| This was the extent of the furnishings. Since I was traveling alone and had prebooked the compartment, paying extra for it to be private, I could use the upper bunk to stow my backpack and small suitcase, freeing up precious floor space. At first I felt claustrophobic, but I quickly adjusted to the undersized scale, especially after I convinced myself that that was all the space I would need for sitting, eating some fresh rolls I had brought along, looking out the window, possibly reading, and hopefully sleeping. Not wanting to undo any of my belongings, which I had tightly rolled into my pack, I decided that I would sleep in my clothes, a baggy pair of khakis with extra pockets and a T-shirt, both already wrinkled and comfortable. I kicked off my low-cut heavy hiking boots and got into the bunk facing the window. With the light in my cabin turned off, I could see an abundance of stars outside in the clear late-September night sky as the train sped along the tracks trough the Czech Republic on its way to Budapest. Bang, bang, bang! “Passport, passport!” Bang, bang, bang! Somebody was pounding at my door—not knocking with a fist but using something rock solid, like the butt of a flashlight or a nightstick. I jerked up, my forehead barely missing the top bunk, as I had fallen fast asleep. My dreams were an ocean away from the Czech Republic, and it took a few moments for me to remember that I was on a train to Hungary. I couldn’t stay in a fog for long, however, because the noise at the door was nonstop and the voices were loud and authoritative: “Passport, passport!” Despite my confused sate of mind, I somehow still remembered to the check the peephole for security. There were two stern, impatient faces, and the men attached to them were wearing uniforms with the short sleeves rolled twice over bulky upper arms. I said, “Yes, yes—one minute, please.” I kept my passport on my person at all times, for safekeeping, but my bush khakis had so many pockets that I forgot where it was. I frantically felt around for its square shape against my legs and backside until I finally located it in my left thigh pocket. While unsnapping the pocket with the fingers of my left hand, I simultaneously, and in almost total darkness, felt for the dead bolt with my right hand and unlatched the door. The two men were Czech border police. “Passport, please,” the one closest to my door said, and I replied, “Yes, of course—here it is.” He flipped through the pages until he found my photo, gave it a glance, and gave me an equally quick look. Without any change in his facial expression, he slapped the passport back into my hand, and they both proceeded onto the next cabin. It was actually a long-handled flashlight they were using on the doors to wake everybody. I saw them strike it against my neighbors’ door rapidly three or four times. I had seen the man and women while I was boarding the train earlier in the night. I remember smiling to them. I didn’t think what they spoke was English as they struggled getting their luggage into their own cramped compartment. They had returned my smile as I entered my own sleeper for the first time that night. ▲ ▲ ▲ Slovakia The former Czechoslovakia is now the Czech Republic and Slovakia. They became two countries following the dissolution of the Czech and Slovak Federal Republic in 1993. To travel by train from Prague to Budapest, one must cross through the southwest corner of Slovakia to get to Hungary. I tried looking out the window to see what the Slovakian landscape was like, but I couldn’t see too far beyond the tracks into the blackness. I looked up at the stars one more time just to see if the sky was still clear; it was. I hoped for fair and sunny weather in |
| Gypsies on the Train (continued) |