A nostalgia for the old romance of travel is no better sated than with an aimless jaunt about Eastern Europe. Including Bulgaria in such an odyssey, having a loose itinerary and an open mind, will reap rewards that distinguish the tourist from the traveler.

A luxury of time lures the traveler to the railway station. Bulgarians will typically choose trains as their mode of transport for reasons of convenience and economy. With more than 7,000 miles of track threading through a country about the size of Ohio, most points can be accessed for less than the price of a beer in an airport lounge. Hardly the sleek bullet trains of Western Europe or the punctual, efficient German rail system; the Bulgarian railroad’s charms lie not with its efficiencies but, rather, with its inefficiencies in a country hungry for and clutching at modernization.

Instead of the laptop-slinging, latte-swilling, shopping mall atmosphere of a modern airport, Bulgaria’s rail stations have a threadbare charm reminiscent of a scratchy Hollywood film. Departing passengers hang from open windows waving farewells while friends and loved ones trot and skip down platforms in pursuit as an old, dutiful warhorse of the Bulgarian State Railway heaves and lurches forward with the stalwart determination of an old soldier recalled into battle.

The stations are entertaining and play host to a curious assortment of idlers and early morning drinkers who wile away the hours offering private rooms to recent arrivals, shaking them down with inflated cab fares or hustling for tips in exchange for some uninvited favor. Chipped and scarred plastic seats and worn wooden benches offer relief to weary backpackers, day trippers and those who lord over random assortments of bags and tethered suitcases bound for more significant destinations.

The antiquated and modern provide a collage of contrasts. Cell phones chirping classical melodies hint at a new more contemporary era while station attendants remain callously indifferent to the queries and needs of hopeful voyagers. Young girls bump and grind to a techno beat belched out by portable radios, their dance floor the grimy cavernous catacombs of a border station burrowed into irrelevance by more modern means of transportation.

The Danube welcomes visitors crossing Bulgaria’s northern frontier. A trestle resembling an erector set, with the rusted and groaning struts of an ancient carnival ride, does little to inspire confidence as connects to the border city of Ruse. Immigration and passport control is more of a production at the rail station than the orderly “stand behind the yellow line” procedure typical at airports. Uniformed, expressionless border guards climb aboard to study each suspect; snatching passports, eyes darting suspiciously between photographs and visages. With little regard for schedules and timetables they move from passenger to passenger, compartment to compartment, car to car sternly snapping out their volley of questions: from where, to where, for what reason, for how long. Intimidating to some, the officials don’t daunt others intent on plying their illegal trade. Hawkers armed with wads of lev (Bulgarian money) and promises of the best rates boldly parade the platforms hunting for the occasional desperate or gullible victim.

Eventually, the train once again creaks and labors from the platform with destinations as varied and colorful as its passengers. The boredom imposed by the immigration process evaporates as passengers become instant travel companions exchanging glances, polite pleasantries and curious inquiries. Swiss, Turks, Poles, Gypsies, Bulgarians and Americans share compartments of two opposing sets of four seats encouraging a socialization absent in an an airplane or automobile. Outside the compartment, an aisle runs the length of each car. Smokers congregate while others stretch their legs, chat or enjoy the fresh air and scenery of the unfolding landscape.

Frequent stops result in a constant turnover of passengers, each with their own story. A Bulgarian Turk is anxiously shares his assessment of the American political climate while an old man, jubilant at having recently completed a European tour denied him for decades by the tyranny of the Iron Curtain, enthusiastically swaps travel stories, suggests a Bulgarian itinerary and offers his last few coins as bus fare to Veliko Tarnovo to start the journey.

As Bulgaria’s medieval capital, Veliko Tarnovo is rife with historical significance and old-world charm. A terraced hillside of shops and dwellings paints a colorful, panoramic mosaic that becomes an extension of the night sky as uneven rows of streetlights and illuminated windows define unique urban constellations. Kerchiefed old women hold court amid a jumble of storefronts, eateries and traditional homes on narrow, winding, cobbled streets that eventually meander east to one of the city’s most frequented attractions, the remains of a Byzantine fortress atop Tsarevets Hill. What had once been a formidable bastion of towers and walls serves as a backdrop to a nightly display of flood lights and lasers dancing and pulsating to dramatic music.

To the north, Tryavna is an equally pleasant setting. With national revival homes and elegant shops and boutiques around a bustling village square, an arched stone bridge spanning a narrow, gurgling stream, its old town is an escapist’s dream, an image frozen in time. Veliko Tarnovo and Tryavna are mandatory stops on a Bulgarian trip. Both boast a variety of reasonably priced accommodations and traditional restaurants offering hearty servings of pork., bean soup, shepherd’s salad and ample servings of rakiya, Bulgarian brandy, for under $10.

Plovdiv, Bulgaria’s second largest city, is south and a few hours by train from the station at Tryavna. Announcements of arrival and departures crackle out over speakers better suited to transistor radios and the language barrier is compounded by Bulgaria’s use of the Cyrillic alphabet. A careful study of the departure board and the welcomed assistance of nodding, smiling Bulgarians ultimately leads to another weary relic of the Bulgarian rail system.

With the shrillness of its screechy, whiny brakes scattering and terrorizing stray dogs, the train clunks and slogs to the platform to greet and disgorge passengers. Whistles blow, conductors shout and the train then steams to Plovdiv, its wheels clicking down the tracks with the steady, consistent beat of a metronome. The compartment is home for the duration of the journey and, once again, passengers stake their claims by positioning their bags and jostling for comfort. Gypsies stare passively at the passing scenery or, eager to see how their country is portrayed, curiously peruse a borrowed American guidebook to pass the time to their destination.

Bulgarians, despite a flagging economy and a purported lack of disposable income, are out en masse in Plovdiv. Broad plazas and esplanades and pedestrian zones lined with restaurants and cafes are the marks of a modern European city without the price tag. Fifteen dollars will buy a comfortable room in a private home and, for a few dollars more, enough traditional Bulgarian fare and drink to more than satisfy. Like most Bulgarian cities, Plovdiv’s jewel is its old city. Tree-shaded streets and lanes weave among antique shops, street vendors, fine eateries and art students attempting to capture traditional architecture into other medium. Plovdiv’s mosques, cathedrals, minarets and impressive Roman and Thracian ruins spark aimless wanderings and reflect the city’s varied and colorful past.

The Black Sea coast is a popular vacation destination for Bulgarians and many Europeans. Halfway between Plovdiv and the coast is the fairly nondescript city of Yambol. With acres of concrete apartment flats, the ethnic diversity of Turkish neighborhoods and the continued plight of the Gypsies evidenced by their squalid slums, Yambol is, as one Bulgarian put it, a picture of how “real Bulgarians live” as opposed to that portrayed in postcards. It offers a central location from which to explore the pastoral serenity of Zeravna or Katuniste, two rural communities nestled in the Bulgarian countryside, or the Roman archaeological site at Kabile.

If the Black Sea coast is a magnet for tourists, Varna, on the north shore, also attracts its share. Intermixed with the trappings of a seaside resort are the museums and cathedrals of Bulgaria’s third largest city. Nimble fingered old women drive a hard bargain selling fine linens and laces with patterns as intricate as the lines on their weathered faces. Popcorn and corn on the cob vendors contribute to a carnival atmosphere. Removed from the barkers and traders, however, is a mood of history and culture highlighted by one of Bulgaria’s finest archaeological museums. Artifacts, relics, jewelry and icons spanning from the Old Stone Age to the Late Medieval period offer an excellent timeline in understanding and appreciating Bulgarian history and the influence of numerous occupations.

Bulgaria has an allure difficult to ignore. A sense of self, history and pride is reflected by the plentiful ethnographic and cultural museums and even in the many restaurants that oriented around folk life and traditions. There is also a warmth and openness extended to those curious about a nation and a people too easily ignored by a world more dominated by Western thought and culture. Seeing Bulgaria is one thing; seeing it by train and embracing that social component will repay with an opportunity to revisit a time when “getting there” was as much a part of travel as “being there.”