Romania

The world was empty, the air, clear. I could feel the icy chill from the station platform seeping through the tattered soles of my boots. Finally, I saw the train emerging from the tunnel, a bright red ribbon sliding between the mist-encompassed mountains.
I pushed through a pack of feral dogs and swung myself up out of the cold. Treading slowly down the graffiti marred hallway, I passed several compartments crammed with families. They sat surrounded by piles of their belongings: suitcases held together with duct tape and twine, crates with ruffled geese and disgruntled chickens, and wooden bowls filled with meat for their midday meals.
I considered myself lucky when I found a compartment filled with just one person. I nodded and tossed a smile at the old Roma woman as I took my seat across from her. Wrinkles rippled across her face, from around her chapped lips to her mahogany eyes, and she smiled back.
I heard a snuffling sound, and looking down I saw one of the mangy strays from the station poking its grizzled head through the door. I held my hand out, thinking of my own dog back home.
The old woman jabbed me with her stick, her jewelry jingling. “Girl, do not touch beast.” Her English startled me.
I pulled my hand back.
She leaned forward slightly; her eyes wide as she said, “Girl touch beast, girl get bit. Girl becomes beast.”
I looked into the dog’s hungry eyes and reminded myself that this was not home, but Transylvania. The Roma woman grumbled a guttural laugh, shooed the dog with her stick, then leaned back and closed her eyes.
I soon felt overwhelmed by the thick heat of the train car, heavy after the thin November cold. I shed my extra layers and thrust my head out of the window.
The icy mountain air enveloped my face; and looking around me, I saw that others were dangling half out of their train compartments. They were laughing, their arms stretched as far as they could, snatching at wet leaves centimeters from their fingertips. I grinned, and reached out my arms to join them.