Anyone who is amazed that more than 45 percent of Romanian voters in 2025, in the repeat of their previously annulled presidential election, opted for a right-wing populist extremist nationalist with roots in the Bucharest hooligan scene (fortunately just barely unsuccessfully), should first see this fearless people driving a car.
The perceived small fraction of Romanian drivers (sometimes it seems only this subset is rampaging through the streets; the rest of the population with any sense would be well advised to limit their participation in car traffic to the absolute minimum) display unwavering faith in God when they drive their "masina" (pronounced "maschina"), their car, which can clearly speed faster than its driver can think. The ability to assess the consequences of their driving is far below the threshold of perception for these sometimes suicidal, sometimes homicidal Romaniacs on wheels.
"Pastrati distanta" ("Keep your distance"): Rarely has a warning been less effective than this one on Romanian highways since God instructed Adam and Eve to keep as far away as possible from the Tree of Knowledge. (Incidentally, the term "highway" is also relative in Romania: Any 30-kilometer zone in built-up areas is routinely perceived as an unacceptable restriction of one's self-realization. The definition of urban and rural areas is blurred anyway, given the chronically precarious state of the road surfaces: Four-wheel drive is a welcome necessity here, even in city centers; there's no need to venture into otherwise impassable terrain.)
Lead in the foot, wood in the head – that's how they like to drive in Romania, ignoring solid lines on the asphalt, interpreting speed limits as applying only to one axle at a time (truck drivers with trailers clearly think they have an advantage here). Estimating braking distances is only for physicists, few of whom are a positive presence on the road. The rearview mirror is rarely worth a glance, why bother, there's a plastic icon hanging from it, she'll sort it out. God be with us!
The country's accident statistics, unique in the EU, are deadly proof of the consequences of this way of thinking, insofar as one can speak of thinking in this context. Before a hill, on a bend in a two-lane road, we must all here resign ourselves to the comforting belief that we can entrust ourselves to the care of a higher power.
"Dumnezeu," the good Lord, will surely watch over the guy who, as a compulsively overtaking oncoming vehicle, is hurtling towards you on your side of the road, forcing you to slam on your brakes so he can just barely squeeze back into his own lane, which is far too narrow for him. Only to then, not shocked, but rather vindicated in his daring, launch into his next breakneck overtaking maneuver.
An experienced German driver, who has been braving Romanian traffic for years – no one knows how long this will last, as the man does not believe in Orthodox patron saints – sums it up like this: “In this country, one must not only take great care behind the wheel to protect oneself, but also to enable others to survive undeservedly.”
Yes, that's how we all learned it: participating in road traffic requires constant vigilance, caution, and consideration. Of course, you can also send up a quick prayer and simply floor it, God willing.
Sometimes, however, Dumnezeu simply has other things to do than prevent harm to even the most foolish of his flock in Romanian traffic. Even their devout shepherds of every denomination are not immune from the Lord turning away from them, as was recently demonstrated in Kleingroßdorf. Some saw this as divine judgment.
“The pope didn’t yield the right of way,” says the old Transylvanian Saxon, one of the few of his kind left in the village. “Your Protestant pastor was in a hurry and driving too fast,” counters his Romanian companion, pouring two more glasses of tuika (pronounced “Zoo-ka”), the Romanian fruit brandy. “Everyone knows he rushes from one church service to the next on Sundays.”
It's almost noon. Both the Protestant and the Orthodox churches in the village – which are right next to each other – have cancelled their services this Sunday. Instead, they're holding their morning get-together.
The Protestant pastor is in the emergency room of the Urgenta Hospital in the county seat, suspected of suffering a head injury after his collision with the priest. His entire congregation is praying for him, but there are few prayers because it is small. The priest, who is also being examined at the hospital as a precaution, appears to have escaped relatively unscathed. After all, he wasn't driving an old VW Jetta like the pastor.
The two drinkers, longtime acquaintances and good neighbors, raise their glasses. "Sanatate," says the Romanian. "God help us," replies the Saxon. They sip their drinks and gaze into the distance for a while.
“It was a beautiful, sturdy Masina that the Pope drove, a Volvo, I think,” the Romanian remarked. “The Orthodox Church has plenty of money,” the Saxon replied. “Our fortified church up on the hill could use new roof tiles. But nothing ever comes out of Bucharest.”
Silence falls. The bottle is still three-quarters full. The Romanian pours more. "Nothing good has ever come out of Bucharest," he says. "But your priest, may God protect him, was simply in too much of a hurry," he repeats.
The Saxon grumbles and empties his glass. "He has to be on time at least three times in a row in Saxon churches on Sundays. There aren't that many of us left, and we're scattered far and wide." "Yes," confirms the Romanian, matching the Saxon's swallow, wipes his mouth, and adds: "Well, a lot of you have left."
The Romanian pours more schnapps. The Saxon stares silently into the bottle of schnapps waiting before him. "But you have too many parking spaces in front of your church. Right next to ours," he finally manages to say. And he insists: "The pastor had the right of way!" The Saxon's face is flushed from the strong, homemade plum brandy, which sits before the two drinkers in a one-and-a-half-liter bottle disguised by an innocent-looking mineral water label.
“We have more churchgoers than you. Many more. They need space,” the Romanian points out. The tuika has clearly gone to his head. He leans back with his arms folded. “Giving way,” he replies, “doesn’t break God’s will. And God is always on the side of the priest. Your priest should have given way. Just like most of you have long since done.”
Two brimming glasses of schnapps stand untouched for quite some time between the two neighbors, who gaze into each other's eyes. The Saxon has a remark on his tongue, but decides against it.
The Romanian finally raises his glass. "Well," he says, "I will pray for your priest. After all, we are all Christians, together in God's hands." They drink to this fervently.
What else is there to do in Kleingroßdorf on a Sunday afternoon, without church service, without a pastor, without a priest? With a bottle of moonshine, from which two are sipping the same rotgut, but one is only tasting the dark side of the moon?