In the very narrow hallway, where two could barely pass without turning shoulders a bit, there stood a no-nonsense policeman. He had a sidearm, along with a look that told me this was no joke. Hungarians didn’t mess around.
“Pass-a-Port-ah, Pleeeezzzze.”
Hmm. A new dilemma. Traveling 101. Your passport is your only lifeline to America. Lose it, you are in very deep trouble. Thanks to Arten, the American Embassy had not idea where this little cupcake was traveling, making this rule all the more essential and valuable. I had the passport inside the sleeve of my nightgown for safe keeping, right above the two security buttons at my wrist. This National ID would not leave my side without a real fight.
I looked blankly into his eyes.
“I don’t understand.”
Agitation flooded this man’s face. He was not the warm and fuzzy kind of guy to be schmoozed by a maiden’s tear falling from the bluest of eyes.
In a louder voice, he boomed, “PASS-A-PORT-AH, PLLLLEEEEEEEZZZZZZEEEEEE.”
This wasn’t going well. I slowly unbuttoned the sleeve, revealing my ever-so-clever hiding spot, and produced the passport. Clenching the back half in a vice-grip, I showed him the page with my information. This clearly irritated him more.
“Give.”
“No.”
“GIVE NOW. OR ELSE.”
I’m not sure what overtook the thinking part of my brain, but the passport was magically sucked back into my sleeve. It was not leaving my possession. Period. Not for this crazy cop, or anyone else.
Traveling 101.
#1. Keep passport secure at all cost and at all times.
Done and done. My tear filled eyes would not leak, and I gave him a long steely glare-stare, crossing my arms to punctuate my answer. No.
Mr. Military type must have had a very long night, because he left. Just like that. I quickly locked the three locks and placed my suitcase in front of the door. I had just gotten back on the top bunk when the knocking began again, causing me to unlock my fortress a second time.
There were now TWO very large military types, one holding a bayonet-ed AK-47. Now THERE is a scary gun. Even scarier when pointed at your heart by a military soldier of a communist country. His eyes were void of anything except his focus, which was on making me comply.
“‘Eh-LO. You WILL give the pass-a-port-ah right now.”
Again, I produced the passport, holding it in a way they could see all necessary information, while gripping the back in a death hold.
It mattered not. Because, when two military types want to disarm you, disarm you they will. In a flash my passport was ripped away, and instantaneously my vocal chords were activated. Sounds I never knew I could produce came out of my mouth, as I started screaming, shrill and ear piercing. Frozen at my front door, each cabin swung open, and the occupants all leaned out at once to see the action, reminding me of a bad Lucille Ball movie. It mattered not, as I continued screaming while watching the two armed, regulatory thieves leave the train with my passport. My only documented connection to the USA was now off the train and gone into the night. I continued to scream at the top of my lungs, my vision flooded by tears, and a pounding heart choking my throat. The nightmare continued.
After what seemed like the eternal trip through hell, the two finally came back. By this time, they found me spent and demoralized while hiccupping and hoarse.
“American? American Woman? Why you travel alone?”
Oh, hell, who knows? Spy? Drug dealer? Art heist? Were these guys for real?
“I’m traveling to see my husband in Tiraspol, Moldavia.”
With limited English, these men hardly understood. Mr. Bayonet kept staring, and the talker just looked carefully into my eyes, looking for stray secrets hidden there.
“Madam, the next time officer tells you to give up passport, do so. Immediately.”
Thrusting the precious blue and gold booklet back at my chest, the two made sharp, communist, click-heeled stage lefts, and marched right off the train into the night.
Clutching my passport, yet again, I wished I was enjoying the freedoms of my country. Before living under communist rule, I had no real appreciation for the precious freedoms Americans enjoy every day. Something as simple as having a conversation at a border without fearing the shiny-sharp tip of a bayonet inches from insertion. Do you shoot and stab or stab and shoot? Both actions together? Horribly barbaric and frightening. Definitely not American.
That night held no more sleep for me. With three emotional upsets in under 24 hours, and no food, my stomach was experiencing a combination of hunger pains, dehydration, and adrenaline overload. I still had a full day to travel before I would change trains in Bucharest, Romania. Romania must be better, because Hungary had set the bar pretty low.
One roll and 1/2 an apple helped with the excess stomach acid and soon, I felt a little better. Under a morning sky, we rolled through beautiful fields and quaint little houses plucked right off the pages of history books. There were houses that had rope-and-bucket-ed water wells inside their weathered little picket fences. Ragged horses pulled wooden wagons full of green grass, cut and ready to store for the brutal winter, just around the corner. Everyone walked, because, no one had cars. Nowhere to go if you had one. Hungarian visions I would not soon forget. Straight out of a World War II picture book, frozen in time.
Mile by mile, the scenery had changed by mid afternoon. Rustic farms were being replaced by a more dense city-scape. Finally, we were pulling into the Bucharest train station, and civilization. From a first look, this could be even better than Vienna. My spirits soared. I had a plan.
Needing to lay over until midnight in Bucharest, I’d simply store my suitcase, exchange my $100 of US dollars into Rumanian money, and hit the town. I’d eat first, and then shop. By the time midnight rolled around, I’d be ready for the last leg of my trip. Easy peazy.
Leaving the security of my little room, I again checked my passport safe its secret location. Leave it at that. I had it secured. Struggling to get off the train, the other travelers evaporated and I stood alone in the station. Just my suitcase, backpack, and me. Except for one lone pervert lurking in the dark bowels of the shadowy station.
I didn’t notice him at first as I lugged my suitcase and backpack toward the ticket cage. But within moments, I heard someone following me while whispering in a hissing voice. I was being tailed.
“Hey. Baby.”
No. No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Early afternoon was not a time to deal with a pervert. Where were the communist cops when you needed them the most??? Like when an assault could occur? On a PERVERT? By a very tired American woman?????
Looking over my shoulder, I gave him the look I’d wanted to give the two morons at the Hungarian border. Only more stern.
“Hey. Baby. Whatcha doing?”
Walking faster, the ticket counter seemed further and further away. I couldn’t run, as this was way before the days of rolling suitcases. My 40 pound Samsonite needed carrying, leaving me slightly tilted to one side and a bit out of breath. Along with a 10 pound back pack, I couldn’t make a run for it. Walking fast, he walked faster. I could begin to smell the stench of urine and body odor that was his and his alone. I wondered if he could smell the human fear coming from me.
Finally reaching the ticket agent, I saw him slink behind a kiosk, his ragged and holey shoes giving away his position.
Relieved that the ticket agent spoke English, I proceeded with my request.
“Hi, I need to purchase a ticket from Bucharest to Tiraspol, Moldavia. Can you help me?”
“No.”
What? Could this situation get any worse? A one word answer????? No?????
“You must travel to the main office in the center of Bucharest by taxi. There you can buy an International ticket. We only sell National tickets here.”
This was not in the plans. The Main Office???? In Bucharest???? By Taxi???? Where everyone spoke Russian???? With a stalker on my heels????? How could this be?
“I would advise that you have the correct Romanian change. They do not deal in foreign currency at the Main Office. Thank you. I am closing now.”
With that, the window to an English speaking person closed in my face. Immediately, the stalker reappeared with some added vulgarities thrown in now. His intensions were very clear, as he spoke loudly, coming my way.
Across the way, I saw lockers in which I would stow my suitcase. There was a small bank in which to change my American Dollars into Romanian leu. In 1977, the exchange rate was $1 = 8109 Romanian Leu. Just like that, my dollars, invaluable for bribes, were changed to worthless Leu. Unknowingly, I’d exchanged immense bargaining power for scraps of worthless paper. I was “Jack and the Magic Beans” in girl form.
With over 8,000 Leu in my pocket, while keeping the stalker a few steps behind, I excited the train station and came into the light of early afternoon. Bucharest was beautiful and exciting. Right in front of my face, there was a taxi pick-up with a waiting taxi. Two men were in the taxi. The driver and one in the back seat. The front seat was waiting for me and I hoped in. The driver spoke limited English.
“Main Train Office, please?”
“Train? Train Here. You at Train.”
It would be a very long afternoon.
“No. Big. Main Train Office. Not Here.”
“Ahhhhhhh. Da!!! Da!! Poydem!!” In other words, “Let’s Go”.
Immediately, I realized the error of my ways as Mr. Back-Seat’s arm came over my right shoulder. The man in the back was a groper. As the driver turned around, chatting with Mr. BS, I was in terror. The car was moving at a high rate of speed while the driver’s eyes were on MY chest. Talking loudly and laughing, arms were flying everywhere. Horns were blasting as we careened down narrow streets.
As I struggled to keep wandering hands away from my breast area, I also had to brace for impact as the driver was totally insane. Swerving in and out of traffic, oncoming or otherwise, the chaos of the moment was overwhelming. Round-abouts and red lights meant nothing as we sped through a maze. With near misses of bicyclists and pedestrians, my shrieks and screams were real, as the two men laughed in uproarious fashion. It was another day on the job for them. My hell continued.
Finally, arriving at the Main Train Station in Bucharest, I was spent and angry. I paid the driver and quickly excited the car as the two laughed themselves to tears. Alone on an unknown street in the middle of a foreign town, I made my way into the office building and took my place at the end of in a very long line. I’d made it this far. I’d complete this mission and live to tell the tale. Mid-afternoon was upon us as I crept closer to the front of the line. Finally, at 1:59 PM, it was my turn. Imagine my good fortune. My turn!!! All good, until every single ticket counter slammed shut at exactly 2:00 PM.
To be continued……..