My cousin, Caitriona, and I had just spent several nights in Transylvania's mountain capital, Brasov. Before heading to Budapest, we wanted to stop in Sighisoara, home of that most celebrated of bloodthirsty 15th century princes, Vlad the Impaler. We were dropped to Brasov's train station by the man from whom we'd rented our accommodation, a hyperactive thirtysomething in a baseball cap whose preferred admonition to us was "very, very be careful." On the platform, I handed him a small tip and received a spontaneous kiss in return. "That was a first," I reflected, as we boarded the train.

It didn't take long to realize we'd picked a rather fitting day to visit the seat of modern vampirism. Every car of the train was packed -- I imagined it to be what intercity travel in India feels like -- and almost every other soul was under 20 years of age, arrayed from head to foot in black. The disaffected youth of Romania -- perhaps of all Europe -- were converging on this little medieval jewel for some sort of goth festival. Carried into the Old Town on a wave of mascara and nihilism, we tried to play it cool.

The skies promised rain, and even scattered a few drops, but Sighisoara was nonetheless beautiful and appealing. After walking through the narrow streets and climbing the Clock Tower to take in the view, we ate dinner at a restaurant now occupying Vlad's own house (a meal accompanied by some kind of vampire- or blood-themed wine, if I remember correctly). Small bands gathered in the town centre to play all genres of music. We watched them, and delivered a key to the home of our Brasov landlord's business partner, who also kept guests. The sight of her idyllic patio, young family and welcoming smile made us wish we had arranged to spend a night here.

But we had not done so. Instead, we would hop another train -- to the border town of Oradea -- at around 11:30 pm. It would be an overnight ride, arriving at earliest light. We knew it would not be particularly comfortable, but it would get us there.

At the little station house on the edge of Sighisoara, as goth teens were beginning to trickle back for their journeys home, we inquired which platform we needed. The ticket seller had very little English, and we didn't get a clear answer. But it was so late by now; how many trains could be leaving this remote spot at that particular time? When one pulled up at 11:30, we -- and quite a number of goths -- got on.

Something felt wrong as we looked for a seat. There were two levels in the cars, but very little space for bags. It looked very much like a commuter train, and when it made two stops in the first 10 minutes, depositing a fair portion of its passengers each time, we began to get uncomfortable. There was no way this train was going all the way to Oradea.

We alerted a lady conductor, who looked at our tickets and made reassuring gestures before walking off. "She'll sort us out," I said, with no confidence. Caitriona agreed, in the same spirit. "Even as we speak, horses are being saddled," she said. "Blades are being sharpened. Officials are being roused from their sleep."

In the end, it was a goth who saved us. He heard our attempts to communicate with the conductor and leaned over to us, mentioning the name of the stop where we should transfer. When we got there, he signalled this was it. We saw the conductor as we exited the train, and she nodded as if to say, "Oh, yeah. You two. This is your stop."

Sighisoara might have been quieter, cleaner, and more peaceful without the goth contingent. But then, without that helpful one of its number, Caitriona and I might have been stranded in rural Transylvania at one o'clock in the morning, without a place to stay or a number to call. That thought is both frightening and notably romantic, in the Bram Stoker sense of the word. I knew, though, that had I been traveling alone, I would have dissolved into panicky tears at the first sign of trouble. Without a companion, I decided then and there, I'll stick to the cities.