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Posted Jul 25, 2010 in All Things Sex | 0 Comments

Fleur de Falaise

We arrived in Constanta sometime before one in the morning. We parked the beautiful blue Seat on Mircea Cel Batran, and headed for the cliff on foot. There was a wedding reception underway at Restaurant Zorile, and a young boy was playing a tune on a leaf for his mates. Dragoş and I stood on a bench, looking at the sea and the beach below. The black, restless waters were calling out to us with their hollow whispers, breathing like a wounded creature. The sea was like the beating heart of darkness. We’d been thinking about a nocturnal dip. But all the lights had gone out on the beach.

“I’m not going down there. There’s dogs everywhere.”

I flicked the butt of a Kent I’d just finished down the cliff side, and it tumbled for a long time like a little firefly before disappearing into a bush. The fire water had made us hungry. We left the bench behind and headed for the Old Town. There was a light breeze, and the streets of downtown Constanta were empty save for some Filipino sailors who were out buying groceries.

The Old Town, with its minarets and crumbling buildings, was a bit less lonely. We each got a shawarma from Famous and sat in a little park, where a few other people were looking at the night sky. The stars were beginning to hide behind some gray, anemic-looking clouds. I sank into my hoodie and finished my shawarma. I don’t remember what we talked about. I was getting sleepy.

Back on Mircea Cel Batran, a light August drizzle was now coming down. I only had a few days left before coming back to Montreal, and I felt in my heart like my country was crying for me. In my bladder, I felt that I needed an emergency wee. Dragoş took up a lookout spot on the street corner as I slipped into an alley. I let my flood gates burst open against the wall in front of me and, with the corner of my eye, spotted a gendarmerie car driving slowly past the alley. Amidst desperate hisses and low whistles from my sleepy lookout, the car stopped. Then it reversed. A gendarme got out and started walking towards me. Oh Jesus.

“Buna seara!” he called, politely.

“Buna seara!” I replied, shaking my pecker. When one is drunk, one often forgets those last little droplets. But I’ve always been a conscientious drunk.

“May I see your papers please?”

“Sure! Just give me a minute.”

I buttoned up and reached into my pocket. Luckily, I had my Canadian passport on me. The polite gendarme kindly asked me to follow him to the van, where several heavily armed men were waiting. We chit-chatted for a while as they verified my passport.

“Do you have any problems with the law over there?”

“I-uh…well-uh…no.”

“And the club you guys went to, didn’t it have any washrooms?”

“Well, we didn’t go to a club.”

“I see. Is that what you do in Canada too? You pee on the street?”

“No, ‘cuz they got washrooms everywhere in Canada.”

I knew I got the bastard, so I had a big dumb-ass grin on my face. The polite gendarme gave me my passport back and told me I could be on my way.

“Well, have a safe trip back to Bucharest! I hope you’re not driving.”

So we got back to the car and took off for home.

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