A Solo Journey Through Romania
The Misadventure of the Midnight Train
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(Solo travel, budget travel, adventure travel)
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The air was thick with mist and the sharp scent of coal as I stood on the platform in Brașov, Romania, clutching a ticket that looked like it’d been printed in the 19th century. My boots scuffed the cracked concrete, and my stomach growled—a reminder that my last meal had been a stale pretzel snatched from a street vendor hours ago. I was 27, broke, and determined to prove that solo travel could be done on a shoestring. The midnight train to Sighișoara was my ticket to adventure—or so I thought. Little did I know, this rickety ride would become a story I’d tell for years, a chaotic blend of fear, wonder, and the kind of dumb luck that only comes when you’re too stubborn to turn back.
It started with a hunch. Romania had been whispering to me through travel blogs and grainy Instagram posts—castles perched on cliffs, medieval towns frozen in time, and train fares so cheap they felt like a typo. I’d landed in Bucharest with €200 in my pocket and a wild idea to crisscross Transylvania on a budget travel mission. Brașov, with its gothic spires and cobblestone charm, had been my base for two days. I’d haggled for a hostel bed (€8 a night, thank you very much) and spent my time sipping burnt coffee at sidewalk cafés, pretending I was some brooding poet instead of a clueless wanderer. But Sighișoara, the birthplace of Vlad the Impaler, was calling. The train left at 11:47 p.m., and I was ready—or at least, I thought I was.
The platform was deserted when I arrived, save for an old woman wrapped in a shawl, muttering to herself as she fed crumbs to a flock of pigeons. I checked my watch: 11:40. The train was late, which wasn’t surprising—Romanian railways had a reputation for running on their own mysterious schedule. I paced, my breath fogging in the chilly October air, and tried to ignore the creeping feeling that I’d made a terrible mistake. Solo travel sounded romantic until you were alone in the dark, second-guessing every choice that led you there.
Then, with a groan that rattled my bones, the train rolled in. It was a beast from another era—black iron, chipped paint, and windows streaked with grime. Smoke billowed from its stack, curling into the mist like ghostly fingers. I hauled my backpack over my shoulder and climbed aboard, the metal steps creaking under my weight. The carriage was dim, lit by flickering bulbs that buzzed like angry bees. I found a seat near the back, next to a window that wouldn’t budge, and settled in. The upholstery smelled like damp wool and regret, but I didn’t care. This was adventure travel, raw and unpolished, and I was living it.
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The train lurched forward, and I pulled out my journal to jot down the moment—partly to stay awake, partly to prove I was brave. “Midnight train to Sighișoara,” I wrote. “Mist outside, mystery ahead.” It sounded poetic until the conductor shuffled by, a grizzled man with a mustache that could’ve doubled as a broom. He barked something in Romanian, and I fumbled with my ticket, hoping it was valid. He squinted at it, grunted, and moved on. I exhaled, feeling briefly victorious, until I noticed the woman across the aisle staring at me. She had eyes like polished coal and a scarf tied tight around her head. “You go to Sighișoara?” she asked in halting English. I nodded, and she smiled—a gap-toothed grin that made me uneasy. “Be careful,” she said. “The night is full of stories.”
I laughed it off, chalking it up to local flair, but her words stuck with me as the train rattled through the darkness. The landscape outside was a blur of shadowed hills and skeletal trees, their branches clawing at the sky. I’d read about Transylvania’s legends—vampires, wolves, restless spirits—but I wasn’t here for ghost stories. I was here for the real stuff: cheap beer, ancient streets, and maybe a glimpse of Dracula’s old haunts. Still, as the hours ticked by, the carriage grew colder, and the other passengers—a handful of silent figures wrapped in coats—seemed to fade into the shadows. My bravado was slipping, replaced by a gnawing sense that I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
Around 2 a.m., the train screeched to a halt. No announcement, no station in sight—just blackness beyond the window. I pressed my face to the glass, squinting into the void, and saw nothing but my own reflection: wide-eyed, disheveled, and mildly terrified. The conductor’s voice crackled over a speaker, garbled and sharp, but I caught one word: “problemă.” Problem. Great. My Romanian was limited to “mulțumesc” (thank you) and “bere” (beer), neither of which was going to help me now. I glanced at the woman across the aisle, hoping for reassurance, but she was gone—vanished, scarf and all. My heart thudded. Had she gotten off? Had I imagined her? Solo travel, I reminded myself, was about embracing the unexpected. But this was next-level unexpected.
Minutes stretched into an hour. The lights flickered off, then on again, casting eerie shadows across the carriage. A man two rows up muttered something about “mechanical failure,” and I nodded like I understood, though I was secretly praying we weren’t stranded in the middle of nowhere. I dug into my backpack for my emergency granola bar, the crinkle of the wrapper obnoxiously loud in the silence. As I chewed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the night was watching me—those stories the old woman mentioned creeping closer with every creak of the train.
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Finally, with a jolt that nearly sent my granola bar flying, the train shuddered back to life. Relief washed over me, though the unease lingered. The rest of the journey was a blur of half-sleep and jolting stops, the kind of restless doze where you’re not sure if you’re dreaming or just losing your mind. By the time we pulled into Sighișoara at 5 a.m., I was a mess—hair tangled, eyes bleary, and legs stiff from hours of sitting. I stumbled onto the platform, the dawn light painting the town’s pastel houses in soft pinks and golds. It was beautiful, almost unreal, like stepping into a storybook after a nightmare.
Sighișoara was everything I’d hoped for and more. I checked into a guesthouse for €10 a night—a creaky attic room with a view of the clock tower—and spent the day wandering the citadel’s winding streets. Cobbled lanes led me past medieval walls and wooden shutters, where artisans sold hand-carved spoons and bakers hawked fresh covrigi (pretzels). I climbed the Covered Staircase to the Church on the Hill, my calves burning but my spirit soaring. At a tiny café, I ordered a bowl of ciorbă de burtă (tripe soup) on a whim, grinning through the sour tang as the owner winked and said, “You’re brave for a tourist.”
That night, I sat on a bench in the citadel square, nursing a €1 beer and watching locals stroll by. The train ordeal felt like a distant memory, softened by the warmth of this little town. I’d survived the midnight ride, turned a mishap into a triumph, and proved that budget travel could be as thrilling as it was cheap. Romania had tested me—pushed me to the edge of my comfort zone and then some—but it’d also rewarded me with a story I’d never forget.
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Looking back, that trip taught me more than just how to stretch a euro. Solo travel isn’t always glamorous—it’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes downright scary. But it’s also liberating. You learn to trust yourself, to laugh at your own stupidity, and to find beauty in the chaos. Romania gave me all of that and then some. So if you’re itching for an adventure, grab a ticket, pack light, and head for Transylvania. Just maybe check the train schedule first—and keep an eye out for mysterious old women. They might know more than they let on.
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