It was still dark, and I was groggy from sleep, but the sign that had just flashed past the train window was absolutely clear: Rio de Janeiro.
I confess, I panicked. I yelled to Alex to get out of bed—we were expected in Bucharest by noon, what on earth were we going to do? And how on earth did we end up on a train going to Brazil? Alex quickly left the cabin to look for someone, and within a few minutes, the train stopped and reversed itself to back up to the last station. More time passed as we waited, and I worked to get all our stuff gathered together. Now that I was thinking more clearly, it made sense that we had ended up on the wrong train. I could vaguely remember the conductor asking me to move into a different car of the train, and it was strange that there were so many Americans around us—that hadn’t been the case when we’d got on in Cluj. Eventually, an elderly couple arrived to help us get to the airport and figure out how to get back to Romania.
I was just on the verge of texting Sister Lundberg something to the effect of “Change in plans. Ended up on wrong train, will try to buy plane ticket from Brazil” when I sat up in bed and realized that I was back in the sleeping car I’d originally gone to bed in last night. The dream had been so real I was seriously disoriented, and it took me ten minutes or so to shake it off completely. I had to spend a few moments reconstructing a map of the world in my head to reassure myself that you can't get from Romania to Brazil by train!
Next time I’ll think twice when a conductor dressed as a mummy asks me to move to a new seat.
