Some day I’d like to go to Romania (where Mr. Bechira hails from). Well, Romania and an atlas-load of other places. I imagine it is as rich and inscrutable as good chocolate. The streets will smell like bitter tobacco and criminally dark coffee. The women (even the crones) will be beautiful and not know it. The men will all have moustaches and from their waistcoats pockets their iPods will play angst-ridden electronica and they will smile, looking forward to sundown, when the wool-panted elders go to bed and the clubs open. Yeah . . . someday . . .