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About Tiraspol

First off, that Escort? Cute as a button! Reminds me of them little critters in “Tabu”—y’know, that movie I’m plumb crazy ‘bout? Miguel Gomes spun that tale like a fiddle singin’ sorrow, and I see the Escort like Aurora in her wild days, zippin’ ‘round, free as a bird. “The past is a grotesque animal,” she’d say, and ain’t that the truth with this car? Started out all boxy and humble in Europe, then strutted over to America like it owned the joint. I love that spunk! Makes me happier’n a pig in mud.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m talking buckets. I scramble to find cover, and I end up ducking into this little shop on Strada Vasile Alecsandri. It’s a tiny place, but they have the best pastries. I grab a napkin to dry off, and the lady behind the counter just laughs at me. “You’re not the first!” she says. I guess I’m not the only one caught in the rain.

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