Romanian Roma Everywhere

Do you remember I promised I would write about people? Well, I got a call yesterday morning. The guy who called me is British, married to a Romanian woman. Her name is Gabriela. They run a charity in the UK but they also come to Iasi county from time to time, to Gabriela's village. The news about the Romanian gypsies and the camps they have in Italy, the crimes they commit there and the whole pan-European scandal triggered by the Romanian Roma people traveling around made Gabriela's husband call me. He used to be a gangster once. Went to jail, got out, met Gabriela, married her and became a charity worker. The big guy with the big heart. I've never met him, but we speak on the phone. Well, anyways, yesterday he called to tell me that what happens in Romania on TV is not right at all. Why are they talking only about Italy? Gabriela, you know, works as an interpreter for Roma people in England. He knows these people. He has seen them everyday. They claim they're very poor, they have too many children and the British state gives them housing, and allowances for children. Nice guys, these British people. And what do the Romanian gypsies do? They cheat. They don't work, they never work, they steal. Mr. Jones was almost angry on the phone. Gabriela goes to these people's houses everyday. And what does she find? The same 4 children in every house. They all claim the children are theirs. What else? Stolen wallets all over the floor, credit cards you name it. They say they eat from the garbage bins. Guess what, wrong again. Gabriela and her husband know they eat very well because they steel from the supermarkets. The supermarket bodyguards already know what to expect when they see 10 Romanian Roma entering. They know they can catch one or maybe two, but the rest will get away. Mr. Jones went on and on endlessly. I kept saying to him I would call the Iasi correspondent. He was puzzled. He didn't understand why nobody says the things he said. I tried to give him an explanation, and the only one I found was that, ya, we are a bit afraid of a truth like that.