Romanian railroads, like Romanian minds, carry the weight of communism. It’s been 34 years since the people took down the dictatorship. Doing the math and writing it down, I realize that 34 years is nothing for a nation to recover from hell. To find its way back into the free world. 

Like a snail, the train moves along filled with tired people on long journeys home for the holidays. The train takes three hours to cover 90 km. That’s triple the time it takes for the same ride in Sweden, where I currently live. In true ironic fashion, the ticket price is a tad more expensive than for the same trip in Sweden. And yet, the average income in Sweden is three times higher than the average income in Romania. 

We stop at Teiuş. A small Transylvanian town where, like most towns in Romania, time has also stopped. Whenever I pass by this place, my soul smiles. One quick look at the station with big, old windows framed by brick is enough to instantly relive one of the most precious memories of my life. A simpler time 16 years ago, when our cool high school history teacher that everyone had a crush on took us on a 3-day trip to the mountains. Teiuş was one of our pitstops to change trains. It’s like yesterday, my classmates and I playing charades by the train platform, bags spread on the ground around us, killing time. I can feel nostalgic tears shaping up behind my eyes. 

I’ll always miss these moments. For me, it feels like the nostalgia grows with time. Others distance themselves. It might also have to do with the way things happened for us. I left Romania halfway through high school, not by choice. My mother remarried and he lived far over in Sweden, so we moved there. I was 17. It’s been 15 years and only recently in therapy, I’ve realized how painful it was for me. Not so much the move in itself but that I didn’t have anyone to talk to. Leaving my best friends and my home. It took about a year to move, but it felt as if it happened overnight. Most people hate high school, but I loved it. Leaving halfway through wounded me and in some ways, I’m still bleeding. 

Villages and railroads aren’t the only things stuck in time in Teiuş. The conductor who checked our tickets earlier on comes back and, with depression in her voice, announces that there will be a second ticket control. The extra ticket man is on his way. He’s wearing a uniform like most transportation staff still do. He asks to see our tickets but mainly, he wants to check our IDs. Romania, a place where you need to prove your identity when you ride the train. 

Romania, my home. Romania, a place of impatience. Romania, a country of fearless people who banter with strangers. Romania, where we joke about serious things. We have this saying – “haz de necaz”. It translates to “trouble laughing”, or laughing at life’s troubles. We mock everything and everyone so much that we also mock Romania itself. It helps us cope. I admire that people keep up the humor to make life easier. It’s hard enough as it is. 

Earlier when I got on the train, I went to my assigned seat – except it wasn’t mine, I was in the wrong carriage. After bantering with the other passengers trying to sort it out, I started heading to the right carriage. Mission impossible. The walking passage was jampacked with people and bags blocking the way. Barely squeezing through, I almost reached the end when a guy coming my way with a big suitcase on wheels let me pass first, saying “Go ahead cuz it looks like I’m carrying a fridge with me.” I laughed hard thinking “Man, it’s good to be home.”