At every station so far, however remote and deserted, there’s been a red-jacketed guard in a little hat standing to attention. Wonder if anyone ever stops to ask his name.
They turned off the air con as soon as we crossed the border into Romania.
New houses to the left of me, smoke stacks to the right. Commute through corn fields.
Lady on the train tried to mime to me ‘can we switch places because I feel dizzy travelling backwards’ to great comic effect.
I remember sending shoeboxes full of non-perishable goods to Romanians at Christmas time. Boxes full of tinned tuna and plastic toys and socks. Nowadays I reckon you’d need to send actual shoes, high heels, and they’d need to be good quality too.
Must remember not to generalise too much after a short visit.
Stunning Romania women only seem to accentuate the pug ugliness of many of their boyfriends.
Haven’t seen a CocaCola sign all day and it’s made me thirsty for one; desiring the unattainable.
Free bike! Best hostel policy ever.
What a quality of life; Monday 10pm and everyone’s relaxing, running and canoodling in the park by a little lake.
Four days in, four big ol’ hills climbed.
Yum, “Gift of the Pig” for dinner. A brilliantly apt translation of ‘sausage stew’.
I ordered a lemonade and received a mojito. Nothing wrong with that.
Gutted I didn’t get a photo of the station sign we just passed, which read ‘cunta’. Still, they do say about travel that it’s nice to leave something to come back for.
Gypsies! Loud, loutish, flopping gypsies!
