And So We Come to the End

Day the Last

Back in Seattle and drinking iced coffee. They don't have that in Europe. When I was there as a boy and drinking soda, they didn't have iced soda either. The joke my brother and I made was that the Pilgrims stole the recipe and booked it to America. Oh, or they were expecting a big shipment of ice, but the Titanic smashed it. These were our jokes. Then we threw a condom full of water at a police car. This is who we were.

The crazy cab ride from Brasov to Sibiu will be in my memory for a long time. Just a wild time watching the sun come up on the countryside and seeing farmers coax their animals to their labors. The priapic driver was a "hoot." The sketchiest part of the whole thing was his not wanting me to use the ATM at the train station. "Gypsies broke it," he said, "I'll take you to a bank."

He did, and I got out of the car to use the wall ATM. I didn't think it practical or proper to bring my backpack to the ATM with me. I thought: I'm somewhere I don't know at 5am, a train I need to be on is leaving in a city far away from here in just a few hours, and everything I own is in a car that may or may not be there when I turn around. I got the money and turned around. The cab was still there. I got in.

I've already told the story of the journey.

There was time to get a little bread ring and a coffee and also time to think -- my little carry-on camera bag that I used on this trip has a soccer ball on the side of it. I wonder if there REALLY WAS a train to Budapest from Brasov, but they didn't let me on because of the soccer ball. Was I profiled as a hooligan?

The train pulled in empty, though. Found the correct seat with exactly zero problems. I've mastered the system. Any time you need to know where to sit on a Romanian train, just get a burner phone from the station gift shop and text me. I'll set you up.

Read 200 pages of The Hunters (Salter! Absorbing!) without looking up. Finished it. Started BUtterfield 8 (so great!). Ate a terrible, probably expired, chicken sandwich from the dining car. The biggest problems I've had with language here all relate to milk in coffee. The word for "milk" in Hungarian is "tej" and in Romanian is "lapte." Neither of which sound that way, and even though I can GUESS they are asking if I want milk, they might be asking if I want sugar or if I'm asking for it for here or to go. Too many variables! If the girl behind the counter spoke English, she wouldn't be making coffee. She'd be the president of Romania.

Anyway, chick was just flat out yelling LAPTE at me like the louder she got, the more I would be like, "Oh, lapte!" Earlier, of course, the girl in the subway had come over with the bag of milk, but there was no lapte sack here. A dude at the counter made kissing noises at me and touched his breast. Milk! That was awful but... somehow... charming? I was like, "oh, lapte! Yes, please.

I bought him a beer. He was very grateful. He asked me where I was from. When I told him Seattle, he said "Oh, like movie White Night in Seattle!" I was like, "Um..." and he was like, "You must know it. Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan. This is major American movie." Hysterical. If he'd touched his breast again, I would have known immediately.

This guy didn't do it, but everyone else I told I was from Seattle asked where that was, and when I said "Washington" they would make big eyes and salute. They think it's the capital of the US, you see. I had three salutes in Europe. Two from when I told strangers I was from Washington, and one from Aleksandra when I told her I worked for Amazon. Funny.

Went back to my seat and read some more, and a German girl got on, and we just hit it off. Talked for five straight hours. I had sneaked a look at her Kindle to see the language, and it was German, so I wasn't going to bother her, but she muttered something in English when some kids got on, and then... off to the races.

Just a perfect strangers on a train conversation. Her name was Inga. She's from Berlin but studying in Sweden, and we just talked about politics and philosophy and literature and sociology and creativity and imperialsm for the rest of the trip. It wasn't pretentious. It wasn't show-offy. It wasn't flirty. It was just great, honest talking.

Two people who wanted company and who wanted to share ideas. We'll never see each other again, and it doesn't matter. We energized one another and parted at the station.

I had arranged a flop house to crash in about ten minutes from the station. Perfect location. Scary old building with no lights and long marble hallways with barred gates and loose balconies. Awesome horror house. The landlord was super nice, and her boyfriend's name was Simon. So, when she introduced me and he said his name, I thought he was saying MY name.

They showed me the complicated key system and got out. I took the world's hottest shower. Shaved with the world's sharpest razor, took one last walk into the Budapest night to get some Euros for the morning cab and some meat and cheese. Had a stack of Hufflebucks left in the graveyard, so walked into the grocery store looking to blow it all. Bought yogurt and a tube of crackers like I was some kind of maharaja.

Was suddenly bone tired. So many days of milking the cities (lepte!!) and taking early trains got me good. It was 9pm, and I had the Last Cab coming at 3am, and I was really worried I would oversleep. Usually I can sort of set myself not to... but...I felt super, super tired.

Did it, though. Walked through the impenetrable darkness of the Horror House, shoved the keys through a hole, so there was no turning back, and a little cab driver poked his head around the corner. "Cameras!" he said, "Police." I wasn't sure what he meant. He showed me his phone. It said "SIMON" on it, so I got in.

He meant he couldn't park on the street in front of the Horror House or he would get a ticket.

Made it to the airport with no problem. He wasn't very chatty. We passed a stadium being built, and he said, "Old stadium finished!" and that was it.

Franz Liszt Airport is designed more for suspense than efficiency. The monitors don't tell you what gate your plane is waiting at, they have a countdown that tells you how many minutes it will be until they assign a gate. So everyone just waits in a pile glued to the screen and ready to flee at first mention of the gate.

Got on the plane, ate some crackers from my tube of crackers and slept. Woke up, watched Bridesmaids and slept. Ate more of that awesome Dutch bread and slept. Woke up, watched Mud and slept. Made it home in a cab, binged on American football and slept. Woke up, ate a patty melt and knew I was home. Proust ate a madeleine, I ate a patty melt.

I bought a basket of painted peasants eggs to give my coworkers, and none of them broke on the trip. Total success.

I'm going to retire this blog until the next time I travel. I appreciate your reading it. The discipline of writing it was good for me, which is selfish. I am selfish. But I do care about you.

This was the magical Summer that changed my life forever.