August 15, 2012


This is not at all how I imagined my comeback. But a while ago a very wise friend of mine told me that he knew I was happy and serene because the blog was so quiet and apparently people tend to write more when they are sad and nostalgic. I wasn't sure I agreed with him, but I guess he did have a point because the past two days have been anything but happy and serene and here I am, back to writing.
On the 13th of August, El Santino was stolen and - the horror! - he was stolen from my block, where he was safely fastened and quietly waiting to take me to dance practice. As if this wasn't enough, gone were my wonderful red dance shoes and my panther dress. 
Luckily my dance partner was around and somehow managed to prevent a nervous breakdown, which inevitably took place a few hours later, while we were at the police station, waiting for someone to pay attention to us or to pretend to be doing their job. I don't know why, maybe because it was late, maybe because nobody cares about stolen bikes worth 50 euros, there are probably countless reasons why I had to deal with the most incompetent policeman I have ever met. Not that I met so many, but this guy was beyond all jokes and folklore about policemen. Not only did he not know that Romania was part of the EU, he looked at my passport and claimed he couldn't read Cyrillic, he could not handle simple calculations and was unbelievably rude, but in the end it turned out he could not even spell right. He kept asking if I could speak Polish and if I understood what he was saying and then printed out the statement he had written which was so full of mistakes it would have made a 10 year-old blush. And then he sent me home, telling me to go look for my bike on the Internet, maybe someone will eventually sell it or check out the flea market on Sunday and call the police if I find anything. 
I'm pretty sure El Santino is gone for good and no matter how heartbreaking this is I have to accept facts. 
To the one who dared touch him and take him away, with his pretty basket and his Cuban registration plate, I hope La Regla de Ocha comes biting your ass without you ever knowing what hit you, I hope you find out his brakes were broken only when it's too late and most of all I hope you never ever in your life experience what a good compañero he was. And whoever tries dancing in my perfect Latin shoes, I hope you won't even do the basic right.
As for me, I'm lucky enough to have good friends who are willing to give up their plans in order to go shopping on a cold and rainy and moody day. And so, I am pleased to present Santiago: 

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