I weave my way between groups beside the bus and avoid eye contact with the Babushkas. They’re busy henpecking the driver while he’s getting their bags to pay attention to me snagging my bag from the bus’s belly.
Sofia is dark. The distance grows between streetlights until there’s none. We have a hotel close by and find our way down narrow streets in the dark, challenging the wheels on our cabin cases against the cobblestones. It is amazing how quiet it is for a city of its size.
The hotel is a hole. The reviews ranged from “What a terrific place.” To “it’s dated but still decent.” With those perspectives, I’d hate to see where these folks came from. Getting to our room is like looking at progressive mugshots. The room is so hot you could bake bread. There’s an A/C unit that the front desk tells us doesn’t work. None of them do through the entire hotel, he informs us. It’s too late to switch hotels. We sleep/sweat with the balcony doors open.
The alarm drags me from sleep like a drowning man to shore. It’s as dark as the inside of a cow and I don’t know my name, let alone where I am. Four thirty is tough when you’re already short on sleep. I try to make coffee or rather freeze-dried coffee nuggets. Someone has tried to cook something in the kettle and burned it to the bottom. Coffee will have to wait until after tickets.
The ticketing office was closed when we arrived but, it opens at six thirty and I plan on being there. Fog hugs the streets, muffles the sound of my footsteps and the rattle-clack of the suitcase wheels in the dark. A few blocks later, the lights of a major street and the station on the far side take shape. The lines of it get firmer the closer it gets. One or two cars trundle along in a street too wide for them.
Ticketing is open and thank goodness for translations by phone. There are men just standing casually by the counters, some talk among themselves or look as though they’re waiting on someone. We get our reservations. I ask for directions and I don’t see it but, one of the casual leaners come to life. It seems we are what he’s waiting for. He swipes the reservation from my wife’s hand, takes the handle of her case and starts off toward the platforms, leaving her speechless. “I take you,” he says over his shoulder.
We can see our breath as we chug along to catch up. All but one set of tracks is empty and, of course, the surprise porter trudges in that direction. On the platform, the train looks abandoned. Two parts steel, one part graffiti and one part rust. There’s no power inside, none of the lights are on but, he assures us that “Yes, this is train.” He shows us a piece of paper taped to the side of it and points at the ticket. “This car.” And he gets on with the case and tickets in his hand and shows us to a car. “Here,” he says as I put the cases on the rack above the seats. He holds out his hand.
Of course, this is what it comes to, right? It’s not paying for the bullshit carrying of a suitcase or showing us to the only train leaving that morning. It’s paying him to go away. The problem is, I had no money in my pockets. It was a quick trip through Bulgaria, and I didn’t bother to get any currency at all. I tell him this. Repeatedly. I tell him I have a Euro. Take it or leave it, and by this time I was getting pissed. Finally, he understands I really don’t have any money and holds out his hand again. “I take Euro,” he says begrudgingly. I drop it in his palm. He shakes his head, mutters something that surely had to be a compliment, and leaves.
Note to travelers out there. Beware the leeches that will take any opportunity to force you into something. Keep your bags and your tickets close and don’t ever be afraid to make a scene or definitively say “NO” A lot of them won’t understand anything else. Some are more agro and slyer than others. I understand these folks are trying to earn a bit but, I still think It’s more than a little shady the way they do it.
The train engine chugs to life, and we get power. The heat kicks on so eventually we might not see our breath anymore and we leave the train station in Sofia behind but, are we indeed on the right train? It weighs on our minds for the next forty-five minutes.
The train agent shows up, and tells us we are on the right train. I breathe a sigh of relief. We even have reservations. I got them back from the porter extraordinaire, but I need tickets from Eurail too? She watches me mime and struggle, then tells me she will be back. Ominous. I know what you must be thinking. Did I not read directions? Yes, yes, I read what I could find. It added up to doing a dot to dot with a bunch of missing numbers.
All this excitement brings me to the train bathroom, and it is cold as a meat locker. Thank goodness. The draft when I lift the lid makes my eyes water. I couldn’t imagine how much worse the stink would be in the heat. The ties between the rails go zipping by the hole in the floor. The train bounces up and down, jerks left and right on goat-path tracks that may have never seen a level. I brace myself against the wall, which is easy since this is no Tardis. I imagine the thigh workout and intense concentration it would take if you’re forced to hover doing train outhouse pilates. I bang into the walls back to my seat and pull out my phone to continue mining for tickets.
Cell phones are a blessing and a curse. I’d say a little of both when they’re working perfectly and just a curse when you really need them to work, but don’t. If you partner that with not knowing what you’re doing on a train app, you may have visions of an old rusty train coming to a halt in a field in Bulgaria, vomiting two passengers and whistling as it chugs away. Heed my warning. An adage I’ve told my kids about getting their own place illustrates my point. “Buy a plunger before you need a plunger.” In other words, figure out the pass before you must use the pass.
My wife and I bicker about how to do what with the pass. Squeezed shoulder to shoulder, hunched over my semi-working phone. Frustrated, worried, and more than confused. Attach this to that, turn this on hold your tongue right and finally a kind of ticket shows up on the screen. Now I’m ready to whip them out when the time comes. A young man hops on in the middle of all this, speaks a little English and takes a seat in our carriage. The agent makes it back to us, glances at the ticket and just nods. That’s all I get? I think to myself. “I come back 5 minutes before the next train.” The young man interprets and nods at her use of Bulgarian and English mixed. “She will come five minutes before and help you switch trains.”
We are up and ready, thinking, hoping that this is the right station for our swap. Standing at the doo, cases in hand, the platform rises alongside the track. On the opposite side of the train. Everyone shuffles to turn around in the cramped space. The train has filled with several small stops we’ve made. I see no sign of the five-minute lady until we exit the train. She’s there on the platform and waves at us, a cigarette clamped between her fingers. We bumble our way across platforms and find the departures printed out and tacked inside a glass case, jump on the next train and stumble through the digital interwebs trying to figure out tickets again.
More bickering and frustration. This app really should come with a user manual or tutorial, something. We get it figured out without getting too heated but, it’s a near thing. Our trains get easier as we get more comfortable guessing and not precisely knowing everything. There’s a lot of wiggle room with trains. You have to go back in time and travel more in a more relaxed way. Something I enjoy now. The trains as this trip has continued have got better accommodations and have stations with more information. They are all different, with a unique set of rules for each country, even from train to train. Times and time keeping are up for grabs, sometimes, others it is on the dot. So. Educate yourself before throwing yourself to the steel rail wolves.
I survived. We survived with maybe a few grey hairs or maybe just a few less, and continue to make it from stop to stop with ever-changing rules and circumstances. Part of the traveling game. I’m learning to play it the best I can. The country rolls by the window. Passport control gets on. Looks over my passport. Looks at me and stamps it into Romania.
