SAYONARA, GEORGIST HYDRA!

Nicușor is the quietly civic-minded everyman — and that seems to irritate some of our fellow citizens precisely because... he doesn’t swear. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t threaten, doesn’t roll up his sleeves to "smash things with the brand." He doesn’t pound his fist on the table — not even with a pen. He’s not a showman, but a man of numbers, of calculated decisions, of coherence. Above all, he’s a respected mathematician — a former international Olympiad medalist, with a clear mind and a modesty that’s downright infuriating to those who mistake aggression for charisma. He understands public administration, but doesn’t turn it into theatre. He doesn’t puff himself up. He doesn’t act. He just does the job. Meanwhile, Simion and Georgescu can go back to shouting into megaphones and looking for dragons to slay in press conferences.

As of today, he’s also the president of all Romanians. Yes — a president with a tram pass, clean but unpretentious shoes, a calm voice, and no entourage of tracksuit-clad henchmen following him around. A president who, instead of threatening to "strip down the system," rebuilds — bolt by bolt — a state architecture that doesn’t creak with the first rainfall. Because otherwise, we would have sunk completely into the abyss of the two-headed hydra's dictatorship. One head is grotesque — pardon me, Georgesque — always sweaty with invented worries and bombastic slogans, finger eternally pointing at imaginary enemies. The other, all puffed-up swagger — sorry, Simionesque — forever scowling into the mirror, ever-ready to save the country from a danger he himself invented, somewhere between flag selfies and fiery monologues. In a Romania where decency has become suspicious and competence almost subversive, Nicușor remains a happy anomaly: a normal, capable, discreet man. Precisely for that reason, he's incredibly dangerous to their system. Whether he’ll do a perfect job almost doesn’t matter anymore. Compared to the antisystem lunacy on offer, even the solemn nullity of Klaus Iohannis started to feel bearable. In a world where the choice has seemed to lie between the ridiculous and the catastrophic, the idea of a normal man — no tantrums, no yelling, no savior fantasies — has suddenly become revolutionary. Sure, Nicușor will make mistakes. But he’ll make human ones — minor administrative slips, maybe a boring interview, a press conference that’s too technical. Not major blunders. Not wickedness. The political equivalent of an accidental nose-pick on a bad day: yes, it’s awkward, yes, it’s unappealing — but it's hardly the end of the world. And yet, so many people I’ve spoken to say that’s exactly why they won’t vote for him. He seems off-putting. He doesn’t “look the part.” He doesn’t “inspire.” They probably believe a president should be a slick actor with great PR — not a real person. But let’s take a good look at the other camp. Not the nose-pick. The flat-out lies. The violent conspiracist. The aggression and the delusion. And yes — the 'sexual assault of a sow' (Simion yelling word by word this quote, towards Diana Sosoaca in the Romanian Parliament), elevated to political symbol by one of the antisystem “alternatives.” And that’s not off-putting? That’s someone you can vote for? It’s sick. It’s degrading. And yet, for an alarmingly large part of the Romanian public, it appears more acceptable than a man who isn’t “cool enough.” We live in times when decency looks weak, silence looks guilty, and normality — when it dares show up — looks like a system error. Nicușor, with all his awkwardness, is an exception. And maybe our last chance to approach politics not with frenzy, but with reason. No circus. No hysteria. No sows. Just people.

Of course, we live in a country where if you’re not gesticulating hysterically and yelling “Helloooo!” into a phone camera, you risk being labeled as lacking “presence.” The truth is, Nicușor doesn’t inspire fear. He doesn’t give off that I’ll-flip-tables-in-institutions vibe, nor does he promise to unsheathe Stephen the Great’s sword from the History Museum. Instead, he reads. He studies. He compares urban development projects. And naturally, in a world where a tram conference is competing with drone footage of a few nuns, the viral always wins. And yet, with a curiously quiet stubbornness, Nicușor endures. He’s built, bit by bit, a credibility that doesn’t scream — but also doesn’t crumble with the first tabloid breeze. He’s exactly the kind of person who doesn’t have an “image consultant” because… he has no image. He has reality. He rides the subway. Drinks coffee from the same chipped mug he's had for years. Forgets his umbrella at the office. He doesn’t do car livestreams — because he’s not filming the steering wheel, he’s using it. Of course, that’s not enough for a people that voted for Simion based on his “bar charisma.” We’ve come to confuse shouting with sincerity, and brutish attacks with moral strength. When the Georgesque character bellows about patriotism, crumbs still stuck between his teeth, people nod approvingly: “At least he’s got guts!”. When the Simionesque figure stares blankly, as if battling a demon only he can see, the crowd whispers: “Now that’s determination.” Meanwhile, Nicușor does his job. He sometimes forgets to look into the camera during interviews. He stands around with his hands in his pockets. He mumbles technicalities. He doesn’t inspire, but he builds. He doesn’t stir hearts, but he gets things done. He doesn’t promise, but he signs. And maybe, quietly, that is revolutionary. Maybe he’s the first man who doesn’t want to be the nation’s savior — just a civil servant who doesn’t cut corners. A president who doesn’t arrive with a “vision,” but with work plans. Not trying to rewrite history — just trying to fix the plumbing, reorganize institutions, pay the bills on time. Abominable goals, naturally, for the emotional palate of the Romanian voter. But as Cioran once said, “We are a country where failure feels like destiny, and success, an impoliteness.” So it’s entirely possible that, one day, we’ll end up missing Nicușor too. When we’re once again hungry for silence and thirsty for a sentence without capital letters. For now, though, Nicușor has become president. Yes, that Nicușor: no Instagram filter, no colorful socks, no stuffed cabbage recipes on podcasts. The quiet mathematician, with plastic bags full of other plastic bags in his kitchen and kids to walk to school, has — without fanfare — sat down in the most visible chair in the country. And now that he has, we’re the ones who find it hard to get out of ours.

We still don’t know whether to cheer… or apologize for not believing. Meanwhile, the hydra lives out its final spasms. Not with dignity, but with froth. Not with honor, but with shrieks and fever dreams about Soros, microchips, and ideological latrines. We watch it squirm, flail its tails, gnaw at its own heads — the grotesque Georgesque and the blustering Simionesque — until all that’s left is a faint smear of ridiculousness on the blistering asphalt of an electoral summer. Sayonara, hydra! You leave with no glory, no anthem, no content. You vanish with your live stream tucked in your pocket and a pamphlet written by your own stupidity. You disappear into the void like an unsigned email titled: “Wrong recipient.” We remain. With the hope that — just maybe — this time, instead of a revolution, we’ll finally get the unthinkable: governance.