Friday, August 29, 2014

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. 

Thursday, August 28, 2014

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. 

Day 9: Lakeside

LISTVYANKA/IRKUTSK — Our experience in Listvyanka on the beautiful Lake Baikal is better described, at least today, by photo. (And if you're wondering why all my photos look a little off, it's because I'm using my iPad to take photos of Kristina's digital camera screen. It's not the best, but it's working for us.)

At the town center there is this hotel, which is also a cake. 

Coming and going constantly from the small piers were the most oddly-shaped tour boats I'd ever seen. They looked more like space craft. The boat you see above was actually surprisingly fast, and looked to be at least 100 feet long and very narrow. Here's another view of it:

Then there's this:

We also took a ridiculous amount of photos of a wedding happening lakeside.

 Oh no!


I don't know why I was so enamoured by this wedding. I don't even like weddings. But it was lovely and I could have watched them all day. 

And of course, we couldn't go to the lake without eating some smoked fish. This was also lovely. I could have eaten it all day. 


By late afternoon, it was time to charter another break-neck bus ride back to Irkutsk. When we arrived we were able to find our next destination, Hostel Irkutsk, on foot. While the hostel desk attendant seemed fairly nonplussed by our arrival, she did hand over the tickets for the next two legs of our journey. Irkutsk to Moscow, then Moscow to St. Petersburg. 


Kristina would like me to note that "nonplussed" does not begin to describe the crappy attitude the receptionist decided to throw at us. Our very different reactions to this situation gave me pause. Usually I'm the one that's hyper sensitive, and Kristina is the one that couldn't care less what people think. But in this case, we'd changed places. After some discussion we determined that our reactions were based on the root cause of the young woman's displeasure. I get upset if I feel people are reacting negatively to me specifically (or people I'm with), or something I have done. Sometimes the scenario is one I've concocted completely out of my robust paranoia, but that's neither here nor there. Alternatively, Kristina gets upset if people are rude for no reason, particularly in a situation where their job calls for some measure of professional public interaction. 

I felt the receptionist was being rude because she was in a bad mood, didn't like her job or was just kind of an unpleasant person. Either way, we had had no prior interaction, and I knew it had nothing to do with us. Therefor, I didn't care. Kristina, on the other hand, felt that the ethical code of hospitality demanded a baseline of polite behavior, one which the girl didn't seem to give a rat's ass about. So Kristina cared a lot.

I wondered at our different reactions. Did it point to our most basic emotional priorities? Mine, to be liked; Kristina's, to be respected? I am concerned about the fact that my reaction to people revolves so tightly around their opinion of me, and that I can disregard it so completely once I know I am not a factor. This indicates that I am, as I've long suspected, hopelessly self-centered. This is a character trait that surfaces everywhere in my life, serving as both help and major hinderance. Especially as a writer, employee and friend. That being said, I'm pretty sure self-centeredness is rampant among the humans, so, there's that.

The desire to be liked falls into that same category. A woman named Elena was sleeping in the same room as we were at the hostel. She came from Yekaterinburg, a few days train ride west. She spoke a fair amount of English, and chatted with us about our trip. We lamented that it wasn't long enough, that Russia was so vast and interesting, and we had only a short time to explore it. 

"Well, it is enough yes?" she said. 

"Enough for what?" I asked. 

"Enough that you see it is nice," she replied. "That we are friendly, kind people, and not mean people like they think of us over there." 

It was a sad statement, and telling. She had been nice. So had a lot of people. And everywhere we went, despite signs of poverty and struggle (less so than in China), there was also plenty of thriving, vibrant faces. New homes, healthy gardens, laughing children. Of course, I hadn't expected to find a cold and unforgiving land full of cruel people, but I'm also not surprised that she was so sensitive to this common caricature that the American and European West often paints of the Russian people. It has its roots in a very real and turbulent history, certainly, and our respective paths have created differences in life and temperament. But that image does not necessarily represent the spirit of the people in general, whose basic needs and wants for safety, sustenance and joy are the same as mine. 

This is an obvious statement, I know. People are people, yes. But Elena's concern that I wouldn't feel this way was real. Much like my concern for how Americans are perceived. I don't have a conclusion here. And I have no idea if humanity is capable of creating a society in which competition with and mistrust for one another can be kept below lethal levels. We are animals focused on survival after all. The only answer to this, for me, must come from beyond our physical world. But that might belong in a different piece of writing, or not in my writing at all. 

MOVING ON:
Once we stowed our backpacks, we took the energy we had left to explore Irkutsk. 

We stopped at Lenin Street Coffee not once but TWICE during our 24 hours in Irkutsk. 

A yellow trolley. (I was never gifted at writing cutlines.) 

A movie theater. 

A princess carriage and a Subway. Becauase, obviously, her highness needs a turkey club.


Though I covered my head before going into this church, I forgot about the no pants for women rule. So as I stood in the back watching the lovely service, a woman came up to me and was clearly very upset by my presence. I left very disappointed in myself, having known the rule but just forgotten it, and having no interest in being disresepctful of custom. Not my best moment. But the church was beautiful. 

Obligatory Lenin statue. 

 Karl Marx Street. 

Residential street. 

Irkutsk was a much larger city than I'd anticipated, and seemingly more European in its city center than I'd expected this far east. Someday I would like to travel to Russia's actual Far East, but that wasn't in the cards for us this trip. And tomorrow we board the train again, for the long haul west, moving simultaneously closer to and farther from home. 

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Day 8: Are We There Yet?

IRKUTSK/LISTVYANKA — After four nights in a city hostel then three on a train, Kristina and I were at last looking forward to one of the two nights we'd booked in a proper hotel. Privacy, quiet, and hopefully laundry were just around the corner. We needed only to get ourselves from the train station in Irkutsk, to the village of Listvyanka, about 50 miles away on the shores of Lake Baikal. I required coffee in a desperate way, and Kristina was describing herself as "hangry" — except when one is in need of a shower. 

Adeline and Lorelei, who did not speak any Russian, were also headed to Listvyanka. They were using a Lonely Planet Trans-Siberian guidebook, which we could not read because it was in French. It advised them to look for bus 1. We were using directions emailed to us by our Russian travel agent. He said to look for bus 64. We did see a small, rusty van with the number 64 drive by, but it never returned. The bus numbered "1" was a firm no. 

Transportation in small cities can be difficult even with directions, particularly where one is less than proficient in the language, and ignorant to local custom. Here is a list of events that transpired for the four of us, as we attempted to get to the lake.
— We stood outside the train station for 40 minutes, looking confused, saying no to dozens of eager taxi drivers, then finally went inside and asked for help.
— We got on a TRAM numbered 1, and went to what we were pretty sure was the town center. 
— We stood on a street corner for 20 minutes, looking confused, then finally asked three different people for help. We understood very little of their words, but they all pointed in the same direction, and said the number 4.
— We went across the street and got into a large van with the number 4 on it, paid the driver, and got out at what we were pretty sure was the bus station. The driver sounded mad about something. We left.

Figure 1.0

— We chartered a minibus to Listvyanka because it was supposedly faster than the city bus. Then sat in the minibus for 40 minutes, while the driver smoked in the cab of another minibus, looking mad about something, waiting for the seats to fill. 
— Just before leaving, the seats directly in front of us were filled by two extraordinarily rank-smelling young men, their tattered bags, and their dog. 
— We drove to Listvyanka at about 100 miles per hour, eyes watering, then got out at what we were pretty sure was our stop, stepped over the dog with some difficulty, and waved goodbye to Lorelei and Adeline. 

I am still confused about how we arrived at each of those navigational decisions, feeling completely strange and lost between and through each new mode of transportation. But there we were nonetheless. Standing between a hillside and the shore of Lake Baikal, the town still a mile up ahead, we reviewed the rest of the directions that had been emailed to us: "At the stop four stops from town, hop off. It is up the hill a little bit. I hope you see the sign."

Lakeside.

It should have been even more confusing from here, but instead, we walked up the hill a little bit, saw a sign, and found the hotel. Our joy at this discovery was significant. 

The lodge, amid aging cottages and new construction. 

Baikalskaya Terema is a lodge made up of several log buildings, perched on a hillside over Lake Baikal. It is tucked just slightly into a narrow deciduous valley, so that a person can lean over the wide log of their balcony and see immediately below a few dozen gardens and neat homes, a small store and the golden spires of a church. Steep hills of birch ringed three sides of the village, which seemed to be expanding, the smell of new timber rich in the air. Just below the hotel a man worked all day putting in a new foundation, scraping on cement and placing blocks until the sun went down. 

From our room. 

Church under reconstruction. You can see the old timber toward the front, and the new, lighter timber they're installing in the back. 

Fish smoker.

We took a few hours to explore town that afternoon, but mostly we were content to stay on the hill, enjoying the seafood at the lodge restaurant, the very patient staff, and the beautiful view. For lunch we shared raw, lightly salted omul, a small whitefish. Kristina had dumplings — yes more dumplings — and I had borsch, all followed by coffee. 


I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, this is so great how first we learned about standard local transportation, and now she is yet again telling us what she's eaten. Well, you're welcome. Next comes basic housekeeping. 

Guess which bed is Kristina's? (I'll give you a hint. The NOT disheveled one.) 

After a week of travel, we required laundry of some kind or another. When we saw a sign to this effect at reception, we rejoiced, and gathered our wilted belongings. The following ten minute conversation with the receptionist ALMOST ended with us paying fifty dollars for a load of laundry. Just before final decision time, we realized that the cost was per item. Four dollars for a pair of pants, three dollars per shirt, and two dollars PER SOCK. I didn't care if they were licked clean by unicorns, then dried delicately by the breath of a hundred kittens in tiaras. It wasn't happening. 

But the shower was piping hot, and a quick stir in the stall with the laundry soap I'd brought got the worst of the grime out. Soon we had our balcony properly draped, and when our clothes weren't dry by nightfall, we took them inside. We spread them on the heated bathroom floor, which was actually too hot to stand on in bare feet. 

I couldn't help but remember the time a few years ago, staying at a condominium in Moloka'i, when I'd gotten a formal written warning for having towels drying on the balcony for longer than the allotted four hours. And at no point were you allowed to dry clothes outside in this particular complex. Thank goodness for Russian people, who are very sensible.

 Too hot to stand on, perfect for drying jeans. 

When our exploring was done, when we'd eaten the food and hung the laundry, we walked to the hillside garden outside the banya for a sunset view of the village. Upon leaving the restaurant, Kristina waved to our kind — and also very attractive, I just have to say — waitress and said, "Dosve-later." This is a combination of the Russian goodbye, "do svedanya," and of course the English colloquial goodbye, "later."  

"Did the girl with a degree in Russian just say 'dosve-later?'" I said. Kristina just laughed, accustomed to the mix of English, Russian and Spanish that usually decorates her speech. 

Sometimes we joke that we know just enough Russian to get ourselves in trouble. We can ask some basic questions and exchange pleasantries, but this only leads to the very troublesome assumption that we know more than we actually do. But, regardless, we knew enough to get ourselves here.








Day 7: Always Carry Toilet Paper and Chocolate

TRANS-MONGOLIAN RAILWAY — It is interesting how much of this train journey has been spent fully stopped, waiting on the changing of train parts, the exchange of documents, the stamping of passports, the searching of bags by multiple attendants and German shepherds. Every time my face is scrutinized for a proper match to my passport photo, I am drawn to the scrutinizer, wanting to follow them home. See what they have for dinner. See if they have families, or gambling problems, or gardens, or a love for Scottish romance novels. And of course, as a very serious border guard politely asks me for my documentation, I can't help but notice how attractive Russian men are. Particularly those who are particularly serious. 

At every stop, a few stray dogs run to meet the carriage, sometimes joined by a cat or two. They are friendly and persistent gatherers of scraps and affection, greeting the passenger cars diligently. Which was both comforting and sad. For reasons unknown to me, during the long hours camped at border stations and other stops between Ulan Batar and Irkutsk, the majority of the train wandered off somewhere else. Very few people could be seen at any station, just the dogs mostly, and every time I stepped out, I saw we had shrunk to just the two passenger carriages. A middle, bereft of beginning or end, the lonely cars seemed much like this life — a bustle of living stuck between two great mysteries. Travelers milled about expressing confusion in various accents, examining the empty tracks to either side. That is either a brief summary for all human existence, or a sign that I have become hypnotized by train travel, and am unable to look beyond its more obvious metaphors. If I start making comments about how it's not the destination but the journey that counts, you should probably just stop reading, as I've likely lost all creative instinct.

The engine returns for us. 

Eventually the rest of the train always comes back. Or perhaps they are different trains altogether. We walked into the dining car yesterday afternoon, expecting the white table cloths and simple decor of the Chinese style. Instead of plain walls and roses, however, we entered a car bedecked in ornate wood paneling and heavy gold trim. Golden ivy wound around the posts and doors. Golden buck, complete with golden antlers, peered out between the windows, and thick carpets covered each bench seat. The Mongolian style was ever so slightly more elaborate. It seems simple enough, yes, they just changed the dining car. But it was also unsettling. How very little control we have, when one's dining cars can simple vanish, then reappear with better accoutrements.

Kristina is very excited about the Mongolian dining car. I am too. However, after several photos like this, I have realized I need to work on a smile that does not look crooked and sarcastic. 

We shared a crepe with jam and a beef omelet. Then each had a bowl of dumplings in a savory beef broth. Capped by two cups each of sweet, creamy coffee, it was my favorite meal up to that point, if not a little odd in its combinations. Made even better because I still am not sure how much it cost. Around 25,000 Mongolian somethings. Which we paid for with 180 Chinese yuan. Which I think was somewhere around 30 dollars. But that was yesterday. Unfortunately, today at the Russian border, they took the dining car away entirely, and replaced it with a snack tray. Tonight for dinner we had Russian Cup-o-Noodles, mini-croissants, and chocolate. 

Food seems to be a natural focus on slow train journeys. Or maybe just a natural focus for us. For example, Kristina has sung the praises of Starbucks today with Adeline and Lorelei, our cabin mates. I think, like me, she is wishing we thought to buy coffee to take with us, and is expressing this by trying to convince the good French women that they should download the Starbucks app. She assured them that once they get past a year of use they will really start to see some savings in their coffee budget. The girls already enjoy the occasional Starbucks drink, one being quite enamored by the Starbucks latte, but are skeptical about the Starbucks app. They feel similarly about the yoga app, which Kristina also recommends. I have spent most of this conversation, and the day actually, curled in my upper bunk around a stomach cramp, watching small Russian villages go by. 

The houses, initially mostly stone, are now timber, with brightly colored doors and roofs. Low fences ring the neat rows of vegetable gardens, and occasionally, when we stop, I can hear a cow or two. During all of these stops for removal of train cars and checking of documents, for listening to cows and watching small dogs, the on board restrooms are locked. I assume this is related to the open holes under the toilets, emptying their contents onto the tracks when underway. Many stations have a bathroom inside for waiting passengers to use, carefully guarded by a serious woman behind a desk. A person in need of relief must hand her the equivalent of a quarter or two, for which she slaps down about six squares of toilet paper and waves you in. Half the time — as was the case in China as well — the bathroom stalls have toilets set into the floor, so one must squat carefully over them. 

On my mental list of future traveling preparations I have added: always carry toilet paper and chocolate, practice squats.