This is going to be ridiculous. 560 odd kilometers through country and mountain roads, no direct route, and breaking the number one hitchhiking rule; never have a time frame. I’ve got one day to make Bucharest for my sisters arrival by Sunday lunchtime. Oh and it’s driving snow. I can barely see my hand in front of my face.
I’ve set my alarm for 6 am to catch the morning traffic. Of course I ignore this completely and roll out of my hole an hour later. I’m screaming bloody murder when I realise I’ve crossed another time zone. In short, I’m two hours late to the side of the road. This often makes a massive difference, especially when attempting greater distances.
I’m waiting for a lift to take me to the edge of the city, when the bus passes right by my stop, in spite of my manic attempts to wave him down. He’s just looking at me like I’ve lost my marbles – and in this weather, I definitely have. I wait for the next transport, safe in the knowledge that it will stop, as maybe they didn’t really see me the first time. The second one comes and goes. Yelling obscenities, I stomp to find the right bus stop, and running a whopping five hours behind schedule, I arrive at my hitching spot around 11 am.
I must be insane. Clinically insane. The snow is biting hard, the wind whips it into my face and makes holding my ‘Bu‘ sign nearly impossible. Heavy trucks spray up muddy slush. My one saving grace is the volume of traffic, but the vast majority are signalling that they’re staying local. Two hours drift by. A police officer waves me on, and as I’m shivering back at my bus drop off point, the ride back into town returns. It slows, it pulls in to turn around. I’m fighting with every bit of will power to stay the course. As it’s about to pull away, and with my head and heart hung in shame, I jump on.
Some time later I’m sitting on a train, peering through the glass at the frozen wastes beyond. It looks duller than it is, but it’s not long before white gives way to black, and the only thing I can see is my defeated expression staring from the darkness . I’ve failed. Now any sensible person would tell you that the chances of me getting lost and dying out there in these conditions is seriously high, and I’ve done the right thing. Incidentally I’ve discovered my GPS tracking systems’ lithium batteries have run out – not easy to find, so I would literally be flying solo in dangerous conditions. But I’m not a sensible person. If I didn’t have to meet my sister, I would still be on that road.
The longer the journey takes, the more it becomes apparent I would never have made it. On the train we’re some four hours late, with apparently many roads closed and disruptions to the lines. I’ve no idea where my hostel is as I pull into a blizzard Bucharest around 3 am, to discover you have to queue for taxi tickets. The weather is so bad that it appears to have been snowing inside. I stumble through the onslaught and flag an over priced cab down some distance from the train station. He’s ripping me off, but I just want to be warm. He drops me nowhere near my destination.
At the end of my tether, I turn to the police. The kind-hearted bobby actually walks me to where I’m meant to be, and I collapse upstairs to find nobody on reception. There’s only one thing for it: the Irish bar. I return at 6 am, steal a blanket, and bed down on the hostel common room sofa. My sister will already be in the air.
Hitchhike to India leg 18: Timișoara to Bucharest. Total failure.
This is going to be ridiculous. 560 odd kilometers through country and mountain roads, no direct route, and breaking the number one hitchhiking rule; never have a time frame. I’ve got one day to make Bucharest for my sisters arrival by Sunday lunchtime. Oh and it’s driving snow. I can barely see my hand in front of my face.
I’ve set my alarm for 6 am to catch the morning traffic. Of course I ignore this completely and roll out of my hole an hour later. I’m screaming bloody murder when I realise I’ve crossed another time zone. In short, I’m two hours late to the side of the road. This often makes a massive difference, especially when attempting greater distances.
I’m waiting for a lift to take me to the edge of the city, when the bus passes right by my stop, in spite of my manic attempts to wave him down. He’s just looking at me like I’ve lost my marbles – and in this weather, I definitely have. I wait for the next transport, safe in the knowledge that it will stop, as maybe they didn’t really see me the first time. The second one comes and goes. Yelling obscenities, I stomp to find the right bus stop, and running a whopping five hours behind schedule, I arrive at my hitching spot around 11 am.
I must be insane. Clinically insane. The snow is biting hard, the wind whips it into my face and makes holding my ‘Bu‘ sign nearly impossible. Heavy trucks spray up muddy slush. My one saving grace is the volume of traffic, but the vast majority are signalling that they’re staying local. Two hours drift by. A police officer waves me on, and as I’m shivering back at my bus drop off point, the ride back into town returns. It slows, it pulls in to turn around. I’m fighting with every bit of will power to stay the course. As it’s about to pull away, and with my head and heart hung in shame, I jump on.
Some time later I’m sitting on a train, peering through the glass at the frozen wastes beyond. It looks duller than it is, but it’s not long before white gives way to black, and the only thing I can see is my defeated expression staring from the darkness . I’ve failed. Now any sensible person would tell you that the chances of me getting lost and dying out there in these conditions is seriously high, and I’ve done the right thing. Incidentally I’ve discovered my GPS tracking systems’ lithium batteries have run out – not easy to find, so I would literally be flying solo in dangerous conditions. But I’m not a sensible person. If I didn’t have to meet my sister, I would still be on that road.
The longer the journey takes, the more it becomes apparent I would never have made it. On the train we’re some four hours late, with apparently many roads closed and disruptions to the lines. I’ve no idea where my hostel is as I pull into a blizzard Bucharest around 3 am, to discover you have to queue for taxi tickets. The weather is so bad that it appears to have been snowing inside. I stumble through the onslaught and flag an over priced cab down some distance from the train station. He’s ripping me off, but I just want to be warm. He drops me nowhere near my destination.
At the end of my tether, I turn to the police. The kind-hearted bobby actually walks me to where I’m meant to be, and I collapse upstairs to find nobody on reception. There’s only one thing for it: the Irish bar. I return at 6 am, steal a blanket, and bed down on the hostel common room sofa. My sister will already be in the air.