I was on a train from the fringes of Transylvania to Bucharest. I remember little from my readings of the intricate rising and falling of empires, strategic alliances or geographical features that distinguish Transylvania from other areas of Romania. Just a few key words like Saxons and Hapsburgs and of course Dracula, the initial inspiration for which was a pale prince with bloodshot eyes and a legendary thirst for blood – although Vlad the Impaler, as he was charmingly known, never actually lived in the “Dracula castle” tourists visit in droves.
Across the seat from me on the train was a sweet, chubby Romanian lady of about 60 something. She would cross herself rapidly multiple times at each church we passed. It seemed excessive to have to do it so many times, but then who was I to say. When I sat down, she chatted about in Romanian and I apologized in English for not understanding a word she was saying. My Romanian vocabulary consists of precisely six words and three of them are alcoholic drinks.
However, later during our four hour journey together she would frequently point something out, make some remark or some little joke and I slipped into an unclear territory where I began nodding and smiling at her in response despite not knowing if she was talking about the pretty snow falling outside or her sister’s arthritis.
Brașov, Romania
The train stopped at a town and a slew of new passengers got on. A woman and her small son took the two seats in our four-person arrangement (two seats facing two seats). The little boy was all bundled up in a full-body ski suit, and under that, I could see, wore a big puffy sweater and a hat. He had a toy handgun which he aimed out the window and proceeded to fake fire at every tree, stick or blade of grass we passed, making accompanying pssh psssh grrah sounds softly, likely trained to keep it down by his mother. She held a plastic bag which contained a small machine gun. I suppose they had agreed that the handgun would be more appropriate for the train ride. The mother was astonishingly beautiful, like a dark-haired version of Kate Moss or some other famous model (I don’t know many). As soon as her husband leaned over from the seat behind us, I assumed the guns were his influence. He was a large, red-faced man and had certainly scored way up with his wife, at least in the looks department.
Twenty minutes later when we stopped at another town, there was a little kerfuffle on the train as it emerged that the last group had got in the wrong carriage. The family with the assassin boy trundled out and two young guys took their place.
As we glided out of the mountains and through darkening fields, I tried not to dwell on the fact that I had missed my flight out of Romania. I had made a mistake with the date that was embarrassing to consider, not to mention the cost I would surely incur, nor the potential entrapment in Romania as I waited for a non-exorbitantly priced flight to become available. I had discovered my rookie mistake just ten minutes before boarding this train bound for Bucharest where my flight was leaving, I had thought, later that night. A few frenzied minutes of calculations ensued as my brother – about to board a train in the opposite direction – searched for flights online (I had no data and so was useless other than to exclaim every 20 seconds “How could I have been so stuuupid?! I was sure it was on the 28th”. The flight was at 0:40 and so a confusing one but I would never be so dumb as to make that mistake. I realized of course that it meant although you were flying Friday night the date would be Saturday etc. But however smartly I may have thought I made the mistake, there was unfortunately no denying that I had indeed made it).
I imagined Tarom Airlines calling out my name over the loudspeaker as I lay asleep in the oddly named “Bedstage Hostel” four hours away. “Would a Miss Tara Brian please proceed to Gate 4B for immediate boarding”. And then again a few minutes later. I was mortified for my imaginary self listening to that ring through the airport as other more seasoned and smart travelers tut tutted and wondered whereabouts Miss Brian could be. Maybe some pitied me, perhaps imagining Miss Brian running sweatily down the corridors after a late connection from New York. Eventually they would have stopped calling out my name, given the “All passengers on board” announcement – or as I’ve noted some airlines do now in a very impersonal flare “All customers on board” – and sealed up the plane doors.
Bran Castle, the mythical residence of Count Dracula. In actual fact, home to Romanian royals as recently as the Second World War.
The lady next to me on the train seemed finally to have figured out that I didn’t understand verbal language and so she began gesturing to me instead. She was also chatty with the people across the aisle and had frequent conversations on her non-smart phone. She would move it in front of her mouth and speak loudly and then shift it up to her ear to hear the response. At one point she got up, I presume to use the WC, and draped her scarf partially over her purse which she left on her seat, as if this might stave off thieves.
Close to Bucharest I realized one of my earrings had fallen out. It was from one of my favourite pairs – a set of delicate leaves dipped in a brilliant golden – my “lucky earrings”. No more. But the disappointment may have been worth it if only to witness the vigorous and whole-hearted search which commenced as soon as I made my problem known to my neighbor via a simple set of gestures. I did so more as a topic of conversation following hours of my mute nodding and smiling, but the kindly lady sprang into action, recruiting the woman from across the aisle to join the search party. The two of them scoured the eight chairs in my vicinity long past when I had given up hope, patting down the same bare seats repeatedly as if the large gold leaf could have transformed into blue fabric. Alas, despite their most thorough search we had to conclude the good luck earring was gone.
Upon reaching Otopeni Airport, it become clear that my Zen-like composure was not going to last. Either the prices were far from ideal or the flights were long in the future. I flitted between Skyscanner, Kayak and three airline ticket counters, schlepping my bags around and battling spotty Wifi and a long ago ignored but actually quite urgent need to pee. I considered combinations of trains and planes from various Eastern European cities etc. It all became very complicated. In a frenzied move I got a flight leaving in an hour to Warsaw, having seen cheap onward tickets from there to Georgia where I was going.
No sooner had I made the purchase to Warsaw, than the prices of the onward tickets started to jump like goats on catnip. Meanwhile, my stress levels were ratcheting upwards to the hand wringing I-don’t-care-if-Obama-himself-walked-through-and-saw-me-in-this-state levels. I boarded the flight to Warsaw with the realization that the whole idea had been a big mistake.
I’ll spare you the details of the booking website problems, overnight airport forays, and the dismay at realizing this totally unnecessary diversion was actually going to cost more then if I’d returned straight from Bucharest on the most expensive flight.
But Warsaw turned out to be beautiful – perhaps even more so because it was entirely unexpected – and I wandered through the city as if in a dream (I was also very tired). Maybe in the end it had all been worth it after all.
Warsaw, beautifully lit up for Christmas
tararachael 