The Transsiberian Express

Day 2, Fri, 7/24

Russia.

Now I know why (director) made a horror film about the transsiberian express (Title of movie, year). This place gives you the creeps. You can literally hear rusting when you stand next to the boiler. The bathroom has a toilet the size of a large soup bowl, which empties out directly onto the tracks when you flush it (man, I’m never going near train tracks again). The toilet paper is gray, soggy and spotted with mold (thank goodness I brought my own). There’s a tiny sink where water comes out so slowly that you wonder whether the faucet is actually functioning or if it’s just leaking. It’s also one of those annoying taps where you have to keep one hand on it for it to work, so you only have your other hand free to wash your hands and face. I mean, I knew there wasn’t going to be a shower, but it looks like I won’t even be able to wash my hair in the sink. The train also rocks pretty violently so it’s impossible to make a bowl of cup noodles and bring it back to your bed without getting second-degree burns. It’s a huge challenge to fall asleep too, and even if you succeed, chances are that you’ll be shaken awake an hour later with bruises on your head from bumping around. Not to mention, going out in the hallway at nighttime is terrifying; the lights are so dim that you can’t tell if someone’s standing around on the other end of the hallway, so seeing a head suddenly appear out of the blue and walk towards you is not uncommon. The 60-year-old blonde prostitute that hangs around isn’t much of a help either because she’s constantly gibbering to herself. Blugh.

Boiler

There are nine compartments in each vehicle, labeled in ancient Roman numerals, and each one holds four beds. The room is so cramped that it’s quite difficult for me to sit on the edge of my bed without invading the personal space of the person directly in front of me. Each vehicle has a proctor to provide assistance and vacuum the hallways every morning, but again, communication is a huge roadblock. It took me fifteen minutes to understand that the bathroom was inaccessible for around 20 minutes before and after each stop; originally I thought they were simply banning me from using it.

Despite all of these descriptions that probably give you the impression that the transsiberian is a living hell, let me expand throughout the rest of this entry why I could stay on this train for months at my own will. The two main reasons are because of the random Russian friends I’ve made and the mesmerizing scenery.

There are three proctors who exchange shifts. I’ve gotten pretty close with one named Anton, 22, who is fascinated by America and enjoys the various videos I have saved on my laptop. The second proctor, Alexei, 27, is a lot less friendly and looks more like a thief than someone who’s supposed to be helpful, and I swear he’s out to steal my guitar. The third is Anton’s girlfriend, also 22, who’s always smiling and lets me use her outlet to charge my laptop (only the proctor has an outlet). She also lent me her spoon when I had trouble drinking my soup with a pair of chopsticks.

Although each room is made for four, thank God I only have one roommate, Oliya (OHL-yah), and she’s an extremely nice grandmother who seems to love me. We only rarely understand each other but I’ve somehow explained the general outline of my trip and how I attend school in America, NOT Japan for crying out loud. She noticed that I was carrying around Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and gave me a Russian-pride thumbs up. We always share our food during meals, no matter how hard I try to convince her that I don’t need anything. She just continues to close her eyes and nod gently, almost like my own grandmother, and insists on giving me some of her bread, or offering me a hard-boiled egg after she’s spent a great while slowly peeling off the shell. In return she seems to really enjoy my Korean sausages.

The others on the train are just four or five families, including two boys and four girls around my age. During the day the compartments get really hot and stuffy, and apparently Russians are perfectly fine with prancing through the hallway in mere underwear. This may sound amusing but let me stress that it is in fact not so fun to watch a sweaty, hairy, rotund fat man walk around shirtless, swatting away flies with a towel.

For the first twelve hours or so, I wondered if it was a mistake to bring my guitar; everyone in the hallway would be able to hear it and I was sure that I’d wake up some cranky old couple trying to nap. But once I heard someone blasting Kanye on their speakers, I pulled out my guitar. Oliya looked ecstatic and seemed to ask if I could sing as well. I shook my head vigorously and wished I knew how to say “You’d probably go deaf if I sang,” in Russian.

As I began tuning, several curious heads peeped around the door, including Anton and the shirtless fat guy. I was flushed as the familiar yet dreadful stage fright butterflies bombarded my stomach lining. It took a few minutes for my fidgety fingers to successfully tune the guitar, and by that time Anton was sitting next to me on my bed and more people had arrived. I quietly played through Blackbird and Fly Me to the Moon, but no one seemed to recognize it. I then plucked any other famous American songs I could think of - Green Day, Jack Johnson, Amos Lee, etc. - but everyone just stared and smiled at me, totally clueless. Bah. The one song they did recognize though was Romance by Narciso Yepes and they reacted with a short applause in the end. Unfortunately this didn’t make me any less nervous.

The crowd dissipated after a while, probably because I sucked, except for a few people who decided to sit in my bed as well as the beds above me. Anton asked to hold my guitar, and after figuring out how to hold it, begged me to teach him something. Oh boy. It was quite a challenge, but I’m happy to say that he can now successfully play Mary Had a Little Lamb from beginning to end, which comprises a total of three notes. Anton wore a triumphant smile on his face and bowed, which was followed by more laughter and ovation.

Returning to the scenery I mentioned earlier, I realized the word “mesmerizing” doesn’t do it justice. The rolling hills and green and mountains and rivers and ponds and ducks and Russian kids splashing around are picturesque to say the least. Out-of-this-world could be another way to put it. This place is so beautiful that I feel like I’m not supposed to be here, as if I’m interrupting a scene in a fairytale and my very foreign presence contaminates the setting and ruins all the happy endings. I spend up to four hours leaning against the window in the hallway and only go back inside when my legs are shaking from exhaustion, and immediately regret the sights I’m missing. It’s even worse at night when all I can see outside is the inky blackness and the prostitute that rambles at the end of the hallway.

Stunning castle I spotted across the river, in the middle of nowhere

All I wonder now is if my kid will see the same things that I’m seeing when I send him or her on this trip across the continent, twenty or thirty years from now. Though hopefully by then they’ll have showers.