80 Days Around The Globe

Day 5

Saturday, 5:00 AM

We stopped at Vienna in the early hours of the morning; the platform was guarded by mechanical soldiers in polished blue paint uniforms. I did not like the look of them, and was most glad that we were not disembarking there. The sun rose as the train departed, painting the countryside in warm yellow light. A beautiful day for travel.The next day was short, an we arrived at bucharest before noon and without incident.

But as we disembarked from the train, there was a loud commotion on the platform. A young man staggered across the concourse towards us, clutching something to his chest!

I stepped neatly aside, and he plunged past me, tripping and stumbling, until finally, with a terrible cry, he pitched onto his face and did not move again.

A swarm of train guards massed over him, and he was lost from view.

"Drunk, most likely," I remarked to monsieur Fogg, who looked back at me, clearly somewhat put out.

"He probably did not have a ticket," he said stiffly. "This way, Passepartout."

5:17 PM...

We finally arrived in Bucharest. 

Monsieur Fogg informed me that Bucharest was known rather widely as "little paris"; he was most certainly trying to make me feel at home, though my frenchman's pride bristled a little at the comparison.

I took a tram to the city centre, which was modern in every sense of the word: electric lights illuminated all but a handful of shop fronts and boyars' residences, Bozek cars sputtered oil fumes into the air, and vendors hawked all manner of little automata on street corners. A cunningly fashioned lamp in the shape of a lily proclaimed the local artificers Guild outpost.

I pushed open the door, and immediately began to cough from the dust in the air. I looked at  the shelves, which were distressingly empty of automata or devices. The outpost was deserted, an odd state of affairs. The woman cleared her throat. " Cu ce sa va ajut?"

I flashed a charming smile; a gesture beyond language.

She gave me an unimpressed look, but the corner of her mouth twitched upwards. " Oh, you're french, " she said repressively, switching effortlessly into my mother tongue. I bowed and introduced myself. She gave her name only as "Steinberg" , omitting her proper title, which placed me in a rather awkward position.

"Madame Steinberg," I hazarded.

"just Steinberg,"  she corrected sternly. " Now what do you want here?"

"So this is the Artificer's Guild?" I asked, somewhat unimpressed. 

"The guild is not very popular at the moment," she allowed, shrugging. "Independence is the current fashion; the Guild is too ottoman for our new prince.Also," Steinberg gave me a look of frank challenge, "The Guild openly hires Jews.

"A Jew can also be a romanian citizen?" I replied.

"Not any more. Only Christians can be citizens now."

She looked away. "The prince pretends he doesn't know who keeps his trams running and his gas lamps lit."

I took my leave quickly, not wanting to be associated with any political trouble, and i walked back to monsieur Fogg.

i took an evening stroll from the hotel through the main boulevard of bucharest, Podul Mogosoaiei.

It was paved in small cobblestones rather than macadam or asphalt, but was lined with gas lamps in the latest german style. 

Gentlemen and ladies paraded their stylish sprung carriages up and down the avenue. It was undeniably charming,but no champ elysees, no matter what monsieur Fogg might think.