If you’re reading this, congratulations. You’re about to feel a little bit better about your own life. Because no matter how bad your Monday was, at least you didn’t wake up in a Romanian park with your own vomit on your chest, a dead phone, no money, and no recollection of the last 72 hours.
Let’s start from the top.
The Win
It began like all my finest disasters: with a win. A stupid, glorious, life-ruining win. I was home, pantsless (as tradition dictates), grinding some obscure Egyptian-themed slot on a sketchy online casino. Suddenly—boom. A few thousand euros straight into my account. Bells. Confetti. The animated pharaoh winked at me. I winked back.
I should’ve closed the laptop. Transferred the money. Called my mom to say I finally made it.
Instead, I opened a bottle of gin.
Fast-forward three days. That’s right—three f*ing days** of full-on, no-sleep, liver-abusing celebration. Beer. Shots. More shots. A brief detour with something neon-blue served in a shoe. I don’t even remember where I was after the second night. All I remember is shouting, “LET’S MAKE MEMORIES!” as I clicked something on the Ryanair website.
Apparently, drunk-me is also spontaneous-me.
The Awakening
I wake up in what can only be described as a humid post-apocalyptic hellscape of green grass, chirping birds, and warm puke drying on my shirt like some sort of loser’s badge of honor. I’m lying on a bench in a park. It’s summer. People are walking their dogs and giving me the same look you give a seagull that’s bleeding out by a trash can.
My head feels like a jazz band is performing inside it—bad jazz. Free-form, experimental jazz.
First question: Where the hell am I?
Second: What country is this?
Third: WHO AM I?
I sit up. Pat my pockets. No wallet. No cash. Not even a receipt. Phone’s there, thank God—but black screen. Battery’s deader than my last relationship.
I look around. Signs in a language that looks like someone tried to type Finnish while sneezing. Not Hungarian. Not Polish. Certainly not English. For all I know, I’m on Mars. One sign says: “Centrul Cultural Gheorghe Popescu.” Gheorghe WHO?
The only clue I get is a sad pigeon staring at me like it knows more than I do. Bastard’s probably judging me.
The Motel
I do what any respectable degenerate would do. I start wandering. Limping, really. I probably stepped on a Lego during the blackout and now my left foot hates me.
Eventually, I stumble upon a motel. And I use the term motel loosely. This place looks like it survived a Soviet missile strike and was never quite fixed up afterward. The sign reads: “Motelul Relaxare Feroviar?”—which I later Google Translate to “Railway Relaxation Motel.” Comforting.
The lobby smells like boiled cabbage and loneliness. The receptionist, a woman with a mustache thicker than mine, looks at me like she’s seen this before. Like I’m the sixth idiot this week to arrive shirt-stained and confused.
I muster my best slurred English and ask, “Uhh… where… am I?”
She sighs and replies, “Ple?cani de Jos.”
Excuse me?
Yes, apparently I’m in a place called Ple?cani de Jos. Middle of nowhere, Romania. A small village famous for… absolutely nothing. Literally nothing. The Wikipedia page is just a shrug emoji.
I reach for my phone. Still dead.
But—miracle of miracles—I open MobilePay and discover I still have €380 left. Probably from a cashback bonus I forgot to lose. I book the cheapest room, which comes with a bed, a flickering light, and probably some Eastern European ghosts.
The Revelation
I shower. The water is lukewarm and smells like rust, but it clears my head. I stare into the cracked mirror. There’s a ghoul looking back at me. Skin pale, eyes bloodshot, a crusty stain still stuck to my chin.
For a moment I whisper, “Is this the end?” Then I remember: I’ve survived worse. I once woke up in a Finnish ice-fishing cabin with a broken ankle and a chihuahua wearing my underwear.
To soften the hangover, I call reception and order the only thing I can pronounce from the faded menu: “burger ?i bere.” Burger and beer. When they arrive, I don’t even ask what meat the patty is. At this point, I’d eat a sock if it came with fries.
The Phone Resurrection
Eventually, the phone powers on. 3% battery. Just enough to witness the collapse of my social life.
Messages flood in.
From Gigi:
- “Where the f*** are you, Jack?!”
- “We were supposed to have our engagement party two nights ago!”
- “I’m done. I’m LEAVING YOU.”
- “Seriously? Romania?!?!”
From Mom:
- “Jack, please tell me you’re not in jail again.”
- “I’m worried. Did you drink that blue stuff again?”
- “Call me. Or I’m calling the embassy.”
From the Police:
- “You missed your court summons. AGAIN. This is getting serious.”
Oh. Right. The court thing.
And that’s when it hits me.
I was supposed to go to my own engagement party.
And my brilliant friends had said, “Hey, let’s pregame like the legends we are.” I agreed. Naturally. It was only supposed to be one drink.
Spoiler: It was not one drink.
This was that bender. The three-day blackout-fueled fever dream that led me here, to Ple?cani de Jos, Romania. I lived through Hangover 2: Balkan Edition—except instead of a tiger, I had a pigeon. Instead of Vegas, I had cabbage-scented despair.
The Exit Plan
I call Randy, my lifelong enabler and the reason I have no savings.
“Randy,” I croak.
“Holy shit, you’re alive!” he says.
“Barely. I’m in Romania.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I need money for a flight home. Also for a taxi. Also maybe for therapy.”
“Done. But try to do something about that excessive drinking.”
“Hahaha. You sweet summer child.”
He wires me the money. I grab a taxi to the nearest real city (or at least one with an airport and a bar that doesn’t also sell goat milk), and a few hours later I’m on a plane back home—smelling like shame and cheap lager.
The Resolution (Sort Of)
Back home. Safe. Gigi isn’t speaking to me. Mom is furious. The police are… well, still the police. But I’ve made it. And I’ve made a decision:
I’m never drinking again.
Just kidding. I’m Jack Gamble. I’ll probably be drunk by Friday.
But next time I win on a casino slot, I’m giving the money to charity.
Charity might be my bartender’s name, but it still counts.
Until next time—
Jack “I’ve Seen Things” Gamble
Bachelor. Idiot. Romanian cultural ambassador.
Disclaimer:
If you’re struggling with gambling addiction or alcohol abuse, please seek professional help. Losing money on slot machines or chasing wins in an online casino isn’t worth your health, finances, or relationships. Gambling addiction help is available—reach out to local support services or organizations like Alcoholics Anonymous in your area. You don’t have to face it alone.