From Budapest to Bucharest: inappropriate misadventures with my partner in crime.

“Can we drink the water?” Cat’s last-minute panic elicited a mild eye-roll and not-so mild sigh. “It's Europe! We'll be fine!"
We were lost. I say we - we were together - so it could've been worse. What couldn't have been worse was my outfit. Tiny gingham hotpants and Lady Gaga top seemed like a good idea in the baking heat. It was not, now; midnight in Bucharest, where we had never been before, though judging by the men’s glances, they approved. Maybe it was my baby brain – after an eventful "sleepover" with a guy (at the Mercure, no less – raise your hand if you felt like a prostitute!) – I had bigger concerns than clothing; boarding the flight home I could be carrying another passenger. After the quickest Google ever of "Hungarian for morning after pill", I braved the pharmacy only to hear I needed a prescription. Catholic countries – beautiful, not generous with birth control!
We started launching into worry mode, when we heard a call. Oh great, I thought, more old men. A teacher came down from her flat, had a lovely chat and even phoned our hostel to pick us up – all this and valet too!
The next day, in an underground drum ‘n’ bass club, I heard the immortal words, “Facebook? What is Facebook?” answering Cat. A surreal, brilliant moment, which sums up how different our countries are, especially the divide between East and West, perfectly.
I also discovered my infinite love for Fornetti's delicious cheese bites - salt, fat - everything you and your possibly unborn child crave after a night in Bucharest.
A friend told me profuse hand signals made up for a lack of Romanian, but Italian served us well! After the bus lady stared us out for a good 2 minutes, a crowd building up behind, my rusty Italian worked; her face split into a grin and we were off to Dracula’s Castle.
The language barrier was not easily overcome on the train. We'd been on it for 6 of 16 hours, when, crossing the border, it filled with angry Romanians who'd booked every seat – not for themselves, for their bulky cases, musical instruments, wooden boxes and cages. We finally met with not more angry stares, but a friendly conductor, like the Fat Controller. He kindly ushered us to an extra carriage – with bed-like seats. Chuffed, and although at one point in the tiny cabin, scared for our lives, it sums up why I travel; new experiences, even fear, bring new perspectives and humour, borne from the most unlikely scenarios (and certainly not ones you find funny, at least at the time!).