Approaching Brașov, the coach erupted in a flashmob choir of phone alerts: extreme rain. The road dipped under a railway bridge; the Chelsea tractor drivers were wallowing in it like hippos in a waterhole.
Booking.com threw up a surprise. Honestly, the cheapest (an eye watering £80 after Ukraine) room in the old town with a rating of over 8* was Kinky Room. I took a deep breath and clicked Reserve. I know size isn’t everything but I had to move a restraint bench to pull out the sofa bed. There was a tiny en suite bathroom in one corner. Probably once just a toilet, they’d knocked through into the master bedroom and installed a glass shower cubicle the size of half a telephone box. I wondered whether Master/Mistress would want to watch Slave showering, or vice versa.
15 years ago, Brașov had the most bizarre gay club – La Feri, a converted basement in a suburban mansion. The owner immediately stood out as passive manipulative: “Lots of bad men here. Be careful. I know them all. I find you a good man…” The bar periodically ‘ran out’ of alcohol (only spirits, I seem to remember). As a favoured westerner, I was privately sold a bottle of whiskey, which I proceeded to share with disappointed punters. I further annoyed the owner by choosing my own companion. It never occurred to me to question his business model, but Claude told me it had been the subject of an investigation into trafficking!
Sitting outside a hipster cafe bar, enjoying a hyperlocal hefeweizen, I realised I was bored. The adventure was over. I was surrounded by western tourists. Tofu and houmous were back on the shelves. No knackered Soviet Ladas on the streets. Everyone spoke English. Starbucks had got its claws into the old square. Then more self doubt: had I just lost my exotic status?
Nigel Tart 
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