The night train to Sighisoara, which was supposed to leave Budapest at eleven, was late. The station was quiet and empty, the bars and shops and stores all closed for the day, a few figures lurking in the shadows around the edges of the buildings. We sat on the hard stone floor, tired from a long day of wandering the city in the summer heat with our backpacks. A group of young men loitered nearby, shouting and begging and harassing passersby for cigarettes. A middle-aged man approached us, asking if we needed a hot meal and somewhere to rest, his greasy smile fading as we waved him away. Armed police patrolled in pairs, eyeing us suspiciously as they passed.
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