Troutworthy's Travel Blog: Chisinau

As the ancient sleeper starts to pull out of Chişinau station, with me curled up and inert in a corner of one of those compartments of faded grandeur, it feels like a good time to reflect on this trip.

Lamps in the Stephen the Great park.

The Kyiv train. Maybe another time.

Moldova has been through an insane number of administrative shifts in recent times. In 1800 it was part of the Principality of Moldavia, along with northeastern Romania, which at that point was a vassal state of the Ottoman Empire ruled by the Phanariot Greeks. Not long after, in 1812, the Moldovan part of Moldavia was ceded to Imperial Russia and constituted most of the Bessarabia Governorate. While the rest of Moldavia and Wallachia unified to become Romania in 1859, what is now Moldova remained Russian-dominated for the rest of the nineteenth century, with varying degrees of self-determination. In 1917, in the wake of the Russian Revolution, a Moldavian Republic was founded, first as an autonomous region within a federal Russia, then in 1918 as a fully independent state, before two months later it unified with (or was annexed to) Romania. After the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, in 1940, the Russians strong-armed Romania into ceding the region to them again, becoming the Moldavian Soviet Socialist Republic. Despite the Romanians' best efforts (recapturing the area in 1941 with a little help from the Nazis, but then losing it again in 1944), it remained so until the collapse of the Soviet Union. In 1991 the modern state of Moldova came into existence, and almost immediately the transition from state planning to an unfettered market economy caused financial crisis: it remains by far the poorest country in Europe by nominal GDP per capita. Today's government is pro-Romanian and westward-leaning, but that hasn't always been the case: from 2001 to 2009 the Communists were in power.

History museum.

All this means that the oldest living people in Moldova have lived through three separate periods of Russian rule, two separate periods of Romanian rule, and two separate periods of independence. What has this chequered history done to the city of Chişinǎu?

I'll be honest: I wasn't expecting much from Chişinǎu. This is one of the reasons I decided to spend more time in the countryside than in the city. On TripAdvisor, the top two things to do in the capital involve visiting parks, and the third is "Malldova", a shopping centre. Overall, though, I was pleasantly surprised. Both days I was in Chişinǎu I spent wandering around on foot, experiencing and learning about the place. It is an incredibly green city: if you want to get from A to B as a pedestrian, odds are that you'll be able to do a solid chunk of the journey without walking next to a road. The Stephen the Great park borders the cathedral park, which opens onto Chişinau's Eugen Doga pedestrian street. And these are lush, well-maintained parks full of people enjoying the greenery. To the west of the city, the much larger Valea Morilor park is more open, with a lake as its centrepiece, and is frequented by Chişinǎu's fitness freaks. This in turn is separated only by a single road from the Dendrarium, an enormous space for trees, skulking cats, and frolicking children. The heat picked up again over the last couple of days, but the tree cover in these parks meant that it was never unpleasant to explore them.

In the Dendrarium.

People seem happy and relatively well-to-do (though I'm aware this is likely only a city-centre phenomenon). The westward-lookingness is very prominent culturally too, with a lot of Chişinau's restaurants having American, German or especially French pretensions. If it doesn't succeed in being quite as Parisian as it apparently wants to be, that's understandable: Paris itself doesn't always succeed in being quite as Parisian as it apparently wants to be, either. As regards architecture, there are some horrible blunders – both Soviet and post-1991 – but also some beautiful eclectic and neoclassical buildings. One such is the National History Museum. Here, too, there's a westward-looking bias: the museum has lots to say about the Soviet era, none of it positive, but nothing at all to say about Romania's Nazi collaboration, other than to mourn the victims. There is, however, a whole room devoted to Old Orhei, and the lion's share of the finds are evidently here, not in the rather feeble archaeological museum I visited on site: I get a better feel for Old Orhei here, with the painstaking reconstructions and collections of silver ingots and coins, than I did at the place itself.

Former Soviet stadium, now overgrown

St Theodor of Tiron monastery on the outskirts of town

Flash forward. It's 8pm and we're at the border. Earlier I found out that A., a student I once taught at Konstanz, is on the same train, next compartment along, in one of those one-in-a-million chances. There's a bar car on the train, manned by a man who speaks Romanian and Russian. When I use my mixture of Duolingo level 1 Romanian and ropey Ukrainian on him, together with some hand gestures, to ask for the menu, he picks up his phone and shows me a photo of a fry-up with eggs and mici. I assent and put away a beer while he's cooking, in the process getting to know a garrulous New Zealander. The food comes and is magnificent; we waffle on. Later we're joined by A. and his partner, and I opt for another beer. 

Gauge change station at Ungheni.

We need to return to our compartments for passport control, and stay there while the train is switched to standard gauge and we cross into Romania proper; but it's a good opportunity for me to finish writing this post. This is what international travel should be like, not crammed like sardines into a flying tube! 

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.

Troutworthy's Travel Blog: Into Transylvania

Those of you who've been following my exploits closely know that I am a completionist and like setting myself silly tasks. Probably the biggest is my current mission, for which the clock is ticking: to visit all the countries of Europe before my fortieth birthday. And that's where this trip fits in.

Archita with its Saxon fortified church, seen from the train.

Only five countries remain. Three of those are not an option right now, for war-related reasons: Belarus, Ukraine, Russia. That leaves two: Cyprus – which I still might fit in before time runs out, though it's tricky without flying – and Moldova. Which is where I'm heading now, for a few days of summer relaxation.

To get to Moldova from Konstanz, you only need to change trains twice – the same as if you're going to London, or indeed many places around Stuttgart. The difference is that this trip takes forty-eight hours. The crucial first step is a somewhat unexpected one: get a local bus to Allmannsdorf and then a slightly-less-local bus across the lake to the small industrial town of Friedrichshafen. This bus goes onto a boat; the trip will be nothing if not multimodal. From there follows a somewhat implausible direct train to Vienna, which takes all day. With any luck I'll be in time to catch the sleeper to Bucharest, and from there another sleeper to Chisinau. Only two changes.

It's cool and crisp the morning I set off, perhaps the first truly chilly morning we've had all sweltering summer. I don't love boats at the moment, but I do hop off the bus in order to take in the lake breeze and survey the surroundings. Compared to this – confirmed holiday destination Lake Constance – Moldova is an unknown, a country I'd perhaps never have thought to visit if it wasn't for my completionist scheming.

I've splurged on business class for the nearly eight-hour Railjet to Vienna. It's snazzy, with big, reclinable black leather seats, waiter service, and a little reading light. Even here I can't avoid crying children or the small clique of Austrian men whose opinions everyone in the carriage Must Hear. But they fade into the background as the train makes the ascent from Feldkirch up the valley to the Arlberg.

Do you deserve this? Do I? Does anyone?

The Arlberg railway is a contradiction, simultaneously a quaint, scenic mountain line and one of Europe's trunk routes. The stretch between Bludenz and Innsbruck is a treat, and I spend much of my time staring out of the window. The highlight is the quintessentially European Trisanna bridge, over a high mountain gorge with a castle at the end of it.

After Wörgl, the train passes back into southern Bavaria for the stretch to Salzburg, and the terrain oscillates between rolling hills and plains, with the latter predominating as we approach Vienna. I stocked up on non-perishable snacks at Friedrichshafen for the sleeper portion of the trip, and don't have much time in this city (magnificent though it is in its own right), but it's enough to sit and have a lasagne and a glass of red wine at a generic Italian restaurant at the station.

Next leg of the trip is the venerable Dacia sleeper from Vienna to Bucharest, one of Europe's longest and slowest. I'm in a 3-bed sleeper compartment with a Romanian man; a Chinese man joins us at Budapest, near midnight. The compartment is basic but functional and mercifully cool. I pop an over-the-counter sleeping pill (top tip for these journeys!) and fall asleep to the smell of burning brake pads. The Hungarian and Romanian border controls in the early hours, and my Romanian friend getting out somewhere, wake me only briefly, and I get at least a semi-decent 8 hours' sleep.

Romanian Dacia sleeper car arriving in Vienna.

When I wake up in the morning the train has started to rise into the Transylvanian Carpathians. This is one great advantage of the Dacia: we don't get in until mid-afternoon, but the most beautiful part of the journey is during the day. As the train passes Sighisoara, I head down to the bar car, which has nice big windows and is well stocked with everything you need for a healthy diet.

The bar.

We pass Archita, a beautifully bucolic Transylvanian Saxon village, as I sip my instant coffee and munch on yesterday's Butterbrezel. At every station we pass, the stationmaster stands to attention in his cool hat. I really must revisit this part of the world some time soon. The train is crawling along, and on a long curve I can see that that's because we're behind a freight train. A map of European train speeds I found on Reddit tells me that the journey gets slower and slower as we head east: from an average of 141.6 km/h (Germany) to 106.8 (Austria), dropping down to 83.7 (Hungary), then 72.9 (Romania), and ultimately into the dreaded No Data (Moldova). Is Zeno's paradox about to kick in, preventing me from reaching my goal? Time will tell; but so far so good.

Troutworthy's Travel Blog: Up and round

I leave Helsinki on the evening of the second, boarding a train that is bound for Kolari, in the far north. Kolari itself is the northernmost tip of the Finnish passenger rail network, but I'm not going that far: Tornio, on the estuary of the river Torne – the river that defines the Swedish-Finnish border for hundreds of kilometers – is my destination. Still, it's the furthest north I've ever been in my life, narrowly beating out Akureyri, in Iceland.

The Finnish night trains are well equipped. Like other countries of the former Russian Empire, Finland's railways are built to five-foot gauge, which allows these trains to be enormous beasts of burden. I'm in a two-bunk compartment on the lower level, effectively meaning that four people can sleep stacked vertically. The trains are new and very clean, with card-locked compartment doors. I don't sleep very well, perhaps because it's odd to be travelling so far north when I'll be turning round and heading south again the next day.

Tornio doesn't have much of a station – just a platform with a couple of signs on it. When I arrive, the sun is shining, but it's icicles-in-the-beard temperature. In principle, a branch to the southwest means that trains can travel between Tornio and its adjacent Swedish twin city, Haparanda, on the other side of the Torne, albeit with a break of gauge. In practice, no passenger trains currently make the trip, and so it's a trek of a little under five kilometers to Haparanda station.

The frozen river Torne.

This part of Tornio is pretty industrial, and the black ice on roads and pavements is treacherous, but I manage to find my way through via a surprisingly nice little bakery and café. A long bridge connects Tornio island – where the heart of the town is – with the industrial side, but it's not even necessary: the river is completely frozen over, and that doesn't look likely to change any time soon. With the morning sun reflecting off the white expanse of the Torne, it's dazzling.

A smaller bridge crosses the channel from Tornio island to Haparanda. It's blue and white on one side, and blue and yellow on the other. I'm back in Sweden. Some slipping and sliding later and I'm at Haparanda station.

Haparanda station from the platform.

This enormous building is rather ghostly. It is open and (mercifully) heated, but there's no one around. The ghostliness is accentuated by artistically-placed piles of early-twentieth-century luggage. Apparently the border here saw many refugees pass through during the wars. The station was recently and grandiosely renovated using EU money, but doesn't seem to see much use: there's a space for a café, but no café (alas). It's de facto the end of the line, and there are only two trains a day. I check my watch: the next one isn't for four hours. I remember that I've entered a new time zone, change the time on my watch, and check it again. Five hours.

Spectral luggage.

“One-horse town” would be an overstatement for Haparanda. (The Western allusion is appropriate, though: the whole area feels very frontier, the Wild North.) I head into town and find a simple restaurant offering a nice buffet with fresh catch. Although it's modern, the vaulted ceiling and long lines of tables put me in mind of a mead-hall of legend. Perhaps I've been reading too much Kalevala.

In the end, the train is replaced by a bus, a fact about which no one seems very surprised. Two hours later and I'm in the northern Swedish railway-junction town of Boden, for which “one-horse town” is a thoroughly appropriate descriptor. Along comes the corrugated-metal night train and I hop on, finding it hard to believe I'll wake up in Stockholm. Compared to the Finnish sleeper, this one is somewhat dated, but I'm in an ensuite, and it's beautifully spacious. (Probably because they put me in a wheelchair-friendly compartment, with alarm buttons everywhere.) 

Swedish sleeper compartment.

After this chilly, adventurous day I sleep the sleep of the righteous in the comfy train, and in the morning I change onto the fast train to Copenhagen, from where I will continue south. None of this was actually part of the plan! But improvisation is fun, when you can afford it.

Here's the outline of the trip so far. This'll probably be my last post from this holiday, since I'll be working on the train tomorrow. Thanks for reading!

Troutworthy's Travel Blog: Heading north for Easter

The sleeper train from Hamburg to Stockholm has only been running since 2022 – part of the new wave of sleepers that have been popping up around Europe since the dark days of the mid-2010s. The nadir was 2014–16, when Germany's Deutsche Bahn got out of the sleeper business entirely. But, aided by a heavy dose of shame, they're making a comeback, especially in Scandinavia.

And so I'm on one, and will be in Stockholm within the hour. That's about 1300km north from Konstanz, which isn't bad for just over 24 hours, the first four of which were spent trundling across the Schwäbische Alb. It hasn't all been plain sailing: the ICE to Hamburg ended up 45 minutes late, and the sleeper set off from Hamburg-Harburg rather than the city centre due to engineering works. At this point the sleeper is over an hour delayed, though in my experience that's not at all out of the ordinary for night trains (unfortunately).

A representative vista in southern Sweden

The sleeper compartments are narrow, but the beds surprisingly comfortable. The train seems to be completely booked up; my compartment-mate tells me that there's far more demand than supply. Breakfast is a fresh bread roll with some butter, cream cheese and jam; the coffee is less shit than I'm used to on trains. Now that I've woken up, southern Sweden rolls by unremarkably, mostly birch or pine forests on level ground punctuated by serene patches of water. The sun is shining.