Braşov, Romania – A young student from Boston comes up to me and asks: "Is this for Budapest?"
The world passes like in a film cell.
"I hope so," is my cautious reply.
There are no signs on the platform, but the small board in the station had said the quiet track was ours. There aren't many others and the amount of luggage tells me people aren't just commuting.
I take that as my sign.
Still, I wonder. Sure, I've confirmed the platform number. And the time. And the train. And my ticket.
Twelve times.
But there are no signs on the platform.
Given the confusion in Kraków a couple years ago, I might be forgiven my neuroses.
As the loudspeaker chimes for the nineteenth time, I begin to recognize the train number. And still nothing that follows.
On the edge of earshot, someone says there had been a 20-minute delay. Then, another chime.
People rustle. It's a longer train with a sign scribbled with 'Budapest-K' pasted onto the window. I can finally breathe.
Settling in makes me giddy – I love night trains.
It’s a good thing: I have 12 hours ahead of me in this cabin.
No comments:
Post a Comment