Troutworthy's Travel Blog: The Prietenia

Twenty-four more hours of travel. The rest of the journey on the Dacia from Transylvania through to Bucharest passed uneventfully, if scenically. For a while we were stopped at a little rural station in the Carpathian foothills, and youths were hanging out of the open train doors smoking cigarettes – something I remember from my first trip to Romania, fourteen years ago. Between Braşov and Bucharest I was on my own in the compartment. The conductor informed me that we were delayed by an hour, but I laugh in the face of this hour. I have four hours to change trains in Bucharest, and even if that didn't work out, I could hop off at Ploieşti and change trains there, since the Moldova train traverses the same stretch of track north of Bucharest before turning off to the east towards Iaşi and Chişinǎu.

The Moldova train.

But it did work out, and I'm left with three hours to kill in Bucharest. I decide against doing anything touristy, since the station, Gara de Nord, is outside the town centre and I don't want to risk it. Instead I park myself at a coffee shop and indulge in a non-caffeinated beverage, then, when my stomach grumbles, move to the station bistro for a Romanian speciality of chicken with sour cream and polenta. This leaves me plenty of time to buy a couple of pastries before the train to Moldova rolled in.

Gara de Nord isn't dead, like most of the enormous Balkan stations I got to hang about in last year. Its atmosphere is pleasingly vivacious, a riot of colour, with market stalls set up in the main thoroughfare. In the corners and around the edges a shade of grime and sweat has been dutifully if unconsciously applied by the many passers-by. All the shops take card payment; despite the grime, we're unquestionably in the twenty-first century.

Or are we? The arrival of the overnight train to Chişinǎu, the Prietenia ("friendship"), makes me reconsider. It's ancient, maybe antediluvian, an enormous chunky box of a thing. Leaning out of the back door as it reverses into the station is a man in a crisp white shirt waving a little yellow flag. The train is operated by Moldovan railways, and in every compartment window hangs patriotic Moldova branding.

Window drapes.

Inside, the train corridor has disrobed to display various solid-looking metal gizmos. The doors to the next carriage look about six inches thick. They look like they're built to withstand a nuclear blast, I think to myself – and then reflect that, if these coaches were built during the Cold War, that appearance may not be too far from the truth. There are some laminated handouts on a wooden shelf with instructions in Romanian, in Latin script, but all the older signs, embossed metal, are in Cyrillic. There's a toilet, opening directly onto the track, but no shower.

The compartment.

The compartment, which I have to myself, has a glamorous, regal feel to it. On each side is a long bench which doubles as bed, upholstered in patterned burgundy. Above each seat is a mirror, creating an infinite tunnel of light. There is a small Persian rug on the floor, making me embarrassed to be wearing shoes, so I take them off. There's no air conditioning, and with temperatures of 35 degrees outside it's stiflingly hot, causing me to worry about how I will sleep – but the window can be opened, letting in enough fresh air for it to be tolerable. On either side of the door is an old, wire coat hanger, and these jangle against the wall like wind chimes as the train powers north. Outside, the moon dangles in the air like a penny, ready to be inserted into the slot that gives this thing more juice.

Full moon.

This route skirts the Carpathians on their eastern flank. My sleep strategy isn't quite as effective as it was last night; I'd previously thought that turbulence was restricted to aeroplanes but due to my experience with eastern Romanian railways I now know otherwise. The roaring and clattering gets too much at some point, and I close the window, but by this point it's cooled down a lot. Later I'm woken again for passport control (x2, as usual in this part of the world), and I'm vaguely aware of some clanking and creaking as the carriage is switched over from standard to broad gauge, but the next time I'm properly awake is after 7am, when sun is streaming in through the gaps in the curtains. I buy a "country group 2" roaming pack and start munching my börek (breakfast of kings, sadly only found in this part of the world with any regularity). And shortly after that we're in Chişinǎu. I've spent 43 of the past 48 hours on trains, and am looking forward to some time with my feet on the ground.

Chişinǎu station.