Bucharest station is heaving when I disembarked the train. My legs felt wobbly and weak, with slight pins and needles. I discovered the train to Budapest doesn't leave until 8pm and wander about the station curiously. If I ventured too far outside the boundaries of the station, swarthy men would come up to me, asking if I wanted a taxi, hotel, restaurant... anything. I get fed up of saying "Noo" and go practise my sparse Romanian on a drink-seller ("Saloot, cuut costa?") getting a much-desired 7-Up, which I practically throw down my throat. In what seems like an endless loop of the last few days, I find myself a seat at the station and wait for my train. A woman sat nearby feeding a stream of sunflower seeds, showering kernels all around herself. A three-legged dog hid under her seat, taking advantage of the rainfall of seeds and wagging his tail pitifully at everyone.
I confess at that point I felt slightly fed up of trains. The thought of another cramp-limbed night with my own thoughts was slightly disheartening. The constant sitting or sleeping dulled my wits, I didn't write much on this journey, instead I steeled myself to patience and think of what awaits me: Budapest! And also what I could be doing at home, on that dull hamster-wheel.
The next morning, Wednesday, I feel rested after managing nearly an entire night's worth of sleep without interruption. I resumed watching the landscape change after the Romanian/Hungary border checks. The trains are interesting here in eastern Europe; they look ancient yet are superbly efficient, clean and comfortable. It somehow feels like going back in time boarding these battered sleeper trains with no announcements or digital information, just a good old train guard. I like it.
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