Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

You can take a Popescu out of Romania, but you just can’t take Romania – or its old habits – out of a Popescu. So, we (Mom, Dad, Uncle, Auntie Lala, and Yours Truly) left for Vegas at 6 a.m., to beat the morning rush. Allegedly, the drive was supposed to take four and a half hours. Naturally, we made it in six. Traveling with retirees is a lot like  traveling with toddlers, only a little more articulate. Happily, we were just in time for an early check-in at New York-New York, thanks to a kind-hearted concierge who, I suspect, took pity on me for wrangling four fiery seniors. Honestly though, my crew was so charming, I think the early check-in was mostly for them.

Why did this Vegas trip pop into my head now? Well, my Big Boss, an Englishman, will be visiting Las Vegas for the first time with his family. So, in a sense, he is about to become An Englishman in Las Vegas. During one of his famous “Meetings without a subject” (the best kind), every American who’d ever been to Sin City jumped in with advice – except me. Four times, I unmuted myself on Zoom. Four times, I chickened out. The Americans’ rapid-fire, thousand-words-a-minute pace, combined with a serious case of Imposter Syndrome, kept me quiet. Plus, even if I had started talking, my accent is so thick that they would only have begun to understand me by the third sentence, by which time, three other people would already have begun speaking at once.

I read somewhere that the sexiest accent is Australian, followed by the British. Maybe so, but I think the French deserve a top spot with their rolling ‘r’s and effortlessly romantic flair. Of course, I’m probably thinking of the golden age of French music, when Serge Gainsbourg, Jean Gabin, and Charles Aznavour were the iconic voices. And then there’s Popescu – who, when he talks, sounds more like a chainsaw gnawing its way through an oversized box of nails.

One of the tips offered to my boss was, “Ignore the guys handing out postcards of almost-naked women advertising themselves or their friends.” Well, after all, it isn’t called Sin City for nothing.

I remember my own guys – distinguished gentlemen – walking down The Strip, magnets for those postcard peddlers, never saying no. Later, in front of the Bellagio fountains, while the ladies admired the water show and the music, the boys were trading the cards like two horny teenagers. I was a little envious: I  had only gotten two – from people who probably still regret having given them to me. I just don’t look the part. The whole “pretend like you belong” thing doesn’t apply to me. All my Vegas trips have been with either my mother, my son, or my wife.

By the end of the trip, each of them had accumulated the equivalent of a full deck of cards (after I generously donated mine). It was at that point that my mother – an incredibly cultured and well-educated woman – turned to me and said, ‘Stefan, my dear, I’ve never seen anything so kitschy in my entire life. But I LOVE it!’