Day 17: Saturation

ST. PETERSBURG — Somehow, in the course of navigating our way through the Asian continent, Kristina and I managed to arrive at all of our major destinations at some sort of absurdly inconvenient time. It was close to midnight by the time we found the alley entrance to our Beijing hostel. Our Moscow train arrived at the odd and eerie hour of 4 a.m. And now there we were, nearly alone on the early morning streets of St. Petersburg, trying to match our printed Google map to the maze of buildings and canals intertwining at the heart of the city. 

As you might expect, the hostel we were looking for was on the fourth floor of a tan stone building that looked like all of the other tan stone buildings on its block, the entrance to which could be found through a nondescript archway, which led into a long courtyard, where finally one finds a solid black door with a buzzer beside it. We walked by it several times before seeing the black panel by the door, some cryptic gold lettering about the size of a newspaper headline being the only indication that this building held the hostel we were after. 

After similar experiences in Irkutsk and Moscow, I can only interpret this as an inherently Russian resistance to advertising. Our destinations seemed to always be hidden inside a wide face of window and brick, up several flights of dusty, cracked stairs, and behind at least two locked steel doors. But get by all that and suddenly you have a bustling boarding house decorated to resemble a Nantucket inn (Moscow) or the darkly chic interior of St. Petersburg's Diva Hostel. Thus I have chosen to look at it as a kind of exclusivity, the cool, clean sheets of my waiting bunk being even more satisfactory considering the riddle I had to solve to get to them. 

Once settled, it was easy to find our way to the landmarks of St. Petersburg, leaving the courtyard to follow Nevskii Prospect to the Neva River, the water-locked Peter and Paul Fortress, and the turquoise walls of the Winter Palace — better known as the world class Hermitage Museum — towering over the passing riverboats. 

Kristina in St. Petersburg. 

Kazan Cathedral on Nevskii Prospect.

The Winter Palace/Hermitage. 

I just think they're great. 

Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. 

A public celebration we wandered into.

At this point in our journey we were still curious and excited, but getting tired, having traversed many time zones in two weeks, and weathered crash courses in culture before moving onto the next shift in space and mood. So we looked slowly but persistently, splitting up for four hours of wandering in the beautiful Hermitage, strolling by cathedrals, trying not to overwhelm ourselves with the scope of a city so full of interesting things. One of the difficult things for me to make peace with when traveling so far from home is the realistic limit to the amount of things I can learn, see and process before needing to sleep or go home. Before I am fully saturated in new information, and the sounds and the smells and the forever walking of city exploration. But because I don't want the St. Petersburg Cliff Notes version that a guided tour might offer, I try to accept what I am able to see and learn, and know that the rest is there for me to read about, to visit in another ten years, in another life, when there's miraculously time for all of the things a person craves knowing. 

Looking through a small souvenir shop, I re-entered the familiar where-are-you-from conversation with the woman running the front counter, and the salesman that had been kindly joking with us since we walked in. 

"Alaska? Oh, so you're Russian," she said, smiling. 

"Yes. That's what I hear," I answered. 

The salesman rubbed his blond beard and looked up to think. 

"So, you were born in Alaska before it became America?" 

The woman rolled her eyes and swatted at him. "NO Sergei, because she's not 300 years old." Actually they were both off on their dates, but their exchange made me laugh, the easy, out-going conversation one of the many marked differences between St. Petersburg and other Russian cities we'd visited. 

As the woman settled my purchase in a small bag, she shook her head. 

"This is all? You don't want to look more?" she asked. "People are shy today about buying, I don't know why..." She sighed away the end of her sentence, as if the day's disappointing sales marked some ongoing and inevitable decline in profits. 

Sergei continued to smile beside her, handing me back the other bag I'd left at the counter while I browsed, then he swept his arm toward the packed and brightly lit shelves.

"Yes, see, you come in the store, we hold your packages safely," he said. "So you should give us all your money. And maybe your soul too." 

The woman shook her head and smiled slowly, looking somewhere between him and me, toward the neat lines of carefully painted Matrioshka dolls, the baskets of warm hats, the jewelry glinting in locked cases. 

"No, no we don't want that," she said. "We don't know what to do with our own souls." 

Yes, I thought, isn't that the truth of it. 

Day 16: Is your face in the book?

MOSCOW — Cue Alex, the enthusiastic Russian man that told me Alaska was basically Russia, when he wanted to contact Kristina via social media: 

"Is your face in the book?"

At least this was Kristina's explanation for the friend request I got from a dapper, white-suit-wearing fella. Yes, she told him, our faces are in the book. 

Thus began our final day in the Russian capital. We had to check out of the hostel that morning, but our train wasn't until after 10 that night. This left us lugging backpacks around the city for 12 hours. We set a reasonable site-seeing goal — a walking tour of Prospect Mir — followed by a B-line for the city's oldest bathhouse. 

Before I share some of the lovely pictures from Prospect Mir — an area of the city celebrating Russia's space program and the former Soviet republics, among other things, I share with you the most romantic moment ever:

Now, you might think it's super creepy that we captured this on film. Definitely none of our business. BUT, it was a public area, and we had been inundated with romantic scenes our entire trip. We saw at least one wedding — usually more — every single day that we weren't on the train. It was hard to tell why we were seeing couples everywhere, was it because Kristina missed her husband and I am perpetually single? Or were these foreign countries really under siege by love?

Mostly these displays of coupledom make me vomit in my mouth a little. Am I jealous or simply a romance-Scrooge? Who knows. But even I could not resist the "aww-sweet" reaction this adorable, if not slightly inappropriate, couple inspired. Thankfully it passed quickly, but Kristina humored me and took the pictures anyway. 

The rest of the sites included a variety of impressive constructions. I can't pretend to know the in-depth history of these places, but I walk, I look, I try to take in what I can. 

Massive sculputure dedicated to the Russian space program and its cosmonauts. 

Kristina's picture of me taking a picture of something with Lenin in front of it. (I know. My factual knowledge of my surroundings is incredible.)

The friendship of nations fountain. Each golden statue represents one of the former Soviet Republics.

Then there's this. Which makes perfect sense. 

 Near.

                                                                      Far.

Just to give you an idea of this building's rooftop statue size, look at the size of the small glass doors at the bottom. 

What I love about Russian public areas like Prospect Mir (which was also true in many places in China) is the music often pumped through speakers placed strategically throughout the park. A variety of classical melodies hum through tree canopies and echo off statuary, adding infinitely to the outdoor atmosphere. But, imagine our surprise when we hear none other than the American National Anthem come up on the play list. In a park dedicated to the grandeur of Russian history, it seemed a little off, but also pretty cool.

How a person feels after a day of site-seeing with a backpack on. 

After several hours it was time to hoof it back to the metro and then the city center, to locate the Sanduny bathhouse. The public bathhouse, though dubbed by Alex not a "real" bathhouse, like you'd find in Siberia, has been hosting sweat and social time for Moscow locals and visitors since the 19th century. 

Men's entrance. (Via Trip Advisor.)

Much like I remembered from my visit here in January of 2005, the men's and women's entrances are about a block apart. From the pictures online, I get the sense that they saved the fancy decor for the dudes, though the women's bath was, of course, extraordinary.

We stayed for four hours. Alternating between the lounge, the excruciating steam room, the cold pool, and the showers. I don't know how much it cost to have a naked Russian woman beat every inch of my inflamed skin with birch branches, but I'm definitely going to do it next time. With my once-a-decade visit to Moscow tradition, I should be brave enough for the branch by the age of 39. 

We did, however, sign up for massages in the third floor spa, a dimly lit area, plushly carpeted and staffed by Thai massage therapists. Though we both requested the basic one-hour back massage, we ended up with drastically different experiences. Kristina got a one-hour foot and calf massage sandwiched by a tea service at the beginning and end. I got a full-body essential oil massage by an athletic Thai woman that finished the session by using her body to bend my body in a variety of back-cracking, ab-stretching ways. At one point I found myself in a full back bend, naked except underwear, with her in a ball under my back telling me to just relax my body. 

I did my best. It was awesome, and challenged both my flexibility and comfort level. I spent the remaining two hours in the steam haze of the bathhouse, switching between the sauna and ice cold showers until my circulatory rhythm felt like it could power a hydraulic fishing reel. Add to that the natural comraderie and comfort of the women in the bathhouse, and you get an atmosphere I could return to again and again. 

With that, we wandered our way to the train station, ready for our overnight train to St. Petersburg. We could not have picked a better way to end our stay in Moscow. And if I ever need to stay connected to the city, I can always contact my dear friend Alex, whose face is in the book. Thank goodness. 

 A late lunch at a seemingly Alice In Wonderland themed restaurant...

Day 15: Too many things to distill into one title

MOSCOW — One of my favorite things and saving graces in large cities — in which I am fundamentally uncomfortable — is the metro. It is logical, requires a minimum of person-to-person interaction, and the signs are plentiful and clear. It allows me to move simply through a place that overwhelms me, a sign that maybe my life needs more metros. More movement. Warm, flowing air is constantly boiling up the long escalators and into the city streets, pushed in part, I imagine, by the trains rushing in all directions through the terminals many floors below. 

Moscow happens to have one of the most wonderful metro systems I've ever encountered. (No matter that it's one of the ONLY metro systems I've encountered.) Each station is based on a different theme and full of elaborate art pieces and beautiful finishings on the walls and ceilings. They usually celebrate a historical event, city landmark or person; dedicated to theater, science, learning, wars...you name it. 

So of course, this is how we traveled to the long list of today's city sites — National Lenin Library, Red Square, St. Basil's Cathedral, the Church of Christ the Savior, a bridge with a view of the Kremlin (though not IN the Kremlin), the Pushkin Museum of Fine Art, an ornate shopping mall called GOOM, and finally back to our temporary home on Arbat Street. And we barely scratched the surface of Moscow's historical attractions. 

 St. Basil's Cathedral in Red Square

View of the Kremlin from the Moscow River. 

Church of Christ the Savior

Me at the museum.

As always, food was a major component of our day — shocking. And it was an odd one on many levels. We started the day at a fifties-style diner, zeroing in on their three-dollar breakfast. I don't think I've even been in a diner this American in America. Happy Days played silently on a TV above our heads, while classic American tunes prompted finger-snapping harmonies. The waitresses wore short, pastel collared dresses with neat aprons over them. There was a tiny, working jukebox ON our table. I had a little bit of guilt, yes, about seeking out the most American place in Moscow for my breakfast, but come dinner, I was happy we'd gone for the deal. 

We had become accustomed to the fact that there's no such thing as free water in Russia or China, but it was usually no more than a few dollars for a bottle. We were thirsty when we walked into an Arbat bistro, and each ordered a large water without looking at the menu prices. How much could it possibly be? 

24 DOLLARS. That's how much. Yes, we had managed to order the fanciest water on the planet. It is my distinct hope that it turned my stomach lining to gold as I digested it. Even though it came in a large glass container, and mine had bubbles in it, I still don't understand the logic of charging 24 dollars for two bottles of water. It hurt. It hurt bad. But that's the price I pay for my habit of drinking clean water for free every time I so much as purchase a piece of toast. 

On the way back from dinner, Kristina had one of her more special moments of our journey thus far. We had an ongoing debate regarding three gentlemen we'd seen lurking down the street from our building all day both days. Two of them were in full soviet military regalia, while a third wore a black wool suit and simple cap. People were taking pictures with them throughout the day. Kristina thought they were street performers staged for tourist entertainment, impersonating Stalin, Lenin and one other guy. I thought this was crazy and told her so. "That would be wildly offensive," I said, "how could that possibly be the case?" 

Apparently someone else agreed with me, we found out, as we watched a Russian woman scream at these three men for a solid 15 minutes from our vantage point at dinner. "Maybe you're right," I begrudgingly admitted. 

"Want me to ask them?" said Kristina, to which I replied an emphatic abso-freakin-lutely not. I assured my dear friend that I would abandon her should such things take place. And thank God I did. Following dinner, as she approached the gentlemen's bench, I, as promised, made a B-line for absolutely anywhere else, ending up behind a painter two blocks down. What I missed was this: Kristina asks who they are, they confirm that they are indeed Stalin, Lenin and the other guy, she asks twice how much for a picture, they encourage her to sit without answering, three pictures are taken with her camera, they ask for 90 dollars, Kristina says nope definitely don't have that, they demand she open her purse, she does, offering them the 100 rubles (3 dollars) she does have, reminding that she had asked the price before hand, an argument ensues, they utter an insult we still haven't been able to translate, and she walks slightly dumbfounded but victorious down the street, with her 3-dollar picture. 

DEAR...LORD.

After an intense day of site seeing, and a tear-inducing dinner bill, we turned in early. While we were staying in a lovely hostel — inexplicably decorated in a Nantuket style mariner theme — the young, stylish college students that were temporarily living there weren't as enthusiastic about our stay as we were. Conversation stopped when we entered the room. There were long sighs and glares when we DARED to stir from our bunks before 10 a.m., waking the sleeping beauties from their rest. When Kristina was briefly using one of the several shared bathrooms, someone standing outside repeatedly flipped off and on the light switch (located just outside the bathroom door), only turning it back on when Kristina knocked loudly from the other side. There was no one there when she came out. What was the point of this? Another girl in our room seemed particularly resistant to clothing. I saw her take no less than three showers throughout the course of one day, lounging around the hostel in between them wrapped in a small bath towel, perpetually brushing her long platinum hair. She swayed slowly from room to room, one small movement away from revealing her bits and pieces to the other lodgers. I have no proof, but I think she's the light bandit. 

But this was a weekend night, so come 8 p.m. the college students were gone for an evening out, and we had the room to ourselves. With the windows open wide to the night air, we were privy to a whole new audio aspect of Arbat nights. Several dozen hardcore-looking motorcycle enthusiasts gathered at the sixties diner across the street to flex and pet their rides — and I'll have you note this is a whole different establishment than the fifties diner, one block away, where we ate breakfast. A street musician entertained the evening crowds with acoustic renditions of Hotel California, and Red Hot Chili Peppers hits. The bar down the street played the Cranberries for hours. We were certainly in an international city, a mix of things distinctly Russian and things distinctly not constantly available to the senses. I fell asleep to Zombie, wondering what tomorrow could possibly bring. 

Pictures from Arbat Street. 

(Again, many thanks to Kristina for the wonderful photos.)

Day 14: Where Indeed

MOSCOW — "Where are you from?" asked a tall Russian man on his way to the hostel balcony for a cigarette. We had stepped off the train at 4 a.m., found our way to the hostel a few hours later, and were loitering in the living area until either our beds were ready or we got the energy to go outside again. A woman who looked very unhappy to be awake told us maybe 2 p.m. was possible. Another man reminded us that, seeing as it was now 8 a.m. on a Thursday, it was very, very early. (Even I know that's not that early on a weekday, but these were college students. Supposedly.)

"Alaska," I replied to the guest who had asked after my home, thinking he'd nod and keep walking. I wasn't prepared for his response. 

"Ah! So you are Russian." 

"Ahhh...almost," I said. Not sure exactly what I meant by that. 

He proceeded to tell us the detailed story of his recent vacation to Brazil. Do you feel like that was a random transition? ME TOO. Alexander seemed to think this was the appropriate time and place for it though. So be it. This is both the joy and hazard of hostel travel. 

Alex was not the last person that morning to educate me about my Russian heritage. Just a few hours later, as I purchased some sort of bread something filled with some sort of berries and cream cheese something from a street stand, the woman carefully wrapping my pastry also asked where I was from. Unlike Alexander, who spoke English, she spoke only Russian. Yet she seemed undeterred by my claim to "only speak tiny bit in Russian understand very badly I'm sorry."

"Alaska? You are Russian then," she said, in apparently our native tongue. She went on to tell me, I think, that when people ask where I'm from, I should not say America. I should say, I am Russian. Then she told me I even LOOKED Russian, pointing to her own round face beneath its flowered scarf, then mine. She turned around to grab the other woman unpacking the day's oval loaves and butter-slick treats. 

"This girl is from Alaska," she said. "Doesn't she look Russian? She looks Russian. Look at her beautiful face." 

The other woman grinned and nodded, turning back to her bread. I thanked them, and slowly backed away, as they continued to chat and laugh and encourage my Russian-ness with many gestures. This made me immeasurably happy. 

We spent much of the rest of that day walking up and down Arbat Street, one of Moscow's oldest routes, over which sat our third-floor hostel. 

Arbat Street. 

Today the Arbat is dedicated to pedestrians, street artists and a range of souvenir shops and restaurants, and closed to Moscow's heavy traffic. While a person can't walk a block without seeing a sale on matrioshka dolls and Putin T-shirts, in centuries past the district was a Moscow cultural center, home to literary masters like Alexander Pushkin and Leo Tolstoy. And it certainly hasn't lost all its charm to modernization, at least to these tourists. The buildings are ornate and beautiful, music and laughter is plentiful, and the artists are, mostly, genuine. 

After an overwhelming round of souvenir shopping, I needed to find a dress. Kristina and I had tickets to the ballet, but there was some discussion regarding the validity of my plan to wear yoga pants with a long cotton shirt thing that looks kind of LIKE a dress. (I should note here that when my mother heard via email I'd be looking for a dress, she quickly replied with the advice that I let Kristina, who she had never met, pick it out please.)

Me, trying to get into our Moscow hostel at a very early hour. This outfit — yes the one where I have one pant leg rolled up and one rolled down, and yes the one I'd been wearing the last four days on the train — is incidentally the same outfit I wanted to wear to the ballet. 

So we found a shop with reasonably priced women's clothing, and set about finding something dressy that I could tolerate on my body without bursting into flames. 

The first few candidates, several floopy things printed with stripes the width of my arm, made me look like an anime character on steroids. Like I should be riding a unicorn that puffs little rainbows from under its tail part. Those weren't a yes for me. 

Then Kristina brought me a few that she thought would fit my "hippie style." (Let it be known I reject this label.)

"That dress has kiwis on it," I said to her hopeful face. 

"I thought you would like it! It's ruffled, kind of flowy...?"

"F@$king kiwis," I said, maintaining disdainful eye contact. 

"How about this one?" She held up the other arm, again, looking optimistic.

"Oh yeah, peaches. That's better."

"Oh great!" she said. Really?"

"NO." 

The winning number was a black and white shift-type dress with some black leggings. Here's a picture where you can almost see it.

Kristina and I in front of the Bolshoi. 

Next we had to find dinner. Kristina wanted to go to this restaurant that seemed to be impersonating an enchanted cottage. It seriously could have been the wicked witch's gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel, but across from a Starbucks instead of in a deep dark forest. I told Kristina that I was skeptical of places that seem overly themed. That it could end up being like a Golden Corral or something.

So instead we ate here.

This place was recommended by the front desk girl at the hostel. She said it had Russian food and was cheap. Kristina, patient as she is, went along with it. It wasn't until we were seated and eating that she calmly pointed out the irony of our choice. I had turned down the place she wanted to go, due to potential Golden Corral-ness and decor skepticism. And instead we ate in a place called "Moo-Moo," famous for the giant cow planted in front of it, where you shuffle through a buffet line to get inexpensive fatty foods. Kristina: 1 Hannah: 0, plus award for Queen of Arbitrary Judgement Calls. 

(Incidentally, the fairy cottage place had fabulous food, though it was outside our budget.)

But that night wasn't really about the food. With just three days in Moscow, Kristina and I decided we should try to gather as many culturally rich experiences as possible. Our first night in Moscow happened to be the last night of the Russian National Ballet's production of Swan Lake. While the famous Bolshoi Theater was closed at the time, the theater we did visit is also in Teatralnii Ploshad (Theater Square), adjacent to the Bolshoi, and an integral part of the vibrant performing arts tradition Moscow is known for. 

The ballet was exquisite, and it would be difficult to truly translate it into words. But I will try to give one example. 

While the large company of dancers represented a group of clearly very talented and graceful people, the lead ballerina seemed in a different class of movement all together. Her face held all the drama of Odette's journey into love and darkness, and her body bent and extended like a blade of grass that could move at will. She was long and light, illuminated on the stage to show each torque of muscle and frame that turned her into a swan. Her neck was straight, but here and there she tilted her head just so, then shook it slightly, like a bird shedding water. Her movement so captured the air and light around her, so held the story she was tasked with telling, that her body did not stop at the ends of her fingers and toes, or at the crown of her head. Instead she seemed an extension of something larger, some spirit of grace and allegory that allowed her to float, filling the room, far beyond the human limits of her fine bones, her lithe body. 

Day 13: Two Is the Number of Consecutive Days That Is Enough Consecutive Days To Be On a Train

TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY — Today was a day for sleeping, and watching rain. And playing dice and hangman. There is not terribly much I can say about that, other than we are looking forward to arriving in Moscow. 

But I will say this: it is quite an amazing thing, to be propelled day and night across a continent.

Day 12: We Remain On the Train

TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY — I am blaming the train for the monotone stream of consciousness my writing has devolved into. Or maybe it's just the way I'm reading it in my head. 

The wheels on the tracks are like heartbeats. Incidentally, the moment we got on the train I stopped worrying about my heartbeat. It is the movement, I think. It's comforting even when it's not comfortable. Like being on the ocean. 

I have realized that it is a bit of a mistake to think that, just because a person is crossing several thousand miles of a country, that a person is seeing that country. I guess at some level I knew this would be the case. However interesting the villages, there they go, and who knows what is beyond them; all that countryside which does not happen to be gathered around the railroad tracks. And who lives there? What are their days like? And there go the cities, and the street or two I see when the carriage is stopped. And the bustle by the rivers. And it is also very difficult to avoid the reading and the sleeping that draws a person away from the window for even these moments. And besides I don't remotely try to avoid it. 

Morning time.

Afternoon time. 

Perhaps a person would be better off seeing the Russian countryside on a bicycle. Of course, a person has to have the time and energy for a thing like that. And a bike. And probably a few other things.

Why won't the train attendant assigned to my car say hello to me? I say it every time I see her. Today I got her to smile. 

I met a man a few doors down who is from Alabama. He said he feels guilty saying it, but he didn't realize the Trans-Siberian would be so boring. I was glad that I didn't have to say it. When I inevitably start to feel this way, I close my eyes and visualize myself moving across a map, and consider that I am about a third of the planet away from my home and how incredible that is. I try not to think about how much the forests remind me of the birch grove behind my parents' house, and how August in Alaska is so lovely, but instead the great histories that have crossed this place. Then I am trapped again, like the problem at the Great Wall, in a mire of unknowable stories. 

The solution is books. I need more books. About everything. And time to read them. Actually in that sense trains are perfect. I should buy a year's worth of train tickets, and pack a trunk full of books. A trunk, because doesn't that just sound better? Even if it is a cliche a little bit? Maybe people should travel entirely in the cliches they're most afraid of. Especially someone like me that cares too much what people think. I SHOULD get a year's worth of train tickets, and a trunk, and cover it in stickers. I should get one of those sport fishing vests with a bunch of pockets, like I'm going on safari, and fill them with film and hard tack. I'm not even sure what hard tack is. I should take pictures of EVERYTHING. And ask for directions even if I think already know where I'm going. I should just stop people and ask them, "Where am I going?" Mostly they would laugh at you or worse, but I bet one out of a hundred times you'd get something really amazing. 

Monotony aside, this is still a beautiful journey, and I have collected some information about Russia. I know that the forests are plentiful and lush. And that the train stations are improbably sized and colored. I have seen two primary types of living quarters — those of the tall concrete fashion, and those of the small and sagging wooden or stone type. From the neat shutters and thriving gardens, I think that I'd prefer the small houses to the sterile boxes of the apartment complexes. Which seem to be planted everywhere, like the innumerable statues of Lenin, no matter the size or location of the town. I think there is a lot to learn from looking at all of these homes. From looking very, very closely. But then we are past. 

We have managed to open communications ever so slightly with our cabin mates, Elena and Sergei, and I have learned several things about them as well. They wear matching rings, so I think they are married. They do not have children. Elena is my same age, and Sergei enjoys listening to music and doing crosswords on the train. They are very tidy people, always wiping off the table and stacking their supplies neatly after their meals — usually sausage and cucumber and tomato, supplemented by cup of noodles or instant mashed potatoes. Which they always offer to share. Like us, they've bought several of the deep-fried piroshkis that come by on a tray every once in a while. Sergei has a very big knife. They are both very stylish. They drink a bit of kvass every day, a carbonated, mildly alcoholic beverage. Elena is very kind, but shy. She shared her coffee, and her cold medicine, when she noticed I had the same symptoms she did. She cried the first day and I think it was because she had to spend her Trans-Siberian vacation with tourists who speak almost no Russian. But maybe that wasn't it. Sergei is serious, but smiles when Kristina and I tease each other, and when we tiptoe carefully into a question in Russian. I can understand a few of the things they say. Which is encouraging. And I am realizing Sergei may not be as serious as he seems, now that I see his T-shirt, which matches his wife's bright blue pants, and says something like: It's good, there's nothing to do. 

My spot.

Elena and Sergei are on vacation from Irkutsk, we think, planning to spend three nights in Moscow. Sergei told us that the picture Kristina took of the statue in Irkutsk is of the first cosmonaut in space. This was our most detailed conversation.

Elena and Sergei are very attractive people. Though it's possible I think that about everyone, I don't know. But seriously, they are. 

In unrelated news, I have grown increasingly anxious about missing the first rehearsals for the production of Les Mis I am in this fall. Last night I had a terrifying dream involving stage blocking, and a particular stage manager being displeased with me. As I am quite fond of this particular stage manager, I hope this dream does not come to pass. I will listen now to my recorded parts, and the group songs, and watch the birch trees, and try not to scare Elena and Sergei with the practicing of my Madame Thenardier facial expressions. 

I slept for three hours earlier. Only now does Kristina tell me that I snored loudly through most of it. What must Elena and Sergei think? I am horrified. 

Day 11: How To Eat on the Trans-Siberian

TRAN-SIBERIAN RAILWAY — Wake at 9 a.m. to fog and birch trees. Notice the digital clock says 4 a.m., because that's what time it is in Moscow. Remember you were warned about this. Remember you don't remember what exactly this means for your day.

Roll up your bed mat so your Russian cabin mates have a place to sit. Decide to go to the dining car for breakfast, because it opens at 9 a.m., and you've only paid ahead for dinners. Discover dining car not yet open, because it is not yet 9 a.m. in Moscow, which is several thousand miles to the west. 

Give up on breakfast.

Pull out tiny plastic cup that came with last night's 9 p.m. dinner, along with tiny packet of instant coffee powder, and absolutely massive packet of sugar.

Fill tiny plastic cup with piping hot water from the vat located at the end of each car. Watch carefully for evidence of melting plastic and imminent scalding. Watch Kristina emerge from a compartment with real cups full of steaming hot water. Transfer coffee, sugar and creamer to real cup, which is now too full, and probably includes some plastic. Eat some dried fruit and remainder of chocolate covered cookies, which have melted together, and require prying. 

As sustenance from cookies quickly wears away, decide to go to dining car to check for breakfast again, thinking surely it will have opened now. On the way to the dining car, get intercepted by an attendant with a pad and pen, who asks you what you would like for breakfast: Chicken or macaroni. Pick chicken. It is now around 10 a.m. in whatever time zone you were last physically attached to. 

Give up on original idea of breakfast. Attach to new idea of breakfast. 

As an afterthought, ask Russian cabin mate Elena, in halting Russian, was that man asking about breakfast? Yes, she'll say. Remain hopeful. Open your book, wait for chicken, watch bright villages and long forests roll by for several hours. 

GIVE UP ON BREAKFAST. 

Stop in Krasnoyarct for thirty minutes. Purchase a packet of pumpkin seeds, some crackers and two cokes from snack stand on the platform. Note that it is 7:45 a.m. in Moscow according to the platform clock. Suddenly produce a faint hope that breakfast may still happen, assuming that not only are the clocks on Moscow time, but so are the meals. This will seem insane, but also kind of wonderful, when you realize this means your chicken breakfast may still happen. 

At 2:30 Irkutsk time, breakfast will arrive in a paper bag. 

Because it is 9:30 in Moscow, this will be right on time. Feel very excited and satisfied by breakfast's arrival. You have finally solved the riddle of meals aboard the Tran-Siberian. Open breakfast bag. Discover it is a bottle of water, a new tiny plastic cup, a new packet of coffee powder, some plastic silverware, a bar of chocolate and two small strips of bread. 

Give up on breakfast truly and finally. Put head in paper bag. 

Fifteen minutes later, a bowl of steaming, delicious soup will arrive. Discover you do like pickles in soup. Fifteen minutes later, after you have nearly finished your bowl of soup using the coffee spoon, which is the size of approximately one and one half skittles, a man will arrive with soup spoons. Though this does not resemble breakfast or chicken, it will be delicious. 

Happily, give up on chicken breakfast. Move on to new world of soup brunch.

A bit later, a woman will arrive carrying styrofoam containers steaming with chicken, rice and vegetables. By now it will be sometime around 3 in the afternoon, 10 a.m. in Moscow, and chicken breakfast has officially been served. Relax, and enjoy your ride, knowing that dinner is taken care of. Since you were fed around 9 p.m. Irkutsk time the night before, you assume this mysterious breakfast is just included, beyond the dinner you requested ahead of time. 

LATER THAT EVENING

Sometime around 10 p.m. Moscow time, which is 3 a.m. Irkutsk time, and probably around 1:30 a.m. wherever you are now, accept in a sleep haze that dinner is not coming. Try to convince your stomach that the meal called breakfast, which you ate at lunch time, was the dinner you ordered through the travel agent. 

Eat the chocolate that came in paper bag. Go to sleep. 

***NOTE***

At no time were we dissatisfied with the service aboard the Trans-Siberian, only deeply and hilariously confused. And none of this would have been so confusing, if not for the clear and regular use of the word "zavtrak," which means breakfast. I know, I checked. It also would not have been so confusing if I was remotely competent in Russian. But since I am just now starting to brush off my language skills, and because the people of this train are positively devoted to the deity that is Moscow time, it took me an entire day to figure it out. No matter. We're comfortable, and happy, and, eventually, fed. 

*****ADDENDUM TO PREVIOUS NOTE******

This meal occurred on each of the four days we were on the Trans-Siberian, at drastically different times each day. I have no explanation for this.  

******ADDENDUM TO THE ADDENDUM*******

Kristina, despite an initial struggle, tried and liked borsch. I suggest that her friends and family continue to encourage her to try new foods. Even if she says no. She doesn't mean it. Keep trying. 

Day 10: Thank You For Trying

IRKUTSK — Almost exactly halfway through our round-the-world tour, Kristina and I reached some sort of wall. We were done looking around for the time being. There were eight hours before our train left Irkutsk, and we had zero energy with which to haul ourselves and our baggage around town. But, we tried, for a little bit. First, by stopping at our favorite local coffee shop, Lenin Street Coffee. (Yes, it was a tourist trap. No, we didn't care.)

SO SERIOUS ALL THE TIME :(

We also tried to go to a banya — Russian bath house — thinking that would kill some time. Once we found the back alley entrance to the one we'd Googled, and rang their intercom, they informed us through the crackling speaker that their sister hostel fifty miles away in Listvyanka was the one with a banya. 

This is about as far as we got with the day. From there we headed to the station, resolving to sit and wait for our evening train, needing some time to just be stationary, not navigating, not limping through communication, just existing.

Here's how that went. 

We saw four possible entrances to the station. We picked the far left, and entered a gorgeous waiting room. Cushiony chairs, plants, power outlets, air conditioning, music...and we think...perfect. In our pigeon Russian we asked the middle-aged, wry-smiling attendant if we can store our bags, in case we want to walk around. Yes. We payed 100 rubles each (about four dollars) to have our bags locked in a side room. 

But the place was so beautiful, instead of leaving, we just sank into the chairs, hopped onto the miraculously free WiFi, and lounged. About an hour later, a train departed, emptying the waiting room. From the desk on the opposite side of the room I hear:

"Devochka...." The attendant waved me over.

Devochka basically means Miss, when addressing young-ish women. Or just young woman, as a noun. 

"Devochka," she said. I swear, if she'd been wearing glasses, she would have been looking over them at me. But her eyes were still smiling. 

She continued on in Russian, which I grasped in pieces. After some struggle, I finally understood — I thought — that we had paid for only one hour of luggage storage, and if we wanted to store it longer, it would be an additional 40 rubles per hour. 

I went to get my purse, and returned with 80 rubles to pay for an additional hour for our two bags. 

"Net, Devochka..." She blinked slowly, and shook her head, then continued to speak. Pointing to where we were sitting, pointing to the menu of prices for things, pointing to the luggage room. I tried to follow her words. Was she wondering why we had paid to store our luggage and then just sat in the waiting room, when we could have just sat with our luggage? Was she trying to save me money? I sort of asked this in Russian.

"You want me get bags? Sit more with bags?" 

"NET. Devochka, devochka..." She rubbed her temples. And continued in Russian. At some point, it finally clicked. We had paid to store our bags. We had NOT paid to sit in the very nice waiting room for the last hour. AHHA. 

I asked her if it was possible to wait somewhere bez dengi, without money. She smiled, nodded, and pointed back outside, toward the other entrances. 

"It's a good life in here isn't it," she said in Russian, gesturing around the room, the high ceilings, the ornate moldings. "Cool air, music, comfortable seats, beautiful yes?"

"Da," I said, nodding. 

"Well here, it costs money." 

"Panyatna," I said. It's understandable. 

She seemed as pleased as I was that we had successfully navigated the conversation, and that my English-speaking mind had grasped the situation finally. I was so satisfied to finally know what was expected of me, I didn't mind forking over a few dollars for the hour I sat in the swanky room. 

Before we left, I heard one more slow, "Devochka..." and saw her waving me back over. 

"You are American yes?" she asked in Russian. 

"Da," I said, wary, not sure what was coming my way. But then she pulled out a crossword, and asked, of course in Russian, which I miraculously understood, "There's two main political parties in America yes? The republicans, and who else?"

After some internal translation, I brightened. "Democrats!" I practically shouted.

"Democraticheski?" she asked.

"DA!" I yelled. 

She checked to see if it fit, and was very pleased to see that it did. And then, from the kindness of her heart, she told me that I was speaking Russian very well. 

Nnoooo, I responded in Russian, I'm not speak very good, very difficult to understand things happening most time, but I'm to work better. 

She said not to worry, I was doing fine. That in general most people don't even try, and it was really great that I was doing as well as I was. 

It was probably the most wonderful moment I've had in Russia so far. 

We left our bags in storage and ventured out, spending about 15 minutes in the street arguing about where we wanted to go, before just going into the public waiting room. Decidedly LESS comfortable. But I've got to say, I can't help but notice how incredibly attractive the train stations are here. They can be surrounded by crumbling apartment blocks — ten-story cement boxes. There may be strange smells coming from the corners and back alleys. But inevitably the station is bright, and beautiful, and massive. 

Irkutsk train station. That's me to the right of the entrance.