Evening on the Gara de Nord

I was pounced on almost immediately by a stocky guy with ID hung around his neck, although even a cursory examination revealed it to be nth generation photocopies. I asked where the train would go from as even the ticket lady hadn't known.

"Probably 10, but check later"

Where could I find a phone? He pulled his cell phone out offered me its use. I had to get in touch with Jan: I needed to let him know I would be early.

After digging around in my rucksack I found a string of numbers and he punched them in. He passed me the phone and I heard a recorded announcement. In Chinese. We checked the number: it was what I'd told him. He started to chuckle about how many digits there were - 15 - and wondered out loud whether that could be right. He'd already braced me for a big bill by telling me how expensive calls from Romania were, but I figured he'd just played with the phone's cost multiplier and I'd replied that I wouldn't go over 10 Lei. For someone who knew all about international call costs, he seemed unduly excited by punching in so many numbers.

The cost, when he showed me was 14,2 Lei. I made him sweat by asking about internet cafés and said, in passing as we walked to the exit, that 10 Lei should be enough. He pointed and gestured at where I should look for the internet cafe and then looked hopefully expectant. Fifteen Lei came out with some reluctance and as my reward he shook my hand and pointed at a cabin selling "cheap beer, my friend." Then he was gone.


Gara de Nord is a wide length of concrete roofed by an arched Victorian-style iron and glass roof. At right angles the arse end of fourteen tracks abut. On the platforms fixed plastic seats are given scant shelter by small roofs angled in a way last popular in the 1950s.

On the platforms proper, quiet groups awaited their trains. Dogs begged for scraps and a group of gypsy children ran sorties away and back for no apparent reason.

On the main concourse things couldn't have been more different. With exits to the Metro at either end and one in the middle, there was a constant flow of people. Serving their needs are diners, pizza shops, kebab stalls, a supermarket and a 'non-stop pani pat'. In the best position, straddling a corner, was a McDonalds. Tables and chairs gave it a Champs Élysées café look and as the sun went down and shadows swallowed the dirt, the station became almost pleasant.

For the smokers and drinkers, which seemed to include everyone, small kiosks displayed their smokes and snacks. Fridges of beer, arranged like outstretched arms, embraced the thirsty.

I wanted the internet. I was coming a day early to Budapest and I still needed to let Jan know. Now well after hours, the shops that were open plied their trade through small serving hatches. The internet café was not one of them. It was firmly shut.

Back inside, the night had erased the harshness from the day and the people seemed more relaxed.

In the cafés and diners the patrons lent an air of permanence that the masses had none of. Here and there eddies formed in the flow, around sweepers, the policeman, those checking the departure board and around the headscarved, black-dressed lady who sat, bad leg outstretched, her crutch to her side, calling out a conversation and laughing at the responses.

It was 10pm: no sign of 'Budapest' on the board.

I had a 'cheap beer, my friend' : at 2,5 Lei (NZ$1.40) it was cheap. When that was finished I took another, plus a kebab (8,5 Lei) and wandered up an unused platform. Opposite me a group of girls waited for their train, laughing and looking. A gypsy boy, no older than 7, cart-wheeled up to me, said something and cartwheeled on. His older brother did cartwheels on another platform. Inside the kebab, amongst the usual suspects, were cold fries. It was 11pm.

I went to the supermarket and came out with 2 litres of imported beer (5,5 Lei), a packet of chips and a small tub which caught my eye. It wasn't the legend 'Salata de Icre' that did it, it was the word below, in big red letters: CRAP.

11.15pm and I still couldn1t see Budapest on the board. One line, all the other details correct, displayed Arad as its destination. I checked it out - the train changed there, but I was to keep my seat while it changed around me.

There was one last thing to do. Down some stairs tucked behind the pizza shop was the tiled splendour of the station toilets. I peered down and saw a troll on guard. Turkish music blared from a cassette recorder which nestled amongst a mass of papers on a desk. Behind the desk sat the troll, old and fat and the ruler of all she surveyed. I went down and handed her 1 Leu. I paused for my 20 bani change but she dismissed me with a wave.

Inside was no place to loiter. When I came out a girl was paying. She got her change then picked two pieces of paper from the desktop and went in.


The train arrived. I walked up the length trying to find carriage 142. There were more than one carriage with second class seat number 75, so it seemed important: I didn't want to end up in the wrong section and find myself in Venice.

I asked a uniform.

"Three from engine. Three, three."

It was a first class carriage. I asked another uniform. He looked confused and asked his friend. I allowed myself a small panic.

"Yes," he said pointing to the same carriage.

"It's first, prima," I said.

"No, first, second. Half, half."

And indeed it was. I swung myself aboard and walked the corridor. I was the first to arrive.

Seat 75 was in a six-person compartment consisting of two opposing benches. Above each seat was a print showing some an in Hungary. Keeping the travellers apart were raisable armrests. two tiny tables jutted from the open window.

I hung my arms on the window and leaned out, watching the train load. It wasn't busy and the few rucksacks that got into my carriage didn't make it to my compartment.

As the train pulled away, doors wide open, it confirmed what I had hoped: I had the carriage to myself!