21 Years On The Road

The plane landed exactly on time in Bucharest. I felt great having escaped my problems in Malta and Gozo. Just like in Sofia, going through passport control and customs was a drag.

I found an ATM to get some local money and started looking for a taxi. I ignored the taxi drivers who spontaneously offered their services. Experience in Sofia and Malta had taught me those are usually crooks looking out for foreigners to rip off.

Poor people who suffer tend to make other poor people suffer. Luckily I spotted an official taxi queue and I waited my turn. I got in at the front next to the female driver. She looked a bit surprised when I gave her the address of the hostel. She‘d clearly expected me to go to some fancy hotel.

Why do they always think foreigners are loaded with cash?

The lady driver was dressed way too sexy, wearing a short skirt. Nice legs. I forced myself to stare out the window, looking at the city lights and the international stores in the street.

Chit-chat

“You pretty much have every kind of shop here,” I said. “Yes, we do. Things changed a lot after communism. The only thing is the cost of it all. Before we had money but nothing to buy, the stores were empty, now there are food and stuff everywhere but no money to buy it.” “Interesting thought,” I said. I prefer not to talk about politics in a foreign country. You never know who you are dealing with.

I am a socialist in theory but not in practice. I have offered some unemployed acquaintances a job in customer service, for the recruitment money, but nobody said yes. Well, I am tired of paying taxes for sloths who refuse to work.

“Are you on holiday?” “No,” I said, “I start working here.” “In Romania? Where are you from?” “Antwerp, Belgium.” “And you start working in Bucharest? The salaries in Belgium are much higher than here.” “Depends on what you do for a living, but you’re right, the cost of labor is much higher in Belgium. That’s why international companies move to places like this or Bulgaria or to the south of Europe.” “So what work do you do?” “I speak Dutch.” “What?” “I can do all kinds of stuff for the Dutch and Belgian market. They hire me for my language skills. Anyways, as my late grandmother used to say: it doesn’t matter what you do, just be good at it. Well, I’m good at surviving.”

Back to the same old routine

The job was the same boring shit as usual and management, especially local lower management, took themselves way too seriously. Too many people get used to pretending to be important, yet they all want something from you. As soon as they paid me my relocation money I rented the first studio I visited.

The place was pretty basic and situated in a huge ugly building but it was cheap and I liked the owner. She was 35, good looking, married, two boys, friendly and she had a sad look in her eyes. She was very helpful and promised me to show me around the city sometime. Perfect. It’s always nice to have a friend in a new town, especially when she speaks good English and seems to have at least half of a brain.

Days and weeks went by and soon I got into my drinking routine again, stuck feeling lonely and empty. It doesn’t matter where you go, you always take yourself with you. It’s a thin line between travelling and running away, between exploring and being on the run, between being on the road and being homeless.

It’s too easy to get lost in this life when you have no purpose. Pain is a drug you get for free. Sex is overrated, except when I am horny, so I reactivated my Tinder profile.

Dating the poor

“What are you trying to find here?” she said. “I mean, how did you end up in Bucharest?” She looked better than on the pictures. “I don’t know. Nothing much. I needed a new destination. I guess I am a bohemian.” It’s better not to use the word gypsy in this part of Europe. “But if I like it here, I am staying.” Until I have to go.

“There’s something you need to know,” she said, “I am an escort girl.” I smiled. “Interesting. At least you don’t work in a bank. So basically you are using Tinder as a marketing tool. Fantastic.” “Sometimes, yes,” she said. “Fascinating, almost wondrous. Anyways, I don’t judge. People judge me.” 48 seconds of silence while I looked into her eyes. An unwritten rule says that whoever talks first, loses. “So,” I said, “my question is whether you are working today or are having some time off?” She smiled. “That depends entirely on you.”

Jeez, I love this red lipstick lips. “Just out of curiosity,” I said, “what are your prices?” Let’s throw in a buying question, let’s get her going. “Starting from 100 euro, depending on the service.” “Maybe I’m poor.” “Maybe you are,” she said.

I finished my beer and said: “Let’s go and get some food. I’m starving. You pay for the drinks, I will take care of dinner.” She paid the bill and I took the change. “Are you kidding me?” she said. I lit a cigarette. “I don’t see the point of tipping when the service sucks. It doesn’t make any sense. Let’s go.”

“ By the way, there’s something you should know. I am a weirdo who’s into art. After the restaurant, we go to my place and get some work done. Don’t worry, I want you with your clothes on, for the pictures that is.”

And then you wake up again

When I opened my eyes she was gone. Romance is a whore.

Nothing seemed to be missing.

What’s the time? Shit. I was late for work so I called in sick. Here we go again.

I need a drink.

I decided to go to the supermarket for a bottle of whiskey, two six-packs, two packs of cigarettes, two croissants, and some ham and cheese.

I felt like writing a blog post.

People are so rude. You have to make yourself big in Bucharest or everybody jumps in line before you, no matter where. No education whatsoever.

What the hell am I doing here?