Hell On Rails – The Belgrade To Sofia Sleeper: Sweating It Out (Part Two)

Chemical warfare in a Serbian Sleeper car was not exactly what I had in mind when I decided to travel the Belgrade to Sofia stretch of the old Simplon-Orient Express route. The smell of Bulgarian sock feet was enough to wrinkle noses, if not skin. The kindhearted Bulgarian culprit admitted to his crime, stating “my socks smell terrible. I have been wearing them the entire trip.” This was doubly scary, since he had just visited Venice. The noxious fumes pervading the compartment could compete with the worst odors emanating from Venetian canals. I reeled from the smell, which was so thick that it seemed to give the air texture.

What made the situation unbearable was that the compartment’s windows would not open and the heat was turned up to broiling level. There was no way to adjust it. To make matters much worse, my berth had a heavy blanket as one of several layers of covers. The bedding would have done for a Siberian winter rather than a Serbian autumn. I announced aloud that the compartment was sweltering. Incredibly, my new Bulgar friend, mister stinky sock feet, asked if he could borrow my blanket because he was freezing. I thought about offering not only the blanket, but the entire bedding plus my clothes. I was sweating profusely and the trip had hardly begun. I gladly handed over my blanket, which not only relieved me of possible heat stroke, but had the added benefit of providing a cover for the reeking stench of my Bulgarian friend’s feet. He proceeded to procure a couple of other spare blankets to keep warm. This was quite amazing. He had at least four blankets in a train compartment where the temperature was 85 and rising. The heat was definitely on.

From Bulgaria with love

Bibi – A Fabulous, Frivolous Mystery
Meanwhile his “friend” Bibi took an odd interest in our conversation. So much so that while she occupied the berth directly above me, this did not stop her from hanging over the edge of her bunk to listen and watch. She was basically upside down and hovering partially over me for minutes at a time. She had stripped down to a tank top. Obviously the heat affected her in a different way than it did her friend. So while mister stinky feet and I engaged in polite conversation, Bibi in all of her dark, exotic beauty hung over my bed with her breasts dangling in the air. When there were pauses in the conversation Bibi would disappear, but as soon as we started talking again, she would reappear with her bright, vivacious smile. Her behavior was a mystery to me, but not the kind I imagined would be found on the Orient Express. Mystery and intrigue rarely come with a rambunctious grin.

While I sweated out the journey’s start, I noticed that the stranger across from me was reading a novel in English. At first I thought he was Serbian, but upon further study I began to wonder if he might be a Brit or an American. Thus far he had failed to utter a word. That changed when the ticket inspector appeared. He suspiciously reviewed the stranger’s Eurail Pass and then told him that it was no good for this journey or any travel on Serbian railways. The stranger acted dumbfounded and mumbled in feigned confusion. The ticket inspector stood his ground, repeating what he had just said. Finally the stranger coughed up the fare. After the inspector left the stranger looked at me and said, “well I tried.” By his accent I could tell he was American. We struck up a conversation that Bibi also took an interest in, hovering above us at times.

Hell on rails – a Serbian train

Escape Routes – Travel & Uncomfortable Truths
The American was the manager of a Pizza restaurant in Florida. He was looking to get away from work and routine by spending several months traveling across Europe. At the end of his journey, he would go back to the same job. My heart sank. His story depressed me. I could not think of anything worse than restaurant management. The only job I ever walked out of in my entire life was one as the back cook in a restaurant. The late nights, constant stress and bad schedules had put me off it. Why anyone would consider going back to that after the excitement and depravity of travel in the farther reaches of the Balkans was beyond me. My career in restaurant work had been short and unhappy. It was during a bad period in my life when I was rudderless, on the verge of making a career out of mediocrity. The man I was talking to reminded me of myself twenty years ago. There was hope though. Obviously he had his doubts or he would not have taken such a sabbatical. He did not offer much more about his life or career. I wondered if he was trying to escape something. When it comes to travel everyone is trying to escape something. Whether it be domesticity, work, boredom or a relationship gone bad. Travel offers the ultimate escape and somewhere along the way we rediscover uncomfortable truths about ourselves.

At the moment I was contemplating escape in the most immediate sense of the word. Escape from the compartment. While the rancid smell of the Bulgar’s feet had been sequestered under a bedding of blankets, the temperature seemed to be nearing 90 degrees. How was I going to sleep?  Desperation set in. I began to take off clothes at an alarming rate, my self-consciousness was melting. I got down to just boxers and the thinnest of t-shirts. I turned the one cover left on the bed into a towel, using it to wipe away the rapid buildup of condensation all over my body. The lights were turned out, Bibi disappeared and her friend somehow fell into slumber, though I wondered if he would suffocate beneath his self-imposed inferno of covers. The American stranger was silent, disappearing into indifference. My first overnight train trip was going to be an exercise in survival. As the train raced into southern Serbia the romance of the Simplon-Orient Express was all but gone, drowned in feverish pools of sweat.

Disorienting Express – The Belgrade To Sofia Sleeper: What Nightmares May Come (Part One)

It seemed like a great idea at the time. The idea was to take the first overnight train trip of my life deep in the Balkans. I was to travel by rail from Belgrade, Serbia to Sofia, Bulgaria, two ancient and prestigious capitals of Eastern European nations. The former, a city my homeland had dropped bombs on only twelve years before, the latter sporting a beautiful female name, which as I would discover was one of the few elegant things about Sofia. The trip was historic and not just for me. This route had once been part of the Simplon-Orient Express, which had started in Paris and ended in Istanbul. Along the way it had traversed Lausanne, Milan, Venice, Trieste, Zagreb, Belgrade and Sofia. The line had managed to run from 1919 through 1977, with a suspension of service during World War II.  This was an alternate, more southerly route than the original Orient Express. Though it would begin service thirty-six years later than the original Orient Express, it soon became the most popular route. Agatha Christie’s famous novel, Murder on the Orient Express took place along this route with the murder committed in eastern Croatia. I had read the novel a few years prior to my journey. Like so many others I was fascinated with the exotic characters and mysterious intrigue of rail travel as depicted in the novel. To ride even a sliver of the old Orient Express route would be an exercise in nostalgic travel or so I imagined.

Belgrade Main Railway Station (Credit: Wikipedia)

The Beginning of the End – Sobering Sofia, Belligerent Belgrade
Despite these romantic imaginings I was a bit apprehensive. My trip had actually started in the same city it would finish, Sofia. I had first stumbled on the Central Station as I went to catch a ride at the adjacent bus terminal. One look at the monstrosity of the Brutalist-style station had stripped away any illusions of romantic train travel that I had. It was the kind of place only a Communist Central Committee would inflict on its citizenry, a ghastly creation of concrete rigidity, positively Brezhnevian in its stolidity. It looked to be built less for rail transport and more as a loitering point for suspicious individuals who inhabit the very fringes of society. It would have made a great set for the next Fight Club film. I had visions of glue sniffers galore lurking in its bowels. And this was just from a cursory glance. I shuttered to think that I would arrive back here on a Sunday morning from Belgrade at the end of my trip. Since childhood I have equated Sunday mornings with the Gospel Singing Jubilee television show that penetrated the airwaves of the American South. I now imagined out of work secret police, low level Bulgarian mafia wannabes and seedy currency exchange con artists all descending on me at once. My trip really would come to an end here, but hopefully not my life. For the next two weeks I tried to put these thoughts out of my mind.

A frightening prospect – the Sofia Central Railway Station (Credit: Edal Anton Lefterov)

Exactly thirteen days later I stood on a platform at Belgrade Main railway station waiting to board a sleeper car for Sofia. Surrounding me were a host of other travelers on their way to Sofia as well. Belgrade’s main station was much better than Sofia’s, than again how could it not be. A neo-classical pile that was constructed in the late 19^th century, it retained a bit of faded charm. The station’s condition also reflected the fact that communism in Yugoslavia under the dictator Josip Tito had been more prosperous than the hardline variety that had bent Bulgaria into backwardness. Nonetheless, this whiff of prosperity was of little solace as I waited to board the sleeper. The delay was ostensibly due to a cleaning of the sleeper car. One could spend a lifetime cleaning Serbian railway cars with little to show for the effort. They were old, rickety and lacking in comfort. At best they were serviceable. The delay was prolonged by an extremely drunk, prospective Serbian passenger who managed to make his way into the car. Despite protestations to the contrary by railway staff he flitted up and down the corridor causing a degree of chaos usually reserved for melees. When he was finally led off by a conductor, he tried in vain several times to reenter.

There were murmurs and nervous glances among my fellow passengers. Like me, they were wondering who would be unlucky enough to have this inebriated man disrupting slumber in their compartment. A couple who had stayed at the same accommodation in Belgrade as me, a Norwegian man and an ethnic Hungarian woman who hailed from Slovakia were chattering away about this unfortunate occurrence. The Hungarian, who spoke impeccable, yet heavily accented English with an exotic lisp said, “In Slovakia that man would never be allowed on the train. The railway authorities would call the police and have him arrested.” Her Norwegian partner, who had heretofore worn a perpetual smile, now looked strained and apprehensive. Since Slovakia was not exactly known as a bastion of law and order I began worry as well. From her comment I divined that this trip might end up memorable for the wrong reasons. The sleeper car, with its faded paint job and battered complexion, looked outdated. The railway platform was shrouded in darkness. The elegant blue and gold cars of the Orient Express seemed more distance than the dinosaurs. Instead of mystery I began to feel menace. I braced myself for war when we were finally allowed to enter the sleeper.

The nightmare awaits – Serbian sleeper car at the Belgrade Railway Station (Credit: Wikipedia)

What Nightmares May Come
When it comes to overnight rail travel there are few more stressful moments than the initial meeting with ones fellow compartment mates. Will they be sober and kind-hearted or slovenly and mean spirited? Will they be generous with space or fight for every inch? Can they be trusted or will sleeping with one eye open be required? Entering the compartment I was heartened by the sight of a couple of friendly, youthful Bulgarians. I assumed they were a couple, but the male who spoke good English said they were just friends. I got the distinct feeling that the friendship brought him many benefits. The female, who went by the name of Bibi was stunningly attractive. She had the dark exotic looks of what was likely a co-Bulgarian/Turkish ancestry. She could not speak a word of English, but smiled profusely. They were returning from a budget excursion to Venice. We were soon joined by a silent stranger. The Bulgarians occupied the top bunks while the stranger and I took the bottom ones. As we settled in for the evening my nostrils were suddenly assaulted by an extremely foul odor. A toxic, noxious smell suddenly pervaded the cabin. I glanced up at the young Bulgarian man in the top bunk across the way. I noticed that he had just removed his shoes. He grinned sheepishly. The odor was impossible to ignore. It was so strong that I could almost feel it. There was no escape. This was a harbinger of the journey to come.