CRIN BOMBON: GOOD NIGHT, ROMÂNIA!

Crin Antonescu is a histrionic figure, a provincial actor who somehow stumbled onto the grand stage of politics. He has slithered through life like a slippery fish, gliding from one office to another without leaving behind anything but the echo of his own monologues. For a decade, he sighed his way through Brussels, a sort of bureaucratic ghost, handsomely paid for his absence. Initiatives? Nowhere to be found. Memorable speeches? Perhaps only in the mirror, admiring his own pomposity. Achievements? Well, if laziness were an Olympic sport, he’d have come home draped in gold. I fear he may turn out even worse than President Iohannis, and that’s saying something. If Iohannis was a master of silence and extended vacations, Antonescu brings a different skill set: an ever-flapping mouth filled with empty words and a heart as light as a feather, unburdened by responsibility. He possesses an extraordinary appetite for self-admiration and a rare talent for effortless living—the kind best described as “coasting along on someone else’s dime.” Romania could collapse under its own weight, but Antonescu would still be there, lurking in some shady corner, looking on with superiority and offering finely crafted phrases—perfectly useless for anything at all.

In the intimate circles of Bucharest, he was known as The Ballerino. The exact reason for this nickname remains a mystery—perhaps it was the grace with which he evaded responsibility, or his rare talent for floating above reality without leaving a trace. What is certain is that Mr. Antonescu performs dazzling pirouettes, not on a ballet stage, but before the electorate, changing direction with a lightness worthy of the great opportunists of our time. It didn’t take a complex melody for The Ballerino to showcase his mastery. He danced through offices, glided through the backstage of politics, and, above all, always knew how to keep his balance, no matter who was playing the tune. When principles were needed, he took a bow. When action was required, he found a quiet corner. And when results were expected… well, that’s when the curtain abruptly fell. In these same circles, Crin Antonescu is also whispered to be a compulsive gambler, a player not just with cards but with the fate of those he was supposed to represent. They say he has a particular talent for betting on dead horses and walking away from the table precisely when the bill becomes uncomfortably large. Debts—financial or political—never seemed to trouble him much. Rumor has it that traces of these debts linger in various circles, but, like any master of vanishing acts, he always knew how to slip away at just the right moment, leaving others to deal with the losses. Perhaps he was never the most skilled politician, but in the art of evasion and empty promises, he has had few rivals. A true gambler—no chips on the table, but with boundless audacity.

Crin is like a beautifully wrapped candy—enticing, promising, with an initially pleasant flavor—a blend of rhetorical vanilla and ideologically dusted sugar. At first taste, he seems intriguing, even enjoyable, a sweet suited for brief rhetorical satisfaction. But once the euphoric effect of his well-turned phrases fades, you realize that the core is… empty. No substance, no depth, nothing memorable—just a faintly sticky residue of hollow promises. And so, inevitably, after being sampled, sucked dry, and discovered in all his fleeting sweetness, Crin ends up where all soulless candies do: tossed away without regret into the nearest trash bin. Antonescu’s problem isn’t, of course, one of mere representability—that would be too simple. On the surface, he checks the necessary boxes: a well-articulated speech, seemingly substantial statements, a passable presence. And yet, something fundamental is missing. His real problem is the void at his core—no ideas, no vision, no charisma. It’s as if he was designed not to fill a role, but merely to occupy a suit.

When I look at him, I can’t help but see an even more faded version of Iohannis—more sluggish, more ephemeral, more perfectly absent.

If, by some unfortunate twist of fate, Cotroceni were to become the bedroom of such a character, Romania would no longer need to worry about its future. Why? Because, in a national consensus of resignation, all that would remain for us is to whisper, with the bitter irony of those accustomed to stagnation: “Good night, little Romania!”