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A Travel Mishap Turned Unexpected Adventure

Writer's picture: Eric HayesEric Hayes

Updated: Feb 4


Empty train station platform at night with tracks and a blue train car on the left. Overhead lights illuminate the scene. Calm atmosphere.
Photo by Eric Hayes

Our anniversary getaway was six months late, but the timing didn’t matter—it was exactly what we needed. Brașov welcomed us with its cobbled streets, crisp mountain air, and inviting coffee shops, each with its own charm. Every moment felt like a deep breath—an overdue pause, a chance to slow down and simply be.


By Sunday evening, we were back on the train, heading home to Bucharest. The journey was routine, familiar. I wasn’t paying attention to the stops—why would I? I had taken this route before.


But something was off.


As the train slowed, I noticed people moving with urgency. They gathered their belongings, shifting in their seats, and a low murmur filled the car. It struck me as odd—everyone around me seemed to know we had arrived in Bucharest, yet I hadn’t heard a single conversation confirming it. The absence of any clear indication left me unsettled.


The problem was that I had been on a call moments before, finishing up a conversation just as we approached what I assumed was Bucharest. Since I had been distracted, I hadn't had time to ask anyone to confirm our location. By the time I hung up, people were already filing out of the train in a hurry as if this was a major stop. I quickly reached for my phone to check Google Maps, hoping for a clear answer, but the signal was glitchy. The location pin wavered, flickering between coordinates, making it impossible to be sure. Was this really our stop?


And if it wasn’t…

Where exactly were we?


I checked my wife’s phone for confirmation. Same issue. The signal was strong, we had mobile data, but for some reason, the map was showing us outside of the city. That didn’t make sense.


I tried to assess the situation and orient myself. Had we missed our stop?


I couldn't see any signs and there were no announcements to help. The absence of clear indicators left me hesitant, unsure of what to do next. I couldn’t see any signs, and there were no announcements to confirm our location. I had to make a quick decision, but I hesitated and now new passengers were entering the train, chatting animatedly among themselves, and I didn't know who to ask for help.


Before I could react, the doors slid shut with a finality that sent a wave of helplessness through me. My heart sank as the train lurched forward, carrying us further into uncertainty. My mind raced—had I just made a terrible mistake? 


I asked a group behind us if they spoke English, and one replied, "A little." Then, I asked if this was Bucharest. She nodded quickly, "Yes, yes," but there was hesitation in her voice. I could tell she didn’t fully understand the question, and her response wasn’t convincing.


Then, I noticed an older woman seated nearby. She had been on the train since we first boarded, making her a more reliable witness. Hoping for clarity, I asked her the same question.

“No, no, no, this isn't Bucharest," she said, shaking her head firmly.


Doubt crept in—if most of the passengers had already left the train, was she right?


A few minutes later, the ticket inspector made his way through the train, glancing at passengers. He barely acknowledged us, walking past without asking for our tickets. That was proof enough—if we had arrived in Bucharest, he would have checked to make sure we weren’t traveling beyond what we had paid for. Instead, he passed us by, unconcerned.


At this point, it was like a comedy of errors. A lack of announcements. A faulty map signal. A group of young people eager to be helpful but unsure.


And just like that, our journey home had taken an unexpected turn.


Fifteen minutes passed before I confirmed what I had feared—we had indeed missed our stop. Instead of Bucharest, we were now en route to a small town, roughly 60 kilometers outside of the city. With no other choice, we decided to exit at the next available station.


Stepping onto the platform, I finally had a moment to fully assess our situation. The station was tiny and dimly lit, with an unsettling stillness that suggested it was closed for the night. I exchanged a glance with my wife, and we both silently acknowledged the same thought—this did not look good.


As we took in our surroundings, we noticed another man standing a short distance away. He, too, looked bewildered, scanning the area as if trying to make sense of his unexpected surroundings. It was clear that he was a fellow foreigner, just as uncertain as we were about where he had ended up. Curious, we approached him and introduced ourselves. He told us his name was Meles from Ethiopia.


“Well,” I said, “looks like we both made a terrible mistake.”


He laughed, that kind of short, knowing chuckle that only happens when you realize you’re not the only one who’s completely messed up.


And just like that, the weight of the mistake lifted.


There was a strange comfort in knowing that I wasn’t just an idiot who missed his stop—because if I was, then so was he. And suddenly, it wasn’t just a problem anymore. It was our problem. There’s something funny about shared misfortune. It turns a mistake into an adventure.


He went on to tell us that he had meant to get off at a completely different stop, not even Bucharest, but the train had passed his destination. He had hoped to disembark in Bucharest to find another way home, only to realize that he had missed that stop as well. Now, stranded, he had no idea what to do. Compared to our predicament, he was in an even worse situation.


Despite his own troubles, he was incredibly kind. He looked at our luggage, at my wife, and said, “You stay here. I’m going to check at the station and find someone to help us. Then, I'll come back.”


Before I could protest, he ran off toward the station building. But there was a problem: the only way to cross the tracks was via a metal staircase that arched over them, and a gate blocked the stairs. Undeterred, he climbed down and carefully crossed the tracks on foot. We watched as he disappeared into what appeared to be a small office at the station.


Nighttime view of a train station, dimly lit building with sign, greenish hue, deserted platform. Moody, quiet atmosphere.
Photo by Eric Hayes

We waited.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.


It felt too long. I appreciated his effort, but something wasn’t right.


“Come on, we need to go see what’s happening,” I told my wife.

She hesitated, looking at the tracks. “How?”

“The same way he did.”


I climbed down and helped her across, the cool steel rails firm under our feet. When we reached the station office, Meles had already spoken with the only staff member working that night. The station master had tried calling a taxi for us, but after a brief conversation, he shook his head. No taxis were available.


“The next train?” Meles asked in Romanian.


The station master checked his schedule. “You missed one ten minutes ago. Next train? Five in the morning.”


Meles looked at me. “Oh no! What do we do now?”


By then, I had come up with a plan. “I'll call some friends of ours.”

After two attempts, I got a hold of a friend willing to come and pick us up along with Meles. He was grateful, and we all shared a sense of relief.


Crisis averted.


With the tension lifted, we started talking. It began with small talk—where he was from, what he was doing in Romania. 


I told him I had met some very interesting Ethiopians back in the U.S. that I knew a bit about the food and the national language. He lit up. Not just polite interest—real excitement.


It wasn’t just that I was making conversation. I knew he had a story to tell, and I was interested in hearing it. 


And so he told me more—about his home, his region, the language he spoke. He told me about the challenges Ethiopia was facing, the reasons that had brought him here, and the hurdles he faced, ones I couldn’t even begin to imagine.


There was something so simple, yet so deeply human, about the exchange. At times, when people ask you where you are from, they don't always really listen. They might not even care where you’re from unless it’s of interest or directly relevant to them. But when someone does care—when they want to know—it means something.


I could see this in the way he spoke, in the way his voice carried just a little bit lighter with every word.


And then, just as casually, he shared something unexpected and funny.


“You know,” he said, “there’s an Ethiopian restaurant in Bucharest.”


I had never heard of it before. And suddenly, I wasn’t just learning about his country—I had a chance to learn more about his culture.


Eventually, my friend arrived to pick us up. Relief washed over us as we saw him and entered the car.


As we sat in the car, my friend—who had kindly agreed to rescue us—tried making conversation with him. But the road noise made it difficult, and the questions didn’t flow as easily as before.


Still, it didn’t matter.


The important conversations had already happened.


And then, just as quickly as we had met, it was over.


We didn’t exchange contact information. There was no dramatic farewell, no promise to stay in touch. Just a brief nod, a final smile, and the understanding that we had shared something small but meaningful.


It’s strange. How you can spend an hour or two with someone, learn about their life, their home, their struggles—and then just… part ways.


And that’s okay.


Not every connection is meant to last forever. Some are just meant to be felt in the moment—to remind us that even in unfamiliar places, even when we make mistakes, we are never really alone.


By the time we finally made it home, it was past midnight. But somehow, my wife and I didn’t care nor were we frustrated.


Yes, we had missed our stop. Yes, it had been inconvenient. But we also gained something that wouldn’t have happened if everything had gone according to plan. What started as a simple mistake turned into an unexpected travel adventure.


We had successfully navigated a difficult situation, and through this shared experience, we gained something— a reminder that even in mishaps, there are opportunities for kindness, camaraderie, and understanding.


It was a reminder the best stories don’t come from the places you intended to go.


They come from the detours.

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