And the train conductor says,
"Take a break Driver 8, Driver 8 take a break
we've been on this shift too long"
I read a poem I no longer recall, as a youngster, that romanticized the railways in such a way as to impression upon me the majesty of this form of travel. Historic, pure, and full of hope, a railway ticket for me was more than a means of reaching point B, but someplace perhaps even farther.
October 1994 – Sibiu, Romania
“We should go to Constantza,” Isaac said. “We can swim in the Black Sea.”
Our Romanian hosts, in full agreement and excitement equal to our own, explained to us the way to go about purchasing a train ticket.
“But I’ve always wanted to ride a train,” I squealed. “Am I ready?”
“Are you ready for what? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, never mind.”
*
“That’s a train? It looks so historic.”
Our Romanian hosts explained to us that the trains Romania used were hand-me-downs from other countries, a long list of which he recited before eventually and proudly arriving at Germany.
“German engineering,” he boasted.
We both looked at him with furrowed brows.
I looked at the old iron horse. “Are we going to have to take turns shoveling coal?”
*
A museum. I felt like I was in a museum. Only one of those museums where people are allowed to smoke and bring their chickens.
I looked at Isaac. “Lucky for you, I’m not feeling very romantic at the moment.”
*
The restroom brings more surprises.
Walking down the hallway from my car to the bathroom, stumbling side to side with the swaying of the tracks, I looked out the window and wondered, "How the hell come this thing’s shaking so much? It all looks so flat.”
I opened the bathroom door to a pool of liquid. “Aaah!”
Surprise!
On the back seat of the toilet lay a pile of human excrement. “Aaah!”
Surprise!
Shaking back and forth with the swaying of the train, I held on with one arm to the wall, and one arm to my, you know, aiming as best I could to the toilet, mesmerized by that pile of human remains. “Looks like your aim is off, pardner!”
Finished, I prepared to flush. There was a foot pedal near the bottom of the toilet. I pressed down on it. A trap door in the bottom of the toilet opened to reveal the train tracks passing by. "Aaaah!”
Oh, unhappy surprise!
*
The Dream, Concluded
A Romanian friend later explained to me that the pile of excrement on the back of the toilet seat is fairly common on these trains, because no one would actually sit upon those seats. Instead, they stand on the toilet itself, and then release their belongings, which invariably land on the seat.
I imagined the dark, shaky train and the amount of leg muscles and coordination it must take to perform this particular task.
“I bet your country produces some great gymnasts,” I said.
“Yes! We do!” he answered innocently, perhaps confused by my apparent non sequitur, but enthusiastic nonetheless.
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