I recently returned from Eastern Europe, which was fun. Not that you’re in Eastern Europe once you arrive: Everyone is quick to correct you. So it turned out I actually spent my time in Central Europe, then Western Europe, then Central again, and finally in Southern Europe.

Go figure. Apparently, there’s some “stigma” involved, I’m thinking.

The trip, overall, was pretty good. I only got robbed by gypsies once, and I didn’t run into a single soccer hooligan, which was cool.

I got my obligatory dose of amazing architecture, the kind of stuff that makes you grudgingly admit that, sure, America is a vacuous cultural wasteland populated by hicks and a—holes. But I sorta figured that was the case before I left, so the realization wasn’t as shocking or painful as it might otherwise have been.

My brief stint in a true Western European country (which is, as everyone who grew up in the ’80s knows, any country in Europe that wasn’t behind the Iron Curtain) turned out about as I expected: They resented my presence and treated me like a hick a—hole.

The message is pretty simple, as far as I can tell: If America kept them free from Soviet oppression during the Cold War, they hate us. So don’t visit. (Or wear your big Canada maple leaf T-shirt so they figure you’re not a real American when you visit. You are, instead, that northern variety they’re much more fond of, eh.)

Now, countries that had been behind the curtain, on the other hand, were enormously friendly. At worst, they treated me with slight suspicion, as they did in Romania. I believe the unspoken message there was: “What the hell are you doing here? Aren’t you afraid the wild dogs will attack you and kill you?”

’Course, as my wife enjoys pointing out, Romanians have had trust issues with strangers for centuries. It’s right there in Bram Stoker’s Dracula, when he talks about, uh, what’s-his-face visiting the Count’s castle in Transylvania. Villagers thought he was nuts.

And wild dogs don’t scare me, as my next-door neighbors have a pack that’d do any Romanian village proud. The trick is to not be scared, and to wear steel-toe boots.

Still, it was fun. And having watched and read plenty of pop culture tales, I was careful not to kill any gypsies, so I figure I did all right. Next time I’ll remember my maple leaf shirt for, y’know, connecting flights and stuff.