When I first arrived in Prague, everything I owned fit in my backpack.  A year and a half later, as I prepared for my move to Turkey, I sat and surveyed the personal belongings I had accumulated during my stay in the Czech Republic.  I realized that, not only did I need more than just a backpack, but I was never going to accomplish this move in just one trip.  I have Prague’s super-cheap second hand stores to blame for most of it.  I’ve got more clothes than any one person could possibly hope to wear out in a lifetime.  I really let my second-hand habit get out of control, because… well, at just 30 crowns a pop, I figured it would be easy to just give away most of my stuff when it came time to move along again… just like I have in the past.  The only thing is… I really like most of my clothes.  I’ve got some really unique pieces that I am just not willing to part with.  So much for a non-materialistic lifestyle.  Sigh.

With the cheap airlines’ weight restriction of 20 kilos for checked baggage, my first trip was going to have to be light.  That was okay with me, because I wasn’t exactly sure where in Turkey I was going to end up anyway, and wandering around the country with trunks full of second hand clothes is not my idea of a good time.  Fortunately, the course I was taking in Italy started just a few weeks after my move to Turkey, so I could swing by Prague on my way back, and this time, I would take the train, so I could haul more stuff.  (I hadn’t even managed to fill my enormous duffle bag on wheels before reaching the weight limit.  This time, the almost-empty duffle bag was coming with me again, and I was going for broke).

As luck would have it, the almost-empty duffle bag got almost-completely destroyed on the flight from Istanbul to Milano.  The extension handle for pulling it along on its wheels had been broken off, bent, and yanked out, and the cloth on that side of the bag was “totally ripped,” as the claims officer for MyAir airlines wrote on the claim form.  They gave me a form that I was to mail in within 7 days with my bank information for their payment to replace the bag, but I was so busy finding my way to the course and then participating in the classes once I got there, that I just didn’t have time to deal with it.  There’s $20 I’ll never see again.

Stubborn creature that I am, I refused to go back to the Prague Market and buy another duffle bag.  I just didn’t feel like dickering.  So, I set out to find some duct tape instead, which was an adventure in itself, especially since I waited until the day before my departure, which was a Sunday, when most everything is closed in Prague.  That meant going to the new Palladium shopping mall and paying a premium price… $5, roughly 25% of the cost of a new duffle bag, for a small roll of duct tape.  Then, my flatmate, Fanny Farmer, and I spent an enjoyable evening putting my luggage back together again.  We were quite impressed with our own ingenuity in using a plastic pencil tray to stabilize the handle.  Fanny managed to bend the steel pole almost straight again, and huge expanses of duct tape now covered the gaping holes in the nylon cloth, the silver neatly complementing the black and blue of the original design.

Once the repair job was finished, I set about packing, and ended up with three fully-packed pieces of luggage… the aforementioned dufflebag, my new, red suitcase on wheels which was just slightly too large to go as carry-on in a plane cabin, and a large, soft, lavender case for bed linens, which was wheel-less and, therefore, attached to the duffle with some web belts.  And I still had to leave a box of stuff and some coats in Prague!

Fanny looked at my bags and told me, “You are crazy.  I could not travel this way." 

On the morning of my departure, I took out the divination cards that I had bought at my esoteric course in Italy.  They are similar in concept to Tarot cards, but different, and much easier to interpret.  I asked the cards, "What is the most important message that the universe has for me for today? " 

I drew a single card and read the response:

"Difficult."

I had to laugh, because I already knwe that this would be a difficult trip.  But, I wasn’t disheartened.  I’ve done a lot of difficult things in my life, and difficulty is usually not a good enough reason to do something.  So I just set my vibration for finding ways to overcome the difficulties as they arised.  First, I made things a little less complicated for myself by taking a taxi to the station instead of attempting to schlep all that stuff on the metro.  I had Fanny look up the phone number for the taxi on the internet for me, and then I sent a text message to the taxi company with my request.  The web site said that I should receive a confirmation within minutes.  I had about an hour before I needed to leave.

Half an hour later, I still hadn’t received my confirmation message, so I had Fanny call the company, and it turned out that they hadn’t received my message, but they said a cab would be there in 15 minutes.  We thought it was odd that they hadn’t received my text message, so we checked the web site again, and discovered that I had dialed their land line instead of their mobile number.  Good thing we thought to call.

Dealing with the cab driver was an adventure in itself.  The trunk of his cab was really too small for all my luggage, but he wouldn’t let us put any of it in the back seat, because he said it was dirty.  It wasn’t.  In his attempt to fit everything into the trunk, he almost broke the handle off my duffle bag again.  Finally, after trying several arrangements, we got everything in and headed out.  My train was leaving from Nadrazi Holesovice, which is much further from Dagmar’s flat in Vinohrady than Hlavni Nadrazi, the main train station, and we promptly got stuck in traffic, leading me to worry that I might miss my train.  But the traffic jam didn’t last long, and we arrived at the station with 15 minutes to spare.  

I paid the cab driver, and he hadn’t even driven off yet when, as I was loading my bags onto the sidewalk in front of the station, the extension handle broke off of my RED suitcase!  This suitcase was practically brand new and had been in perfect condition.  I looked at the handle in my hand, stupefied.  The plastic had cracked right off around the screw holes.  I suspect that the cab driver may have slammed the trunk lid on it.  There was no way to make it useful in the moment, and I didn’t have much time to spare.  Damn! 

I set off, pulling the suitcase by the normal handle, but with everything else I had to manage, it was awkward and slow going, and I still didn’t know which platform my soon-to-depart train was leaving from.  I struggled over to the schedule board which wasn’t too hard to find.  Of course, my train wasn’t leaving from the nearest platform, but it wasn’t leaving from the furthest one, either.  Thank god for small favors. 

I was having so much trouble pulling the red suitcase along in this manner, that I finally just let it drop and started dragging it by the bike lock chain that I had attached to the handle.  This was a little easier, but as soon as I got going, my right ankle dislocated!  Usually, when that happens, I stop everything and try to get it popped back in, because if I try to walk on it, it just gets worse, and it hurts like hell.  I quickly unzipped my snow boot and tried to snap it into place, but a few clicks convinced me that it was useless, so I proceeded to limp forward with my bags, keeping my ankle as extended as possible, which makes me look something like a goose with a wooden leg that’s been put on at a 45 degree angle.  Of course, this being Prague, nobody offered to help, and there doesn’t seem to be anything like a porter in these stations. 

When I reached the platform, by now, soaked in sweat (I was wearing a lot of layers that wouldn’t fit into my bags, and the day hadn’t turned out to be as cool as expected), I was surprised and relieved to see that there was a ramp going up to it instead of just steps like they have in most train stations, including Hlavni Nadrazi.  Maybe I would make my train after all. 

But as soon as I started ascending the ramp, my wheels got caught on something.  I looked down and noticed that half of the ramp actually had a shallow set of stairs.  As I tried, without much success, to move all my luggage onto the ramp side, an old man said something to me in Czech.  I didn’t recognize any of the words he said, but I knew the word “help” was not among them.  I figured he was just pointing out that there were steps on one side… just to let me know how dumb I was. 

“Yeah, I see that now,” I said with a pained grimace.  I continued to struggle with my luggage, and he walked past me up the ramp, continuing to babble.  I was getting kind of annoyed with him at this point.  Finally, he threw up his hands at me with disgust and walked away, and I wondered if he had been offering help of some kind, but it sure hadn’t seemed like it.  The bags seemed to be getting heavier and heavier and kept getting caught up on the shallow stairs to one side, my ankle was throbbing more and more, and I was so hot, I thought I was going to explode.  I could just imagine the train pulling away from the platform as I reached the top of the ramp.  “Difficult” didn’t even begin to describe this day, and I hadn’t even left Prague yet.

When I was about halfway up the ramp, the old man came back and grabbed the large duffle with the lavender bedding case attached to it and strode up the ramp with them while I struggled almost as much with the red one as I had with the whole lot.  I was really wiped out.  When I got to the train, I thanked the man profusely and looked in my purse to see what I could tip him while he and another old man loaded my bags onto the train.  I guess, with the lack of official porters, these old men just hang around looking for people they can help in order to pick up some extra cash.  I just wish I could have understood his offer earlier.  I pulled out two 50 crown bills and gave them to the first man, and gave the second man a 50, too.  They brought the bags to my seat with me, which was, fortunately, in an open seating area, so I didn’t have to try to cram everything into a compartment.  The first old man gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as I sat huffing and puffing, and trying to wrestle my way out of my winter coat without straining my already painful shoulders too much.  His sympathy touched me, and I was reminded that hope for the soul of this soulless city lies in the elderly, who are among the few that seem to have retained the compassion for their fellow human beings that they must have had before the communist era.  I hope they are able to pass it on to the younger generations before they leave this planet, but I’m not holding my breath.  They don’t have much time left. 

As the train pulled out of the station, I took off my boot and began massaging my ankle, and in about an hour, the tendons relaxed, the bones popped back into place, and I was as good as new.  Seven hours later, we arrived in Budapest, and the train stoped at the furthest platform from the station.  I had to almost walk at least a quarter of a mile just to get to the schedule board, and don’t you think that I’m exaggerating.  It was very far.  And even after my seven hour rest, I was still quite beat, and moving with those bags was nearly impossible, so I developed a system of walking a while with one, leaving it, going bag for the other one, dragging it past the first one, etc. (like a game of "leap frog").

It took me about half an hour to make my way to the information office.  Fortunately, I knew I had about four hours to wait in this station, and my sleeping car was already reserved for the night, but I had to try to reserve a sleeping car for the following night on the ride from Beograd to Istanbul, because they hadn’t been able to make the reservation in Prague.  The people in the information office, with their extremely limited knowledge of English, or any other language besides Hungarian, told me that I would have to wait and make my reservation when I got to Beograd.  I wasn’t too happy about that, because I didn’t have as much time to make the change in Beograd, but there was nothing I could do. 

At this point, I just wanted to drop my bags off in the left luggage area, and be free to wander around, go to the bathroom, and maybe get something to eat or drink.  I asked where the left luggage office was.  They pulled out a map of the train station and showed me.  It was as far away as where the train had let me off, only in the opposite direction!  And there was still no information as to where my train was going to be departing from.  There was just no way I was going to leap frog all the way over there with the possibility that I’d have to do it all over again to get to the train, and maybe at twice the distance.  I asked about porters, but they either didn’t seem to know what I was talking about, or there weren’t any.  I knew I wasn’t going to be able to make it four hours without peeing, so I asked to leave my bags in the information office for a few minutes while I went to scout out the john.  They were going to be open for another hour. 

I used most of the Hungarian money that I had left over from my trip to Budapest two summers ago by paying to use the toilet.  I considered pulling some cash out of the cash machine to get something to eat or drink, but I had food with me, so I thought I would just sit on my luggage and wait out the four hours in front of the schedule board with my book.  Unlike many European train stations these days, which, in a fanatic effort to deprive the homeless of a warm place to sleep, have eliminated all seats and waiting areas, there was a waiting room with seats, but it was so far away from the schedule board that I opted to do what most people were doing and just camp out in front of the board.  I had wandered around quite a bit in search of the toilet, and discovered a beautiful marble lobby in the train station that was completely empty… no people, and not being used for anything.  What a waste.  And it was close to the schedule board.  It would have made a lovely waiting room.    

So, during the next few hours, I alternated between standing, leaning against a marble banister, sitting on my suitcase, reading, watching people, and trying to avoid the wettest of the pigeon poop.  Just a few meters in front of me, under the schedule board, was a sign that said “Porter,” but in the whole time that I was there, I never once saw anyone that looked like a porter.

The Keleti Pu station in Budapest is one of those old-fashioned European train stations with steel and glass arc’ing over the platforms, and lined with stores and restaurants on two sides, but open to the air on the other two sides.  While I waited, (my train was to leave at 11 p.m.), the weather cooled down quite a bit, and I was exhausted.  I felt the sweat of the day turning to ice water and vaguely wondered if I would catch pneumonia.  I would have liked to have gone into one of the cafes to get a cup of hot tea, but for one thing, I had too much stuff with me, and I would have been like a bull in a china shop, and for another thing, I didn’t have enough Hungarian money left, and I was stubbornly resisting pulling more money out of the cash machine just for a cup of tea.  So, I ate a banana from my bag.

Finally, they announced the platform, and I saw that I would have been able to leave the suitcases in the left luggage office which, although far away, was on the way to the platform that my train left from.  I had a long distance that to cover to the train, and I began again with my game of "leap frog."  As I started off, an attractive, smiling young man with curly, black hair said something to me.

“Huh?” I responded.  Apparently thinking I couldn’t understand him, he smiled and didn’t repeat himself, and as I continued on my way, with delayed reaction hearing, I realized that he had offered to help me… in English!  Oh well, I didn’t have any Forints to pay him with anyway.  After I’d leap frogged a bit more down the platform, another young guy came up and offered to help me. 

“Could you?” I asked, and added, “I don’t have any Bulgarian money.”  (I was in Hungary… you can see how far gone my mind was.  He laughed and said,

“No, no, don’t worry.  It’s for free.”

We got to the platform in a jiff, more  or less, and the train still hadn’t arrived, so my helper said goodbye and disappeared over the railroad tracks.  The attendant for my sleeping car was a woman who helped me and my luggage onto the train and into my sleeping compartment with a smile.  She was so friendly and courteous that I felt like I was in a different country.  (I was).  I shared the four-bed compartment with one guy who was in an upper bunk, reading, when I arrived.  We didn’t really speak to each other, and the attendant spoke to him in German, so I assumed he was from Germany or one of its satellite countries.  I was so tired, I just crawled into my bottom bunk and went to sleep.

I managed to sleep fairly well on the train (which is unusual for me), waking up only to deal with passport inspection as we passed into Serbia.  The guy in the upper bunk spoke English to the Serbian border control officers in what sounded like an American accent, but he handed them a red passport.  I was curious as to where he was from, but I couldn’t see the passport.  The next morning, while we were both waiting to get off in Beograd, we were chatting, and it turned out that he was, indeed, American (from Minnesota), but his parents were from Germany, which explained the red passport. 

Like a friendly Minnesotan, he helped me get my bags off the train, and I was relieved to see that the Beograd station was much smaller than Keleti Pu, and the information office and schedule board were both close to my point of descent.  It was a new day, and I just knew that things were going to get better.  The difficult part of the journey was over.  That “Difficult” card had belonged to one day only, and that day was over.  As Fanny had said in a text message that she sent me while I was on the train to Budapest, “Difficult beginning, easy ending.”  And it sure seemed like that was going to be the case.

The first thing I noticed was that the Serbian language is very similar to Polish and Czech, so I had an easy enough time understanding the signs and finding my way around.  I still needed to reserve my sleeping compartment for that night, so I went to the information office, and the lady behind the window spoke perfect English with a smile.  Unfortunately, that smiling face had some disappointing news for me.  She told me that she couldn’t reserve the sleeping compartment and that I would have to make the purchase in Sofia.  I asked if I had to switch trains in Sofia, and she said yes. 

That was really unwelcome news.   When I’d made my train reservation, they’d told me that I only had to switch in Budapest and Beograd, and that one train would take me all the way from Beograd to Istanbul.  That had been the deciding factor in my taking the train instead of the bus, which would have been ten hours faster, cost a fifth of what the train had cost, and would have been much easier as far as loading my luggage (but a whole lot less comfortable for sleeping).  

Then, I asked how much time I would have to make the reservation in Sofia, explaining that I had a lot of luggage to haul around with me.  She told me that I didn’t need a reservation.  That seemed a little bizarre to me, and I imagined a motley mixture of people of all ages and genders cramming onto the train and fighting for a place to sleep.

Well, what could I do?  Just go with the flow.  I walked to the platform and was approached by a porter with a huge dolly (what a civilized country!).  He asked where I was going, and I told him.  He confirmed that I was on the right platform.  

I waited on the platform for the train to arrive.  It was an old, rattly looking train, and there didn’t seem to be any conductors around, and very few people.  The cars were not clearly marked, and what signage there was, was in Russian.  I wasn’t sure which one to get on.  I had learned the Russian alphabet as a teenager, because my Mom was collecting Russian postage stamps and had bought a Russian grammar book, and then I had a semester of Russian in college, so I was able to make out that one of the six cars was for sleeping.   I wandered over to the back end of the train, hoping to find some signal that I could begin boarding.  An old man, one of the few passengers waiting on the platform, motioned me toward the head of the train.  There was another old man with a small, black suitcase on wheels who was wandering back and forth, apparently as confused as I was. 

I went toward the head of the train and walked on (without my luggage) to check out the situation.  The same man that had beckoned me over came by and explained (in Serbian) that this was a sleeping train, and obviously, I shouldn’t be getting on a sleeping train at seven in the morning.  I wandered back toward the back of the train, and almost as soon as I got there, the same man beckoned me toward the front again, and explained that only the first three cars were going to Sofia, and that the other three were heading somewhere else. 

I was really getting tired of dragging my luggage around by now.  It had been so easy to get to the platform, but by now, I had lugged everything back and forth along the platform several times, and I wasn’t up for doing it again.  I climbed onto one of the first three cars, not the sleeping car, and saw that there were roomy, six-seat compartments with antique, green velvet upholstery.  I jumped down and tried to get my luggage onto the train.  The old man had disappeared, and I figured he probably had a bad back, anyway.  I wasn’t having much success on my own, and was grunting and puffing heavily.  One of two older women, who were standing nearby, came over and helped me hoist them up.  I think I thanked her in Polish or Czech.  I hope she understood. 

The first compartment was empty, so I maneuvred my stuff into it, and it literally filled the whole compartment.  There was no way I could lift any of it onto the overhead racks, so I just left it on the floor, blocking four and a half of the six seats, while I occupied the other.  I was grateful that there was almost nobody on the train, because it could have been problematic otherwise.

The woman in the information office had told me that the train left at seven, and had stressed that I only had 15 minutes, which had surprised me, because my itinerary from Wasteels said that it left at ten after eight.  But then, seven o’clock came and went, and the train was still there.  I began to wonder if I was on the right train.  People didn’t even start arriving on the platform in any significant numbers until after 7:30.  Everyone who got onto my car looked into my compartment with curiosity at all the bags taking up all the space, and went on to the other compartments.  There still weren’t a lot of people that got on, and the train finally pushed out at 8:10 as scheduled.  I guess the woman in Information must have been telling me when the train would arrive at the platform, and not when it would leave.

Anyway, this part of the trip was very interesting for me, because I had never gone to either Serbia or Bulgaria before, so I was a little excited about seeing them.  The countryside that we passed through was interesting.  Serbia and Bulgaria are obviously much poorer countries than any of the other eastern European countries that I’ve been in, but they have their own charm.  There are a lot of free standing houses, many of them in time-halted construction. 

I took my boots off and stretched out on the seats, sitting back and enjoying the panorama through the graffiti stained windows as if I were watching a travelogue on TV.  There were times when we were passing through the mountains, that the scenery was absolutely stunning… high, rocky cliffs along a rushing mountain stream, somewhat reminiscent of Glenwood Canyon in Colorado.   When the scenery got a little boring, I took advantage of the situation, I lay down and went to sleep.  I think I managed to sleep for a good couple of hours.

We passed by so many borders that I lost sense of which country I was in.  And they inspected passports, not only every time we were entering a country, but also when we were leaving.  So, there were always two inspections at each border.  At one point, I asked the inspectador "What country is this? "

"Serbia," he told me.  That surprised me, because I had thought that we had left Serbia and crossed to Bulgaria hours before that, but I couldn’t really imagine what countries we were crossing all these borders into.  I began to wonder if I was headed in the wrong direction, and perhaps we were returning to Beograd.  I just sat tight and waited to see where I would end up.  I wasn’t too terribly worried, because they had inspected my ticked at every single train station that we had stopped at, and if I were on the wrong train, I’m sure someone would have told me… wouldn’t they?

Leaving Serbia, I had a customs inspection.  With all my baggage, you can imagine the mess.   Items which were apparently of interest to the customs inspector were my violin, the three bedroom rugs I had on the bottom of the duffle bag (yes, Dagmar was right… I am crazy) and my impressive supply of vitamins and supplements.  But, he didn’t question anything, and I seemed to pass the inspection.  Afterward, I was just re-packing and getting ready for the eventual transfer in Sofia (I had no idea what time we would get there, but I had a feeling it was coming up), when another inspector entered.  In fact, there were two men.  I couldn’t believe that they were inspecting me again, and I didn’t have a clue what country I was in now.  I didn’t even know what they were inspecting… my bags (had the first customs inspector found something he didn’t like?  My rugs, perhaps?...  my passport… my ticket… yes, it was my ticket they wanted to see.  Okay, no problem.  I reached for my purse to get my ticket, which by now, had been inspected and stamped so many times that it was losing all sense of modesty.  But… my ticket wasn’t there! 

I remained calm, because I had just seen it in the front pocket of my purse ten minutes before.  In fact, it had just been stamped ten minutes before.  I must have put it inside my purse instead of the pocket.  I rummaged through the inside of the purse, but didn’t find it, so I dumped the contents of the purse out on the seat, and still didn’t see it.  I looked up at the two men to reassure them that I, indeed, had a ticket.  We didn’t seem to have a language in common.  They only spoke a few words of English… probably just whatever words and phrases they had had to learn to get this job. 

I began to look for frenetically in all my things, and the men stood there, looking at me as if I were a criminal.  I told them that I couldn’t find the ticket and that I had had it ten minutes before when they had inspected it in Serbia.  It seemed that they didn't believe me, and one of them, who looked kind of thug-like, had a sinister-looking smile on his face.  They let me know with a few words and gestures that I had ten minutes to produce the ticket, and then they left.  Another "difficult" day. 

I was in a panic, but I attempted to calm myself down, because I knew that the ticket had to be around there someplace... unless... was it possible that the inspectador in Serbia had kept it by accident?  Or, could it be that these two gentlemen were playing some kind of cat and mouse game with me?  I had heard so many stories about Bulgarians (I suspected that I was in Bulgaria), and I don't like to put much stock in these things, but I started to wonder if they had taken advantage of my lack of attention.  Maybe they were going to try to extort some money from me. 

At the very least, they would throw me off of the train for sure, but where?  In some field along the way, with all my baggage thrown overboard and strewn about the countryside?  In a tiny station where the trains hardly ever stop?  Could I buy a new ticket?  And from what point would I have to buy the ticket?  Another ticket all the way from Beograd to Istanbul? 

I began to imagine what could happen if they left me in this small Bulgarian town where we were stopped.  I tried to be positive.  Perhaps  it would be an opportunity in disguise.  Maybe I would get to know some nice people... or… maybe I would spend the night outside with my suitcases.  Would they toss me in jail?  At least, I would have a place to sleep.

A thorough search of all the bags that had been open at any point during the train ride, as well as the spaces behind and between the seats, failed to produce the ticket.  I resigned myself to the fact that it was, in fact, gone.  I pulled out my passport and searched for all the stamps that I had gotten that day.  I thought maybe, just maybe, if I could prove that I had been on this same train all the way from Beograd, and surely they would realize that the tickets were inspected at every stop, then maybe I could minimize the consequences.  Either way, I was going to have to buy a new ticket, but that had been the least of my concerns.

Much more than ten minutes after the two conductors had left, one of them (or someone who I thought was one of them) arrived, and I told him that I couldn’t find the ticket. Immediately, I began to show him my passport and present my case.  The man, who looked a bit like Ernie Kovacs, with a big, bushy, black mustache, looked at me, very confused.

“This is from Hungary,” he said, pointing to one of the stamps that I had shown him. 

“Yes,” I said, remembering that I had left Hungary on a different train, “but this one is from Serbia.  It’s from today, and this other one…”

He told me that he didn't need a stamp from Hungary or Serbia.  I continued explaining, and he told me, in perfect English, that he was a Bulgarian customs official, and that he would be inspecting my baggage. 

I thought, "Again? "  

Then, a voice came from the corridor telling him that they had already inspected me.  The man told me, "Ok, no problem." 

But I told him, "Yes. There is problem, because I can’t find my ticket and they will throw me off the train." 

He seemed sympathetic, but said that he couldn’t do anything.  I really began to worry, and after the train began to move, the two conductors returned to demand my ticket.  I told them again that I didn’t have it, and I began to show them my passport as evidence that I had had a ticket before.  

They told me, "No problem."  

And me, "No problem? "

The one guy still had that sinister smirk on his face, and I wondered what they were hatching.  They said something about money, and I thought, "Here we go, here comes the bribe,” and I began to debate with myself if I should negotiate or just pay whatever they asked.  I decided that that would depend on how much they asked for, because besides the bribe, I was going to have to buy another ticket to Istanbul.  I was glad that I had lost the ticket in Bulgaria and not earlier, like in Budapest.  This way, it wouldn’t cost so much.  

I asked, "How much? " 

One of them surprised me by consulting a book which seemed to have a table.  Maybe, I thought, they weren’t going to put the squeeze on me, after all.  Finally, he mentioned the name of the town that we had just left, and the name of another town that I didn't recognize.  

"23 Euros,” he said. 

I guessed  town was the next stop, and I didn't really want to get off in some tiny place, because I was sure I would have problems finding another train to Sofia. 

"And from the last town to Sofia? " I asked them. 

Again, he consulted the chart and told me, "5 Euros."  

"Only 5 Euros? " I said.  I couldn’t understand why a ticket to the next stop would cost 23 Euros, and one all the way to Sofia would only cost 5, but I decided to pay it without asking questions.  I looked in my bag for 5 Euros, but I only had a 20 Euro bill, so I gave it to them, but they didn't want to accept it, because they didn't have change, and I told them,

"That’s ok.  Take it.  I don't need change."  I was just so relieved that everything was going to be resolved so easily.  But either they didn't understand or they didn't want to accept it.  They asked me if I didn’t have any small money (I was discovering that the Bulgarian language also has much in common with Polish and Czech). I said that I didn’t, but then, remembering another bag with coins, I checked, but I only had 3 coins of one Euro each.  Finally, one of them gave me change from his own wallet, and I asked for a receipt (only as proof that I had bought a ticket, so I wouldn’t have any more problems if there was a change of personnel before I reached Sofia). They gave me the receipt and the man with the "sinister" smile smiled again and shrugged. 

By this time, I had calmed down considerable, and began to realize that there had not been any “cat and mouse game.”  They hadn’t even accepted the 20 Euros that I had offered, and I was glad to have been able to bust another cultural stereotype (undoubtedly it would have been better not to fall into that way of thinking in the first place, but... I am human).  Still… I was bewildered as to what had happened to my ticket.

The next stop was Sofia, and I had to get my suitcases together quickly.  As I was leaving, I moved the last suitcase, and there, on the floor, under the suitcase, there was..... yes, you guessed it... my ticket from Prague to Istanbul!  My luck was changing again.  I looked out the window as we were pulling into the train station in Sofia, and I saw some very sleek, modern trains.  All the trains that I had taken on this trip, up to that point, were old, dilapidated, and not particularly clean… especially the bathrooms.  Could it be that I would travel to Istanbul in one of these? " 

I had to get my stuff off the train by myself (the conductors had already disappeared), but it was much easier getting the stuff down than loading it on the train.  The conductors had told me that the train to Istanbul would leave from the same platform, but with the difficulty in communication, etc., I didn't want to trust their information completely.  I needed to look for a schedule board, so I was grateful when I saw, very near the spot where I had gotten off the train, an elevator.  Yessiree.  Finally, things were getting better.  I went down one floor with everything, and even that was a little more difficult than I had expected, because the door kept closing after just a few seconds, and I had to keep pushing the “door open” button and whisking the bags on (and off) as fast as possible.  I wondered how it would be, as a person in a wheelchair, to have to deal with these doors.

Downstairs, I saw the signs for all the platforms and some restaurants and stores.  It was a very big and modern station.  But... I couldn’t find the schedule board or an information office.  Under normal conditions, it would have been easy to find, but with all that baggage... well, I played "leap frog" again until I got to a store, where I asked for the information office.  The lady told me that I should go up a floor and then, it would be to the left.  But I had just come down from up there and hadn’t seen any way to cross over the tracks on that level.  Thinking that there was probably something that I hadn’t seen, I went up in the elevator again, after another game of "leap frog, but I didn't see any way of crossing.  And there was nobody on the platform that I could ask.  However, I saw two men on the next platform, across the tracks, and yelled to get their attention.  It took a couple of times, and I felt foolish, not knowing even what I should yell to get their attention, but finally, they turned around, and I asked them, 

"Istanbul? " 

They signalled that the train would leave from the same platform that I was standing on.  But this train had only one car.  I looked at the men again, and I realized that they were the same conductors that had been on the train when I had "lost" my ticket.  Now, I really felt foolish, and was sure they must think I was hopeless.  But, yet again, I didn’t trust what they had told me, and went down the elevator again.  I asked several people where the information office was (thinking the whole time that I had probably already missed the train). Finally, I realized that, the lady in the store, who I had asked the first time, had told me the truth, but not in the correct order.  I had to walk first to the left, and then go up... not go up and then to the left!  The only problem was... on this side of the station, there was no elevator... only an escalator.  If you could see the size of my suitcases, you would understand the problem, but somehow, I managed to get up there, and immediately, I saw the schedule board, and that I had almost an hour to wait.  That was a relief, because I really needed to buy some bottles of water for the trip.  

I went to a store where they sold water, and asked the girl if they accepted Euros, and she said “No,” while nodding her head up and down .  

"Yes? " I asked. 

“No,” the girl repeated with her voice, while she repeated, "Yes," with her head.  Then, I remembered that I had heard that, in Bulgaria, they nod their heads to say, “No,” and shake their heads to say, “Yes.”  Well, I could forgive myself the error.  I had just lived for two years in Slavic countries, where the word “No” means, “Yes,” and now, here I was confronted with somebody saying “No” to me with her voice and nodding her head!  Who wouldn’t be confused?

Anyway, I changed money, bought a few bottles of water, went down the escalator again with a lot of difficulty, and began to look for my platform.  The only problem... I was looking for platform number seven, but I only saw signs for platforms 1-6.  Playing yet another game of "leap frog," I began to ask to people in the stores, but nobody knew where Platform 7 was.  Imagine working in a rail station every day and not even knowing  where the platforms are.  Well, I went in the direction of platform 6, hoping I wouldn’t have to backtrack, and a little beyond platform 6, so logically, I found platform 7.  I still don’t understand why they only had signs pointing to platforms 1-6 when there were 13 platforms in all, and they were all lined up in the same place.  

There was a Bulgarian lady in charge of the train to Istanbul, and without really a language in common, I had to communicate with her that I didn’t have a reservation, but  wanted a place to sleep.  At first, she seemed a little negative, and seemed to be saying that I couldn’t get on without a reservation, but since I’ve spent so much time in eastern European countries, I didn’t take it personally.  I just waited patiently, and finally, she allowed me to buy a single room.  (Usually, I share, but this was one of the old trains, not one of those super-modern ones that I had seen when arriving in Sofia, and the compartaments were very tiny.  I needed a whole compartment just to accommodate my baggage, and really, at this point, I just wanted to be able to close the door and be alone.

Once in the train, the lady became very friendly, smiling and laughing a lot.  I really liked her.  She helped me get my stuff on the train, but space in this sleeping car was even more cramped than usual, so I had to undo a lot of things to squeak through the door and the hallway.  She looked at my stuff in disbelief, and said something about one piece of luggage and a maximum of 30 kilos.  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  I never knew they had a weigh limit on a train.  It was because of the weight restrictions on the airlines that I was putting myself through all this hell in the first place.  But, seeing as how I paid for a single room (which, by the way, is just a triple room with two of the beds folded up, and cost 35 Euros while each of the single beds costs 10 Euros), she didn’t make a big deal out of it. 

I hardly slept that night, although, after reading a little, I went to bed, exhausted, at 8:30. But, for some reason, I just couldn’t get to sleep, and then, at midnight, they began with the inspections of passports, and customs, to leave Bulgaria, and soon after, to enter  Turkey.  The immigration official for Turkey was a young man, and he asked me many questions... if  I had a job in Istanbul (no), if I had money (yes... laughing)... that I didn't work but had money (yes… smiling and shrugging). He smiled and wished me a nice trip.  I told myself, "Now I’m really in Turkey.  Things are already getting much, much better." 

With all the formalities finished, I went back to bed to sleep, but I still couldn’t drift off.  Two hours later, the conductor opened my door and she said something about a passport.  I didn't recognize her in the darkness, and I thought that she was another border inspector, and got my passport of my bag, but she told me, using a mixture of Bulgarian, German and gestures, that I should put on the coat and leave the train to get a stamp in my passport.  I explained to her that I already had a stamp (from the last time that I had entered Turkey… good for 90 days), but she told me, 

“We are in ______ (name of the city) and you need a stamp in your passport.  Bundle up, because it’s cold out.”

I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to make her understand, but it didn’t matter, because it would be to my advantage to get another stamp so I wouldn’t have to leave  Turkey before I was ready (my old visa expires one week before I have to leave for Part 2 of the Mystery School in Italy). So, I bundled up and went out. 

A man asked me where I was from.  I told him, and he sent me to buy a visa.  Once I had bought the visa, I returned and saw that everyone else was waiting outside of a building.  There was nothing clearly marked anywhere, and I was confused as to what and where the next step might be.  I asked an Asian tourist, and she told me that everyone was waiting for a stamp, but that there was nobody in the office. 

I decided to wait outside, because it was really not even slightly cold, and I saw a fat man walking with a cat.  The cat wasn’t on a leash, but it followed and preceeded the man, like a very obedient dog.  I called the cat over with a “psst,” and he came running to me and let me pet him.  I knew that this was my welcome to Turkey and that my difficulties had finally ended.  The cat alternated between accompanying the man and to visiting with all the travelers.  Too soon, somebody arrived to stamp the passports.  I got mine and went back to the train to sleep (but couldn’t). (Once I was back in Bartin, my two roommates said that neither of them could sleep that night either, and we realized that it had been a full moon).  I did finally fall asleep, perhaps an hour or two before my wake-up call.  I got off  the train with a lot of energy, expecting that, now that I was in Turkey, I would have a lot of support.  

There were no taxi drivers on the platforms like there had been in Sofia, but with my “leap frog” walk already perfected, the walk from the platform wasn’t bad, and soon I found a taxi driver in the lobby of the station.  He couldn’t believe when I told him that I wanted that I wanted him to take me to the ferry port (that was just across the street from the station), but I explained to him that I couldn’t make it alone and assured him that I would pay something extra. 

I got to the port just in time to buy my ticket and get on the ferry (with no help) before the ferry left the harbor.  Once on the ferry, I discovered that the straps had broken off of the third suitcase, so now they were all broken, and I stayed near the entrance of the ferry, fixing it up as best I could, as we were sailing toward the other side of the Bosphorus.  The situation with the suitcases was almost impossible, and before I could finish, a guy shouted to me from the other side of the ship that I should leave the suitcases below and go upstairs with the rest of the passengers.  I left them in the place that he had pointed to, and went upstairs.  I sat on a bench on the deck, watching a young boy through bread crumbs to the sea gulls who were catching them in mid air. Ten minutes later, we arrived, and I struggled to get my stuff off the boat, while everything was falling out all over the place.  The straps that had broken off the third bag had been keeping it attached to the duffle bag.  Now, it kept sliding down, and I was afraid that it, and the bedding inside was going to get wet, because it looked like it had rained recently.  By now, my arms were very weak, and I could no longer continue as quickly as before.  Many people passed by me, but nobody offered to help.  This was quite a contrast to my previous visits to Turkey, but it was rush hour, so I suppose it was to be expected.

When I was just about to the street, a man in uniform asked me in Turkish if I was alone.  I said yes, and he asked  if I didn’t have any friends to help me.  I looked around, and not seeing any friends, I told him that no, I didn’t have any friends to help me.  He then aksed me where I was going, and I answered that I was going to the Harem bus station which was just across the street.  He told me that he could watch one of my suitcases while I went to the bus station with the other one, so I left the smaller red one and took the duffle bag, because my violin was in it.

Meanwhile, I was having a lot of trouble with the bedding bag that was tied to the duffle.  They were both huge, and since the bedding bag no longer had any handles, I had separated the contents and moved them over to the sides, leaving a small empty space in the middle so that I could fasten a web belt around it and tie it on top of the duffle that way, but it wasn’t working out very well.

Once I got to the station, a man asked me where I was going, and I told him that I was going to Bartin.  His bus company didn't go to Bartin, but he began to help me with the bags by untying the bedding bag, so I helped him with that. Then, when everything was untied, he simply put the bedding bag on top of the duffle (in exactly the same place where it had been tied before) and handed them both back to me.  I still don’t understand how he expected this to help me.  In fact, it made things more difficult, but I just grabbed everything and continued to look for a bus line that went to Bartin.  And, oila!  The next guy that asked me where I was going just happened to be standing right in front of a bus heading for Bartin, and it was just about to leave.

He asked me if I had a ticket, but I told him that I had to buy one.  I went to the office and bought a ticket, and then told the driver that I had another bag waiting for me at the ferry.  One of the men went with me to help take the other suitcase.  I had intended to take my violin out of the duffle before putting the duffle under the bus, but they already had stowed it by the time I got back, and I was so bushed that I didn’t have the energy to make the effort, so