NINA - Midnight in Siberia: A Train Journey into the Heart of Russia - page 45

6 • NINA
R OSE AND I had a rule in Russia: Never ask why.
Asking why in daily life ( Why do train-ticket agents' microphones never work? Why
don't the authorities do something about those fatal icicle incidents in Moscow? Why can't
I order some of the butter you told me you have in your kitchen?) gets frustrating. And why
would you want that?
In the daily humdrum of life here, it's advisable to avoid the question and move on or
your blood will remain at a boil (sailboats, seashells . . .).
We left Rybinsk, caught a two-hour ride into Yaroslavl, and are arriving at the central
train station to resume our eastward journey. There is a line outside the main doors. We wait
in it for five minutes and eventually make our way inside the station, to the front of the line,
where it becomes clear what created the line in the first place: an upright metal detector
and bag scanner that appeared to be out of use the other night when Sergei and I whizzed
through. But now, even though no security officer appears anywhere in view, people have
formed a line and are approaching the security area, placing purses, backpacks, luggage,
wallets, belts, and jewelry on the conveyor belt, walking through the metal detector, retriev-
ing their belongings on the other side, getting themselves organized, and moving on. All of
this takes time.
I am generally a fan of these devices, willing to sacrifice time and convenience for safety.
But not a single police officer or railway employee or vokzal staff member is manning this
security post. It strikes me that perhaps there is someone hidden in an office somewhere
monitoring the passenger entry point by remote video. But this hypothesis is blown up by
the fact that more than half the people passing through this security checkpoint are setting
off the alarm at the metal detector—and nobody is emerging from some obscured monitor-
ing station to stop them. The scene is annoying and comical. Someone passes: Bleep, bleep .
Next person passes: Bleep, bleep . I pass through: Bleep, bleep . Now I would literally offer
myself up for a pat-down, were anyone around to perform it. But so it goes. One by one,
people wait in line in the cold, arrive at security, go through the motions dutifully, all for no
apparent reason, all with a headache-inducing soundtrack: Bleep, bleep .
Okey, I'll do it just this one time. Why ?