Foreign Work

Romania’s Arcul de Triumf, a replication of Paris’ Arc de Triomphe.

It seems that only a crazy person would pass up being paid to work in a profession you love while traveling around another country, the entire time being treated like a king as the local companies treats their new marketer with love.

Unfortunately, sometimes Europe it isn’t always as cushy as it sounds. The high-profile big wigs that have shows on Bravo, MSNBC and the like will undoubtedly be fine, of course, but the regular Joes and Media Guys of the world — marketing pros who aren’t sharks despite being able to put ‘grizzled vet’ and ‘award winner’ on their resume — could be in for a rude awakening when they reach their European destinations.

This isn’t groundbreaking news, obviously, but it’s difficult for the average Media Joe (in this instance, yours truly) to imagine a U.S. ad man not being treated like royalty across the ocean blue. For those of us, I’m here in the nick of time to catch everyone up on the possible perils of pond crossing. Let’s hop into the time machine shall we?

It was just a few years back. I was lithe and young, at least in mind and soul. Romania called. Literally the country called. The economic development minister guided me over to CSP UM Timişoara, an also-ran in the Romanian Futbol League. I was signed to a nice six-figure contract to lay out the marketing plan and roll it out to the country. When the AirFrance business class ticket arrived, little did I realize that caviar and filet mignon was the last luxury I would experience in my Chevy Chase-like European Vacation.

I arrived to what I thought was a nice location in the Bucharest City Centre at Heliade Intre VII and Doamna Ghica. Elevators broken, I dragged my bag up to my apartment. The $4,000 door gave way to a glorified utility closet, no more that 14×14 square feet with a Murphy bed and the shared bathroom down the hall. The busted television meant that the poster of Nicolae Ceauşescu and the “Guide to Transylvania” were my sole source of in-room entertainment. For this I left the bright lights of Hollywood and Los Angeles?

Part genius and part formula, I crafted a marketing plan in record time and received instant approval. The first two games drew incredible crowds and per cap spending for the patrons skyrocketed. That bonus clause in my contract was sure to kick in.

Here’s the rub though. I was never paid anything close to my contract signing and after weeks of complaining and threats of going home early with my Air France tickets, I did get a note — famously scribbled and tacked to my apartment door — saying that my first and only paycheck would be given to me at Herastrau Park at sundown. Although it had Lindbergh Kidnapping written all over it, I accepted the meeting, strictly following the directions and leaving my copy of Agentia de Investigatii Media on the stoop turned to page seven.

Despite Herastrau Park (aka Parcul Herastrau) being walking distance from my apartment, I opted on the cab ride with the large “wait-for-me-tip” to the driver who returned the favor by reminding me that “the park isn’t as friendly as you might think.”

My meeting spot was scheduled under the Arcul de Triumf which is a replication of Paris’ Arc de Triomphe [note to self — figure out why Romania needs a replica of the Arc de Triomphe and why the United States needed a replica of the Statue of Liberty]. I walked to the Arc down a long tree-lined driveway I couldn’t help but get a chill as I viewed the grassy knoll. All I was missing was a book depository and a wife with a hat.

Yet I digress. This was my first clandestine meeting where I may or may not get paid, instead possibly winding up as dinner for the park fish. I waited an eternity in the 22 minutes it took to be greeted by Anders Prigoana. During our short time together I would learn he was the infamous go-between that delivered payments to contractors of the futbol team and the money people who hired “talent” at their whim.

Anders was a gracious bully and the absence of color in his wardrobe was the traditional attire for a meeting of this sort. Armed with cigars and stories, he informed me that the two-inch thick manila envelope he waved continually would be all they could afford to pay me. Quite frankly, he confided, the money train had dried up for his bosses. He also shared a story of my predecessor (just in case I wanted to escalate my desire to collect more of my worthless contract).

Herastrau Park in the 1990s.

His told me they found him in his trunk…five bullets in his head. The cool October air had kept his body from rotting. He knew he wouldn’t have lasted long because he just couldn’t keep his mouth closed; a little too hotheaded for his own good. All the while his bodyguards followed, making a solid wall of human flesh and muscle behind him.