Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
er things, severed one of Kashin's fingers and broke several others—a clear message to a
man who types words for a living. Doctor's induced a coma following the attack, and for-
tunately Kashin survived. The government, outwardly at least, gave Kashin its full support
and said his attackers would be found. But more than anything, it was another reminder to
Russian journalists—and other citizens—that you can be in danger if you step out of line,
and there may be no reliable place to turn for justice.
What a strange purgatory Russians live in. For so many years they could not travel freely
and took a major risk if they wrote or said anything critical of the government or anyone
well connected. There were severe limits on where people could work and who could own
businesses or property. Today many of those restrictions are gone. Life is more free and
open. And yet the fear remains. The risk remains. In a way, maybe clear limits of toleration
are less fearsome than erratic limits of toleration. Uncertainty about being punished is more
intimidating than certainty. You are always just left to wonder.
Sergei and I arrive in Novosibirsk, find a hotel and collapse for a nap. I awake in mid-
afternoon and jump in a cab to meet Rose at the Novosibirsk airport. She walks out the
International Arrivals door with a camping backpack on her back, looking stunningly ener-
getic after traveling for the better part of two days. I'm feeling a tad guilty for begging her
to come, since she only had a few days to spare. But I've missed her a ton.
She jumps into my arms and I grab her backpack. Then we walk toward the doors.
“You know how I told you it's been warmer on this trip than I expected?”
“Greene?”
“Yeah, not today.”
We step into the cold, and it hits her like a ton of Russian bricks. The gush of wind blows
her hair back, and she immediately reaches for her gloves. “Oh, it's all here. It's all still
here. Good
God.
How did I know I'd arrive on the coldest day? If you don't think Russia
has it in for me! I'm already starting to not feel my lips. It's already starting.”
We get in a cab, and I don't even know where to begin: “I have so much to tell you.”
“I can imagine.”
“I really missed you in Sagra. Andrei
really
missed you in Sagra. He still has the board-
ing pass where you wrote your e-mail and phone number.”
“That is so sweet. You know, Sagra is where I realized that I don't like Moscow—but I
like Russia. Those are the people I was waiting for when we got to Russia. They invited us
into their homes. They had no indoor plumbing but spared nothing to show us hospitality.
They put vodka on the table, and food—pickles they pickled themselves. And they couldn't
care less about Moscow—the millionaires and the Bentleys. I knew Moscow wasn't the
real Russia.”
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