Whoever penned the phrase “the romance of travel,” obviously never traveled. I think the quote should be rewritten to read “the travail of travel.”

The Oxford Dictionary gives the following definition of travel:

Travel: (verb) to make a journey, typically of some length.
Origin: Middle English: a variant of TRAVAIL, and originally in the same sense.

The definition of travail reads:

Travail: (verb) to engage in painful or laborious effort.

See any connection?

There is nothing romantic about the physical act of traveling. Once you arrive at your destination, check into your hotel, your missing luggage is delivered, and you are ensconced in your lounge chair at the beach, then you can talk about romance. Until then, it is pure torture.

While living in Russia, I often traveled by train. In my mind, I pictured riding in comfort while gazing out the window at the passing countryside. Sort of like the movie version of the Orient Express, minus the murder.

Then our family rode an overnight train from Moscow to Helsinki.

We boarded the train, full of anticipation for our first family train ride.

Opening the doors to our assigned room revealed two sets of bunk beds with a minuscule table underneath the window. Between our luggage and four bodies, there wasn’t room to stand, and barely enough air to breathe. We shoved the kids onto the top bunks, while we figured out where to stow the luggage.

Eventually, an attendant came to take our tickets and handed us linens for the beds. Again, everyone shuffled places as we made up our beds for the night. Making up the top bunks required gymnastic contortions. Thankfully, there were no cell phones with cameras to record my lack of grace.

The passengers shared two restrooms, one located at the front and one at the back of the train car. Toilet paper disappeared within the first hour, but fortunately, I came prepared with multiple Kleenex packs. My kids kept visiting the restroom, fascinated by the fact that whatever you deposited into the toilet splashed directly onto the track. I vowed to never again step on a train track.

After enjoying some snacks, we pulled on our PJs and climbed into our bunks, not necessarily to sleep but just to get out of each other’s way. The clickety-clack of the wheels and the slight swaying of the car eventually lulled us to sleep. Actually, I tossed and turned for a long time. I had stuffed all our valuables and passports in my pillowcase, as protection from thieves. Eventually, exhaustion won out in spite of my lumpy pillow, and I dozed.

Around 2 a.m., the train slowed and slammed to a stop. Suddenly, a loud banging on our door rudely interrupted our sleep. We cautiously opened the door a crack, not knowing what to expect. We were greeted by an imposing border guard, who demanded our documents, then ordered us to join the rest of the car’s occupants in the narrow hallway.

Trembling, our family stepped into the hallway, clothed in pajama pants and t-shirts, and joined our fellow passengers. As I stared discreetly glanced up and down the hall, I realized we had overdressed for the party. Hairy bare-chested men in boxer shorts and women in thin nighties lounged along the wall. I fought the urge to cover my children’s eyes.

Meanwhile, the border guards searched our cell room looking for contraband. They dragged out luggage, looked under our mattresses, but the most exciting discovery was a cup of Ramen noodles. Finally, the cranky guards returned our documents, and we scurried into our room.

Back in our bunks, we tried to sleep while visions of life in prison danced through our dreams.

An hour later, the train came to another stop. I relaxed, figuring we were simply picking up more passengers.

BAM! BAM!

More border guards banging at our door. We hadn’t realized that once we crossed the Russian border, an hour later we’d cross the border into Finland.

The Finnish border guards graciously allowed our kids to stay in their bunks, but they invited my husband and I to join the other scantily clad passengers in the hallway. I leaned against the wall, idly wondering if I’d recognize our fellow passengers when they were fully clothed.

Early that morning, our train finally pulled into Helsinki. We stumbled from the train in need of food, showers, and toilet paper.

It took a day or two to recover from the “romance of travel.”

Yet, in spite of the travail of travel, I still love to experience new places, people, and cultures.

I just don’t love the trip required to get there.

Do your travel experiences resemble the “romance of travel” or the “travail of travel”?