As I write this, it’s all-but-impossible to realize it’s been a month! Oh, sure, I could point out the couple days that technically deny a moon cycle, yet it would be so disingenuous to do. Fact is, four weeks ago today, Andrew fired off an email announcing his train would be rolling through Braşov and he intended to support Campionatul Mondial de Bere by flinging a sack full of goodies out the window when he passed by. Clearly, it would behoove me to show up somewhere near the tracks and playout my NFL receiver fantasies.

And that’s how it was, y’all. Da big mastapimp A-Dawg came rollin’ inta town, ‘cept dem foolz at da gara done wrecked his train schedule and mista playa man had to spread some chedda on a maxi taxi. Now, I didn’t know this, so I wuz str8 playin’ that soldier until I got the 411. U kno how it goez. We be adjustmentikatin’ n shizzle. Word.

The trouble got started early because the dude shows up with this heavy sack of berii. As the first official sponsor of Campionatul Mondial de Bere, Andrew came well-armed with Sovata, Neumarkt, Dracula and Aro beers to help fill out the participant roster. It was like an alcoholic halloween! As one might guess, that means somebody has to carry all that around a while…

For realz, he be a tru playa in da sport of Bere Mondial like the rest of U only wish U wuz. U know we had to get tha Drew-Daddy to pop the top off a sticla, right? Fo’ sheezy! Next thang U kno, we be chillin’ at them gara beer-stand thingz gettin’ hassled by the gyspy beggars (and U kno we didn’t waste no paper) while tryin’ chug down a forty half-liter.

So there I was, hanging out with supercool Andrew and drinking beer with a mesmerizing young woman. The conversation flowed pretty thick and pretty fast. Well, that is, until Mr. Man essentially told us to shut up because he was sick of talking, then abruptly took off inside the gara to the ticket booth. Don’t try to deny it, fool!

N-e-waze, that boy wuz either fascinated by my celebrity status or couldn’t stop staring at tha hottie in orange, becuz Sucka came creepin’ back like a punk n’ spittin’ weak lines ’bout getting ganked by the dracu bilete woman. Yes, yes, y’all… he gonna be delayed a bit n’ hafta start reprezentin that TeeGee side.

LOLz!!!11!eleven

Hyperbole aside, it was fun. He ended up being stuck in the sparkling wonder of Braşov a couple hours longer than expected, so our little group decided it was safe to hoist another bottle of beer or two. Er, no, it was more like a mandate. A duty, in fact. Campionatul Mondial guest judging and all that. Giddyap.

At some point, we started the marathon timer to intiate a hurried quest for the best kebab in all of Romania. Our efforts were aided by the fact that I already knew how to find the place. We jumped into a cab and headed towards parcul central, yammering in English all the while expressly in order to draw the curious eyes of our taximetrist.

Weaving dangerously outside the vehicle, we stumbled the final few steps until we entered shoarma nirvana. Andrew pops off in his nearly perfect Romaneşte to place an order, which makes me look like a complete idiot as I fumble the words around and beg for help like a little girl with a skinned knee. But then I’ve absolutely no shame when it comes time to procure the world’s greatest sandwich. Mai multe ardei iute, va rog!

We managed to land another taxi and raced back to the gara, so Andrew wouldn’t miss his train. We got there with a couple minutes to spare, but the ticket line was moving slower than molasses which resulted in Andrew being told the train had already left. Plan B? Wait, let’s check that monitor. Platform 3, right? Damn, your train hasn’t left yet — it hasn’t even arrived! Back in line only to be told by the very same (incompetent and self-loathing) CFR employee that she wouldn’t sell him a ticket and he could buy one on the train.

Sound out of place? Well, it kind of is and kind of isn’t depending on who you ask and how it gets handled. In other words, it’s apparently quite subjective at the discretion of the train ‘conductor’ (aka ticketpuncher). Maybe some of y’all with deeper experience in this area can enlighten us? Basically, the idea is to get on the train before it leaves and then worry about finding a staffer who can sell you the required ticket.

Theoretically, you should be able to just pay the fare. But, then, theoretically, you didn’t buy a proper ticket and might be subject to a fine. The way I understand it is that it’s all about timing. If you get the ticket before the train actually moves or possibly immediately thereafter, you can probably pay regular price. Assuming you’re Romanian that is.

Poor guy; A-Dawg boards the train and quickly looks for the conductor. Maybe there was only one person on shift because a journey through several cars was required to find a uniformed bloke. Andrew explains the situation about how he tried twice to buy a ticket but the lady refused to sell him one. The conductor scoffs. Andrew explains how he was instructed by CFR staff to buy a ticket on the train. The conductor scoffs again. Why? Some might say the conductor was possibly doing his job, but I’m sure it’s because Andrew was an American… you know, a filthy rich idiot just waiting to have gold nuggets shaken out of his pockets because all Americans are stupid and wealthy. You knew that, right? Right.

After some negotiation, for a small bribe plus the normal ticket price (all of which was probably pocketed by the CFR conductor), Andrew managed to get himself a very cozy spot in first class where he could enjoy his ride in peace. Though, I think the train dropped him off at his destination around 1am or 2am which may or may not have caused further adventures outside the scope of this post. Not sure.

What I do know is that we have photographic evidence that he was safely on the train loaded with loot in the form of a 2-liter of Braşov’s finest…

As Romerican begins to once again show signs of life, it is appropriate that we take this first occassion to extend well wishes to our comrade-in-arms, the Griviței Ambassador de Gara.

Contrary to rumor, he was not wounded by vicious bottles of Lowenbrau nor a casualty of the rigors of capitalism. Nay, he has been a victim of his own success — traceur by day, snowboarder by night. Alas, age catches us all.