Travel

I step onto the jet bridge. The cool wind tears through the narrow gap between bridge and plane, bringing with it equally chilling drops of rain. It is the middle of July. The bridge ends and as the door swings shut behind me, I glance through the wall sized window on my left. The sky is gray. It has obviously never heard of the word blue, and is proclaiming this fact defiantly to the world. Raindrops thump against the window and squeak down, leaving dirty gray streaks behind them. The flow of people behind me picks up and carries me down the hallway to where there is no more window. There are, however, stairs, which lead into a lamplight-bathed lower level. The room is crammed full of people and inundated in noise. The human river propels me through the throng and then slams into the mile long line stretching from the booth marked “Паспортный Контроль.” I let my eyelids droop and wait.1

«Что такое осень? Это небо…»2

The escalator slides slowly down into the depths of the Earth. It is one of the few in the city that take longer than two minutes to carry a rider to his destination. Large advertisements plastering the sides of the giant tube crawl slowly past me, inundating me with calls to purchase tickets to Spain, shiny new shoes, and cutting-edge cell phone cases. There is a steady hum of voices resonating all around, as well as the dull roar of the subway trains screaming past below. 3

The distant platform is still just barely visible in the distance. Time has slowed in this tunnel, withered away to nothing. There is nothing but noise and people in this place. A man on the step above me shifts and loses his balance; he is forced to step on my foot to keep from tumbling down the steps. A businessman practically flies past me, skipping over three steps at a time, his black suit open and his crimson tie flapping behind him. Several people stare after him. Most, however, are lost in their thoughts and are turning their heads absentmindedly back and forth, their eyes following the stream of advertisements up to the surface.4

I too succumb to the hypnotic colors and shapes of the posters, nearly forgetting where I am as the steps begin to disappear into a dark slit in the ground. With a slight hop I keep my balance, but quickly lose it as the mass of people behind me forces me into the wall of backs trying to squeeze into a much smaller tunnel leading to the platforms. The swift current of shoving bodies propels me onto the platform and dissipates ever so slightly.
The ornate chandeliers throughout this cavern make it much brighter than the preceding tunnel. The shadows are forced to the edges of the platform to lurk amongst the pillars which curve away into the ceiling. They are riddled with bronze designs and each is adorned by a large painting on one side. A brief glance at a sign hanging from the ceiling tells me to join the shadows on the right side of the platform. From here, brass plaques with the word “Киевская” can be seen hanging over the rails.5

The pressure of moving bodies is constant here. More people are streaming in from the opposite end of the cavern, where another escalator is just visible. The two crowds meet in the middle of the cavernous area and merge together. Further confusion is added by those transferring from the neighboring station by means of a staircase that deposits them squarely at the point where the two main masses of people become one. 6

Suddenly, there is a screeching roar, and a train bursts from the dark opening to the right of the far entrance. It streams into the station and screams to a halt. As I am rushed inside, I see that people are even more tightly packed in here. There are no vacant seats, but neither is there a need to grab ahold of something, as there are no areas where one can fall without first pushing aside someone else. The doors squeak together, and the platform retreats behind the train.7

«…Плачущее небо под ногами…»8

It isn’t quite pitch black inside the compartment. It is simply filled with that sort of grayness that makes you long to shut your eyes and dive into the relaxing darkness behind your eyelids. My glasses are partly dangling off of some netting pretending to be a shelf on the wall to my left so the grayness is blurred further by my vision. It is as if an Impressionist painting has been drained of both color and contrast, leaving only ghosts of the original image behind on the canvas. I stretch my arm out at the ceiling and stare at my hand, slowly bringing it closer and watching it gradually swim into focus until it covers my eyes and blocks out the gray. 9

Somehow the darkness demands silence, and so I feel as though I’m being smothered by it. But something squeaks and the spell is broken. In a moment the monotonous ba-du ba-du of the wheels on the track bursts forth and fills my world. I suddenly realize that there is an earbud whining quietly in my ear. The sound is partially drowned out by the train, but I can barely make out the screeching guitars of a song that stubbornly refuses to fit my setting and mood. I stab at my iPod’s controls with my finger, switching it off abruptly. Dropping my hand into the space to my right, I find the second earbud dangling forlornly above an empty cup of tea. It is yanked up and, together with its technological partners-in-crime, is shoved next to my glasses. 10

I squirm and turn over without slipping and plummeting off of the bunk. The window is curiously covered only in the bottom half, leaving a slice of the world outside easily visible. I peer intently into the darkness, but there is currently a solid wall of trees passing us by. While the stars cast a weak, gray light over the land and succeed in partially illuminating the interior of our compartment, the wall of trees is too much of an obstacle for them, and at the edge of the forest, pure darkness begins, sucking me closer to the window to gaze at things that are impossible to see under the veil of night and shade.11

As the train clears a bend in the track, a sudden spot of light whizzes by. Then another. The diluted yellow lights sitting at the top of the lampposts briefly illuminate the section of wall above the top bunks before rushing off into the distance. They feebly slap at the face of the darkness, pressing at it and forcing it to huddle in narrow slivers between the circles of light around posts. Suddenly, the train begins to slow, and its monotonous rumble starts to fade away. As I stare intently out, a platform slides into view, and starts to run alongside the train. A sign perched atop the platform floats lazily past, but the letters run together in the darkness and escape me.12

«…В лужах разлетаются птицы с облаками…»13

I stand upon the gray stones of the Red Square, staring up at the structure before me. Its main body extends upward for no more than five stories, yet it appears to dwarf all that is around it. Placed conveniently at the main entrance to the square, it provides a sharp contrast to the miniscule figures of tourists swarming about it. The building itself is a mass of architectural activity. Windows dance about its face, changing scales with every floor, but never shrinking below the height of a grown man.
Turrets of various shapes bustle among the windows, covered by intricate molding. The great red façade is further accentuated by the overcast sky behind it, further dominating the area.
Shreds of exclamations and words in many languages float past, but slowly slow and dissipate. The structure and its contents overpower everything, in a way that cannot be conveyed by the ridiculous bronze plaque by the entrance proclaiming:
“Государственный Исторический Музей.” The unwavering wall before me presses at me with the full force of the millennia it protects.
The footfalls about me are those of merchants, of warriors, of statesmen long gone. The history behind this scene smothers me from hundreds of years before Columbus had even dreamt of the sea. It overwhelms my mind and pulls me in, and in I go, succumbing to the pressure of ages.14

«…Осень, я давно с тобою не был.»15

A sense of urgency grips me and forces me to sit straight up. I slide myself to the foot of the bunk and slip off, landing silently on top of my sneakers. Jamming my feet into them, crumpling the back of one, I carefully slide the door open. A sudden beam of light stabs at me from the outside hall, blinding me and drenching the compartment behind me. I dart outside and shut the door as fast as I can. Weaving slightly, I hobble to one end of the car, still trying to work my foot into the shoe. Quite unexpectedly, the train finishes its deceleration, and I nearly tumble forward onto the floor. The conductor slinks from his own private room and gives me a look. Then he proceeds slowly to the door and swings it open, letting a burst of cool, night air to rush to meet me as I stumble outside.16

I stand on the platform slowly taking in the view and fighting an unbearable urge to lean coolly against the train. The air is cold, and the slight breeze rips through my T-shirt and chills me as though it is the freezing wind of Siberia. A shiver runs unstoppably down my spine and I clasp my arms tightly around me, daring the night wind to force me to retreat to the cover of the train’s interior. 17

Several insomniacs are shivering near the train, and bits of conversation drift over from people wandering near the neighboring cars. The conductor is the image of impatience, lounging casually by the steps up into the car, arms crossed and eyes glaring disapprovingly at the sleepless few gathered by him. Three men huddle off to one side, lighting up cigarettes with a lone lighter. Another passenger stands to my right gazing upward. My eyes follow his gaze, but meet only a gray sky, with occasional gloomy clouds crawling across the sliver of moon that can be seen above the train. My sight sinks slowly down at the station itself. 18

It is an odd place to make a half hour stop. There are certainly no new passengers bustling up to the train; the only silhouettes around me are those of other nighttime wanderers. The station building itself is impressive for a tiny place near the border. Our car has pulled exactly up to the main building, and now I stare at the dark hulk. The weak light around me is unable to penetrate the shroud of darkness draping over it, but two short wings and a church-like steeple can be seen contrasted against the sky beyond them. The looming building beckons me forth, so I take three steps forward. I then conscientiously glance around me to see if anyone has noticed my advance. I am rewarded by another glare from the conductor, who then looks meaningfully down at his watch and peers at me from the darkness thrown over his face by his cap. Letting a single quiet sigh loose into the night, I stop and turn back to the station.19

To my surprise, my slight approach to the building and the adjustment of my eyes to the darkness have suddenly allowed me to make out the station much more clearly. I can now make out the dark outlines of the dirty red bricks that it’s built from. The windows seem to be gaping wounds in its sides, leading into a seemingly empty interior. Even from here I can see that the glass doors leading inside have been scratched and worn to the point that you can barely see through them. Even the drying ivy on the right wing seems to be hanging rather lazily, unwilling to even bother trying to take over the wall. The building appears hollow behind its dark windows; the space enclosed by the walls is filled only with darkness. I step back, and at that moment, the train’s whistle blows, shattering the building’s grip on me, and I pile aboard along with the others.20

«…Там, где в море тонет печаль…»21

I walk slowly along the sidewalk to my grandparents’ apartment building. It is swiftly getting darker, but the mix of pollution, clouds, and tall buildings keeps me from being able to see any stars. I pass through a row of street vendors. The longest line has formed by a small kiosk selling various meats, but the neighboring bread salesman is having a busy evening as well. Not as many people are attracted to the stand of fruit, which has been open all day and has had ample time to soak up the exhaust fumes of passing cars.22

I quicken my pace as the daylight starts to fade at an accelerated velocity. The vendors start closing down, and their customers dissipate. Nobody seems to be going my way though. A small beacon of bright light swims past on my right as I pass a tiny shooting gallery. It is still apparently open, and illuminated quite well, but the doors are closed, and I see no people around it.23

The gallery marks the end of the vendors, and the street plunges into darkness and silence. I focus on a point of light visible in the distance: the supermarket that marks my left turn. The bright lights of the gallery have left my vision wounded and struggling to come to grips with the darkness. As they finally adjust to the lack of light, a group of stray dogs appears to one side of me.
They slink smoothly down the side of the street, like wolves prowling through a forest. Their gaunt, ragged bodies heave visibly with every breath. Most of the pack ignores me, not sparing me so much as a glance. One of the smaller ones, however, swivels its head to glare at me through small, evilly glinting eyes. It lets out a low growl, pushing me involuntarily to the other side of the street. I quicken my step once more, but this stray has got its eye on me. It breaks with its mates, who spare it no attention and continue in the opposite direction. The street is now empty besides me and my gray companion. I try to keep my eyes on the street in front of me, ignoring the menacing presence at my side, but it is no use. The dog utters a sudden yelp and plunges at me from the shadows. It streaks to my sandaled feet, and closes its teeth around one of them, luckily striking only the band of the sandal. It is unnaturally thin, and all of its ribs stand out eerily through its fur. The fur itself is matted and dirty, and one of the dog’s ears is torn. I swiftly bring about my right arm, which is holding a heavy bag with two bottles of milk. The bag strikes the dog’s head, tossing it away from me. It yelps and springs back into the darkness.24

«…Осень, тёмная даль.»25

The man’s face lacks malice; lacks any sort of emotion really. His eyes stare blankly at the documents as his fingers dance nimbly over his keyboard, inputting the magical formula that will open the way for me into the country. The man on my left with the large suitcase and the little girl at his side taps his foot, glancing up at the clock. My fingers drum idly on the top of the border patrolman’s podium. He snatches up a stamp and jams it violently into my passport. His eyes remain glued to the screen, half closed, but his fingers gather up my passport, my other documents and press them smoothly into my hands. The din in the room suddenly strikes me with its full force as I step past him into the baggage claim area.