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.
