Around Europe by coach – Day One

European adventure

The story begins on a Tuesday morning, very early, around 5 a.m. Me – puffy eyes, a trembling yorkie puppy, a sleepy boyfriend, a huge troller – stuffed with clothes, shoes and other womanly things necessary for three weeks, abandoned the warmth of the house for the coldness and the drizzle of the dawning day. All of this, because of a sudden decision to embark on a three week journey across Europe by coach and thus break the vow I had made several years ago – to always travel abroad by plane. The truth is that I can not resist NOT traveling. I think I am born like this. And so is my mum. 2014 was coming fast to an end and here I was, contemplating deeply ashamed my travel track record for the past 8 months: one week spent in the medieval town of Sighisoara, one week at the Black Sea (which is green, by the way). And that was all. An utter disaster compared to my 2013 trips to California and Greece. So, I clanged to the opportunity of  straightening my record right same as someone who falls into a pit grabs the miraculous rope. It didn’t matter who threw it, the most important was to get out.

Our little group dismantled the moment we got to the coach: me and my troller got some of the best seats inside, while the dog and the boyfriend were treated with goodbye kisses and hugs. A young girl, in her twenties, called Andreea joined me: she was going to show with photographs that my accounts of our trip were real,  not fiction. That is to say I was not spending my time inappropriately  (sleeping – which is something normal after a 12 hours journey  by coach, organising promotion events for “Four Doors and Other Stories” or meeting with literary agents). This time I was a chronicler and my job was to record as accurately as possible a world I knew little about: that of coaches and their passengers, of coach stations and their dutiful servants. And, in the meantime, make the most of the day or two we were allowed to stay in Wien, Rome, Milan, Marseille, Barcelona, Paris, London, Amsterdam, Bruxelles, Frankfurt, Prague and Budapest, our first stop.

To make things easier, I imagine I am in rock band which was embarking on an European tour. I would close my eyes. A nice scent floats in the air while the radio is humming country songs. But the faces of the people around me don’t help. They are all silent and serious. No sign of joy. Most of them, with low incomes, going as far as Montpellier to visit relatives or to work – blue collars and beyond. A woman in her fifties, called Mariana,  who has just undergone a surgery, is crossing Europe all the way to France to see her daughter and her new born offspring.

Should I like it there, I’m not coming back to Romania”, she says to me.

Romania – wonderful Romania, a country as beautiful as a fairy tale as  I can observe during the 16 hour trip, but betrayed by its people. People too worried about their survival too care for something as abstract as a country. Mariana travels for the first time abroad and the excitement makes her get quickly over the Hungarian custom service officers who treat Romanians like a savage ape tribe. The drivers – there are three of them for such a long haul, make her smile. Especially one of them, Mr. Gogoo. He is a born storyteller, a wise one too.

“Think positive, no matter what! And good things will happen eventually”, he says.

Mr. Gogoo knows it well even though he is the youngest (with three hours) of two twin brothers. He became a professional driver 3o years ago and has been driving the same coach for seven years and made over 2.5 million kilometres. It can double it. I tell him that driving such a big vehicle must be tough.  “Not at all”, he answers. “It’s more difficult to drive my old Dacia’ – (Logan’s ancestor).

It takes one day to get from Bucharest to Budapest by coach. But with nice people around, lovely weather, enough comfort stops and free wi-fi, time flies. The funny effect, when you get out of the bus, you reach your hotel room and happily stretch in bed, you may still feel the wheels rolling. Your body imperceptibly moving because of the road. Or so I did.