What other title would have you expected for today’s post having read yesterday’s one? I am sour and dry and I hate people who spoil your day early in the morning.
In unrelated news, I have a new picture to post. It’s a fish. Will do that later.
I have lost my voice. Finder’s keeper’s. I needed an upgrade, anyway.
We left in time for the eight hour drive be done right, but about midway the stick accepted exclusively the third and the fourth gear. We continued in spite of the obvious and we again arrived in time to learn participants were giving the receptionist a headache when checking-in regardless of the check-in table. An official was temporarily detained for not having the proper British subject look. A piece of luggage was left behind in Vienna, and we were left with the respective senior official as he were. Have I mentioned my day has started at six, without the proper papers for getting a new passport? Well, at least with them somewhere else, that is.
First I miss my best friend’s wedding, no! first I delay my departure to the wedding of my best friend, then I miss it completely because I am not able to wake up in time for the eight hours drive to Timisoara. Then I go into the forest, for a barbeque. All is fine, even when it starts to rain. Then we sort of decide to go to Brasov. It’s only two hours away.
350 km later, plus a couple of energy drinks, I am seated in front of my computer, ready to file all these under “bad and funny gay experiences in Romania – my life as it were”. The reference in the title of the post comes from “Queer as folk” plus a bad “trip”. I can already hear you I am contradicting myself, but guys, I can have fun when things go wrong. So, after a bit of pointless wandering through Brasov, we checked two places. Both from another “movie”. An internet character I once knew, said this better than me. It was the kind of local pub where the moment you opened the door all eyes are on you, the new comer. Well, I never though I would say this, but this turned out to be creepier than old Queens in Bucharest. And I don’t remember the name of this first joint. After a couple of dances we had to leave because somebody asked Cody to a no strings attached beer that was going to turn either into a gang bang rape, or into a street fight. The second place was somebody’s basement: high school prom drag show, cozy kitch atmosphere with grandma’s brand new armchairs and couches back in the eighties, and perfume point-of-sales materials on the walls. At least people were friendly here. As I was dancing, I realized my driving license was not, I repeat, was not with my other papers. Smart-pants forgot the driving license in the other bag, back home, 175 km away, in a residence where I am not listed officially as the tenant. Dancing away I imagined a couple of happy-end scenarios in the event police would stop me on my way back. About a few pictured me sleeping overnight at the precint, without your average policeman-cuffs sexual fantasy.
OK, so all is well when it ends well.