The Arrival
On the train ticket, it said ‘accelerat'. But this train was anything but accelerated. It seemed to Ben like he had been on it for an age. As it chugged along, he reflected on what lay before. His trip to Romania wasn't so much about escaping elsewhere, but it was about finding himself and seeking meaning in life.
Eventually, he arrived at the station and with some difficulty got off the train, lugging with him what was surely too much luggage. He felt the need for the loo as the toilet facilities on the train had been less than appealing. When he saw the facilities at the train station, he decided that he could wait to get to the room that he was staying in.
The station was large, and bustling with people, but it wasn't hard to find his way through and exit. As he left the building through what seemed like the main exit, a man pounced on him, ‘Taxi?’ he asked hopefully.
Well, at least this was an international word that needed no translation and was indeed very opportune, as it was exactly what he needed.
Ben whipped out a piece of paper on which he had written the address of where he was staying. He'd found it through the friend of a friend's cousin as it were and the fact that he had easily found somewhere to stay was actually one of the things that had convinced him that it was the right thing to do to come and visit Romania. He looked at the paper and it said:
Strada Pădureni 41/7B/2/4/28, Crângași
Ben looked up at the taxi driver and announced that he wanted to go to 'Crangasi'.
The taxi driver stared at him, 'Unde vrei?'Ben didn’t need to understand much Romanian to realise that the driver hadn’t understood his pronunciation, but this was an easily resolvable situation. Ben thrust the piece of paper in the driver’s direction. The driver peered down at and instantly realized where Ben wanted to go. This was the power of the written word.
'Am ințeles', said the driver. 'Hai să mergem!'. Then he beckoned towards a yellow car that Ben thought wouldn’t have been out of place in New York. He didn’t quite catch what the driver said, but the intention was obvious and so Ben, trustingly, followed on.
After they got into the taxi, the driver seemed to have something to do. He fiddled around with his shortwave radio and said to the person on the other end, 'Sunt ocupat cu un străin'. Then, he pressed some buttons on the taxi’s meter and they were off. Probably just usual procedure, thought Ben.
They drove around various streets for what seemed like a long time. As they went, Ben stared at the drab high-rise blocks of flats that dominated the skyline everywhere. In one sense, he thought to himself, very practical and quite an architectural feat, but on the other hand, they all looked like they had seen better days and were approaching a ramshackled state. He could understand why many would rather risk seeking their fortune elsewhere than stay in one of these moss-covered buildings.
Eventually, the taxi driver pulled over and signalled to Ben that he wanted to see the piece of paper again.
'Unde ar fi asta', mumbled the driver to himself after checking the address.
They then spent the next 20 minutes exploring various side roads. It was quite a good way to get to know the little residential area, but not quite what Ben was up for at that precise moment. Finally, after the driver had asked numerous locals, he said, 'Aici. Am ajuns!'
Ben recognised the word ‘aici’ from his Romanian lessons, and even if he hadn’t, it wasn’t hard to see what the driver was referring to. It meant here and so they were there (or here as it were from the driver’s perspective). One thing Ben had definitely learnt how to say was ‘Cât costa?’ – How much does it cost? This was a key phrase in any language. He decided that now was the moment to give it ago.
'Cat costa?', he asked, not sure if he pronounced it right, but, in any case, the driver definitely understood that one.
'5 million', the driver nonchalantly replied.Ben suddenly realised that he had forgotten to check the exchange rate. That being said, 5 million sounded a lot in any man’s money.
The driver, seeing Ben’s perplexed look, turned to one side realising his mistake, composed himself and then turned backing saying, 'Ma scuzați, am în vedere 500 RON'.
Now, that made more sense to Ben. He knew that RON was the currency of Romania and he had learnt his numbers well. Cinci Sute – Five hundred.
Ben got out his wallet to pay but then had another sinking feeling. In the haste of being pounced upon by the taxi driver at the train station, he had overlooked the need to change his money into Romanian money. What to do?
'Euro?', he blurted out, as it was linguistically challenging to try to explain the situation and Euro was probably another one of those international words.
'Sigur,' said the driver. '100 euro'.
This was a currency that Ben roughly knew. 100 seemed quite a lot, but the man had been helpful and patient and had driven all around to the find the right address. Anyway, Ben wasn’t in a position to negotiate, so he just paid up. Slightly painful, but that’s just the way it goes, he mused. 
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