Saturday, 13 December 2003 | Bribe

I was eighteen when I went to Europe for the first time. Straight to Romania, rather than to the traditional west, because that was the opportunity that was presented to me; I certainly wanted to see the west. It was 1993, less than four years after the Iron Curtain had parted, and so I imagined there weren't very many of us yet that had ventured to the other side.

Our plane landed in Budapest, where we caught a train that hummed over the Hungarian countryside. All I saw of Budapest was through the smudgy glass of a swerving taxi, and, honestly, all I remember of it was the outside of the train station and the pictures of naked women that were taped to the taxi's dashboard.

The train ride is equally spotty—I remember yellow earth speeding by, and that the train was constructed so that you could stand outside and feel the wind whip past you. And that the train cars were divided into small rooms, enough for six people to sit snugly and stare at each other. That the conductor wore a crazy hat and punched holes in your ticket and eyed your first-world passport.

We crossed into Romania by VW van, after dark. (It was the vehicle we'd be driving around the country for the next fourteen days, and the first stick shift I would ever operate.) At the border, we were greeted by a snake of cars that extended for probably a mile, cars containing people who were waiting to make polite conversation with the border guards and clear the check point; their presence promised hours of cramped longing, turning the engine off and on, braking and gassing, inching forward.

Our driver was savvy, however, and knew that all we needed to bypass the line was a $10 American note. As we sped by the staggered mess of parked cars, I slouched down in my seat, embarrassed. (Later, we would get out of two speeding tickets by paying off the respective cops with a mere 50 cents each, and we'd undeservedly feel like generous heroes when we'd leave a $1 tip for a waitress.)