Don't judge a country by its train station...

Arrival in Romania this evening was not smooth.

I should have stuck to the tourists in the carriage next to mine, followed them to their hostel, split the cost of a cab. But the conversation that wafted through the carriage wall was inane and I was keen to find my Lonely Planet-alleged Villa 11, conveniently close to the train station for tomorrow's departure to Brasov.

I exited, cash in hand and quickly realised that my Lonely Planet map little resembled the heaving city before me. I was soon surrounded by enthusiastic taxi drivers who seemed to be offering to take me to the hostel for an exorbitant 30 lei. In retrospect, I think they were saying 3 lei and that perhaps my hearing had been affected by the numerous warnings I had received about rip off cabs in Bucharest. Nevertheless, I did not want to pay for what appeared to be a 500m walk.

I tried to call the hostel but just as the woman was starting to give directions my phone ran out of batteries.

My next offer, after a hair raising road crossing, was a 10 lei guide on foot in the form of a friendly looking fellow. But I only had a 100 lei note and something told me he would not have the right change. Unable to see the street sign I required I returned to the station in the hope of a tourist information centre. A friendly looking man inside asked if I needed help and, a little exasperated, I just said "I don't have any money."

"um...that's ok, I am a dentist. You just look like you need help."

I felt like a right twat.

With his (sadly incorrect) instructions I wandered through some inner-city backstreets complete with atmospheric dog barking and broken street lights for some time before returning to the corner where my potential 10 lei guide had been to see if I could convince him to show me for the 4 euro I had in coins. He was gone, but thankfully another fellow sent me in the right direction.

Villa 11 is seriously weird. The door finally opened to reveal a pallid, pony tailed boy of about 12 years old who then fetched a pallid, pony tailed boy of about 17...(pallid, pony tailed 15 was outside fixing a bicycle.) I was shown to my dorm with no explanation of bathrooms, keys, breakfast or anything.

Strict instructions about what the staff would and wouldn't do on the sabbath were pasted in reception. A Canadian flag was stuck to the door. The entire house smelt like tuna.

I left and headed to the metro station, starving after taking an hour and a half to travel 500m. And there I found a famailiarity so very unexpected. To get onto the train platform you have to dip your ticket in the exact same green machines we have on Sydney buses. At the Beepbeep-bebeepbeep, I nearly laughed out loud.

I finally made it to food and a glass of red that tasted a little too much like balsamic vinegar but was satisfying nonetheless. And then to this internet cafe. You will be pleased to know that, should I want to, I could also see a number of live sex shows in this area once I am done online.

Over and out.
Maeve. xxx


...The morning brought more confusion as the house appeared empty save for a middle-aged man who did not reply when I said hello. I showered and noticed that there was food on the table, which was set for 8 despite my being the only guest. I ate cold pikelets with jam and a strange (but pleasant) stinky cheese.

Finally the owner, Debbie appeared. I knew her name as 'Debbie's Kitchen' was etched into a wooden mug rag on the wall. She was actually very nice, if oddly conservative and old-fashioned as one might imagine a mormon might look. She was the round, large-breasted, high-waisted full skirt wearing version of her sons, but she was friendly and chatty and I felt bad for passing such harsh judgment on her home.

She told me how they had a single room upstairs that had shelves on which her daughter stored her extensive porcelain doll collection. She had once shown the room to a man and the next day a review appeared on hostelbookes.com calling her establishment (and her home) "a pedophile's paradise." I thought of telling her she was a Canadian/Romanian Bill Henson but I wasn't sure she'd get the reference.

It must be had for people who open their homes up as hostels. I mean, I maintain the place was weird but that was because of the initial lack of customer service, the location and the tuna smell. I would never go so far as to write cruel things on a hostel site (only on facebook which Debbie won't see.)

If you're interested, Debbie and her family moved to Romania in the 90s. The house was her husband's grandmother's and was seized in 1949 by the government. After the revolution, she told me, they came to get it back. There was a lengthy legal battle and by the time they won they had decided to stay. This explains why the place is in the middle of the military medical institute.

It is interesting to be in a country where people say "after the revolution" casually in conversation.