From Beograd, With Love

It’s possible to over-plan a trip abroad. I always try to keep my itineraries flexible, because you never know when something might pop up that will make you change your plans. And not all of our border crossings are as pleasant as the rest.

My most memorable change of plans happened while traveling with my pseudo-cousin Allen (we always liked his family much better than our real relatives).

We booked our train travel from Budapest to Athens while we were in Vienna, figuring we’d be more apt to find an English-speaking travel agent. We had to change trains in Beograd (Belgrade), back while Yugoslavia was still more or less intact. Knowing that major cities often have several train stations, our travel agent made sure our train from Budapest arrived at Beograd’s Central Station. But oops, he booked our train to Athens out of Beograd Centraal, a residential suburb.

The info desk clerk directed us to a bus outside of the station, but a taxi driver overheard us and offered to take us to our destination for $10 U.S. (American dollars are always popular in eastern Europe). Soon, though, we noticed signs for the airport.

“Not airport,” we shouted, “Train station!” The confused driver said, “You come from train station!” “Not Central Station, the other station!” said we. At the airport he refused to take us back to Centraal. So we grabbed our bags and refused to pay him. Finally we found another taxi driver, who for 20 U.S. dollars took us to Centraal. We emerged from the cab at a dusty construction zone, a large, open-air commuter station undergoing massive refurbishment.

As we trudged to the tunnel that passes under the tracks, workmen kept holding up four fingers. It turned out Track 4 was a common departure track for international trains, and apparently other bewildered foreign travelers had come this way before us. Clouds of cement dust billowed through the tunnel, erupting out of the entrances to the platforms down the line.

Then it began to rain. Unlike nice, big city center stations, Centraal had no friendly waiting room, no bistro, not even a covered platform at Track 4. Oh, and no W.C. (restroom) either. In fact, the only “facility” was a construction trailer that served as the railway office. Its hitch rested on a single cinderblock, so the polite girl working inside had to hike uphill to answer the phone on a desk at the high end. I showed her our tickets, pointed to my watch and shrugged? She understood, hiked up to the other end of the trailer, made a phone call and came down to where I waited. She wrote our train number on a scrap of paper followed by the scheduled departure time. Then added “+1.” Our train was an hour late.

The rain remained steady, Allen got grumpier as we hadn’t slept well on the train from Hungary, and soon nature was calling—really urgently. Fortunately there are some, ahem, private things boys can do easier than girls, and I confess that Pseudo-Cousin Allen and I took turns soiling Track Number 4 of the Glorious Peoples’ Republic of Yugoslavia, Centraal Station.

“Don’t worry,” I at one point consoled Allen. “Any country that would send us the Yugo can’t feel too badly toward Americans,”

We catnapped while sprawled on the steps, leaning against our propped-up backpacks, sheltered (except when the wind blew the wrong way) by the overhang covering the stairs up from the tunnel. Fortunately we were far enough down the line that we were not too affected by the billowing cement dust.

After “+1” came and went, the sun came out, and a local football team (Americans would call it “soccer”) showed up to catch a commuter train, putting on a lively footwork demonstration during which the ball periodically flew off the platform onto the tracks. Amid peels of laughter, one of the players would scramble off the platform to retrieve it, enjoying the thrill of being someplace that could pose a real threat to life and limb should an express thunder through.

I walked back to the railway trailer. The sympathetic attendant made another uphill trek, made another call, and this time added “+4.5” to the piece of paper. Our train, which had departed from Paris the day before, passing through several countries en route, was running four and a half hours behind schedule. Fortunately we had booked a couchette, or sleeper, car.

At last it rolled into Centraal’s Platform 4. We found our car and were schlepping our stuff down the narrow corridor to our compartment when we were halted by the authoritative voice of the wagon attendant, a young woman cladin the outdated livery of Yugoslav State Railways. She demanded our papers. “Ticket is not in order,” she instantly declared.

We had had enough with Yugoslav railroad inefficiency.

I grabbed the ticket from her hand. “Train number [whatever],” I read, pointing to the train in which we stood, “Train number [whatever!”

“Wagon number [whatever],” I further read on the ticket, following my progress with my finger so she wouldn’t miss it, then pointed to the floor of the wagon in which we were standing. “Wagon number [whatever]!”

“Compartment number [whatever],” I read, then pointed down the corridor. “Compartment number [whatever]. Ticket IS in order!”

With that I gave Allen a push down the corridor and while the attendant stood waiting for the bribe or whatever was up her craw, we took possession of compartment number whatever.

Five minutes later she reappeared. “Ticket is in order,” she confirmed, smiled, and left. “They really are such children,” said the older French lady who, with her equally understanding and smiling husband, shared our compartment. later she bribed the attendant with small sample bottles of perfume to assure they would be awakened on time to disembark at Thessoliniki.

We were ever so happy when the train at last began to roll and the primitive Yugoslav countryside began to pass by, taking us on to Greece and our destination.

The whole situation had the potential to be more nerve-wracking than we permitted it. We knew there was little we could do, and just rolled with the situation. No one died or got sent to a gulag, we retained all of our possessions, and fully six hours behind schedule, we at last arrived in Athens’ main station. There I instantly picked out from the throng on the platform my pen-pal of five years Andreas. It was our first meeting. Still, getting there was a bit uncomfortable.

But years later, whenever Allen and I get together, we always laugh and laugh over our visit to Beograd Centraal, and remember, almost fondly, the sad little Yugoslav State Railways wagon attendant who tried to extract a bribe from the wrong guys.

I promise you your inevitable travel mishap will end up the same way. You’ll be uneasy while it’s happening, but when you get home, it’ll be one of the highlights of your trip—and will evoke the most laughs whenever you recall it.

Keep crossing those borders–and keep smiling!

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