Bucharest National Railway Station

Vaslui, Bârlad, Tecuci—a fifteen-minute break, a locomotive change, two Kent 4 Long cigarettes—Focșani, Buzău, Ploiești, Bucharest. 276 kilometers. One hundred lei round trip. Second class. An eight-seat compartment—always “full.” In my pocket, another hundred lei, enough for three days: Friday, Saturday, Sunday. My mom would drop me off at the train station on Fridays at 5:00 p.m. and pick me up from there on Sundays at 10:00 p.m. or, at worst, on Mondays at 5:00 a.m. For two years, that was my schedule—the framework of my weekend life. I didn’t set out to discover Bucharest. I commuted here because I was coming to prepare for the entrance exam at “Mincu.”

I would inevitably get off at Gara de Nord, and if the train wasn’t delayed, I’d take the subway: Gara de Nord, Victoriei, Ștefan cel Mare, Obor. That’s where I’d come up to the surface. I only knew the yellow line from Metrorex, and only this essential stretch of it.

But if the subway closed before I arrived, we’d sw