It's technically afternoon here (12:43 PM at the time I start...presumably 1 o'clock when I finish), but still feels like morning for all intents and purposes. After my attempt to clean my flat out to a barely adequate level over the course of the past week, I finally packed the last of my bags and headed out last night. I feel pretty good about the condition of the kitchen (assuming things in the fridge don't spoil!), and the bathroom looks pretty good at first glance...on second look, the dust may be more apparent. The other bedroom is in ship-shape, and the hall looks decent. My room is the only one with any clutter in it. That being said, my subletter seems like a pretty chill, no-fuss, no-muss kinda guy who won't take one look and run at the sight of the place. The hunt for a subletter for the other room continues, but I'm trying to stay optimistic about it. I've got till the beginning of July before things could get messy, so I refuse to believe it'll come to that--it just won't.
I struggled my way to Kievskiy Vokzal last night taking not one, but two separate taxis, and had rather pleasant conversation with each of the drivers. I almost swapped numbers with the first--a slight guy from Bishkek who showed me his license to prove that he was almost 40, as he looked a solid decade or so younger. He was eager to talk about the old country and practice his broken English. At the end, it was easier for us just to part ways. After getting out of the second taxi (which was driven by a jovial middle-aged Georgian with whom I commiserated over failed and lost loves), I hit a bit of a rough path in the form of more sets of stairs than I can currently begin to count. Either I've gotten a good deal weaker & more out of shape since my last gigantic suitcase-lugging trip (a distinct possibility) or this new suitcase of mine ain't all it's cracked up to be, but the grumbling & swearing under my breath that followed had to be noticeable to those around me. As a good feminist, my first instinct is to blame myself for not working more on upper-body strength as can be utilized in suitcase carrying over the course of this spring. The second instinct related to urban planning, and what was involved in placing more elevators and escalators in & around the old station, and why the city hadn't seemed especially interested in implementing it. My third line of thinking was as follows: am I losing my looks? If I'd been dolled up w/ makeup, a cocktail dress & heels, would random guys come up and offer to pull my suitcase up the longer/steeper flights of stairs before me? It's a pathetic line of logic, I know, but it is Russia, after all. Sometimes when gentlemen offer assistance, it's easier to accept as a matter of politeness. If they're half decent, their offers aren't meant to imply that you're incapable of completing whatever task, yourself, but it gives them an ego boost to feel useful. Of course, these random acts of kindness would be so much better if done with gender roles removed, but no need to throw the baby out with the bathwater, right? Kindness is kindness.
After establishing my bunk space in the wagon, I stepped back out onto the platform for my last few breaths of fresh air before stowing away in a hotbox for the next twelve + hours. I have mild claustrophobia, and can find the confines of a crowded train car highly unpleasant. That being said, I still prefer it to flying. I prefer pretty much all means of transport to flying, all told. Trains offer discomfort in their dark, grubby, lived-in feel. Airplanes are the opposite: blinding light, uninhabitable and chemically sterile--like a big, flying laboratory.
In any case, for the first time in awhile, I splurged and bought a kupe/2nd class ticket for my trip from Moscow to Kiev: around 9:30PM to 9:30AM, and I intended to sleep the whole way. I dare say I was semi-successful in my attempt, getting in at least 8 hours in a less-than-conscious horizontal state. I had a number of vivid dreams, too, which I don't remember well, but I'm pretty sure their presence were a sign of deep sleep. About nine hours into my journey, I was asked to switch quarters, as a family of four had just come aboard and wanted their own private cabin. I was too groggy to make a decisive response one way or another to their request, but without thinking, I found myself gathering my things and stumbling out into the hall and into the front of a neighboring wagon. Again, in my starry-eyed stupor, I didn't notice the vacant upper bunk, and spent the next half hour in the space connected the wagons, glazed eyes staring out the window, ears plugged and grumbling to myself. Finally, the train attendant located me and brought me to the open bunk laid out for me, which I eagerly climbed upon, using the blank opposite wall for balance and leverage. Once there, I was out like a light again for the next few hours until the attendant's alarm inserted itself into my dream and gradually pulled at the cloudy threads of my land-of-nod reality until it had completely come undone and left me in a state of vague consciousness. All in all, it's not a bad way to wake up. I slowly gathered my things and made my way to the wagon door as we pulled into the Kiev passenger station...
