Trans-Siberian

"Bells around St. Petersburg when I saw you,"
Serenades a man from California, lamenting
upon me all the sorrows of Mother Russia like
he knows them by heart. Who knows, those
guys from the West have a particular affinity
for the east: farther east the better the
attraction. I would know, I'm an East coast
girl at heart. And that's where we'll start

The journey of 5000 km begins far east from
the warm sand and sun of Cali, in that far
eastern land where the Tsars once ruled. I
bought my ticket in St. Petes, one first
class for the "Rossiya" train - Moscow to
Vladivostok. The locomotive lurches taking
us reluctantly on through frost-covered rails,
screeching like a man given his first glimpse
of hell. Frozen hell all around us on all
sides, white winter wonderland without ever
falling into a rabbit hole. We did have to
pay for it though, 7000 RUB, or 250 Dollars
if that makes more sense to ya.

Old carpet, Soviet-era mattresses
That probably held Lenin on their gulag
Level of softness. Everything smells like
Primitive, old fashioned labour: sweat
Stinks worse when it’s given enough time
To ferment. Just like human relationships:
Cooped up with two Russian dudes – Vlad
And Grisha – who smoke more than they
Breathe, and drink more than they should,
Make me wish I’d paid the extra money
For a first class cabin; if this is a step up,
I shudder at what the locals ride.

My first night aboard is like a fairy tale
version of my Russian dreams: I sit
in the dining car, sharing vodka and
conversation with Grisha - his broken English
and my textbook Russian only further
exaggerated as our bottle empties. I often
imagined this scene: brightly lit, faded
decorations, like the worst hotel imaginable,
sitting alone with my Russian prince as he
tells me how beautiful I am. Obviously,
my dreams of old didn't include vodka or
what it does to me. I don't quite get my
fantasy, only Grisha saying softly:

“Dyevushka, you sleep tonight with me?”
He coughs around a cigarette, almost comically
Like he’d just thought of it. “Nyet, Grisha,
But I’ll take a cigarette.” He doesn’t
Understand. Long story short I end up with
My first Russian panting over me; Russian
Is more beautiful when uttered in extremes,
Sweat dripping from hot bodies fogging the
Windows and making Vlad jealous; I forgot
That he was even there. He says he’s never
Seen – or maybe he said had – a woman like
Me, none exist in Russia but I put it down
To post-coital bullshit, fall asleep beside him.

Only to be woken up by the gentle rocking of
him stirring inside of me; I don't remember
falling asleep with him inside of me, but I'm
not complaining. As we rock gently, him with
his back to the cold walls and me facing out the
window as brown winter Russian steppe rolls by.
He makes me scream from behind while the only
thing on my mind is the image of a pristine
and lonely field: a field of bare trees and
snow-covered plains untouched save by the gentle
feet of time.

"Krasnaya Polyana," I mutter as his come leaves
me like the skiers on the mountain at the resort
I'd inadvertently named. Much to his amusement.
Below us, Vlad lights a smoke and shifts his
position on the bed; it's too damned early to get
up, if the greyness of the outside light is
anything to go by. "That is place of travel,"
Grisha says, but I'm too tired to consider his
words; rocked by the swaying of the car, I gently
succumb to sleep once more.

Dinner that night is a torrid affair of greasy
cooked meat on a stick. "Shashlik," Vlad informs,
as the impaler removes his victims from the stick:
one-by-one chunks of beef separated by onions land
in a pile on his plate. I try to keep pace
with my two new friends, but even my heightened
French tolerance cannot keep up with two lushes
born into a culture of drinking; my throat is
too vulnerable to vodka’s cool burn.

Yekaterinburg comes upon us as sudden as the
lurching brakes can manage to slow this metal
behemoth. At first glance Katerina looks like a
transposed Philadelphia: bland grey concrete
and endless construction surreally interspersed
with the onion domes and ancient cathedrals of the
Rus. Minus twenty degrees Celsius makes it feel
more like home. "That's where they killed the
last Tsar," Vlad tells mw, immediately making
my earlier estimation ridiculous. Thank god
they don't speak English that well. Whistle blows,
time to go already.

As early morning rolls on into afternoon I
begin to crave solitude - a desire my eastern
friends don't understand. "Leave me the fuck
alone," I scream - my tone enough to make them
finally leave. Solitude ensured, I put on my
headphones and dissolve into the Russian countryside
to the tune of a Canadian boy's blaring banjo and
baritone lyrics. Before you could say "Tyumen"
we were already there and it was time to
go out for the daily stretch.