Trains Are For Travellers
“When you fly, you’re moving. When you’re on a train, you’re travelling” declared Aram, or Vikingonrails as the long haired, bearded Dutchman calls himself on Instagram.
Or put another way; Trains are for travellers, flying is for tourists.
I agree, to a point. That point being, I can’t catch a train out of Australia.
An ominous looking Budapest, Danube River in the foreground
But the point is valid, airports are a boring, soulless, drain on your existence. Trains (especially those of grease and diesel) are an adventure. A coming together of people moving through life, not leaping over it in a steel tube.
The windows open fully, if you feel like a quick exit
Like the boys from Turkey before him, I met Aram on a train, this time the route from Bucharest, Romania to Budapest, Hungary.
The man was the Zen master of train travel, with matching beard, teaching this rookie many worthwhile lessons.
Like how to get to any destination in Europe via train, and how to access the 1st class lounge at Budapest Station, which is infinitely more accessible (but humbler) than a 1st class lounge at an airport.
He’d also been to Budapest many times before and guided me to the excellent and cheapish Hotel Budapest (not be confused with Budapest Hotel, of the movie) a cylindrical hotel monument to brutalist architecture on the quieter western Buda side of Budapest.
It had this great late 60’s early 70’s vibe.
I can imagine in its heyday men would come down to the lobby bar looking spiffing in their wide lapel jackets, thick ties, and thicker sideburns.
Sadly, that scene is lost to time. But thankfully the hotel is not.
Word of caution; the hotel windows open all the way and aren’t restricted to a small opening! Quite disconcerting.
Városmajor tram station was conveniently located across the road, so it was only a short tram ride to downtown Budapest.
(As I sat and proofread this, the memory of a girl in tears at Városmajor, jumped back into my mind. Someone had stolen her bike, she was taking it hard. I offered some words of consolation, as did some other passers-by, but there was nothing to be done, so we all just went on our ways.)
Apart from the hotel recommendation, Aram also led me and another traveller friend of his on an aborted mission to break into the derelict Hungarian power plant for some urban decay photos.
We got there but baulked at the thought of climbing rusted steel girders through holes in a decaying concrete floor in the black of night.
A close encounter with a security guard didn’t help either. Instead, we caught the tail end of a nearby music festival.
As much fun as all that was, the photographic and experiential gems were back at the starting point of this leg, Bucharest’s central train station, Bucharest Nord.
Grease and diesel
I can’t think of an airport I didn’t want to exit as fast as I could, let alone return and photograph, but Bucharest Nord train terminal drew me back with my camera a day or so before meeting Aram.
It wasn’t to capture the pristine glory of the central station, that has long since passed.
Today, antiquated Soviet era engines sit alongside more modern counterparts, there’s the broken-down graffiti covered travelator on Platform 1, people walking across the tracks to get from one platform to another.
I loved that.
At home the entire network would grind to a halt if a passenger dared jump off a platform at our central station.
“Yeah, I’m smoking on the train. What are you gonna do about it?”
But best of all, the earthier elements of life are there to see, gathered around the only departures board, moving along and between the platforms with chaotic bustle and freedom of movement.
Airports are all strict regimented conformity and compliance; the cattle are encouraged to quietly move through the gates in single file with little fuss or deviation.
Trains are just more haphazard. And it takes about as much effort and energy to get on a train destined for another country as it does to travel a few stops on a suburban train.
I wanted to capture the feel of the station but couldn’t quite get it. The best shots were the broken-down travelator (it smelled like you imagine) and the Romanian bunică (grandma) in a headscarf and pink slippers having a smoke in the doorway of her carriage.
She looks like she’s seen it all, heard it all, lived it all.
If you told her she couldn’t smoke, she’d look at you with contempt, blow smoke in your face, and probably make you cry.
Her don’t-care attitude contrasts nicely with the guy behind her in a Sex Pistols shirt losing his shit on his mobile.
No, you won’t see any of this at an airport. This scene is reserved for trains and travelling, not flying and moving.
Downtown Bucharest, Romania
