The Journey and the Destination: Travel Memoirs in East-Central and Southeast Europe

A hot July day marked the seventeen hour train ride from Budapest, Hungary to Bucharest, Romania. Events leading up to it were worrying. Asking where my friend and I were headed, the woman running the hostel in which we were staying turned white upon hearing Bucharest. “You must be careful,” she warned, questioning why we would visit Romania at all, while another employee recalled stories he heard about travellers being attacked while on Romanian trains. The day before our departure, receptionists in Budapest’s train station refused to sell us train tickets whatsoever. The first vendor asserted that she would not sell us a ticket to anywhere in Romania and then closed the shutters to her booth. We then wandered into a small room off to a side marked by a sign reading “waiting room,” which was windowless and featureless save for some benches on which elderly citizens sat and stared as we entered—we left immediately. The third vendor we encountered was willing finally to sell us tickets, but not before warning that “something always goes wrong” on the train to Bucharest.

After having crossed the Hungarian-Romanian border, a Romanian policeman came aboard to check everyone’s papers. When he got to us, he exclaimed joy upon seeing Canadian passports. At first we thought nothing of it as we were concerned more about food, of which we had quickly run out. However, an elderly man sitting nearby noticed us and decided to introduce himself. Conversing in the best Romanian I could manage, we learned he was a farmer from a local village in Transylvania. After a few words, the man produced some homemade sausages, cheese, and bread, and we were invited to eat. The Romanian policeman soon returned and, invited by the Transylvanian to partake in the food, sat down with us while removing his hat and the top button from his otherwise tight-fitting uniform. He spoke French, and when he learned that we were from Montreal his reaction was even more positive than earlier. He pulled out his wallet and showed us pictures of his family, explaining that they recently moved to Quebec and that he has since applied for immigration to Canada in the hopes of reuniting with them. Between the policeman, the retired farmer, and us two, we spent the rest of the train ride discussing life in Canada and Romania over a tray of food and between two languages. Indeed, this train ride between capitals was as memorable as visiting either city, contrary to the presupposed misgivings about it.