BALKAN TRAIN SURFING
BY MAX HUDGINS
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” I heard as I felt someone kick my foot.
It was 3 AM on the border of the Czech Republic and Hungary. I had been sleeping on the floor of the train station waiting for my next train to take me to Budapest. Everything was planned out. I was going to hop on a train from Prague to Budapest, switch stations in Budapest and take the night train to Romania. There was only one problem. Halfway between Prague and the Czech-Hungarian border I hopped on the wrong train that sent me almost all the way back to Prague. It was in that train station, sleeping on the floor of an underground walkway, that I decided I would no longer be booking my tickets in advance.
“Uhh, nein, English?”
“Oh, is ok.” The mohawked officer and his friend walked away.
I was traveling the Balkans after living on a farm in Serbia for three weeks, visiting some friends, first in Budapest then Prague, with the end goal being Romania. I’ve begun to reach the point where a lot of these Eastern European capital cities started to blend together. All of them seemed to have a predictable layout — tourist trap old town, St. Something’s Church, the Danube, historic old bridge everyone loves, new ugly bridge everyone hates, lots and lots of doner kebab shops, and brutalist communist-era apartments.
Still an hour to go before my train arrived. Still kicking myself for getting on the wrong one. I didn’t even know where my seat was. My second ticket from the border of Hungary to Budapest had no seat or car number on it. Once the train arrived, I walked up and down the cars looking for someone to point me in the right direction. Every time I ran into someone — a cook, a ticket collector, a security officer — they pointed me back the way I came. So, like a sadistic game of train ping-pong, up and down the cars I walked, looking for an empty seat.
In Europe, corridors take up about a third of the train car, near the windows, while the other two thirds are tiny compartments that have the actual seats. The problem is that they also have curtains. And most of the people had theirs closed for privacy making it impossible to find a spot without waking up people in that particular compartment. I was not looking to be that asshole. Not that it mattered anyway, because I didn’t even know if there was a spot saved for me, since my ticket had no seat or car number. Annoyed, tired, and hitting the doorways and walls with my oversized backpack, I searched for a spot. Eventually, I elected to just sit on the floor, right near the bathroom in between cars, and tried my best to get some shuteye.
Around 6:00 AM, as the sun began to rise and reveal a thick fog over what I imagine was a gorgeous Hungarian countryside, I thought I was going to lose my mind. I searched one last time, and found an empty seat in a nearly empty compartment. As quietly as I could, I put my bag on the shelf above me, sat down, and fell asleep. Traveling, while awesome, can still feel hateful, and the worst was yet to come.
After changing train stations in Budapest, eating breakfast, and buying my 3:00 PM ticket to Bucharest, I decided to ball out with the $6 VIP lounge. I brushed my teeth for the first time in about a day, took off my boots and day-old socks, and fell asleep again on some pushed-together chairs. I’m sure the staff at the Budapest VIP lounge thought I fit right in.
3:00 PM. New train, new me. This one due to arrive in Bucharest at 8:00…AM. What’s another fifteen hours on a train? Sure, they were out of beds when I booked but it is a night train, we can expect some amenities right? Food car? Nope. AC? Try again. Windows that open? Not here. A place to buy a water bottle? Not unless you plan on drinking out the bathroom sink. I might need to rethink this whole not-planning-in-advance thing. For another fifteen hours, sleep evaded me. Having only eaten breakfast that day due to my poor planning, music became my food — a way to take my mind off the symphony of my stomach. No matter how well traveled you are, you’d be surprised at what just a little sleep deprivation can do to your critical thinking capabilities. I was lucky enough to bum some mysterious red drink off a Hungarian guy right before the Romanian border. He was sitting on a cooler so I asked if he was selling water. I don’t know exactly what he said but I ended up with his drink. Thank you Hungarian man. That got me through the night.
The sun began to set as we crossed into Romania and the gorgeous Balkan fields turned into a black soup of darkness just outside my window. I tried my best to read, to play solitaire with the deck of cards I had brought, to get any bit of shuteye I could. It was all for nothing. My brain was not firing on all cylinders and I was not thinking clearly. The train rocked back and forth all hours of the night, stopping occasionally at a station here and there to pick up passengers. My eyes were bloodshot, my shirt stuck to my back, and my breath smelled like mustard gas. It was odd. For whatever reason, I wasn’t able to sleep on these trains until the sun came up. It couldn’t be jet lag, as I was already a good month into my travels in Europe. But as golden hour hit and shone over the green fields just outside Bucharest, I managed to pass out and get some shuteye.
After rolling into Bucharest, I caught a Bolt (Eastern Europe’s response to Uber) to a hostel about 10 minutes away from the train station. I got out and realized it was closed, so had to take a different Bolt to another hostel which was… right next to the train station. I booked a room for three nights, left my stuff there and asked the manager where I could get some food. He directed me back to the train station, which he says has a McDonald’s, KFC, and Subway. “Screw it,” I thought. “I’m about to eat the leather off my boots at this point, I’ll take what I can get.” A five-dollar chicken sandwich and a Pepsi tasted like someone should give the Colonel a Michelin star. Belly finally full, I walked back to the hostel and bumped into the same guy who recommended I go to the train station for food.
“What did you eat?” he asked me.
“I just got some KFC and a coke, it was…”
“We have so many good restaurant in Romania, why you go to KFC?”
I don’t even remember what I said to him. I think I just stared blankly for a few seconds, my eyebags feeling more like suitcases, and mumbled something about just wanting quick food. I took three naps that day. That night I slept fourteen hours. Travel, when done right, isn’t always pretty. It’s not always fun. But you learn. You learn about yourself and about other people who don’t even speak your language. You see smiles and frowns — people who are happy that you’re here to visit, and others who aren’t as much. But on fifteen-hour train rides sent from hell, there’s a sense of comradery.
…and now I’m sitting here in a café in Adams Morgan, Washington DC. Clothes clean, face shaven, and hair freshly cut. I would do anything to be that disgusting traveler on the outskirts of Bucharest for another hour.
MAX HUDGINS is an American traveller, scuba diver, and writer. He was born in Washington, DC, but grew up in the Republic of Panama since he was four years old. He has travelled extensively throughout Latin America and Eastern Europe and his favourite country to visit is Albania. You can find him on Instagram @m.hudg or via email at maxhudgins02@gmail.com.