t join the queue. They just stay where they are, chatting amongst themselves and comparing passports. Some of the Romanians in the queue glare at them. French dames in silk scarves exchange glances. German kids look up at their mums, hoping they might explain. (…)

Later, in the queue for the flight back to Bucharest, a handsome young man behind me is yapping loudly on his mobile in Italian. His hair is slicked back, black stubble covers his jaw and he wears an expensive-looking linen suit. But there is something rather unconvincing about the way he behaves. He’s like an actor performing for everyone in the queue, including myself. He keeps glancing sideways at us, smiling and fluttering his eyes, as if inviting complete strangers to share his dilemma. I notice a trio of young women staring at him. Their hair is coiled into dreadlocks. They have battered rucksacks with sleeping rolls on top. Paperback novels poke from the side pockets – students in their gap years perhaps. They exchange puzzled looks. One of them seems to be trying not to laugh at the flashy guy in the suit. I’m wondering why until he spins on his heel, turning his back towards me. He stands yapping into his phone, admiring his glossy shoes. Then I spot what the girls must have spotted: he has a yellow Post-It note stuck to his back on which someone has written in big letters, with a felt pen, in English: I’M A ROMANIAN GIGOLO.

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