I had such a romantic idea of my first night train. Probably there would be a little lamp by my bed where I could write as night fell. I’d undoubtedly be sharing my bunk car with a couple of fascinating travelers with whom I’d become pen pals after our late night of deep conversation. The gentle sway of the train would rock me to sleep. I love trains–there was no way this one could possibly disappoint me. I was so excited as this all played out in my mind while I waited for the train to arrive in Padua, Italy. I was supposed to get on the train a little after 10pm, but our departure time came and went, and then it was 11pm, and then it was midnight. The station was closed, and I sat on the ground of the platform, binge-eating snacks from the vending machine to stay awake.
Sometime before 1am, the train finally showed up. I decided I would probably have to forgo the writing-by-lamp-light idea because I was so exhausted, and instead I just looked forward to sleep. It was hot when we got on the train. It has been over 90 degrees (Fahrenheit) that day, and the damp heat of it lingered. The attendant pointed in the direction of my compartment, and the train started moving before I even opened the door. When I opened it, I found what I never knew until that moment was one of my worst nightmares. The room was maybe the width of a car, and bunkbeds jutted in 3 tiers from both sides of the walls. It was a hot that I can only describe as a post-Katrina hot—when we all slept in the South Mississippi heat and humidity for 3 weeks after the storm. It was WAY hotter than it was outside.
Of the 6 beds, only one did not have a mostly-naked and sleeping body in it—the top right bed which sat approximately 2 feet from the ceiling. There was no space to put my bags, so I had no choice but to drop them in the floor behind me as I climbed up the tiny ladder. It was far hotter near the ceiling than it had been on the ground. My bed was a wooden plank with what felt like a piece of carpet over it. There was no mattress. There was a tiny fan blowing near the window by the bed, but it was blowing even hotter air from somewhere. This was beyond even Katrina heat. This was the heat of South Mississippi summer when you first get in your car and turn the air-conditioner on and it starts blowing suffocatingly hot air in your face. This was the heat of a sauna. I immediately felt panic because the train was already moving so I couldn’t get back off, but I knew without any shred of doubt that I could not stay in that room.
I couldn’t understand how anyone could possibly be asleep in the room, but somehow everyone was except the guy across from me in the other top bunk. He was mostly naked as he croaked at me, “Oh my God, it’s so hot.” I climbed back down from the prison plank, tried to put my bag on and turn around, realized that the space between the beds was too small for me to turn, and then backed out of the room instead. I found the attendant and told her that I could not stay in that room because I would, without question, vomit. I was fully prepared to sit on the floor in the hallway for the entire 11-hour ride if I had to, but I asked if there happened to be any regular seats on the train instead. No, there weren’t, she said. She did not seem particularly concerned by the matter. The only upright seats, she told me, were in the couchette cars, but she thought those were full. I asked if I could go look, and she shrugged like she really couldn’t care less. If there had been a text or email warning us that the air-conditioning didn’t work, likely many people would have chosen to take a different train, but instead they let us get on the train and start moving so that we were trapped until the first stop which wouldn’t be for 3 or 4 hours. These were certainly unsafe conditions for babies and elderly people. I never even saw a bottle of water handed to anyone. Even if I got off at the first stop in the middle of the night, it was unlikely that I’d be able to get a taxi or find accommodations. I prayed there was a seat in the couchette rooms.
The couchette compartments were full of terrible body odor and cigarette smoke. Miraculously I found one empty seat in a couchette compartment with 3 other people—a German girl around my age and 2 older Italian men who kept retreating into the hallway to smoke near the small windows. I will forever be grateful to them for letting me join their compartment even though it meant that we couldn’t all recline the seats to sleep. We sat upright talking in broken English and sweating at each other until like 3am because there was no hope of attempting to sleep while the sweat rivulets dripped down our faces. People from other compartments kept going into the hallway to gasp for air next to the 3-inch window opening. Two of my compartment-mates got off the train between 3 and 4am, and the remaining man and I were able to recline our couch seats. The temperature finally dropped to a non-sweaty temperature by sunrise, and I slept for maybe an hour or two before we finally arrived in Vienna.
I’d planned to wander around Vienna for a few hours after arriving, but I was so exhausted from the journey that I couldn’t bear the thought of trying to carry my bags around a crowded city, so I took the first train to Bratislava.
I didn’t know much about Bratislava, or the country Slovakia, when I got there because I was too tired to do my usual pre-arrival research on the way. In fact, I still don’t know much about Bratislava or Slovakia. I made it to my hostel, Chors Hostel Bratislava, and hoped only for a nap. The hostel had a capsule-style dorm where real walls surround you at the head and both sides of your bed, and you have a full black-out curtain to pull down at your feet. The bed was a full size, and there were several pillows of various sizes. The luggage lockers were the size of giant wardrobes—you could even hang clothes in them. It was air-conditioned. It was paradise. I didn’t need to know much about Bratislava to know that this was the peaceful reward I needed.
After a nap, I wandered across the street to a giant bookstore with a gorgeous café filling part of the top floor. I went to a popular restaurant and got meal that the hostel worker told me was the most traditional in town called bryndzove halusky which is like potato dumplings in a sheep-milk cheese topped with melt-in-your-mouth cured meat. Basically it tasted like the most decadent macaroni and cheese that you can imagine. I saw the Danube River and the castle and a little walking street parade, and I wandered the streets of Old Town, then I returned to my room and slept like a hibernating creature. I feel such gratitude to Bratislava for offering me such peace.
Long-term travel means being prepared for these hilariously horrific scenarios that will undoubtedly find you somewhere, and there is relief in being able to laugh about this now. But I will also probably never take the night train between Padua and Vienna ever again.
This post may contain affiliate links which earn me a small commission from bookings at no extra cost to you. Thank you for reading and supporting my blog!
