Handwritings

My train leaves at half past five in the afternoon. I pack my bags and plan the next visit to another remote part of the country. Trains have always been my passion. I arrive at the small train station in Tirgu Mures just in time to buy the ticket and have coffee. 'Quite crowded', I say to myself. 'You can easily see this is the only train to Bucharest for the weekend.' It will take us four hours just to get out of the mountains and another four to cross the plain to the capital. On the platform, people are saying goodbye. Finally, the train arrives and I say goodbye to the quiet little town on the Mures, once part of the Habsburg Empire.

'Hello', I hear a voice from behind, talking in English. 'Is this seat 84, second car?' 'Yes, this is it', I reply smiling politely. The man in his 70s, I presume, takes his seat in front of me. I take out my book and try to concentrate on the pages, while the train whistles its way through the steep slopes.

'Quite a long way to Bucharest, don't you think?' says the man in front of me.
'Yes, eight hours.'
'At least we have a great view. I don't get to see this much where I come from.'
'It really is. Is this your first time in Romania?'
'Oh, no. It must be my tenth. I come here each year since the 90s, getting away from London.'

We start talking about his Romanian adventure for the past ten years and the natural hot spring spas that are so underrated, some 2000 years old. While I gaze into the sunset I feel there is still hope for my country to rise in the eyes of the traveler. Alan and I exchange phone numbers and addresses as we decide to keep in touch. It will be a challenge for me as he only writes letters, while I was born in the era of the email.

Eight years have passed and we still write letters by hand. The British Royal family visits Romania nowadays.

I visited my friend in London this year and thanked him for believing in Romania all these years. He is now 80 and planning another visit to Romania this fall...