And Now for Something Cheerful

We were so lucky to wake up every morning in our own private cabin. The extra space was a real treat for us and the precarious upper bunks allowed me to exercise my monkey-like climbing skills. Our lovely provodnista let herself in with water and breakfast each morning like a ninja, quiet and undetected. Her husband, also working on the train, fell in love with Kip and would proclaim "Cat-a-rine!" whenever she went down the carriage aisle to fetch hot water. Our neighbour was an odd, string bean of a Russian (to whom Kip bestowed the name "Igor"). Igor sported a monstrous black eye and what seemed to be a permanent state of intoxication. He came to us one day and asked to sit down, in Russian, which needless to say we do not speak. I do know how to say one thing in Russian, however, and that is "I do not understand Russian". Pretty straight forward if you ask me. And he certainly understood the comment, because he said back to me "You don't understand". Then he proceeded to rant and cackle and blubber about god knows what. It took forever to get him out of the cabin. And he would come back from time to time, pounding on the door and when that failed to result in it being opened, he would just try to open it himself. It was annoying but, lucky, didn't upset or concern me.

Being on the train was wonderful. Sometimes I would wake up if we stopped in the night and gaze at the fat, powdery snowflakes cascading from the sky. There were often small village lights twinkling like beacons in the distance. Sometimes we would be at a station where people in thick coats and furry hats were bustling between platforms and carriages, loading, unloading, watching like me.

I will not ever forget the sensations in my body the moment I saw the Northern Lights in Iceland. I was making dinner and I saw a flash peripherally, almost like lightning. I put on my coat and walked to the back courtyard and it was just there. It was an icy cold outside, but still and utterly silent. I remember thinking how strange the silence was, as we were in the midst of the country's capital. It was all around me. Delicate, misty green, blue and rose hues. Whispering across the abyss of darkened sky. Like a paintbrush stroke from horizon to horizon. Or sometimes like a swirl of gasoline in a puddle. Occasionally it would give the illusion of a waterfall, reaching for the earth. I laid on the frosted grass and it crunched beneath me. I was grateful and ecstatic and overcome by the unpredictability and wonder of it. It was such a mysterious occurrence and there I was at the end of a brilliant year's journey, completely filled with joy in a way I hadn't been before. I know I was crying. I think I was laughing through the tears. I was not prepared for the enormity of it, the power of the spectacle.

I remember feeling that kind of awe once when I truly understood the existence of Siberia. I wasn't sleeping most nights. I would lay in a tangle of thought and try to will myself to just rest. One night I had the NASA channel on TV. (This is a great feature of central Florida living.) A satellite image panned across an aerial view of a desolate land, occasionally crossing a river, a marsh, a cluster of trees. "Eastern Siberia" read the caption along the bottom of the screen. The shot swept along this barren expanse for fifteen minutes or so and then moved on to a more hospitable region. Never had I felt so represented. My whole state of being had just been paired with a stretch of land, like a separated twin.

Luckily, I don't feel barren and cold and wasted, as I did in that time. But I have never let go of that desire to visit this vast, completely foreign area of the world. It was so incredible to me that I could sit and watch it pass by my window!

I was surprised every morning by the shapes and colours out the window. I expected this part of Siberia to be very flat, monotonous and colourless. But we were constantly atop a hillside, gazing over golden fields, chocolatety crop yards of tilled earth, hoary white birches with a shock of tiny red leaves, deep indigo ranges under a powdery blue sky in the distance. In many ways I was reminded of some of the plains of Northeastern Australia.

Now we are in Irkutsk. Everything I own is filthy, except for a thin linen skirt, brought along for the warm, sticky days in Vietnam. I put all my clothes in to be washed, so I had to wear that knee-length skirt (or a bathing suit!). I thought I could get away with it, as it was unseasonably warm and sunny today. Well, everyone was looking at me like I was dressed in a neon green and orange tutu. It's ridiculous how fashion conscious people are, even in Siberia...