Tallinn to Fushiki - Grounded: A Down to Earth Journey Around the World - page 27

INTRODUCTIONS inside a train cabin are always a chaotic, claustrophobic affair. There is much shifting
of backpacks, ducking of heads, and careful shuffling of feet. When this tempest subsides, hands are
shaken. We learn that our cabinmates are named Vladimir and Alexandr, and that they are Russian.
In fact, they're almost too Russian to be believed. It's like they're animatronic robots programmed to
embody various Russian stereotypes. After the train starts rolling, Vladimir (the older, balder one) pro-
duces a giant bottle of vodka from a duffel bag. Meanwhile, Alexandr (the younger, pudgier one) digs out
crumpled plastic bags of cheese, dark brown bread, and cucumber slices. The two each take a healthy slug
of liquor and then hungrily chase it with a chunk of food. After a brief exchange between them in Russian,
Vladimir pushes the bottle at me with a dun-toothed smile and a vigorous nod of his head.
I take a swig. It tastes like recycled paint stripper. I immediately cough and tears rise to my eyes. Our
Russian friends find this supremely hilarious. I pass the bottle to Rebecca, who of course knocks her shot
back cleanly, with a satisfied exhale at the finish. More uproarious laughter from the Russians—while
pointing at me. They offer us bread and cheese chasers, which we gratefully accept.
Though these two men speak little English, and we speak no Russian, by some miracle—possibly the
miracle of inebriation, as those vodka shots keep flowing—we are able to carry on a conversation. For in-
stance, we manage to establish that Vladimir and Alexandr are airplane engineers. Communicating this fact
involves them holding out their arms and making airplane noises.
We also determine that they both live in a town called Vyazma. Rebecca hands Alexandr her GPS and,
after some fiddling with the buttons, he finds Vyazma on a map and holds out the screen for us to see. It's a
town of fifty thousand people, about 130 miles west of Moscow. It turns out to have suffered occupation by
both Napoleon's and Hitler's armies, with battles decimating it first in 1812 and then again during World
War II. I would like to tell Vladimir and Alexandr that, as an American, it's hard for me to relate to all the
tragic history that's been overlaid on the cities of eastern Europe. But I'm not quite sure how to convey this
notion using only funny noises, hand gestures, and facial expressions.
Eventually, the vodka overtakes us and it's time for sleep. These have been the best trainmates we could
have hoped for. (With two minor drawbacks. Vladimir is snoring a little. And when Alexandr changed into
his nightclothes, he inadvertently stuck his crotch directly in my face.) When morning comes, they disem-
bark in Vyazma, and we continue on to Moscow.
IT'S about 9:00 a.m. when we arrive at Moscow's musty Leningrad Station. After disembarking from the
train, my first encounter with Russia involves the vilest public restroom I have ever seen. The squat toilets
here (wait, squat toilets? We're still in Europe, yes?) are spattered with all manner of foul matter. Half the
sinks are broken, and several have screwdrivers and wrenches lying dormant in their basins—as though the
repairman recognized the futility of maintaining any order here and just walked away with his hands in the
air.
While Rebecca searches for a ruble-friendly ATM, I wait with our backpacks in the station's lobby and
people-watch. I spot two little Russian boys, maybe ten years old, standing with an older woman I assume
is their mother. The three of them look pretty hard up—grubby clothes, beaten-down faces, plastic bags to
hold their belongings. Suddenly, the boys' heads swivel. I follow their eyes to a family of French-speaking
tourists walking through the lobby.
One of the little French kids is wearing a pair of those roller sneakers that have pop-out wheels. The two
Russian boys are spell-bound as the kid glides by on the smooth station floor. They've never seen roller
sneakers before. Their jaws literally drop. It's like the French kid has superpowers.
Once the kid has rolled out of sight, the boys start pretending to skate around the station—sliding the
worn soles of their shoes across the floor, leaning their shoulders left and right, making whooshing noises