As usual, stops were not announced on the train. People familiar with the route rushed the hallways as we pulled into a station–or the last scraps of one. The train paused, the people fled, and the machine continued. Ages before a vague arrival time, I grew terrified that I would miss my stop. I suffered this particular anxiety on every trip. It became a typical part of what I carried on.

A woman and I shared legroom in our train compartment. We kept accidentally kicking and stomping each other, but stopped making polite apology smiles somewhere around hour two. Since this woman was able to engage in small talk with the passport control boy, I waited until he left and nerved-up to ask if she knew which stop might be Novi Sad. She blinked, pressed down a smile. This was also her destination and she pledged to take me along. …