InsideOut Travel—Romanian Train Ride Cont.

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When the train stopped in some God-forgotten village, sun-starched, colorfully dressed peasants would get on and peddle their wares: sunflower seeds, apples, pears, or prunes. Others sold bottles of beer and water. They'd get off the train in the next town, but more were sure to take their place.

Often the beauty of the Romanian countryside had to take back seat to grim reminders of local poverty. Many train routes were "worked" by beggars as well as farmers. Any big city in the world has its panhandlers, and sometimes their Romanian counterparts didn't seem much different than what you'd see in the States; but the sight of barefooted Gypsy children coming into your train compartment and begging for a few hundred Romanian lei was pretty depressing. The way they begged somehow made it more poignant; they didn't tell you that they wanted some spare change, they sang you this, in plaintive, haunting voices.

After several months in Romania, most foreigners begin to realize the many of the locals' anti-Gypsy prejudices are well founded, and the voices seem more annoying than poignant and more whiney than plaintive. But seeing old, legless men propelling themselves along with their muscular arms and begging was something I never got used to, no matter how many times I saw it.

On any train at any time, an obvious foreigner—and with my blonde hair and blue eyes, I was definitely a foreigner in this Latin country—was likely to meet his fellow travelers, whether he wanted to or not. Romanians are just as curious as they are friendly, and since many of them have never talked to someone from another country, they're likely to bombard foreigners with an endless stream of questions.

Hospitality is a cardinal virtue, and food and homemade wine—or the more lethal “Tuica,” Romanian brandy made from plums, apples or pears—is likely to be shared.

Probably no country in Europe is so pro-American, so when they find out that you're a Yankee, the curiosity and hospitality double. When said American can hold a conversation in Romanian, as I could toward the end of my stay, the welcome grows exponentially warmer. All of my foreign friends living in Romania saw a small party, held in their honor, break out in a train compartment.

Train rides to the Black Sea, at least in the summer, were characterized by an especially festive atmosphere. Everyone was going on vacation, and the locals revealed their Latin capacity for having fun, along with a Slavic ability to drink like Boris Yeltsin. People were singing, the occasional guitar could be heard and the wine and Tuica were flowing.

Diplomatic, and genuinely appreciative of homemade Tuica, I made it a point to always accept a shot from my compartment mates. Somehow word would reach the neighboring compartments that there was a Tuica-imbibing foreigner on board, and in the corridor on the way to the bathroom, I'd regularly be waylaid by someone discreetly telling me that his Tuica was the best and that he'd be honored if I tried a bit. Learning how to refuse without causing offense became less a social grace than a survival tactic.

Accelerat

Most of the time, I was traveling between major destinations which allowed me to take the ironically named "accelerat" or express trains, but for Thanksgiving, a pair of American friends and I went to eat a turkey dinner at a compatriot's, who was living in a small town called Gheorgheni.

To get to such a nondescript destination, we had to change trains three times. Only then did I learn to appreciate the relative virtues of an accelerat. For travel to small towns, you had to take the "persoana" trains, which, like a Greyhound bus, had to stop at every town it passed through. These trains were the cheapest and therefore tended to be packed, usually with peasant women, their children and chickens, and their numerous sacks of potatoes, apples or pears.

Most often it was standing room only. Smoking was common, and given that warm water was a luxury available only every second day, the crowd was doubly ripe. Given the omnipresent fear of "curent," opening the windows wasn't an option.

Getting off the train was the only relief—or going first class. This was a luxury that we didn't afford ourselves, given that we were earning local teachers' salaries. Also, when you're young and adventurous you can chalk up lots of the discomfort as soaking up local color.

By the third leg of our Thanksgiving odyssey, we were far more interested in being able to sit and breathe. We went to the first class wagon that wasn't necessarily more luxurious, though the seats were a bit wider. Anyway, this was a moot point as we were alone and could sit.

Taking advantage of the peace and quiet, we tried to think of an excuse for when the conductor came. Playing the part of the ignorant foreigner seemed a safe bet, and we broke out a bottle of homemade wine and toasted our good fortune. The conductor arrived and sternly asked for our tickets.

He seemed like the hard type, so I thought I'd try to soften him up.

Offering him the bottle, I said: "Avem un vin bun," which means "We have a good wine."

He took it, regarded it with a connoisseur's eye, and then took a bigger drink than the average connoisseur would allow himself. Nodding appreciatively, he said "Da, da. E bun."

Our new friend invited us into a compartment reserved for the conductors. Nice, cushiony seats and plenty of legroom. Between this guy and his two colleagues, we didn't get to see our wine much, but it was interesting to be experiencing something that wouldn't happen on a French TGV or on a German Intercity Express.

They threw us the odd question about where, exactly we came from and why we were in Romania, but mostly they were involved in an important card game. No money was involved, but as we approached the next town they'd have one last hand. The loser grumbled a bit, knowing that he'd have to go check the passengers' tickets. I'm sure the hope that there were three more of us sitting in first class lifted his spirits a bit.

After a year, I said goodbye to this beautiful country, leaving on a train bound for Berlin. The journey took us through three countries before we got to Germany, and it was a sad testimony to how the rest of Europe views the Romanians. While the customs inspectors and border guards scarcely glanced at my US passport, they meticulously studied my Romanian compartment mate Mircea's.

His baggage was searched without fail, since they considered that no Romanian could simply be going to Germany on vacation. Surely he was part of some shady smuggling ring, and he was subjected to rude questions asked in a tone of voice more fitting for a police interrogation. The Czechs actually frisked him when we entered the country, and gave him hell a few hours later when we were leaving because his passport didn't have a stamp from the Czech Republic.

But this grueling trip, which due to numerous delays lasted well over 30 hours, also reminded me why I was going to miss the Romanians this much.

Instead of packing food for the trip, I'd kept a few dollars worth of lei, reasoning that any international train, especially one scheduled to last over 20 hours, would have a dining car. Unfortunately, I soon discovered that the Romanians had dubbed the wrong train "Trenul de Foame".

Thanks to Mircea, I didn't have time to feel sorry for myself. He shared every morsel of food he had, fifty-fifty. Every time he took a sip of wine, he offered me one. People like Mircea had made my year in Romania a wonderful experience.

Mircea and his countrymen made me feel at home in a place which, for an American, is one of the most foreign in Europe; and in Romania, people like Mircea were the rule, not the exception. Nowhere else have I had a warmer welcome than in this land where every foreign visitor is an honored guest and a potential friend.

Matt Dueholm was a teacher, translator and vagabond for seven years in Romania, Poland, Germany and France. He has settled down near Minneapolis with his Polish wife and their 3-year-old son. Matt continues to teach English as a foreign language, and runs a small jewelry business with his wife.

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CONTINUED DESTINATION: ROMANIA

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