Trolling Bucharest, Reliving My Childhood, and Finally Breaking Free

James Ruins Dinner For Everyone at a Fancy North Bucharest Restaurant

It was September 2024, I was still new to Bucharest. But I was already irritated by the pretentiousness of my area, North Bucharest (the flexing capital of the city), like an un-wiped, itchy asshole.

I chose that spot because my real estate agent told me it was the nice part of the city. The apartment looked cozy and modern. And my landlord was a genuine guy.

But that’s the thing about being a stranger in a strange land, right? You are curious, hopeful, and blissfully ignorant.

No one told me that half of my neighbours would turn out to be new money douchebags covered in logos, and women with lip fillers and massive daddy issues.

Okay, fine. I figured I could at least escape into nature.

Maybe take a relaxing walk in Herăstrău Park (the Romanian Central Park) near my apartment to get away from these people, just for a moment.

I mean, a nice evening stroll by the lake, bathing in the late summer sun...that had to do my soul some good.

Little did I know, some of the most overpriced restaurants in Bucharest are located right along the Herăstrău lake.

And once again, I walked right back into my psychological torment at the hands of these pretentious “Bucharest new money”.

Inside the park, there’s a narrow path that runs along the lake.

On the left side: the gorgeous Herăstrău Lake. Waves gently lapping against the shore, golden sunlight glistening across the surface, like peace was still possible.

On the right side: Pretentious restaurant terraces lined up one after another. Sugar daddies deep in their mid-life crises. Instagram influencers taking more videos than bites of their food. And pretty much everything I hated about the north (read: fancy) side of Bucharest.

And this quiet rage was gradually boiling up inside of me.

“Fuck these pompous, self-absorbed people. If they are going to ruin my quiet walk by the lake, then I’m going to ruin their overpriced, artisanal seafood in return.”

I wasn’t stupid enough to fuck with the terraces directly and have police called on me.

But lucky me, I wasn’t the only one who had the genius idea to take a relaxing walk by the lake that evening.

Far from it.

And that’s when it hit me: I knew exactly how to troll the shit out of these new money assholes without ever saying a word to them.

I smirked.

“Just wait, I will get you.”

I turned my head to the jogger next to me, with the biggest mischievous smile on my face, and yelled in the loudest voice I could pull off.
“Hey, excuse me! Why are these restaurants so popular? Is it because they serve self-esteem as one of the ingredients in the dishes here???!!!!”

It was so loud I looked like a Canadian lunatic on the run.

But that line? It landed like a bomb.

Like a shotgun blast that froze everyone on the terrace.

It was glorious.

Even if I were blind, I could tell that everyone at the restaurant heard me.

Some guy in a navy suit looked at me with disdain, like I had just fingered his food.

A few lonely housewives gasped and blanked out on me like deer in the headlights.

But people walking along that lakeside path…you know, the common men, burst into laughter and cheered me on.

I think I just ignited a class warfare that was long overdue in Bucharest.

With the support of my new fans, I went on a bloody rampage.

Each time, I became bolder, louder, and more offensive.

Until I reached the end of the path and there was no terrace left to troll.

So I turned around…and did it all over again.

I wouldn’t be surprised if half of the diners went home and called their therapists. Oh, wait, who am I kidding? They ain’t got none.

Power to the people.

Flashback: Why Did All That Flexing Trigger Me

Yes. That shit was hilarious.

My little tribute to Borat and Tucker Max, life imitating art.

But ultimately, it was uncalled for.

It also makes one wonder: What did those poor fuckers ever do to you to deserve that? Just ignore them?

Sure, if I had the emotional and self-awareness, then I would have.

I might’ve even looked at them compassionately.

But that North Bucharest vigilante hadn’t connected the dots, at least not yet.

And he didn’t know that it was never about the Bucharest new money.

Those people on the terrace?

They were merely a flashback of my elementary school years.

I was born into a Chinese working-class family.

In a society that resembles Romanian society way too much for my comfort.

My parents wanted me to have the best education, go to the best schools.

So they worked some black magic (aka bribing) and got me a seat at the most elite elementary school in the city.

I simply did not belong there. And most of my classmates were Chinese new money.

So yes, I knew the flexing culture way too early, way too well.

It wasn’t that being “poor” and getting made fun of all the time that hurt me.

What hurt me was having to read books alone every day in that hallway because most kids didn’t want to play with me.

The few that did?

They were either poor misfits like me, or kids who didn’t care that I arrived at school on my mom’s scooter, and not in a German sedan.

I remember the feelings of walking around on eggshells and always playing defence.

I remember the feelings of standing outside and hoping to be invited in.

And I remember the message:

That I wasn’t good enough because I was a working-class kid.

Shit, even most of my teachers acted like the grown up version of my snobby classmates.

All that changed after Dad’s business took off, and I went to a public middle school.

Now, all of a sudden, I was the rich kid in my class.

My teachers kissed my ass. I was suddenly popular? I got to walk around and act like I was better than everyone.

And believe me. I did.

Soon enough, the illusion started to crumble all around me.

Would these people still act nice to me and be my friends if I didn’t have rich parents?

Would these girls still gossip about me if they didn’t know my dad ran a company? Fuck, look at me, I’m the chubby kid.

Would these teachers still give me preferential treatment if my dad didn’t slide them something under the table? Because I knew he did.

Fake love was all around me.

And the great tragedy wrapped in a financial cushion didn’t end just there.

It was at home, too.

I saw how mom walked around with her LV and Hermes bags, like those were her newfound self-esteem.

I saw how dad bought that shiny new BMW and removed the badge to stretch that flex just a little bit more. Like being self-made and successful wasn’t already enough.

But the thing that really pissed me off?

It wasn’t the materialism.

I only wanted their warmth and presence. But I just got more and more fancy toys instead.

I guess I could always fill the void by flexing my iPod to the jealous kids at school.

And when my mom inappropriately told me that she’s only staying with my dad because of me, and for his money.

Whether she meant it or not, that line lived rent-free in my way-too-young and way-too-pretty little head.

So yeah, It was never really about the materialistic douchebags of North Bucharest.

Don’t get me wrong—they still get on my nerves.

But the truth is, I was lashing out because they reminded me of my lost innocence.

And I was lashing out at a part of myself that I hadn’t fully made peace with. The part that still wished materialism could fill the void inside, and already knew it couldn’t.

But that realization only came many more casualties later…until then…this North Bucharest vigilante marched on…

I Trolled Bucharest Until That Shit Wasn’t Funny Anymore

I’m writing down all the trolling I’ve done since I landed in Bucharest. Because they were objectively hilarious.

And someone’s gotta document this emotional terrorism for the culture.

Anyway.

After the self-proclaimed victory on that fateful evening at Herăstrău Park,

I knew the war had just begun.

And that insecure, poor little kid inside me instinctively knew, if I wanted to cause maximum carnage,

I couldn’t just mock materialistic people while looking like a bitter bum.

If they wanted to flex on me, and on all those struggling people in Bucharest barely getting by, then I was gonna flex back even harder.

I was gonna roast their asses AND make them feel poor.

Beating them at their own game. And I had the net worth to do it.

Designer clothes, check. I bought them on sale, even better ROI.

Luxury watches, I already had a few.

Smartass one-liners and sarcastic remarks? I could dish that shit out all day.

Now I was fully quipped to make fun of materialistic people, and they couldn’t say shit to me.

So off I went…on my war path.

(PS. If you’re an old man, drive a white car, and giggle like a schoolgirl every time the gold price goes up...Please forgive me for offending your fellow countrymen…if you ever end up reading this blog.)

Are You Already…or Still Aspiring?

It was a Friday night. I just saw some friends and was on my way home. Walking on the busy section of Calea Victoriei, Bucharest’s runway for the insecure.

And like always, Bucharest’s finest gold diggers were out.

It was like an influencer convention/European old money cosplay show just wrapped, and everyone decided to spill into the street and get pizza or gelato.

And after dealing with just one too many shallow girls who ran her “rich or not” interview script on me that week. Jaded and disillusioned would be an understatement to describe how I felt about them.

I rolled my eyes at the sight of these pretty little liars.

Ugh. All attractive. All just wanted me for what I had.

And it’s payback time.

Delivered not with violence, but with my world-class trolling.

The offensive clown in his discount costume with a Ralph Lauren logo went to work.

To the girls who dressed like European old money but on a ZARA budget: “So are you ladies already lonely housewives of Dubai? Or are you still aspiring to be one someday?”

To the girl walking around with a YSL handbag: “So is it true what they say about girls in Bucharest? That most of you had a poster of Melania Trump on your bedroom walls growing up? Because she was your biggest role model?”

One after another. I gave those already-angry-at-men Bucharest girls even more evidence to support their core beliefs.

Yes dear. All men are assholes. Some are just funnier than others.

I Used to Be Insecure, Just Like You

You can’t deny that there’s a strong obsession with being tall in Bucharest. And height-boosting platform shoes are literally everywhere.

So what, not only do you have to flex your designer logos on me, you have to do it on your tippy toes, too?

So I did what any other sarcastic smartass would do.

I made fun of them.

And over time, I perfected my little roasting routine. Well…more like unwanted life advice.

To the guy who told me that he wore platform shoes because “they are just so comfortable”: “Oh….really? So you survived the hardship of early 2000s Romania, but now you can’t survive these perfectly fine sidewalks without putting those on? Be a real man!”

To the girl wearing a pair of platform shoes that gave her 3 extra inches of self-acceptance: “Hey, I just wanted to tell you this. I used to be insecure about my height, just like you. And today, I took a leap of faith. I finally took off my platform shoes and put on something normal. And guess what?! I didn’t even die. If I did it? So can you. I believe in you.”

Yup, lots of enemies were made.

The Lost Tourist Looking For Direction Bit

Let’s face it. I’m Asian. And no matter how long I stay in Bucharest, I’m always gonna seem like a tourist to most people.

And you bet your ass I used it to my advantage. And roasted the shit out of flashy looking people in North Bucharest.

To an unsuspecting douche in a Gucci tracksuit and yellow tinted designer glasses: “Hey excuse me. Is it true what people say about your city on the internet? That the more north you go in Bucharest, the more new money douchebags you are gonna see? Is it…true?”

To the guy rocking a Burberry shirt and LV belt: “Hey, excuse me. I’m looking for this tourist attraction nearby. It even has 5-star reviews on Google Maps. It’s called North Bucharest new money douchebags. Do you know where that is?”

I’m still amazed that no one kicked my ass.

Moments of Realness and Humanity Midst the Chaos

The Moldovan Girl Who Tried to Help Me

One of those nights, I was being my usual self again. The offensive clown.

And I managed to piss off 2 guys with my “why are my neighbours such pricks” shtick.

Just the way I wanted to.

As they walked away hastily from some asshole foreigner. I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

Some girl, in her gym outfit.

She wasn’t looking for a fight, she wasn’t flirting.

And gently she said, “I heard what you just told them. And I know how you feel.”

She continued: “I’m from Moldova. And I also felt that way when I first moved to Bucharest.”

I nodded: “Yeah. This city is very pretentious.”

She didn’t disagree, and she went on: “That’s true. But I’ve also met a lot of people since then. Maybe underneath the facade, there’s depth and a real person. Stick around Bucharest a bit longer. You just may like it.”

I scoffed: “Okay… but if we check your Instagram right now, are there just gonna be Dubai vacation photos?”

She politely smiled.

After a quiet second, she nodded, said “Take care,” and walked off.

And I just stood there.

Feeling like I missed something I wasn’t ready to receive.

Gold Digger Gets Real, Asks Me Out

Some random weekday, I was just out trolling anyone and everyone in my area, and she was just one of many victims.

I don’t even remember what I said to her initially. Something about her outfit choice and her self-esteem, probably. You know, the usual friendly small talk.

Of course, she excused herself once the jig was up.

Yeah, run away, you little chicken.

And I went on to troll some news reporter dude who wore a watch that looked just a little too similar to an iconic luxury piece, but wasn’t.

Of course, he got offended too and stormed off.

“Yeah, I better not turn on the news tonight and hear some story about a racist Asian guy!”

I yelled at him and declared my dominance.

And a few more casualties later, I saw that first girl again.

And much to my surprise. She walked up and talked to me.

With this amused and intrigued look, she asked me, “I thought you were doing this for TikTok. So I followed you. But clearly there’s no camera around. What are you doing?”

With my signature sarcasm and snarky attitude, I proudly told her: “I’m just making fun of my douchebag neighbours and bullying them into moving out, so I can gentrify North Bucharest.”

She laughed, maybe my existential crisis and unresolved traumas were funny to her.

“You are weird, but in a good way.”

I think she meant it.

I gave her the side eye: “You know my wallet is not big enough to date you, right?”

She laughed again: “I make my own money too, you know. And yes, I know my beauty equals money.”

I rolled my eyes at her again: “That’s what all you high-achieving gold diggers say around here.”

She continued: “My ex did buy me two houses and a car….”

“And the joke just writes itself….”I cut her off, like I saw right through her.

But she didn’t flinch, didn’t storm off, and she insisted one more time: “I don’t need your money. I have my own. But I have some time before my nail appointment. Do you want to get a quick coffee?”

And in that moment. My brain just glitched.

And for once, I didn’t have a witty comeback, I didn’t have a snarky remark. And I didn’t know how to react.

So I looked at her, mumbled a “no thanks,” and walked away.

Did she actually see me?

Did she want to get to know the real me, beneath the clown mask, the armor, the jokes?

Even if she did, would she even like the real me?

Or was she just looking for her next target the same way I had been scouting mine?

I guess I’ll never know.

James vs Some Bucharest Mall, The Final Showdown

Just your typical Saturday at one of the posh malls in Bucharest. I was just trying to get a coffee and maybe chat up a cute, simple girl at the mall. You know, like the good old days.

But nooooooo.

When had Bucharest ever stopped shoving materialistic people down my throat?

And that day?

It was no different. Maybe even a higher than usual concentration of LV bags per square metre.

Fuck them. I was fed up with all the flexing.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I might just have to cleanse my new money-infested neighbourhood with my bare hands.

Well, maybe not my hands. But my wit.

If I could manage to psychologically traumatize every single one of these materialistic tryhards, to the point they became too afraid to leave their apartments.

Because some Asian asshole might roast them.

They’d have no choice but to move to a different part of the city, right?

And I would gentrify this neighbourhood and make it classy again.

I giggled at my resourcefulness and eagerly went to work.

To put on the greatest performance art this side of Transylvania had ever seen.

I wasn’t just trolling. I was hunting, sniping even.

For anyone who dared to walk into this mall with even a hint of a monogram, a jubilee bracelet, or a beige scarf with that print.

You know, the most typical, unimaginative downward signalling fashion choices a new money douchebag can think of.

And like an inspired artist on Colombian coke that day, my one-liners just kept getting sharper and meaner.

“Don’t you think it’s great our country is rich now? So we can walk around with LV bags and flex on those less fortunate. Ain’t capitalism great?”

“Look at us, huh. You cope with your daddy issues with a two-tone Rolex and a nose job, I do it by paying hookers to tell me they love me. Divided by nation, united by low self-esteem.”

“Hey, did you read the Forbes article that just came out today? They finally confirmed it. Shitty parents make more loyal LV customers.”

“What’s the point of dressing up as old money? We all know the history here. It would be statistically impossible that you came from generational wealth.”

“Hi, I just moved to this area recently. And I had no idea I had to dress like a new money asshole to fit in here. Can you teach me?”

As entertaining as it was to deflate the egos of all those pretentious fucks. My little shenanigan had to stop eventually.

A few polite security guards came over. They were just wondering why some “rich-looking” foreigner was doing stand-up comedy and unlicensed therapy for other “rich-looking” locals in a shopping mall.

They didn’t even ask me to leave. But I knew it was time to take my performance art elsewhere.

Even during the middle of my rampage, making fun of materialistic people had stopped being funny.

Even to me.

So I left. No drama.

As I walked away from the mall, after another hollow victory, I had to ask myself:

“What’s the point of all that?”

The Real People Behind The Flexing I Slowly Started to See

It was easy to go on the offensive when I was new, triggered daily, and had no local friends to vent to.

Just my sarcasm, past wounds, and a front-row seat to the parade of flexing.

Mocking them was my self-defence. And my therapy.

Then I met some Bucharest people, the ones who saw me as their friend.

And I started to understand the mentality here.

It’s the pressure of being judged, it’s the insecurity of growing up poor, it’s the fear of being excluded.

The same shit I’ve dealt with all my life.

And the real tragedy of living in a harsh environment where it often feels impossible to make it out of financial hardships. Unless you marry rich.

And I started seeing the real humans of Bucharest.

The friend who drove me into the countryside to show me the natural beauty of his homeland.

The friend who gave me traditional Romanian food every holiday and made me feel less alone in a foreign land.

The friend who showed up for me when I had my little troll heart broken by yet another superficial girl.

And some of these “materialistic people” are just trying to play a game they also didn’t believe in. There’s a good person with depth underneath it all.

Everyone’s just doing whatever they were conditioned to do.

To survive, to belong, to feel loved.

The same thing I’ve done myself.

Even if it means putting on a piece of suspiciously Chinese-looking Swiss haute horology.

Even if it means driving like a real asshole with a modified AMG and a secret wish to drop the soap in prison.

Even if it means draping a white blazer over their shoulders and clutching tightly onto a YSL handbag, vaping their pain away on Calea Victoriei.

Instead of judging, ruthlessly mocking,

I started seeing myself in everyone else.

And maybe the bravest thing I can do…is to take the costume off first.

The Bridge Troll Who Just Wanted to Be Loved

Like the greatest cosmic joke, flying into Bucharest was actually time-traveling into my past.

I acted out of pain, insecurities, and unhealed wounds, and insulted “Bucharest elites” for as long as it took for me to start looking within.

I wasn’t just triggered by the Gucci tracksuits, transactional women, or loud exhaust pipes.

I was triggered by a past that I hadn’t fully healed from.

I wasn’t just roasting the Bucharest new money, I was fighting the ghosts of Chinese new money that haunted my childhood.

I wasn’t just insulting Bucharest gold diggers because I randomly woke up and decided to be a selective misogynist.

I did it because every time I saw a woman treat her beauty like currency, I saw my mother in her.

And I hated how much it still hurt.

“Why does love always have to be transactional?!”

And I trolled, because I was bitter.

I gave in and played the game, and won, sometimes.

Got the “compliments”. Got the date. Got the little ego highs.

And still walked away feeling like I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

Other times, I refused to play the game.

Or I played it half-heartedly and still lost.

Got ignored. Rejected. Ghosted.

So yeah, I trolled.

Because part of me was bitter at losing.

And another part was bitter that even when I did win, it still felt like losing.

It wasn’t love. It was all performance. It wasn’t the real me.

And I just wanted to stop acting.

But to my credit, maybe I was also trying to wake them up in my fucked-up yet hilarious ways.

Because I had been there, done that.

Two Rolexes later, I still had the same old void in me. (Both bought at my lowest points)

I still had the same old voice that told me I wasn’t good enough, that I had to put on a curated facade to be loved.

And maybe I also felt threatened.

Even though it’s been 2 decades since I was the “poor kid” in my class.

There is still a part of me that got insecure when I walked around Bucharest with my wired headphones, whenever I forgot to charge my AirPods.

“Will I look poor?”

So yeah. I was the bridge troll of North Bucharest who walked around with a club of sarcasm and armour made out of logos and brands.

Shadow boxing strangers whenever they held up a mirror I didn’t want to look into.

Taking out my resentment on anyone that didn’t seem bothered by participating in a game I despised.

And deep down, that bridge troll just wanted to feel accepted for who he really was.

P.S.

To all the Bucharest new money I made fun of:

I’m sorry I ruined your flex session. But you gotta admit my jokes were fire.

To all the gold diggers I insulted:

We are still not gonna get married or anything. But I understand why you do the things you do.

To the Moldovan girl who tried to reach me:

Sorry, I wasn’t ready to receive your genuine kindness.

Signed,

Ex-Bridge Troll of North Bucharest