Varna to Brasov

At least I’m on the right train. I almost missed it. I’d be stuck in Ruse if I hadn’t made friends with a taxi driver/hustler here in the station. I’m not sure what his deal is but he tries to catch people coming off the train and offers them trips over the boarder to Bucharest. He is “special taxi man, cause not in taxi.” I think that means he has a car.

Anyways I’m not sure how the train schedules and signs work here. There was something about Budapest on the departures section of the train board about an hour ago but it quickly disappeared after a strange announcement. I was told “you wait, late.” So I waited… After two weeks I can barely read Cyrillic but, using a cheat sheet, I could tell that my train wasn’t listed on the board in the station. No Bucharest, no Brasov and no Budapest. Then my friend shouted at me, “What you do? Go now! Train!”

So here I am on the train. I’m not sure what the sign said but, the conductor assures me it’s going to Brasov.

My quick check with the direction of the sun says that we’re headed in the right direction, however I smashed my thumb in the cabin door on the way back in. It’s a day of ups and downs but I’m really enjoying it. It’s a total adventure.

I’m going to try and finish up my novel before arriving in Brasov but before I go, I’d love to share a few things:

Last night rocked for the simple reason that I found one of the coolest little lodging bargains in Varna. Art Hotel runs about $28/night for a single room in the center of town. For this price, I got my own cozy little room and bathroom, stylishly decked out in square modern furnishing, cable TV and free internet. I was planning on staying at Flag Varna Hostel but despite what Lonely Planet and Let’s Go say, they’re not open in the winter. I found this out after trying to knock on the door at 3PM, 5PM and 6PM. You think they’d have a sign…

Lost in translation moments are abound here. Hand gestures, wild sounds, head nodding and lots of laughter.

In another type of cultural experience, a 7 year old kid asked me for a cigarette as I waited in Varna’s central square. I gave him a piece of gum. He spit it out and shouted, “Cigarro! Cigarette! You give me! Gum for baby.” I don’t even smoke…

For my goodbye Bulgaria dinner I went to a Turkish restaurant where I feasted for about $10. This got me a tasty salad, full chicken plate (a full pound of freakin’ chicken and a grilled chicken heart on the side), a half liter of beer and custard desert. I’ll also add that Bulgarian cafeterias have won my heart. Just point, smile, act like a stupid tourist and they’ll pile on the food.

This morning I found an amazing bakery. Honestly, if you’re ever in Varna, you have to go to *** for breakfast. Tell ‘em Brendan sent you (if only for the strange, “I don’t understand but you’re funny” looks you’ll get). Get the chocolate croissant. In addition to its magnus gigantius size, you’ll enjoy the fact that it’s dipped in chocolate and completely filled with a dark espresso chocolate goo that is so rich, tasty and explosive that you’ll be licking it off your fingers for lunch. I’m glad I ate it in private.

We just crossed the Danube and I’m back in the world of an alphabet I’m fluent in. Everything is still made out of concrete but at least the billboards are phonetically familiar.

Which also brings us to passport control time and, from what I’ve heard, this takes a while. I’m known as Mr. Cox in these places. I have the urge to tell them Mr. Cox is my dad, I’m Brendan, BCox or even B-Dog but I can’t do that. Border controls fill my heart with an uncomfortable guilty dread. I doubt I’m alone in this sentiment. I feel like they’re going to go through my bags, inquire about my taste in travel literature and ask about why I bought the cherry Danish instead of the apple fritter:

“You are American yes? American like Apple Pie… WHY YOU GET CHERRY?”

I can’t help but feel as if I’m looked upon as a threat in these places. Like I’m punching a hole into their territory or intruding on their sovereignty. Once through, I always realize that they’re not the SS or the American border patrol. I’m not a suspect and they’re not the Gestapo. They’re just guys with a job to do: Go down the rows of trains, fill out forms, address passengers by their last names and put stamps in their passports..

Hey, another stamp. Cool!