Turkey part II (continued): hard to get to!

As the train screeched slowly to a halt, I threw my hands up at the border guard in frustration; really? I need to go back for a ticket? I just dragged this luggage over all those tracks! It's okay, leave it. Hurry! I ran back toward the station, head heavy and knees wobbly from exhaustion. In this half awake state, everything felt muted: my thudding footsteps, the stressful call of the border guard to hurry, the beating of the train wheels over the rail links, like it was all echoing in a distant tunnel somewhere.

In a panic I began to slam the ticket window with an open hand, very loudly. A disheveled ticket agent crawled out of a back room somewhere and began to hand write me a ticket. To where? Edirne, I answered. Istanbul? No, Edirne, before Istanbul. Ok, she affirmed, Istanbul. No! (I made sure not to shake my head in Bulgarian acknowledgement.) Edirne. Edirne. Edirne! I tried to pronounce it in Bulgarian: add-rrree-an. She looked me in the eye and asked: Edirne? Yes, yes, Edirne... Please. Please hurry! She rolled her eyes and showed the cost on her hand. It was remarkably low, maybe $3. I dropped the exact change, snatched the ticket and ran back out, hoping the train and my luggage were both still there.

They were. It seemed like I didn't really need to hurry after all. After some minutes standing around outside, someone directed me and the Turkish couple into a door which put us in a cramped space between two rail cars. I could see the guards I met earlier unscrewing ceiling compartments and inspecting any spaces with flashlights. Then one stuck his head in and took our passports. We stood there for about 20 minutes, leaning as much as possible for some fatigue relief. I couldn't help but keep thinking that I could have stayed a few more hours in Sofia, strolling around and seeing the sights, and would now be comfortably snoozing in one of these sleeper cars. I still had no plans for my 3 am arrival in Edirne, Turkey. I sent a message from Sofia to Nurullah, my couch-surfing host, to tell him I'd only stay one night with him after all, since I wouldn't make it tonight.

When the border guard finally returned with our passports, he said wait here. The conductor came by shortly after and said: you stand here. Stand here?!

You know that spot between two train cars, the one that people like me peek into to hear the roar of the train, to see the ground blurring by through the gaps? That forbidden zone you might cross, desperate to find a toilet in the other car? That spot with a small arm underneath, holding the two cars together, covered in corrugated metal sheets sliding over each other? That's the spot where the Turkish couple and I had to stand, for some reason. Like an insolent child, I went into the train proper, to have a look around. Sleeper cars, perhaps all of them, but some of them empty and others half full. Why can't I crash in one of these? The conductor passed again and pointed back to that awful space between the cars; you stand! Why? He ignored the question and insisted. I muttered, in vain, that they should consider being nicer to their tourists, but I obeyed, sighing dramatically. Anyway it wasn't very far to Edirne, I guessed.

All attempts at small talk with the Turkish couple were fruitless. This cramped space was way too loud anyway. They asked me a couple times if I was going to Istanbul. No, Edirne. It seemed no one believed that I'd stop anywhere before Istanbul. The train stopped in under half an hour, at a station, perhaps a village, on the Turkish side which I still don't know the name of. Now everyone had to get out of the train. When i stepped down into the quiet, cool night, my ears were ringing. With great disorganization, we crossed some tracks and bunched into a big plain room, painfully lit too brightly by fluorescent lights. My ridiculous place on the train afforded one small advantage, I was almost at the front of a long line. We waited about 20 minutes before someone appeared behind the barred glass, looking sleepy like all of us. We were a remarkably multicultural group. At my turn I presented my passport proudly, but the official frowned and told me to go outside and buy a visa first. I'm from Canada! A blank look. Where do I buy it? You'll find it, he says. I saw an American on his way back who pointed out the window I needed. $60 U.S. for a visa?? And they don't take credit cards. A moment of panic as I dug out my well hidden money pack. I used up all my Euros for small emergencies already, and had $80 U.S. in my emergency reserves. There goes most of it! He stuck three $20 visa stickers in my passport. I pleaded that I'm only staying for 6 days, but it didn't matter. He returned my passport and I saw that the stickers began to peal off already. For $60 I expect quality glue! Then I had to get to the back of the line I was recently smug about being at the front of. I heard some Americans in line and told them about the visa requirement to save them some time. They returned, grateful, and I discovered it was only $20 for them. We joked about discrimination against Canadians and they were appalled that I had to stand between train cars.

One by one we piled back onto the train. I wandered into a sleeping car, hoping to at least find a seat on the inside. I didn't want to sleep since Edirne would be easy to miss, and I estimated that it was less than an hour away. The conductor came and told me that I must exit the train. Why?! It's not your train. But it goes to Edirne! Get off. Catch the next one. The next one?! It was now 3 am. He said my ticket is no good. I showed that it was for Edirne, but he said it's the wrong kind of train. I put up a fuss. Americans popped there heads out of their comfy sleeper cars, wide eyed. They looked sympathetic as they watched me get escorted off the train. Perhaps they really did have something against Canadians! But the Turkish couple were kicked out too. They seemed annoyed but were not verbal about it. "I can't believe this place! (But I wasn't really clear about which place I was referring to.) You need to be nicer to your tourists!" I doubt the conductor understood me anyway. Then, grumbling under my breath, the three of us stood on the platform, as a light rain began to fall, and just stared sadly at the train as it crept away in front of us. If I didn't have a huge bag, I would have been tempted to climb onto one of the metal ladders on the outside of the train. But the three of us just slowly crossed some tracks, despondent, and sat again in another abandoned station. At least I'm in Turkey, I thought. At least I'm inside and it's warmish. The Turkish man half smiled in sympathy and held up six fingers and pointed at the clock. The next train is in almost 3 hours, at 6 am. Oh well, what was I going to do in Edirne at 3 am anyway, I thought, with a slight deja-vous.

I climbed into a damp corner, with my feet against my huge bag, clutching my small pack, and fell asleep listening to the soothing sounds of the Cocteau Twins on my iPod. I was shaken awake by the Turkish guy, and he was pointing at the blurry ticket window. I squinted at a blue shape that I guessed was a ticket agent. I patted my pockets and found my glasses. 5 am, ugh. What new bureaucracy is this? I have my ticket already. I went to the agent. Where are you going, he asked? To Edirne. He nodded. I passed him my ticket. He passed it back and began to write on some small carbon copy papers. What's that, I asked? Your ticket. I crouched and contorted and got my head into the tiny ticket window. I saw him writing "Istanbul"! I showed you my ticket already, I gasped. That ticket is only to Edirne, he replied. I'm only going to Edirne! Why can't anyone believe me, I exclaimed, dramatically, as I turned in a circle as if to address the entire (empty) station. His jaw dropped and I think he began to curse. He waved his hand at the ruined ticket, in triplicate, as if it was my fault. You asked me where I'm going and I said Edirne! He waved one hand at the ticket and complained over his shoulder to someone else in the back of the office, while he did a sweeping gesture with his other hand to dismiss me. I rolled my eyes and dragged my feet, back to my damp corner.

The fluorescent lights felt particularly bright and offensive now. One gulp of water remained in my bottle, and although thirsty, I didn't feel like drinking since the "toilet" was far away and pretty terrifying. I was so tired and submissive by this point, I actually don't remember catching the train which must have arrived about an hour later. It was still dark. I don't know if I had a seat or had to stand. I remember stressing out, like on most of my train rides over the past week, about when to get off. I remember waiting by the door with some very well covered Muslim women who said "next stop". Then as we arrived they said "maybe not... next one." So I stepped off the train with reluctance. Another abandoned station, at about 6:30 am. This was not downtown. It was raining, and still dark. I waited 15 minutes, then decided I should try to find my couch-surfing host. He said he had to work today but I was now hoping to catch him before work. I put on my Aussie leather hat and began to walk in a random direction in the rain.

In a few minutes I found a petrol station. It was a soggy 7 or 8 degrees out, and I wasn't worried about getting wet, but I was a bit worried about my packed clothes and gadgets. Although he didn't speak English, it was easy to understand that the clerk inside was asking me immediately if I wanted some tea. That hit the spot. He seemed shocked when I tried to ask how much I should pay for the tea. Did I insult his hospitality? I tried to ask directions to my couch-surfing host's address. One clerk began to consult with a taxi driver waiting there. On my scrap of paper they saw my host's mobile number and motioned that they could call. It was just after 7:00 am. I tried to say that it may be too early, but it was too late, they were dialing. From the conversation, all I could make out was "Canada" a couple times. They motioned for me to sit. One clerk gave me a complimentary package of hand wipes. Another who spoke a few words of English said "10 minutes, he comes. More chai?"

Nurullah, my host, arrived a few minutes later. The petrol station clerks helped me load my luggage into his car and waved me off with big smiles. The taxi driver shrugged and crawled back into his cab. In Nurullah's clean, spacious apartment, we had breakfast, he showed me around, and left me on his comfy couch to catch up on some way overdue sleep as he went to work. With a renewed deep appreciation for a soft place to lie, a pillow, and a blanket, I slipped off into unconsciousness while marveling at the remarkable, pervasive Turkish hospitality.

Turkey: hard to get to, that's a fact!

"I wish I was the brakeman
On a hurtling fevered train
Crashing headlong into the heartland
Like a cannon in the rain
With the beating of the sleepers
And the burning of the coal
Counting the towns flashing by
In a night that's full of soul..."
- The Waterboys

I hesitate to document this leg of my journey since it was very uncomfortable and very frustrating. But it may be important to remember that travel is not always glamorous. Also, the tests and hardships really help us appreciate the good times.

So after checking out of the luxury suite for 5 € in Sofia at noon, I took advantage of their free reservations room to find train times to Edirne, Turkey where I had two nights with a couch-surfer planned already. I had a lot of trouble pre-planning this leg of travel since the Bulgarian info is completely impossible to understand and even google had trouble translating the page. It's about 6 hours by car, so I was already disappointed that I'd get there in the dark. Hıtch-hıke? But I dıdn't have a tent lıke my glory days of travel ın New Zealand and Australıa, and hıtchıng ın the dark ıs never a great ıdea.

A Bulgarian helped me, and discovered only one train, leaving at 7 pm and arriving at 3 am. Only one?! And what would I do in Edirne at 3 am? So I tried to get creative, and found a train leaving in about an hour to Plavdev, half way across Bulgaria; then a tight half hour later connection from there to the border town of Svelingrad. I figured that from there I could get a bus across the border, hopefully. I  rushed to search for other options but didn't come up with anything. For some reason buses didn't cross my mind, who knows why not.  Now I had about 40 minutes to catch the train to Plavdev. So I asked the reception to exchange $1 into leve so I could buy a tram ticket, and rushed out to catch the tram. Two went by before I reached the stop, then there were none. I got to the station with about 8 minutes to spare when I found out that they only take cash, and only Bulgarian cash. So I ran to a shady exchange booth and changed €20 and ran back to the ticket window where there were now 4 people in line. 4 minutes left. The ticket woman saw my panicked look and told the others to move over so I could finish my transaction (well, that's what I imagined she said.) She sold me the ticket but looked very skeptical. 2 minutes. She couldn't tell me the track #... find it on the board! Of course the board was in Cyrillic. No time to decipher it. How many options could there be? With 0 minutes remaining, I approached several options underground. Think, thınk! Ok, there's a couple running, just follow them! As they loaded their luggage into the train already whistling its warning, I yelled, panting: Plavdev?? They shook their heads. Despair and defeat. Then I heard them saying "da, da!" and motioning me to pass up my giant pack to them. Wow, the head-shake-yes almost foiled me again. The train was moving when I struggled onto it. Phew.

I crossed the Danube from the North to Sofıa, then South East to Plovdıv, then East to the border town of Svılengrad

I sat across from a clean cut, well dressed guy reading a newspaper with pictures of naked women on it, and sitting with his approximately 8 year old son. The son was much more interested in my iPod as I thumb typed my blog, than the girly pictures his dad waved around. They too were getting out in Plavdev. I got there before dark a couple hours later, but a bit behind schedule, making my next connection tight (of course!) After more language struggles,I was shocked that my ticket was only about $4 for a four hour ride to Svelingrad, just across the border from Edirne, Turkey. After more panicked scrambling and running back and forth between the ticket window and an info window where one girl spoke a little english, I deciphered the Cyrillic, amazed that I could starting learning a new alphabet using only train schedules.

All the scrambling was pointless this time since the train was late. This train was new and fancy. It reminded me of a Toronto Go train. Fighting extreme exhaustion, I tried to give my attention to a young Bulgarian university student, fluent in Italian apparently, who struggled painfully to tell me about the history of the towns we passed. It dawned on me that yawning in 30 second intervals may appear rude, so my face flushed and eyes watered as I strained to hold them back. Just before he exited, he said, with much difficulty, that I would have to switch to a bus then a train again. Then he was gone. What?! How? When? I finally found a Turkish girl who spoke English well, and she explained that there's a rail problem and so we'd need a stretch on a bus to go around it. She wasn't concerned. Just follow everyone else she said.

Eventually the train stopped, but "everyone else" got off into the darkness of some remote Bulgarian stop and dispersed in all directions, some of them climbing over tracks and between box cars! I followed the Turkish girl and there indeed was a coach waiting for us. We packed it full, and commenced a frightening drive, careening around steep one lane roads through the black countryside. I wanted to sleep out of self defense, but my neighbour aggressively kept trying to communicate with me, with his 10 English and maybe 30 German word vocabulary. Then he called his daughter so I could talk to her in English, about nothing, really. After a couple smoking stops and a couple hours, we all got off and again we had the challenge of finding the train. It was getting pretty late and I now realized that I was already a couple hours behind schedule. This was starting to feel like one of those nightmares when you just can't seem to get to where you want to go and waking up would be such a relief. But this was real, and sleeping would be such a relief now.

I sat with the Turkish girl on the train and told her my "plan", that I would seek a bus in Svelingrad, or perhaps a hotel, since it now looked like we'd get there near midnight. So much for my creative plan to arrive in Edirne way before 3 am. She said she would offer me a place but that her Muslim mom might freak out.

The Svelingrad station, where no one appeared to work, was quite remote. I found a restaurant/pub nearby. When I crashed in clumsily dragging my pack with a big Canadian flag on it, the whole place seemed to stop, with everyone staring. I couldn't distinguish a waiter or waitress. Everyone was sitting, nibbling, drinking and smoking. I stood in the middle for an awkward while, until a group finally asked me to join them: a group of 4 police officers. Two spoke some English. They helped me find some dishes without meat in them, and I found out that the actual town is about 10 kms away. So much for finding a hotel.  One happy shockıng surprıse, a delıcıous green salad! Yum.

The train was supposed to come around 1:30 am, and I realized this was now the direct train from Sofia that I disregarded so many hours ago because I thought it would get in too late! It would have been so much less of a nightmare. I could be on that traın rıght now sleepıng, cozy... Back at the abandoned station there was now an older Turkish couple waiting for the same train. I finally fell asleep across a few grungy chairs, untıl a border guard woke me with some urgency. I collected my stuff and darted out towards the tracks in a panic. Three guards where waiting there, smoking and now laughing, then they disappeared. A lame practical joke I guess.

The station, including the ticket window, was still abandoned except for me and the Turkish couple. How was I supposed to get a ticket? I finally fell asleep again. Some time later I was shaken awake by a border guard. At first I was completely disoriented. I dıdn't know where I was, what room, what country?! But then I heard a train whistle. I remembered that I needed to catch a traın somewhere. I dragged myself and my stuff outside into the chilly night and stood with the Turks and the guard as the train pulled up, and conscıousness slowly flowed back ınto my braın. Suddenly it dawned on me that I don't have a ticket! I mentioned this to a guard. He said I couldn't get on without one! I said I'd been trying to buy one all night. He said keep trying: go back in, and hurry, and bang on the ticket window as loud as you can!

- to be continued -


(comıng up: dıscrımınatıon agaınst Canadıans?)

My quest to find Marion Jack in Sofia, Bulgaria

I really felt like the main character in a Hollywood rags to riches story. A scruffy, dirty hitch-hiker in this 5 star room. Time flew and I unfortunately got drawn into the evil world of 150 stupid channels. "Reality" TV, soap operas, a cheetah mother who will die and whose cubs will die too if she doesn't make this next kill, etc. Most of these were dubbed into Bulgarian and a couple into German.

Seduced by all this luxury, I almost forgot why Sofia was a planned stop: to find the eternal mortal resting place of Marion Jack, a Canadian pioneer well known from Baha'i history.

photo credit: Bahai World News Service

I only had a few tips to go by. I'm thankful to Charlotte Dubec who gave me the idea and told me that her grave is in Sofia, in a British military cemetery. On internet forums, it was implied that it was in the North West corner of "the" Sofia cemetery. I quickly first discovered that Sofia has more than one cemetery. With hope and faith in probabilities, I concentrated my effort on Sofia's massive central cemetery, and took a tram there in the morning.

The first challenge was to decipher "NW corner". Although it's a square, the cemetery is rotated almost 45 degrees off the compass rose, so it has a N corner or a W corner, but not really both. And after I entered, its magnitude made me lose hope. A sea of stones in all directions. I found an area with english names but it had a huge wall around it. I actually climbed the wall and considered climbing down on the inside, but feared the guards I saw at the main cemetery gate, and thought that Bulgarian prisons are probably nasty. Then I saw a worker sweeping nearby. I climbed down, half worried he'd reprimand me. I tried to ask him if he knew of a British military cemetery, but we shared no words from each other's languages. So all we had to go by were physical gestures. I think I'm usually good at expressing and reading these, but one major obstacle made it almost impossible to understand each other: Bulgarians actually shake their heads to express "yes"! I think I had heard this years before, but I recognized it here suddenly when I saw him shaking his head and saying "da, da" which is also "yes, yes" in Russian. Then I realized that I couldn't trust anything I thought I understood from the last five minutes of our mime session! I acted out an airplane, a military salute, and a machine gun, and he seemed excited to finally catch one concept from me. He motioned to follow him. Progress, finally! Then he somehow conveyed that he should get some money for his trouble. I was so relieved that we were getting somewhere, so I gave him most of my Bulgarian money which amounted to about $3. He was disappointed and tried to get more but I had no choice and stayed firm. We crossed a great distance through this massive grave world, he on his bike and me power-walking beside him. He offered for me to climb on his bike somehow, but on that old clunker it seemed an impossible feat. After 10 or 15 minutes he stopped and with a big grin, he flung his arms up triumphantly in the direction of a gated grave area. He presented what was immediately apparent to me to be the Russian pilot's cemetery. My throat constricted, the background receded behind me like in a horror film when the victim suddenly realizes things are not as they seemed, and I felt like weeping with utter defeat. Although almost paralyzed with despondency, I tried to hide my disappointment and renewed hopelessness; so I tried to thank him and sent him on his way.

I now had about half an hour before catching a tram back to my hotel to check out, and avoid paying a late fee, probably 100 euros for an extra night, a staggering contrast to the 5 euro mistake I scored last night! And I had to leave for Turkey that day anyway, probably soon.  I had yet to research the train schedules. So I power-walked back towards the corner where I started, and begged the forces above to help guide me in the right direction. Perhaps they already had? Was I originally in the right place when I decided to ask that worker for help? On my way back, I saw another separated area, but this time the wall was only belly-button height, and it had a gate with no lock. Lots of small identical grave stones hinted that it could be military. I went in, took a few steps, and saw two very tall stones that really stood out. I heard that Marion Jack's grave is dignified, and I assumed distinct. But the inscriptions said they were some type of general memorials. It was about time to go. Depressed at the time lost in vain on this apparently hopeless mission, and submitting to failure, I turned to leave.

In front of me stood a grey granite headstone about 3 or 4 feet wide and not as tall, over a tidy grave adorned with green and red sedum. I walked right past it on my way in, but would've only seen it from the back. Suddenly, my eye caught an unmistakable carved symbol, painted gold: a nine pointed star, and at the bottom of a long quote it was signed "Shoghi". As my eyes fixed on "Marion Jack" inscribed also in gold at the top, they filled with tears and my knees buckled. My forehead rested on the dewy grass and, as I clutched it in both hands, I whispered "Ya Baha'u'l-Abha!"

Photo credit: Bahai World News Service

Shoghi Effendi had said that some day travelers from around the world would visit her grave and draw inspiration from it. I felt suddenly as if a prophesy had just been fulfilled. I was filled with a joy due to my sudden turn from hopelessness to great accomplishment. When I regained my composure, I knelt by her grave and offered a few prayers. Then feeling uneasy about having no flowers to offer, I found a cedar tree and snapped off a small clump to adorn her stone. I took some photos and then thanked God for the bounty of finding her grave, and for the new feeling it gave my soul: it was uplifted, and it felt truly grateful for existing in my physical body, on this mortal plane.


"Immortal heroine... Greatly loved and deeply admired by 'Abdu'l-Baha. A shining example to pioneers... Her unremitting, highly meritorious activities... shed imperishable splendor on contemporary Baha'i history..." Shoghi

See also the Baha'i World News Service article entitled: "Baha'i group pays homage to a heroine"

Bulgaria

From my $30 two bedroom flat with a kitchen in Bucharest, I caught a bus to the train station, and arrived almost an hour early, just in case, since it was Christmas day. I prided myself in avoiding taxis for nearly four months now, always walking or taking public transit, except for two times with my hosts from Cluj when it turned out cheaper than the tram anyway.

 The stray dog problem is so out of control here. I heard there were some in Hungary but I don't remember seeing any. In Romania I began to see plenty. And in Bucharest, so many, wandering through traffic, curled up sleeping beside pillars of majestic buildings. I saw several plastic containers around the city, filled with disgusting food scraps, left by residents for random stray dogs. And now, dogs lay sleeping all around the train tracks; a woman throwing scraps to half a dozen mutts at the next station; and three dogs fighting at the next.

My train was nearly empty. When I heaved my monster luggage up onto the rack, I noticed that both wheels were worn down and split, but apparently still functional. This weakened my taxi avoidance pride a bit.

We crossed the Danube River which marks the border between Romania and Bulgaria. Heavy industry crowded the banks on the Bulgarian side. It looked as ugly and frightening as Burlington Bay by the skyway in Ontario. Also, short cooling towers populated the countryside for a couple kms.

I didn't bring much for snacks and boarded the train a couple hours ago without lunch. It was very wishful thinking on my part that there might be a dining car or a food service of any kind on this 9 hour ride. My bad luck always seems to turn into very good luck: there were only four of us in this car of 32 seats. Me, an American guy, a South Korean girl, and a Finnish girl with a lot of food which she insisted was only going to be thrown away! The Ami and I shamelessly dug in, and although it was mostly stale bread and cheese, it hit the spot and I was thankful.

After chatting with them a bit, I quickly realized that compared to this group I'm no world traveler, that's for sure! Between the three of them, hardly a country in the whole world was left unexplored!

The Bulgarian country began to prove itself very picturesque, with green rolling fields for very long stretches and no houses, livestock, or people to be seen. I struggled and finally got two windows open and we spent most of the daylight ride standing in the windows, enjoying the view and the unseasonably spring-like weather of around 14 C, and chatting. Nami, the Korean woman, had already traveled several hours from Budapest on the same train, and the total duration of her train ride to Greece was going to take over 30 hours!

Around 10 pm, Marjo from Finland and I departed the train in Sofia and shared a cab, since my hotel was just before her hostel. I was quite anxious about what must have been an error at booking.com, since I got a deluxe double suite at what seemed to be a nice hotel, for $7, with breakfast included. Marjo's hostel was much more, without breakfast. But I got a confirmation from the hotel so they had so far missed the glitch. I imagined that it was a Christmas special, but I noticed that the same room online was over $100 the day before or after. Two bad, 'cause I would have tried to stay for two days otherwise for sure!

My worries increased when the taxi driver couldn't believe me. And I almost fell over when I saw the place. Marjo said bye and told me the location of her hostel, just in case. At check in, the young receptionist began to blush and said, it's a mistake, a big mistake. But it must be honored. I was torn between running circles around the lobby with my arms straight up, and crawling under a rock. But I just blushed too and said Merry Christmas, handing her 5 euros. Then we started to laugh as she began to list all the amenities and services: "included in the cost of this five star hotel (pause and subtle sigh) is free wifi, satellite tv, award winning buffet breakfast, a pool, spa, jacuzzi, sauna," etc. (at this point I had little stars in my eyes and started to space out...)

Unfortunately it was now approaching 11 pm and checkout was in about 12 hours. So I scrambled off to my room, still disbelieving, and began to do my best to take advantage of all the amenities, starting with using my iPod to brag about my luck on facebook!

Bucuresti (Bucharest)

My short stay started with a nasty scare. I decided to brave the dark streets and the estimated 20 min. walk to my booked "Best Flat Apartment". I successfully found the address, near downtown, but it was a tall concrete apartment building with no sign, and locked with no way in. My cell phone stop working the day before, some roaming issue. I was convinced that I could still get calls though.

I found a renegade wifi signal with my iPod and sent a snarky email to the "hotel", then called Dharlene with Skype which accomplished nothing more than sharing my stress and freaking her out. The "hotel" wrote back immediately and said they tried to call me but got some message in Hungarian. Apparently I can't even receive calls anymore either. They said they'd pick me up in 25 min.

George arrived in about 25 min. and drove me to the actual apartment, since I was at an office which was closed so late at night on Christmas eve. At the other tall apartment building, another guy, the key master apparently, arrived simultaneously by bicycle and handed me some keys after inspecting several different sets from various pockets.

My flat was huge and very nice. Too bad I wasn't sharing it with a few others since it had two bedrooms and two double beds. I dumped my stuff, cleaned up a bit, and went out near midnight to see this giant city.

First I walked back to the train station and purchased my ticket for my next day train to Sofia Bulgaria. Then I found the majestically lit parliament building, with an extremely bright glowing white fake Christmas tree in front. I only had about 7 Romanian lei left, and was pacing myself to avoid exchanging more and being stuck with a useless surplus.

I happily found an open corner store but it was in a shady area. I grabbed some fruits and yoghurt for breakfast before getting on the 9 hour train ride. The total came to almost exactly 7 lei, and I then realized I needed one more lei for the trolleybus to the train station in the morning. The clerk was a long black-haired, dark eyed Romanian girl who spoke English with an awesome deep exotic accent. I said I needed to put something back. She said it's not allowed and gave me back one lei and said: Merry Christmas, we have to be good today!

Sinaia, Romania

Experiences pour in so rapidly, and the world whizzes by so quickly when you cross almost half a country every day! Christmas eve was a particularly busy day, starting the day in the dark, catching a very full bus from stunning Sibiu at 6:30 am to arrive in Sinaia about 3 hours later. Sinaia is a very small town in the middle of a pass through the Carpathian mountains. It was a difficult stop to fit into my plans, even though it's roughly on the way toward Istanbul. I only found three couch surfers there, of whom two declined and one must be traveling. Although hotels exist, I couldn't find anything reasonable online.

So why bother with this little town? I wanted to find the Peles Castle - where the king and queen of Romania used to reside - for two reasons: one, it's apparently the most beautiful castle in Romania (and one of the nicest is Europe), and two, queen Marie was a member of the Baha'i Faith!

Because I was now lugging around my huge luggage, and since I had no directions to the castle, I considered taking a taxi, but this thought didn't last. I went into a car parts store and asked if they knew how I could get a bus ticket out, to Bucharest, since the last one I took was over filled and I didn't want to get stranded. None of three young guys working there spoke English, but they called to a lady in the back who could. She told me to find the bus ticket guy who wanders around the street outside. Weird. Then I asked about the castle. Take a taxi she said, since it's an hour walk up, up, up. One of the boys said 30 min. and explained, through her translation, the route. Outside, unbelievably, I found the wandering bus ticket guy who told me to be back to that spot on the road in about 5 hours. Perfect. But my heavy luggage... I got a brainwave and went back into the auto parts store and asked the lady if I could store my huge bag there, for a fair price. She said yes and refused payment. Bring me some chocolate, if you like, she said. Score. What a heavy burden lifted, literally.

It was a beautiful trek up the mountain to the castle, on stairs and then an ancient cobblestone path winding through dense forest, with a thick carpet of snow. It was an unseasonal 6C. Signs posted warnings of bears in the area! Tiny songbirds sang for me as I climbed.

The castle and surroundings were pretty impressive. The detail and ornamentation inside was unbelievable. Room after room, decked out so lavishly. And I only paid to see the first floor! One of the rooms was the armory, which I estimate had about 700-800 weapons mounted on the walls: swords, spears, rifles, etc. In a glass case on the mantle was a 6th century executioners sword, and I couldn't help but shudder to think that it looked well used.

Next to this castle was a smaller one, where princess Marie and prince Ferdinand lived until they inherited the throne. I kept imagining what it must have been like living here. It seemed so hard to get to and remote for me; what must it have been like in 1900? The forest surroundings and snow tipped mountains were very charming, but it must have felt so isolated. A mural on one wall at the main castle showed an epic battle between two soldiers, several dogs, and two bears. I think the bears were winning.

Queen Marie, who embraced the Baha'i Faith, passed away in 1938. I scanned the library room for Baha'i books but didn't find any quickly, and didn't want to spend all day in that one room. She was apparently well read in many languages, and quite an artist. A giant book of her poetry, written in semi-calligraphy over her own paintings was on display. One phrase really stuck with me as I began to wonder if her life here was very challenging: "If 'tis madness to remember, 'tis drearier far to forget."

On my way back down to the main road I bought a few Snickers chocolate bars. I found my luggage intact, kept one bar for myself, and waited by the road for the bus. The ticket guy appeared out of nowhere and assured me of a seat. I stood with a hitch-hiker who agree to ask any stopping autos if there's room for me too. Eventually the late bus arrived, the hitcher gave up and we all packed into a small mini-bus van. Yes, there was a seat for me, the last one, but not for the sweet old lady who came after me. I guess when you're a nice guy, there are no seat guarantees. But I didn't need to stand for long, as someone got out at the next stop. Bucharest here we come!

Sibiu, Romania

Gorgeous. Period.