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

Last night I had only a few hours of bad sleep. Around 3 a.m., I woke up hungry and needing to pee. Instead of choosing, I took care of both and ate my first giant torpedo sandwich. A glorious decision, since everyone knows that eating at night is the pinnacle of health. Five hours of packing and watching TV had made me completely forget about food. I didn’t go back to sleep.

The flight to London was good. I was first at check-in (the Bolt driver was a class act, but more on him later), and my large suitcase came in 300 grams under the limit – without a scale at home. Yay, me! No more weight worries, at least not for the luggage.

After landing at Heathrow, I ate my second giant torpedo sandwich under the astonished eyes of travelers in Terminal 3. It was a third of a baguette with turmeric, butter, Swiss cheese, and finely chopped ghiudem* (well, as finely as one can chop raw ghiudem with a blunt knife), with a red pepper on the side for balance. It did have a certain, shall we say, charismatic aroma.

When I finished, there was no one left around me. They had all probably gone off to stand in line for more socially acceptable food.

I went for a walk, to stretch my legs and test new perfumes. I like how Prada Peregrine smells, but it’s expensive – not as bad as the “atelier” lines, but still pricey enough that you don’t buy it on impulse. Every designer now has an “atelier” collection. I don’t know what the strategy is, other than trying to make you feel exclusive just because you paid two or three times the price of a regular perfume.

By then I was thirsty, but I knew I had treated myself to lounge access (for the first time in my life, and I’d actually paid for it), so at least I didn’t have to spend five dollars for a bottle of water. Little did I know.

At eleven, when I was supposed to check in, I showed up at the lounge where, reservations or not, there was a long line, and an Indian woman shooed me away without explanation, telling me to come back at 12:30. I muttered a few kind Romanian words under my breath and, tail between my legs, went off for another walk to get my steps in.

As I wandered around, I remembered a conversation with my cousin: “How do they know you won’t stay in the lounge all day once you get in?”
The answer: they only let you in three hours before your flight. After that, like it or not, you have to leave. You’re not rowing across the Atlantic for the sake of an extra cup of coffee.

My lounge initiative turned out to be a mistake. An expensive one, too, at a time in my life when I shouldn’t be making such mistakes. In the main terminal where most travelers are, there’s a constant buzz, a background hum I’ve grown used to after all these years of flying. In the lounge, it was the same noise, only amplified by the smaller space and a few kids running between tables like it was a playground. Yeah: relax if you can.

I don’t think it’s worth the money. It’s impossible to eat your money’s worth at their buffet, though one elderly Indian man who filled his plate three times was clearly giving it his best shot. As for drinks? Forget it, they cost extra. Apparently, complimentary drinks doesn’t mean what I think it does.

So instead, I went to the hot drinks machine and made myself a cappuccino. It came out as a mug of milk with a drop of coffee. Maybe I forgot what cappuccino tastes like – assuming I ever knew. I burned my tongue on the hot milk and poured an espresso on top. It gained some flavor, becoming semi-drinkable. The cocoa was better.

Meanwhile, I discovered the water bar with infused water. I drank about two liters just to get my money’s worth, then retreated to a small room labeled “Library,” reserved for guests with bookings. It was full of loud, self-important people. When the Indian attendant came to kick me out, I waved my reservation in his face and, pointing at the noisy bunch, I inquired as to whether “Library” didn’t mean you were supposed to keep quiet. I wasn’t particularly loved at that moment.

When the boarding gate finally appeared on the screen, I let out a sigh of relief. After a sleepless night, two torpedo sandwiches, an unfriendly lounge with a mediocre buffet, and about two liters of infused water, the ten-hour flight ahead felt oddly like a hiatus in Adventureland.

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* Ghiudem is a traditional dry-cured sausage from Romania, spicy and bold flavored, having the shape of a horseshoe (the one that I had was pressed, but not fully air-dried)
Here’s what makes it distinct:

• It’s usually made from beef and sheep, very little fat
• It’s heavily spiced – with paprika, black pepper, red pepper flakes, salt, thyme, and a touch of garlic (optional)
• The meat mixture is stuffed into natural casing, then pressed and air-dried for several weeks, which gives it a dense, chewy texture
• It’s uncooked but safe to eat once cured
• The flavor is intense, smoky, and slightly tangy, with a very strong aroma