Day 5: On Joyful Lethargy

TRANS-MONGOLIAN RAILWAY — Draped across the rough blue fabric of my carriage berth, awaiting the once-every-three-seconds visit of an oscillating fan mounted near the ceiling, it occurred to me how strange it is to spend long stretches of one's overseas vacation laying around complaining about the heat. But this is exactly what I love most of all about train travel. There is no pressure to go walking, no need for the locating and seeing of things, and especially no anxiety over which nighttime street to go down in order to choose a restaurant so one might make the most of one's time by sampling a unique local dish. Not that the city wasn't an adventure, but all things must come to an end. 

 = City Travel. Umbrellas, lines, heat.

 = Train Travel. Books, reclining, refreshments. Here Kristina demonstrates typical train behavior. 

I am asked only to read, write, look out the window, and occasionally eat one of the few items offered in the dining car. Napping is rampant. Conversation is limited by the white noise of the tracks and the tunnels. And as the sweat beads on the back of my neck, makes my clothes stick hot to my thighs, I remark, joyfully, that my goodness isn't it hot on this damn train. Here I am, swinging through city and countryside, seeing the sites at a reasonable pace. Seated. It is the stuff of lethargic dreams, my laziness and wanderlust combined for a perfect lay-about holiday through Asia. 

That's not to say that Kristina and I aren't keeping things lively with our usual bickering. While we do converse spiritedly on somewhat interesting things — like America's approach to poverty, immigration, the definition of the word Democrat, and whether or not theories of evolution should be included in our discussion of cultural differences — we also argue about walking speed, speaking volume, how to say the word "breakfast," Texans, picture taking, which direction in a circle we have already walked (I'm still not sure who won that), speaking to strangers, style of dress, the amount of enthusiasm and discussion appropriate before 8 a.m., whether or not Oregonians have an accent, and, this morning, what a train is. 

This is a train.

As we boarded the first carriage of our cross-continent journey, Kristina said: I've never been on a train before.

Hannah: Really? But we just spent four days riding the metro in Beijing. And you live in a place with commuter trains. 

Kristina: Those don't count. I've never been on a train train. This kind of train. 

Hannah: Then why did you say you've never been on a train before? That's not a true statement. You should say "I've never been on a train like this before."

Kristina: The "like this" is implied. Everyone knows those aren't trains.

Hannah: Trains are things that travel on rails. If you say, "I've never been on a train before," either you've never traveled on rails before, or you're a liar.

Kristina: Not true. Everyone knows this.

Much like you are at this very moment, Kristina and I both became annoyed by this conversation pretty quickly. But we continued it, vigorously, for about ten minutes, before coming to a tenuous agreement that we maintain different definitions of the word "train," and thus her initial statement represented not the imprecise language that makes me batty, but an inexplicable difference in dialect. 

(We remain close friends.) 

Thankfully as the morning slumped into afternoon, the things we had to argue about faded, as did the smog, and the buildings of Beijing. The city turned to slums, turned to mountains, and then dry, prickly plains. We stretched out in our small cabin, just the two of us in the four-berth space, dusty air flushing in through the open window. I slept easily, the rocking of the slow-moving wagon like a boat on calm water. 

At dinner time we made the trek to the dining car, four cars up from ours. Passing into the first class carriages we realized yes, this train did have air conditioning. The stark white walls were replaced by dark paneling, and when we peeked inside the cabins as we passed, instead of industrial upholstery the passengers lounged on plush maroon cushions with gold brocade. There was a lingering scent, like frankincense, wafting on the cool air. Not that we minded our simple cabin. It was certainly more comfortable than a spot in the open car, 30 bunks all together in one space. I'm sure we sacrificed some measure of cultural experience by opting for the private berths, but so be it. It is good to be comfortable, but not too comfortable, lest we forget ourselves completely.

The dining car was neat and simple, starched white table clothes topped by a single red rose each. We shared chicken boiled in broth and onion, pork breaded and fried in a rich, dark sauce, and sautéed cabbage over rice. After dinner we bought four waters and two Cokes, adding them to our private stash of granola bars, trail mix, and bite-sized Snickers bars. I've begun to hoard snacks and water, an indication of how easily I am able to access all manner food at home. It wasn't even difficult here, not for someone with money and mobility, just ever so slightly inconvenient if one becomes hungry in transit. Which of course one does, when one is laying about on trains, slowly melting into adequate upholstery. Comfortable, but not too comfortable. Hungry, but not too hungry. 

****Author's note**** At a recent grad school residency session, I was required to read an essay by an 11th-century Chinese lady of the court, describing the many things she finds deplorably hateful. Her use — or perhaps the translator's use — of the pronoun "one" was rampant, and greatly satisfying. I'm blaming her for its sudden immersion in my writing, and refuse to edit it out. The pomposity is, one might say, glorious.