My train finally pulled into the Tecuci train station at 3:40am. Tecuci represents a familiar locale. Not only was it the nearest train station to my village – thus my portal to the rest of Romania – but it was also home to fellow Peace Corps volunteer and Hello English co-star Arnie Swoboda.  The Crihana family kindly met me at the station, and we waited another hour for daughter Anca to board a train headed towards the Carpathian Mountains to celebrate her birthday with friends.

To say that Tecuci’s train station is not Romania’s finest constitutes zero hyperbole. The building itself, which houses the ticketing office, stands as a quickly deteriorating Communist-era cinderblock of unpainted concrete. Overgrown weeds hide the tracks.  Stray dogs roam in search of food scraps. Even the seat I where I sat snapped in half when I leaned back upon it.

Tecuci's train station simply cannot be surpassed in its beauty or its number of stray dogs.

Perched there, operating under the influence of little sleep and culture shock, I contemplated the wisdom of my return visit. It had taken so long to acclimate to the local culture and, later, so long to re-acclimate to American society.  I had my life here and my life there.  Never had to the two intermingled – until now. Was a three-week visit to the Romanian countryside an overly ambitious misadventure?

After sleeping for seven hours, the world felt different in the light of day. The village was as I remembered it. The people were as I remembered them.  Soon my grasp of the language flooded back. Granted, I was no master of it, but never had I been.

As a coincidence of fate, Doru Crihana shares the same birthday as his sister but is two year’s her junior. My first day in the village coincided with the celebration of his 18th birthday. He invited two classmates from Galati, a large city an hour to the south where he attends high school, as well as the Priest’s son, Emi, over to commemorate the day.

Doru, his parents, and his friends. Let the birthday festivities commence!

Later, I meet up with George Istrate – a now 25-year-old who speaks great English and enjoys American humor.  We grew close during my time in the village but lost touch until about three months before my return. George and I visited his parents. We ate. We drank. We talked the night away.

Frosa Istrate bakes a cake.

Late that night, as I walked back to the Crihana house, I looked up into the night sky at the thousands of bright stars whose shine was not encumbered by any lights on the ground. I listened to the chuckling chickens, the crowing roosters, the squealing pigs, and the barking dogs. And, I felt in that moment as if I’d never really left the village. I’d just had taken a short trip back to the States.

After 17 hours of traveling, I arrived at the Bucharest airport. The first person with whom I interacted was the ticket vendor for CFR, the operator of Romanian trains. Pleased with my ability to recall the Romanian language, I boastfully asked her about the shuttle to the train station, and she told me that it cost 6.5 RON.  As I attempted to pay, my arrogance took a nosedive.  My mind blanked on how to handle Romanian money.  I stood starring bewilderedly at a colorful handful of plastic bills until the patient vendor picked out the correct amount.  She then handed me my ticket and sent me on my way.

The second person I met in Romania saw me purchase the shuttle ticket. He approached me as I left the vendor. “Going to the train?” he asked, “Come this way.” Knowing what I know, I knew to be weary of anybody overly eager to help, especially in an airport, yet he tagged along beside me. “It’s downstairs,” he instructed. Unlike the money, I still understood the language. I knew the vendor had instructed that I simply go out the doors and find the blue bus. “I’m going this way,” I informed my overeager associate. “No, no.” he responded, “That’s the wrong way.” As we both exited the building, I pointed to the blue bus and announced, “That’s the car.” “Oh, the bus,” he responded in feigned surprise as he disappeared back into the airport in search of another confused foreigner to direct to his unofficial taxi.

The third person I met in Romania was the only other passenger on the shuttle from the airport. He was middle-aged, mustached and fat with clothes that were slightly spoiled but not dirty. We spoke in Romanian until he wanted to practice his English, which was pretty proficient and apparently self-taught. In the middle of nowhere, the bus pulled off the road and onto a ramp. My new friend jumped out and instructed me to come. “Where are we?” I asked. “The stop for the train,” said the driver, “You board the train here that goes to the station.”  So, I hopped out. My new friend and I climbed the hill and stood alone on a patch of concrete next to the train tracks, waiting and talking. He was interested in what I did back home and how much my plane ticket cost – seemingly intrusive but culturally appropriate questions. He told me that he wished to visit my country someday.

The train finally arrived. We again were the only passengers. He stuck close. He warned me several times to be weary of my bags because people, according to him, could not be trusted. He then advised that I get some sleep on the way to the train station. He twice suggested that I go to the bathroom on this train instead of my later train. His affability could have not been questioned, but his intent was not perfectly clearly. Was he looking out for me? Was he trying to separate me from my luggage? I wanted to fight any skepticism, but I also recognized it was born of my experiences. I was not a casual visitor to Romania but a returning resident of two years.

We arrived at Bucharest’s main train station – Gara de Nord.  My fellow passenger offered to help me buy a ticket, but I told him that I could handle it. After parting ways, I felt guilty for every questioning him.  The vast majority of Romanians with whom I’ve interacted are kind and generous like the patient ticket vendor. Yet, those like the seedy taxi driver do exist, and attention and cautiousness are required to avoid scams and thievery. Unfortunately, distinguishing the helpful from the dangerous is not always simple. For those more ambiguous characters, one cannot help but to be skeptical. It’s an important defense mechanism. But, it comes at a cost: the genuine human-to-human connection that results from trusting another person.

I saved some money by not taking the most direct route to Romania. Instead of a single stop in Rome, I opted for two stops: Manchester, England and Helsinki, Finland.  Yet, the wisdom of this plan was quickly discredited.  At the duty-free shop in Chicago, I bought two bottles of whiskey to give as presents to Romanian families.  They were delivered to my gate as I boarded, and I immediately put them in the overhead compartment.  Upon transferring flights in Manchester, passengers were again directed thru security, where a guard confiscated my two bottles without notice or explanation.  Confused, I caught his attention and asked, “Can’t I bring duty-free items onto my transfer?”  Without looking up, the guard simply responded that the bag containing the bottles was not properly sealed. “The bag is how it was when the duty-free people gave it to me,” I said, “Are you telling me I lose all that money because they somehow didn’t do something.”  “You opened it,” retorted the guard. “Look at the bag,” I pleaded, “Nothing has been opened. Nothing has been manipulated.”  To this, the guard refused to answer.  I considered pushing harder or asking for his manager.  Quickly through, I remembered the trouble that a rouge airport security could cause for a persistent passenger.  I, alas, surrendered.  Traveling from Chicago to a rural Romanian village, you expect someone to screw with you, but I never thought it would be the English.