One man, so much metaphor.

There is a beautiful, tree-lined street that runs through an older section of Odorhei.  Buildings on both sides, typical of the late 19th and early 20th century, have shops and cafes at street level and beautiful, high-ceiling flats upstairs, overlooking cobblestone courtyards and gardens.

Traffic on the street comes to a standstill every morning and afternoon as people head to work or home.  The town is in a valley, they don’t have a lot of options.  When I lived there I walked and, I admit, watched driver’s faces – expressing a range of emotions from complacency, to anger as they (usually) talked on their cell phones in the wait.

My favorite was always the guy in the Maserati.  Engines that big don’t idle well.  Every time he accelerated to inch forward it sounded like the beginning of a Grand Prix – a very particular Grand Prix to nowhere in particular. Like the others he promptly hit the brakes and waited in a long line of Dacias, station wagons and family sedans…

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