Riding the trains through Europe can be a very rewarding and educational experience. At any given time, it is difficult to guess the nationality of the person facing you in the small six-seat compartments. Many of the newer trains have bus-type seating, but the older ones are broken up into compartments, with doors that close and curtains that can be pulled together to give a certain amount of privacy.
Europeans have so many national languages, as well as a wealth of dialects, that it is very hard for even an experienced ear sometimes to pick out the language being spoken. Although I have a bit of familiarity with German, having lived here for a few years, I was completely unable to pick up any words of the language being spoken next to me on one trip.
“Can you please tell me what language they are speaking?”, I asked the seatmate with whom I had been conversing in a mixture of my poor German and her excellent English.
“They are speaking German”, she said, then noticing my puzzled look, she added, “They are from Switzerland.”
“Oh”, I nodded. That explained it. Swiss German is about as different to what I normally hear as a thick Scots brogue is to American English.
If language identification is a problem for me, imagine how difficult it is to try to understand the social customs and mores of people of whom I cannot even Identify their nationality.
Some of my more enjoyable and memorable experiences on the trains have been with people with whom I shared no common language. We resort to smiles and frowns, with lots of gestures, to communicate as best we can. With all the finger waving and grunting, we might be on vacation from a school for the speech-impaired.
I will tell you about one of them.
I was on a train from Timisoara, Romania, to Bucharest. The train was in reasonably good repair and fairly comfortable, but took nearly twelve hours to make a trip that could be covered in much less time in more developed countries.
The compartment in which I found myself was full when we left Timisoara, but gradually emptied until there was only an older woman, who might have been around my age, a young girl whom I guessed to be in her late teens or early twenties and a boy who appeared to be about the same age. I assumed that they were her grandchildren by the way in which they related to her. She continually produced food and drink from an enormous carryall bag.
The girl was quite beautiful, but very withdrawn, the boy handsome, in that dark manner of the Romanian men. It had astounded me the day before to realize that I was the shortest person in the room with several students of both ages, as well as their professors, in a university meeting. I am a full six feet tall and they were all noticeably taller, girls and boys.
As the train rocked on, hour after hour, I began to envy the steady stream of food and drink being offered to the young people. There was apparently no restaurant car on the train, nor any rolling cart as I am accustomed to seeing on German trains.
Although Romania certainly has a national currency, it was not then known for its solidity, so German Marks were readily, perhaps even greedily, accepted.
I looked at a bottle of wine the old lady had brought from her bag and offered her some DMarks, which disappeared into the depths of her loose clothing before I could open the bottle.
Surprisingly, the wine was very tasty and of a good quality. Please forgive me for being surprised. Coming to a nation like Romania from the western countries is such a shock in so many ways, it is difficult to know what to expect and I usually try to keep my expectations low so I can be pleasantly surprised. In this case, I certainly was.
Apparently, the old lady was happy with our deal, because she began extracting meats, cheese, olives, bread and sweets from her bag, offering them to me. Whatever value of the money I handed to her seemed to be what the price happened to be. There was no change. If I gave more, she gave more.
After stuffing myself on good farm-style food for a fraction of the amount I would have gladly paid for much worse in a restaurant, I settled back to digest my meal as the train rocked on through the Romanian countryside toward the capital.
Now that one of my senses was sated, my attention was caught by the quietly beautiful girl. Some of my other senses began to demand equal treatment.
Never one to miss an opportunity to capitalize on an unfilled need, the old lady nodded toward the young man, who went to the door and pulled the privacy curtains. Grandma then reached over to her granddaughter’s dress and began to lift the hem. She cocked an eye at me.
I dug into my pockets to see what was left in the way of money. I don’t usually travel with much cash. Most European countries, including Romania, have automatic tellers at the banks and railway stations, where money can be withdrawn directly from your home bank, although it comes out of the machine in the local currency instead of dollars. (Amazing, isn’t it?)
I was running short. I had some small coins, one or two fairly small bills and the rest in larger denominations. I offered the small coins. The hem dropped. I offered the small bills, the hem got raised to just above the knee.
The girl sat impassively.
I pulled out a bill that was roughly equal to $20 back home and the angels sang. A smile creased the face of the old lady. The girl looked at me with affection and the scowling boy even smiled a bit.
As I watched, lustfully, the hem rose and rose and rose until a dark thatch, barely concealed behind a lace curtain came into view.
At her grandmother’s urging, the girl rose up to allow her underpants to be completely removed and to be given to me. I somewhat gingerly brought them to my nose and was overwhelmed with the delightful fragrance of her sex. A smell at once musky, fresh and erotic. I wondered what percentage of the total was due to natural good health, clean soap and exotic perfumes. They did not look like people who would have access to many exotic perfumes, so I had to assume that it was a predominantly natural essence.
I rubbed my face in them as the old lady smiled.
I pointed to the girl’s chest and offered another twenty. Very soon, I had a plain, white bra in my hands and there was a beautiful girl sitting right in front of me with her skirt around her waist, revealing a hint of pink lips through her copious pubic hair. Her blouse was left open, framing the most perfectly formed pair of breasts I could remember seeing since the old days at The Body Shop on Sunset, home of the “almost stars”.
The boy had now pulled his member from his pants and was staring at his sister, so brazenly displayed. His hand was idly stroking himself as he filled his eyes with her nakedness.
Was this the first time he had seen his sister naked, I wondered. Was incest as taboo here as it was back home, or did these people come from a portion of this society that looked the other way at such things? There were places like that at home, too.
The question regarding their standards of ethical behavior began to outweigh my need to ravish this vision of perfection in front of me. I dug deeper in my pocket and came up with around a hundred bucks. I waved it at the old lady and pointed meaningfully at the girl and boy.
The girl’s face turned ashen and she began to sling her head from side to side in violent protest. In contrast, the boy’s member appeared to have grown in girth.
The old lady whispered something in the girl’s ear, but she continued to object, strongly. Finally, the old lady must have found the proper form of inducement, perhaps it was a new dress, and the girl appeared to cave in and accept the reality that she was about to be fucked by her brother.
It may be that her reluctance was based on morality or something as mundane as the fear of pregnancy, but whatever it was must have been overcome by the latest offer.
.... There is more of this story ...