Prosim Pozor

In the morning I buy a ticket to Frydlant Nad Ostravici and stand near the booth at the station with an espresso. I light a cigarette and an untidy young woman with Asiatic features wanders over, proffering a handful of worthless coins and pointing at the pack. I refuse the money; she makes some murmuring sounds, and smiling, lifts her top to expose her skinny, malnourished chest - offering herself. Her teeth are brown against her white speckled gums. The train is waiting at Nastupiste IV behind a 754 diesel, with a second attached to the rear. As I look out of the window, another is attached to the back of this - somewhere in the region of 5500 Horsepower for the four coach local, more than a British InterCity 125. The journey isn't particularly fast, though: the two at the back give a half-hearted push as we leave the station, just to get things moving, and leave the train at Frydek-Mistek - just hitching a lift. Frydant lies on the Ostravici river and is the last outpost of Ostrava's sprawl before the Roravskoslezke Beskydy mountains begin. The peaks of Smrk and Kuchyne rise behind the town, green tapering to grey in the autumn sunshine; within a month the summer walking resort will become basecamp for snowboarders and skiers, the sharp edge to the wind that blows through the river valley already hinting at the snow to come. I zip my fleece and stuff my hands deep into the pockets, but to little effect: I bought it in a market in Plzen for a few pounds and it is of the poorest quality. Thin, shapeless, and ill-fitting, it is almost useless except as a kind of camoflauge, something a local could afford to wear, not something a Western European would entertain. I find a cafe in town and sit in the sun, sheltered from the wind. I order a coffee, take out my notebook and try to capture the essence and atmosphere of train travel in Central Europe:

The Buffe at the Nadrazi with it's ebb and flow people, dark corners, and shared tables: a brief encounter if you could only manage more than an awkward drinks order, let alone flirt. The station booth with a jukebox blasting out Hungarian rock ballads on a Saturday night, and a grey concrete shelter on a weed-infested platform on a Monday morning. Slow trains, fast trains, no trains for hours. Five kilometers, five countries, or start walking. Local, regional, Intercity, EuroCity, NachtZuge, SchnellZuge; cross country, cross border, across town. Locomotive nicknames: an M41 is a Rattler, an M62 Sergei; there are Rabbits and Pershings, Nohabs and Gagarins, and even a Ludmilla. Where do these names come from and what do they mean? Wheel-tappers and shunters at every stop, the clang and clunk of hammers echoing around the station. The Hungarian railway uniform with it's circular marching band hat, the dowdy Polish ticket inspector with a peaked peasant's cap. Seedy toilet attendants, hatchet faced Slovakian ticket clerks, the friendly old conductor on the local railbus to Tapolca, the tension as your passport is checked for the third time by a suspicious border guard. Windows that open, doors that don't. The smell of sewage mixed with cheap perfume and strong tobacco; diesel exhaust and the tang of brake-dust. Fried food, sweat, alcohol, and the bitter smell of Sunflower fields; creosote and engine oil, the ozone smell of an electric locomotive breaking contact with the overhead wires. The Informace office that tells you it is not possible when you know it is. The hooker you give a light - we go to hotel now? The station attendant who walks you all the way to the correct train, opens the door, and wishes you a nice ride. The Czech station annoucement preceeded by a few notes that sound like the prelude to a mysterious discovery in a corny film; the ominous DONG of a trains arrival. The supermarket checkout call of Hungary, the elaborate fanfare of Slovakia. The incredibly scenic climb into the Tatra mountains on a crystal clear morning, the stomach-dropping arrival in a Polish industrial town late in the evening. And, of course, the trains. How could anyone not find all this compelling and absorbing?

I take a tram into town from the Nadrazi and drink a Radegast at a little bar on the edge of the square. I notice a dim sign in the first-floor window of a building across the square: Asienche Kuchey. My table is watched over by a huge, moulded plastic Golden Dragon; the entire ceiling is decorated with artificial foliage. The waiter is rake-thin and stooped despite his early age. Halfway through taking my order he sneezes and without apology wipes his nose on his shirtsleeve, from cuff to elbow. I hear his dry cough from the kitchen as he barks some harsh words at the chef. The food is good and inexpensive, but I feel as if I'm having a picnic on the set of some bad martial arts film in the middle of production. I lament not finding this goldmine earlier in my stay, if only for it's entertainment value. I walk to my hotel and finish the evening with a Gambrinus in the grand surroundings of it's Art Deco bar, the only and most reliable customer.