Thinking When I Set Out

I knew it was probably coming.  I was in a modern context, with two old middle school friends, talking with one friend about the other when suddenly the provodnista had me shaken awake: “Omsk.  This guy needs his bed. Goes to Moscow.”  I negotiated.  I showed him my translated message.  Family of four . . . how about you go next door?”   He was a young guy, pleasant, innocent face.  He didn’t look like he was going to be doing anything more than going to bed.  So, can I . . . “He wasn’t having it.  I suggested money.  He wasn’t having it.  He suggested height.  I wasn’t having it.   I had three inches on him. But in the end, it was his bed if he insisted and I breathed a breath and shuffled my shit over to the adjoining room, my upper bunk.   It was passed midnight.  Everyone was asleep. 

In the morning, the same guy who was there the day before last was playing video games again.  He had an ear piece in but it still seemed to be playing, insipid, tinny, video game music that sounded vaguely Slavic.  The dining car was closed at 7:00AM. The quiet perch near our public trash bag and public toilet already had someone charging there.  I decided to try the next quiet, toilet perch in the next car.  That worked.  I got fifty pages of my Kropotkin read, and charged my phone.  My wife awoke much earlier today than last time and we shared instant coffee out in the hall, waiting for the rest of “our” cabin, our daughters and the young man, to awake.  Our best friend, the waitress, came by with a plate full of pierogis and we bought the all five of them. 

Ahh, my older one is ready to get off the train.  What was I thinking?  She hates being cooped up in this silly environment.  I get it.  It’s absurd.  There are only so many hours of green birch trees, and wild flowers and “oh this is the fifth biggest city in the country”, moments you can have before you reach your fill.   I read thirty pages of War and Peace with her.  The Rostov’s are finally fleeing Moscow.  Krutozov has no choice but to surrender the city and win the war.  Pierre’s wife wants a divorce and has become a Catholic to secure one.  I tried to tell my older one and her sister about times I road for fourteen hours across the Sahel in a completely awkward position, unable to do read or move or pee and I would get depressed and wonder what the hell was I thinking when I set out on this.  And then, I’d arrive at some remarkable place like Mopti and it would all be worth it.  This of course is not what they wanted to hear.

It was exciting, to once again, escape from St. Peter and Paul’s fortress with Kropotkin.  And I was reminded of the importance of the watchmakers in the Jura mountains to the birth of Anarchism.  I did find myself wishing for more though.  I wanted him to wrap up his life’s story with more than just a fizzle.  I guess I wanted him to comment on Lenin who was probably just another cranky, overeducated, Russian exile that, before “What is to be Done” and before 1905 and certainly before 1917 wasn’t worth the mention.

Looks like a father and son team to my right.  I’m gonna say their yellow and blue matching jerseys make them from Sweden.  Moments ago, a couple from Mexico City were livening up the cab in Spanish.  The poor wait-staff is reduced to saying “niet” to most requests at this point.  There is no more beer.  There isn’t much of any food left.  I feel sorry for them.  These new guests don’t realize we’ve been serving for nearly six days.  Before the Mexicans we had two very convincing policemen here in the dining car.  They had guns.  Just like New York City cops.  I was just glad they didn’t ask to see my papers. 

Just had my first shower in five days.  That was lovely.  The water spat out in bursts.  The temperature didn’t hold for very long.  The wet face towel my wife had used and shared with me was hardly going to dry me but, as with most things that are otherwise common that suddenly become scarce it was precious to enjoy the luxury.  I think I’m going to order an early dinner and plan on making it an early night . . . in my adjoining room, up on the top bunk.  

Friday 6/29/18