GALINA - Midnight in Siberia: A Train Journey into the Heart of Russia - page 75

Loud as she is, Marina is so sweetly holding hands with the babushkas, pointing up at
the tall trees, describing the nature around us. They are giggling, almost hopping along on
the snowy path, as an old man passes by on cross-country skis and waves. The sun is get-
ting low in the late afternoon, casting a warm glow through the giant evergreens lining our
path. The snow is almost orange.
I don't know if my impatience with Marina was unwarranted and I'm now relaxing, or if
I'm just blending into this mosaic that captures a culture so unfamiliar to the outside world.
I'm reminded of a New Year's Eve with Rose outside Moscow at a friend's dacha —or
summer home. Nearly every family who lived in the city in Soviet times had a dacha —for
some it was little more than a shack outside the city to spend time and plant a garden in the
summer. More prominent people with higher positions in the Communist Party were given
spacious vacation properties.
That New Year's Eve we spent hours inside a house cooking and chatting and drinking.
Then, when midnight neared, we joined dozens of other local dacha owners in the forest,
as a light snow fell. I was standing with a glass of champagne, looking at Rose, who was
ten feet ahead with her back to me. Suddenly I saw what looked like a fiery rocket illumin-
ate directly in front of Rose, then soar up in the air. I honestly thought for a split second
that I had lost my wife in some fiery accident. She was okay—and watched, as I did, as this
rocket reached the sky above us and exploded—it was industrial-scale fireworks, the kind
you see at a baseball game, the kind where in the United States there are strict limits on
how far a bystander must be from the launch site. On this night someone set it off within
feet of my wife.
“I think I almost died,” Rose said, a bit shaken but smiling. This place can be so crazy
and loud and unregulated and dangerous. Any worry melted away quickly, though, as Rose
and I stood in the forest and kissed at midnight. We agreed that snowy New Year's Eve in
the Russian forest was one of the most poetic evenings either of us could remember.
So is this night, walking in the forest in Uva with the babushkas. Marina is standing
near a log in the snow—the babushkas are listening intently—explaining that it is a special
piece of wood, that sitting on it can be good for men's “health.”
“Health” is how Sergei translates, but I can tell by all the laughter there is more to it.
“Sexual health,” Sergei clarifies quietly. Everyone is still laughing.
“David and I are both fine,” Sergei says amid chuckles. “We are both married men.”
Galina suddenly grabs my right hand and looks at Sergei. They exchange words in Rus-
sian.
“Galina says you have no wedding ring. I explained to her that in America, you wear
your wedding rings on your left hand, not your right.”
I show her.
Galina offers a warm smile, then is back to finger waving.