The Main Train Office in Bucharest was a visual delight. Assuming it was build after the war, the architecture and adornments were dazzling. Not a strip mall affair. This building was grand. As I waiting in a velvet-roped que, voices seemed to float to the cavernous ceilings. This was a grand place in which to do business. Each Window in the Main Office of the Bucharest Train Station was protected by an ornate, bronze window gate. The associates stood and worked behind them, although the entire area in which they worked was visible through vertical bars spaced between the gates. These were popular in very old bank buildings in the US. All of this protection seemed overkill for ticketing agents. A huge impression was made when ten of these windows closed at once, each with a metallic clink, manually, perfectly in-sync, and final. Especially when you are the next person in line.
Watching intently, I first thought it was closing time. But, at each window, a second person had appeared. The first associate was picking up every item at their window. Pencils, pens, stapler, staple remover, ink blot stamps, ink, ticket books, and anything else that was set out to be used. When they had collected their belongings, the second shift stepped forward and put out the same exact items. Never had I seen such an insane shift change. It was done in Soviet style. Everyone in lock-step with the next.
Finally, exactly together, all ten widows flew back open and I went to Window #13, although there were in fact, only 10 windows. In a broken regime, many times there are no answers.
Luckily, my ticket agent did speak a little English and knew, very well, Moldavia and the town of Tiraspol. I would arrive at 11:00 AM the following day. Again, the train would carry no food or drink. It would leave at Midnight, so, arrive at the station 15 minutes before departure. I would not be able to board before that time.
As she was telling me this, my mind went back to the dark recesses of the real station, deserted, except for one very determined stalker, waiting for my return. My stomach growled, bringing me back to the present. Paying my Leu, I still had plenty for a wonderful lunch at a little café next to the train station. I was going to start the meal with chocolate ice cream and go backwards from there. 5,500 leu in my pocket would insure that I’d eat like a queen. I knew the ticket would be expensive, and there HAD been the crazy taxi ride, but, I’d never spent 2500 of anything so quickly in my life.
With ticket in hand, I went outside to find the taxi que. But wait. More great news. There was NO taxi que. No sign of taxis. This quiet street was not anywhere downtown. There was no bustle or hustle. No bus lines. Nothing. Just a quiet empty street. I. Was. Lost.
It was then I started crying. Not a little cry. Not a loud cry. A desperate cry from a broken woman who bit off more than she could chew. Lost in a country in which she didn’t speak the language. Lost in a relationship that really wasn’t right or true. Dumped in a strange land by two men that should have been a little more interested in her wellbeing and safety. There, by the side of that street, exhausted and broken, I crumpled to the ground and wept. For how long, I really couldn’t tell you.
After a time, with tears not subsiding, a car rounded the corner. A large black car. Shiny. Long. Impressive. A Mercedes emblem proudly adorned the hood. Tinted windows hid the occupants. The only visible person was a driver in a tuxedo staring straight ahead. It was then the back door opened.
Out stepped a gentleman of means. That was obvious. From where he came, I know not.
“It seems you have troubles, my dear. Can I be of help?” Perfectly accented English peeked by total attention. Handsome and fit, his 6′ frame was perfectly proportioned. He stood as a man of wealth and status, would. Proudly.
I must have looked like a mere child sitting on the street crying.
Through my tears, I told him my story. He listened intently and asked if I would like a ride. He was going right near the station and would be happy to be of help. After assessing his custom made suit made from the richest cloth, the leather wingtips shining without a speck of dust, and his manicured hand reaching out to me, I made a decision that could have been lethal. Somehow, this angel man had been sent to save my sorry self. I took his hand and he helped me into his car.
Just like that, an suit-n-tie angel drove me back to safety. No groping. No unwanted attention. Just a safe ride back to the station during which he wished me well. On the drive back to the station, he offered me a drink of ice water with lemon from a crystal decanter along side two tumblers resting upon a sterling tray. Offering me his handkerchief to dry my eyes and knowing how scared I was, he remained gentlemanly the entire way to the train station. On the return trip, I realized how long and hard I fought off Mr. BackSeater. I shuddered and hoped we really WERE going back to the train station. Then, just like that, the car stopped at the entrance. With the sincerest of Thank-You’s, he opened the door and I was free. I forgot to even ask his name.
As the black chariot rode off, I found the bistro I’d passed earlier. There it was, with a faded photo of a bowl of chocolate ice cream right in the window. Serving lunch, I planned to be there for awhile, finally getting to enjoy a meal that I so desperately needed. Looking like the little cafes I had enjoyed in Venice, I settled into a chair and looked at the menu right in front of me.
The waitress appeared and plucked the menu from my hands.
“No. Closed.”
Was she kidding? Closed? At 3 PM? When I was starving????? Closed??????
I then looked at the door. Indeed. Closed at 3PM. Not open until tomorrow. With that, the waterworks opened up again. Just sitting a little longer, I put my head on the table and cried. It was then I heard them and looked up.
A group of very large, athletic, and handsome men were standing near the train station. Speaking in Russian, they were pointing at me while giving me looks I would have rather not received. Laughter would erupt periodically from their little gang of five. Four of them were behaving as young men often do. One whistled. One made a whooping call. When I turned the other way, they all laughed. All except one.
Being raised in on a family farm in the middle of no where in a family of five daughters, my knowledge of men was limited. I wasn’t a city girl, street wise and able to tell trouble from boyish silliness. With the added stress of the my ongoing troubles, being the center of attention wasn’t something I wanted. I was definitely the center of the approaching stranger’s attention.
“Hello? It seems you are distressed. May I be of help? I am known as John Lewis.” Although he had a buttery smooth accent, his English was perfect. His kind eyes calmed my fears just a little. Eyes are the windows to the soul, my grandmother always reminded me.
Being mindful of the others as they jeered him on to victory of what ever sort their were planning, I turned to him.
“I’m terrified. I’m hungry. I’m angry. I’m lost. I don’t speak Russian. Can you help with any of that? If so, have a seat. I also have a black belt in karate and will drop any of your friends that continue bothering me. Got it?” His smile was warm and he singled the others to leave. They waved like gentle school boys as they walked away.
John Lewis was perhaps one of the nicest men I will ever meet in my life. From Liberia, and in a foreign exchange program, he spoke perfect English. As I explained everything that had happened up to this point, his kind eyes spoke volumes. He assured me that chocolate ice cream waited right around the corner, along with a healthy meal for a weary traveler. Concerned about the stalker, he assured me that he would not leave until I was safely on the train. And with that, he became yet another guardian angel.
Suffering from extreme racism in Romania, he talked about his group of friends. He was eager to finish his education and move back to Liberia, becoming more able to help his countrymen. We talked and ate and talked and listened until the daylight turned to darkness and it was 11:30 PM. My luggage was waiting, safely in the locker. I had my ticket to Tiraspol, as well as Romanian money in my pocket.
Saying GoodBye to John Lewis was heartfelt. Here in a city that was confusing and complex was one of the nicest men I had ever met in my life. Waiting, while protecting me until I was on the train, I was safe with a gentle bodyguard that spoke fluent Romania and English.
With one swift sentence, the stalker, who had been waiting behind the kyosk, went running into the night, never to be seen again. A full meal, including ice cream filled my stomach and I was ready to enjoy a nice night’s sleep in my sleeping car.
Dreams came and went. In the morning, while crossing Romania and heading for Moldavia, I realized it was time to go mingle with the locals. I was sure there was a good story to be told just outside my cabin door.
To Be Continued……