I can see every object the train passes, if only for a few seconds. I look into the windows of houses near the tracks. I can catch a table, glaring tv, shelves, stove and a person inside it. What kind of family lives there -- an old couple, a young one, single dad or mom? What did they have for dinner? I can imagine their whole life by the few objects I caught. Or that train in the parallel tracks. I see faces lit by the yellow light flowing next to mine. And they see my eyes looking at them. Our eyes meet. How was my hair? What was the expression on my face when they drove by? They will judge my whole life by that face. I see Belarus from the window of the train. Thirty minutes ago, we stopped in Orsha. It is a small train station about an hour away from Minsk. Anywhere we traveled, first stop, five minutes, was always Orsha. I dont think I said that name once in the last thirty years. I didnt sleep at all last night. Can’t sleep on a train, though the train ride sounds quite romantic. There was an episode of claustrophobia when all the windows were shut, dark window cover was down, doors locked and strong smoking scent coming through the vent. I got up, put on Alec’s robe and his huge shoes, and went to the attendant to see if she could help. I passed a cabin with a smoking man, loudly speaking on a cell phone while drinking a shot after shot. Like a self-righteous American, I wanted it to be fixed. I will speak with the attendant and shell deal with the man, I thought. But the attendant was local. She said that the smoke is from the outside, looking straight into my eyes. Then she insisted that all the cabins on the train were smoking. When I returned to my bed, she quickly turned on the air conditioner. Am I worried about meeting Minsk? Am I emotional about the views from the train window? -- morning smoke over the fields, mixed forest, strong birch trees, soft light of the country I was born in, crumbly black earth? -- A little... I panic -- I used to know the name of each tree behind the window. I dont think I remember them now. Its Belarus. Even though it is spring, almost summer, somehow, I think the picture behind my windows is fall. Pastel colors and a bit of gold. Because my mood is not festive, its rather reflective, which corresponds to autumn. I remember the smells of the forest in early mornings. Fresh, slightly sour, like new leaves or pines, and earthy. After the night, the grass is still wet. And its chilly. I dont want to see anything new -- modern gates surrounding the houses, new cars, or updated machinery. My eye is searching for the shacks, brown fences, thick twisted branches, old rotting lamp posts along the tracks, and unpaved dirt roads.
Posted on: Mon, 19 May 2014 19:25:14 +0000
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