I was born somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains, the third child of a French deconstructionist philosopher and Romanian Orthodox nun. They later gave me up for adoption to an English archaeologist working his way through the Roman remains of central Romania. The English archaeologist took me to London and after his untimely death on the steps of the British museum; I lived as a street urchin on the London Underground.
It was there, while riding the Northern Line toward Tottenham Court Road on a rainy afternoon, a London based reporter for the American radio network “National Public Radio” interviewed me. The interview concerned the plight of orphans in Bosnia. Though I was a Romanian orphan of French descent, this didn’t seem to matter. My segment was subsequently broadcast to much critical acclaim. The reporter eventually won the Pulitzer Prize for Best Reporting in the “Foreign Gritty Human Drama Set to Winsome Clarinet Music” Category. It seemed the Volvo driving, Starbucks drinking, LL Bean wearing, organic food buying, expensive vacationing listeners who thrive on NPR really enjoyed the raw, earthy emotion in a story of a half Romanian street urchin who sold Orthodox icons to fund his Wellbutrin addiction.
After the broadcast, the reporter took my story and wrote a best selling novel which made him extremely wealthy. Whether out of guilt or fear that I would overcome my illiteracy, read the novel and harbor bitterness at being cheated out the riches gained on the back of my suffering, he bribed two State Department officials and secured me a Visa to attend Duke University in Durham, North Carolina.
When not living the life described above, he is a United Methodist Minister, sheltering with his wife, children, and dog along the Outer Banks of North Carolina.