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

Ladies and gentlemen, as you already know, I’m slow. Not mentally, not emotionally. Physically slow.

My Lady says she can’t walk the dogs with me because my pace makes her tired and nervous. Nervous! Imagine walking so slow you cause anxiety.

My buddy Mișu isn’t any better. I told him twice to drag his butt out of the camper’s perimeter (it’s not like he’s shackled to the thing), and he fires back: “Your fault. You’re too slow.”

Apparently, I’m everyone’s problem.

Back to the swimming pool. I’m doing my thing, breaststroke, nice and steady. Next to me, there’s a guy who propels himself like he’s training for the Olympics (actually, he was training for the competition. Now he’s a swimming coach training to become a pilot. That’s him). Me, on the other hand, I’m an electric fishing boat – slow, steady, and not making any waves. He’s the speedboat.

And then, while swimming and thinking, epiphany!

Sunday morning, three miles into our walk, with less than 500 yards to go, Gicu stops dead and turns into a statue in the middle of the sidewalk. Hasn’t done anything like that in five years.

So I activate Plan M: call Mommy. She drives up. The second Gicu sees the car, he takes off like every rabbit in the park is hopping around right in front of him.

And that’s when it hit me: I walked so slow, my dog fell asleep on his feet.