Crossing the Danube River out of Bulgaria was more exhilarating than I would have expected. The setting sun was burning a blood red hole in the haze over the fertile southern plains of Romania. Peasants (literally) were toiling their final hours in the fields that surrounded their humble homes, making hay (literally) while the sun still shines. It was all so appropriately romantic.
Arriving in Bucharest in the dark would not have been my first choice, but after an hour long scramble I was relieved to have arrived at my hostel for the night. Short lived relief. The room ,not much larger than your bedroom, contained 12 beds, the floors strewn with the belongings of its tenants. I attempted to make an early night of it, but one girl decided to burn the lights brightly as she worked some art project. Around 2 in the am, a couple of German fatheads arrived, speaking in brusque tones as if this were their private room. The choir of snorers was in full song, and the creaky wooden beds would rattle and shake with every toss and turn, and for my part, I was getting up every hour or so, in disgust, or for having drank a liter of beer before bed.
There seemed little hope of sleeping this night, but armed with earplugs, eyeshades, tissue up my runny nose and a wet cloth over my mouth (head cold contracted in Bulgaria), the gods smiled upon me and gave me a few hours of rest. As I arose at 7 to begin my day, I created maybe just a little more noise than was necessary, but this I have learned from hostel living, you look after your own needs first!
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