Getting to Romania was exceptionally challenging. It seemed too complicated from Szeged, Hungary, so I went to Novi Sad, naively believing it would less difficult from there. If only I had known!

I left the pension in Novi Sad around 6:30 in order to walk to the bus station in time to catch a 7:00 bus that I was merely hoping existed. It did. I was sent to information to ask in English and get my response in Serbian about the platform...so I thought. When she held up seven fingers, which I took to be the platform number but was in fact the time, I immediately said thank you and rushed to platform seven. There was no bus there. I waited a few minutes and then went up to a young guy (better chance he spoke English than the eighty year old next to me) and asked if the bus that wasn't there would go to Zengrinin. Nope. He rushed me along to the right one. The driver spoke some English, and turned out later to be exceedingly helpful. I took another bus, jumped out, walked two kilometers through beautiful Serbian countryside to the border, hitchhiked to Timisaura. Took a train for 6 hours across maybe two hundred kilometers, then another train, and finally walked some more. That is the very simplified version. But it's not worth retelling right now. Even this fabulous town where I am now isn't worth describing. For me, the people I have seen since yesterday are what my mind is struggling to wrap itself around and wants to desperately to convey. I'm overwhelmed as I sit here and try to imagine how I can share it with you. A taxi driver yesterday was helping me get a train ticket, something that is quite complicated by the archaic system here, and couldn't understand why I didn't take a taxi for one hundred and fifty euros. He was convinced I could afford it. He was literally disgusted with me when I bought a second class train ticket. How do I seem so wealthy to them? Even in Palestine they took me as not much better off. But travel means wealth, and really I am wealthy when I am in the midst of such poverty. This driver asked where I came from. "Novi Sad," I answered simply.
"Serbia?" he said in disbelief. "Now you see how the Serbians live. Not so good. Maybe we are not good here in Romania too, but we are better than the Serbs I think. So we are not so bad." I thanked him for his help and left. On descending into the WC in the basement, I was repulsed by the smell coming from the porcelain holes in the ground. I may have only experienced Novi Sad and a bit of the countryside, but Romania seems far more poor to me than Serbia. And I felt more safe. I don't know why, but I am sure that I will be robbed here.
Even sitting here now and reflecting on my train ride yesterday, I just want to cry. I don't know how else to process it. I don't know that I want to. The countryside is fabulous, and I tried to lose myself in it rather than reflecting too much on the people. Well, I suppose that is all I can write for now.