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

As is well known across two continents, we remodeled our kitchen. It took about six months, during which time I got to know the company’s entire crew of tradesmen. I documented the whole saga elsewhere. I tipped them well; I even gave them bottles of decent bourbon. All for nothing. I don’t think they worked any better or any faster.

I often thought of my father and how he handled handymen. They would come over twice: the first time, Dad would treat them to drinks and get drunk with them, in the finest tradition of Romanian hospitality. They’d leave stumbling home, often leaving their tools at our place so no one would steal them on the way. My mother would scold him, trying to explain that people had schedules, and that every Bacchic adventure ruined a workday and cost a man money. Dad, already tipsy, would respond by swearing at her.

The next day, my mother would send him out to buy parsley just as the worker was due back. The poor man would breathe a sigh of relief when he saw only the lady of the house and realized he wouldn’t have to get hammered again. No doubt he’d gotten an earful from his own wife too. Toward the end, my old man would reappear, press a fistful of cash into their hands, enough for that day and the lost day before, and they would part as friends.

Around late August of 2016 they began raising scaffolds and wrapping the apartment block in insulation, whatever the official term is, some EU-funded thermal rehabilitation miracle involving foam, mesh, plaster and probably corruption.

I arrived in Bucharest after two weeks absence. Scaffolding already wraps the building. The boys are supposedly working hard. Or so I think.

Day one – I return from wandering around Obor Farmers’ Market at about four-thirty in the afternoon, and a man who is definitely not my father opens the door and strolls through the apartment as if he owns the place.
“Gramps is with the boys,” he says. “Come to the kitchen.”
I walk in and nearly faint.

Three workers are sitting on a plank outside the eighth floor, legs dangling over the void, having coffee. Another one, clearly management material, is in the living room reading at our bookcase as if he were in a public library. My father is giving them history lessons. They are listening, mouths open.

After half an hour, the youngest starts fidgeting.
“What is it, boy?” my father says. “Bored already?”
“No, Gramps,” says the kid, “but I gotta go get laid.”
“Right then, son, go!” my father replies gravely. “One does not trifle with such matters.”

Naturally, a passionate debate follows.
I join in, like a clueless provincial.
“It wouldn’t happen to be the girl from the wine shop?”
The boys stare at me in disbelief.
“Of course it’s her. Who else would it be?”

The wine shop was on the ground floor, and the girl there had A body.
A BODY.
And she wasn’t shy about displaying it. She would sit in front of the shop on a folding chair, stretched in the sun like a lizard, those magnificent legs in full public view.

If it were a painting, I’d call it Fruit Ready for Picking.

Time passed. The project dragged on. The boys drank heroic amounts of coffee. Now it gets interesting.

The new windows appeared: installed, foamed around the edges, and God have mercy what else.
No windowsills. No finishing.
You want straight edges? Extra.
You want corners? Extra.
You want civilization? Not in the contract.

We paid. Overpaid, actually. Because my father bragged about me coming from America and, as we all know, here the money grow on trees.

On the tiny bathroom window they produced a manifesto piece, a visual essay on the Romanian handyman. We all know Dorel, that folkloric laborer who works little, works badly, and whose catastrophes become legend.

As luck would have it, one of our workers was actually named Dorel. And yes, he did the bathroom window.

On the balcony, honestly, I thought nothing good could possibly come of it.
But after some “borrowed” slabs of polystyrene, a skim coat of cement, and some paint (also “borrowed”), it looked surprisingly decent. Suspiciously decent.
I was beginning to believe in miracles.
The boys even drove two massive ten-inch spikes into the wall so Gramps could string clotheslines, because a Romanian balcony without laundry lines simply does not exist.

Only the ceiling they botched. Actually, not botched – because it wasn’t part of the project, it wasn’t even touched by the workers. Not even for extra money. Too much work.

But why do a job 100 percent right and ruin tradition? Something has to remain crooked so people know the work was done in Romania. In our country, perfection is viewed with suspicion. Or maybe a flaw is left on purpose, so nobody casts the evil eye on the work. After all, we live in the land of It’ll do.

Merge și-așa.

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Exterior Polystyrene Insulation for Apartment Buildings

Exterior insulation using polystyrene is the most cost-effective and efficient method, suitable for apartment buildings.
What does it involve? The process is similar to interior polystyrene insulation. The stages include:

• Wall Repair: The first stage involves repairing the exterior wall, if and where necessary.
• Preparation: Preparing the surface for the polystyrene cladding, which consists of priming the wall.
• Installation: The polystyrene boards, of the appropriate thickness (3-4 in), are bonded with adhesive and fastened to the wall using insulation anchors (dowels).
• Finishing: The joints are covered with fiberglass mesh, secured with adhesive. Finally, exterior plaster and decorative plaster are applied over the surface.

Exterior polystyrene insulation is not the only method for the thermal rehabilitation of apartment buildings. Other solutions for thermal insulation include:
System Upgrades: Repairing or replacing heating systems and old radiators.
Joinery Replacement: Replacing old wooden window and door frames with PVC or aluminum alternatives.
Balcony Enclosures: Enclosing balconies with double-glazed windows (thermal panes).