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Say Goodbye to Boris.

“Goodbye, Boris.”

So…it has been well-chronicled on the blog that I have been traveling with a stranger lately. Where has my beloved gone – he of not-so-hairy face? I left him in Moscow, and haven’t seen him since.

In Moscow, Rusel left town and a new fellow entered my life: Boris. Complete with Russian accent, stern disposition and yes…..the beard. It is cold in Siberia; the beard helped him to stay warm, frighten mean taxi drivers and basically just help him be the best Russian he could be.

But now, we are in Thailand. Sunny skies, friendly smiles. And heat. Oh, the heat. Sadly Boris left town last night to head back to the “Mother Country,” as he so lovingly calls it while looking at the picture of Lenin in his wallet.

But before Boris left town, he had one last day of traveling in Bangkok. He woke up, had some vodka for breakfast, bought himself a “Same Same But Different” t-shirt (the Khao San Road rite of passage for all Western tourists purchased after he exchanged all of his rubles into baht), put that baby on and ventured out. He had a fun time at Wat Phra Kaew, Thailand’s most famous temple. Then, he headed back to the hotel and suddenly, he was gone.

We have chronicled Boris’ last day in Thailand, please enjoy.

Boris and his vodka-belly stand in the middle of the famed Khao San Road.

Boris at a temple.

Boris posing. Do not mess with Boris.

This guard at the palace did not mess with Boris. Boris also did not mess with him.

Boris is the same, same. But he is different.

До скорой встречи, Boris!

Cleanliness is Next to Godliness

On my eating, bathing and shopping tour of the world, I felt obliged to visit one of the Japanese bathhouses here in Kyoto to do some research. I picked the Funaoka Onsen bathhouse because it came highly recommended and it was close to the Golden Pavilion, which we were visiting in the morning.

As I have mentioned before, one thing that I will always remember about Japanese people is their attention to cleanliness. Never before in my life have I ever visited anywhere as consistently spotless no matter where you go. Public restrooms, parks, subways, sidewalks….I seriously can’t remember seeing one piece of litter anywhere in the entire country. Every once in a while we see cigarette butts on the ground but this, too, has been rare. We went into a McDonald’s the other day so Rusel could grab a bite and I could use the bathroom and even the McDonald’s toilets had heated seats and the “bidet” machine that I have written so lovingly about before. Even McDonald’s is crazy about being clean, something I can’t say about Micky D’s in America.

I wanted to go to the baths here to compare and contrast with the Russian banya system but also because I really love to take baths. As my sisters who hated sharing a bathroom with me growing up can attest, I would rather take a nice, long soak than a quick shower any day. Although there was a laundry list of bad things about my apartment on Thompson Street in the village, (drug addicts sometimes living in the hallway and on the roof, 7th floor walk-up, annoying NYU students and Jerseyites puking on the sidewalks in front of my building almost every night) the only thing that really bothered me was that it didn’t have a tub – just a shower. At my last apartment, the bathroom was so big you could land a plane in it, complete with a nice big bathtub. I loved it.

Anyway, I digress. I rode my bike around for about an hour trying to find the bath, regarded as the best in all of Kyoto. I almost gave up but it was a cold, rainy day yesterday and I was dreaming about heating up. I persevered.

When I finally found it and parked my bike, I was greeted by an “Irrasshaimase,” which means, “welcome” in Japanese, by an elderly lady behind the desk. I took off my boots and put them on a shelf provided and then I walked over to her. Luckily, there was a “cheat sheet” in front of her with the services written in both Japanese and English so I was able to point at what I wanted – entry, a towel, and soap. The total came to about $5, easily the cheapest thing that I have done here in Japan.

On the wall before proceeding into the bath/sauna area was a big poster listing and illustrating the “do’s” and “don’ts” of the bath. Luckily this poster was in English and Japanese as well. Don’t stand up and shower, do sit on the stool and put water into a bucket and clean yourself this way. Don’t get into the baths without first washing yourself. Don’t take your towel into the water. Don’t use soap in the baths. Do rinse off and dry off before returning to the locker room. I read them over a few times to make sure I remembered them.

I took my towel and went behind a red curtain, right next to an entry with a blue curtain. I was crossing my fingers that it was the ladies’ room and not the men’s room and luckily, I guessed right. Hey, the one thing I have definitely learned on this trip is that you never know.

I entered into the changing room, which was just one big room with a bunch of lockers. I wasn’t quite sure what to do at this point. Get naked? The room was pretty cold. I looked around but at the moment, I was the only person in the locker room. I very slowly took off my jacket, hoping that someone else would come in soon so I could just do what she did.

Luckily, a few old ladies entered together and started taking off all of their clothes, so I did too. Unlike the Russian banya, which had a really nice “resting” area in between steams, the Japanese baths didn’t really have a place to do that. Once you were in the bathing area, you stayed in the bathing area until you were finished.

I quickly followed the naked old ladies into a room with a huge sink and a bunch of plastic bowls. They each grabbed one and so did I. Then, we all walked into the big bathing area.

The room was huge and light, with a high ceiling. Everything was predictably spotless and bright. I followed one of the naked old ladies to the “showering” area, which was actually rows of plastic stools in front of individual hot and cold spigots. Everyone sits on a bucket and washes off before getting into the baths.

The lady next to me was really going to town, building up a huge lather and spending long spans of time cleaning just one small area: her feet, her back, her legs each got about five minutes each. I cleaned up, used the bucket to rinse off, and then walked over to the pools.

There were about five separate pools, some bigger than others, filled mainly with old ladies at the beginning but then younger ladies over the course of my visit. There was a regular hot bath, a steam bath, an herbal bath, an outdoor cypress-wood bath that smelled amazing and reminded me of Colorado, and an electric bath. I went around 4:00 and left around 5:00 so people were just getting off of work. Apparently in Japan, like in Russia, this is something that people do often and it is social. Many of the old ladies were sitting around in the baths, gossiping, and relaxing. It was really nice.

The difference between the Japanese baths and the Russian baths was that the Japanese bath was more focused on water whereas the Russian baths were more about the sauna. There was a sauna and a dunking pool here in Japan but the focus seemed to be more on relaxing in the water rather than having your friend beat you with a branch in the sauna. Both were nice experiences though – each had its merits.

For the most part, people just looked at me strangely or gave me a smile. I was definitely the only Westerner there and a bit of a curiosity. In Russia, I looked pretty much like everyone else at the banya but here in Japan I definitely stuck out. I’m much taller than the average Japanese woman and have a much “heartier” build, if you know what I mean. I could tell that some of the women were trying not to stare – in the end, I thought it was kind of funny.

The one thing I did think about was why America doesn’t have this sort of public bath ritual. Each neighborhood here in Japan has a public bathhouse and it is quite common for people to visit them. There are bathhouses in NYC but they’re pretty expensive and inconveniently located. I like this emphasis on relaxation and health and it’s a nice community activity.

I left the bathhouse as clean as a whistle and ready to greet Kyoto once again. The sun had just set and I rode my bike back to the guesthouse in a warm bubble, ready to have Thanksgiving dinner with Rusel.

From Lenin to Mao

Today, I realized that I never wrote about seeing Mao’s body in Tiananmen Square. It certainly was a trip highlight -- in a totally creepy way -- to see Lenin’s waxy figure in Red Square and then finish our trip with another corpse in Beijing.

The thing that I guess I never realized is that countries actually preserve the bodies of their revered leaders. I mean, I guess it’s kind of a modern-day phenomenon. I don’t think that it was probably possible, scientifically, to preserve bodies so well until quite recently. Mummies are the best attempt to do this and who knows how they looked 50 or 25 years out.

The preservation of Lenin’s body is mired in mystery and controversy and it is even rumored that it’s not his body on display but a wax figure. To be honest, Mao’s body looked faker than Lenin’s, but they both were totally weird. Maybe the thing that made Lenin’s body look more “real” was the fact that we could see his hands, whereas with Mao’s body it was just his head. Both were decked out in finery: Lenin in a nice suit and Mao in a military-like uniform.

In Russia, we were ushered in two at a time (I guess if you’re alone, you’re ushered in alone) and, as we entered the mausoleum, a Russian soldier who pointed to his left promptly shushed us. We followed his direction until we came to another Russian soldier who pointed to his left, and so on and so forth. This probably went on for about seven turns and seven different soldiers, all in dimly lit corridors and stairways. When we finally got to Lenin, there was a strange, low light shining on his body, which was placed in a glass box.

For a few moments – ten seconds, max – it was just Rusel, Lenin, and I. We were then motioned on by yet another Russian guard and the same process that had happened before, in reverse, took place until we exited back into the cold Russian winter.

Viewing Mao’s body was a completely different experience and ultimately, it says a lot about the differences between the two countries. We got to the mausoleum at about 11:20 a.m. and it closed at 11:30 so we were cutting it close. The actual building was about ten times the size of Lenin’s, as was Tiananmen Square. The long line outside was crowded with Chinese tourists – we were the only Westerners.

As with Lenin, security was extremely tight at Mao’s memorial. We had to check our bags and cameras and, as we were running late, we didn’t know where to go or what to do. A Chinese man, whom we mistook for an actual employee at the mausoleum, offered to “help” us figure out the entire system in exchange for 50 yuan – about $6. In the end, the mausoleum was free to visit and he did really help us so it was probably worth it. Had he not assisted us we may not have made it in time.

After we hurriedly checked our bags across the street from the building and ran back to the line, we were pretty quickly ushered up the huge stairs with a big group of other tourists. We entered a large room with high-vaulted ceilings and a statue of Mao sitting in a chair (perhaps this is why he’s called ‘The Chairman’?) in front of a huge, tacky mural of mountains. In front of the statue were hundreds of flowers left by previous visitors.

Unlike Lenin, where it was only the two of us, this time two huge lines were formed in their outer area and the foot traffic just flowed into one huge room behind this one. Before we knew it, we were staring at Mao’s body – with about one hundred other people. And then, we were gone.

The experience was definitely a shared one. A baby in front of us was crying and someone’s cell phone went off behind us. Everyone was trying to be quiet, but there was an excited buzz in the room as we actually walked by the body, which was also enclosed in glass. It was evident that Mao was just as respected as Lenin – if not more so – but this experience was more communal.

In the end, that’s probably what I liked so much about China. Today, as we were through the French Concession’s narrow back alleyways, it was evident that so much of China’s space is shared space and there seems to be a totally different mentality about identity and relationship. It’s more like Bali, in a way. Here, people are literally living on top of each other and I get the feeling that they’re happy to do it that way and probably even prefer it.

It got me thinking about New York City as well, where people live in a similar manner. But it’s different. Here, people’s doors and windows are open and friends stop by to chat, play cards, drink tea. In New York City, once you get home the door is locked and the city is left behind. Loneliness seems to be more of a hallmark of New York City, whereas here more value seems to be placed on shared experiences.

But all that is changing in Shanghai and perhaps other places in China as well. Loyal and well-read reader Julie sent me some information today about the demolition of Shanghai’s traditional neighborhoods to make way for new apartment complexes and buildings (read more about it here). I do get the feeling that China is in a current state of rapid change – which is exciting and sad at the same time.

We’ve had such a great time here and I have really fallen for the people here who have been so quick to smile and lend a helping hand. I wish them the best in this transformation, although my sentiment is slightly bittersweet because I actually like it just the way it is right now.

Ocean of Wisdom

From the travel notebook of Rusel Parish...

As we made our way on the train, the Siberian ground had a thin sheet of newly-made snow that crossed the entire horizon. It seemed non-discriminatory as to where it fell and little of it appeared to have melted upon delivery. Beneath it we could still make out the wilted life that once sprouted from the soil. Barren trees and wilted grass attempted to still make the show but you could foresee their grim future. We knew what they knew: that through the next few months the elements of the Siberian winter desert would force them into a greater retreat.

When the Soviet government finally collapsed due to internal bankruptcy, America reported that central government was a failure and that the USSR was a catastrophic failure. China began to open up and the fall of the Berlin wall -- the age of the free market -- had proven itself the winner over central planning. The flat distribution of goods, closed market and price control led to a market that was unable to sustain itself and when the markets opened, the USSR would go through an entire upheaval process that continues to this day. Unlike Germany or any of the given Soviet states that broke off, this land covered a vast amount of space and economic groups who had never experienced an open society. By all accounts it would take years to undo the suppressive Soviet control.

The stark difference between city and rural is beyond the American comprehension. In the city the free market survives, malls are built and the eternal cycle of construction continues, to the point where it seemed they were doing construction for construction’s sake. If you plugged your ears it could almost seem as if you were in America or another European city. Walking across the city you could compare what was old, communist and new. Cold gray communist buildings were quickly being laid flat and smart organic curvilinear buildings built to replace. Historic buildings were kept in place, often being modernized into a shopping complex. The interesting contrast is that monuments to Lenin are remaining in place, usually giving an ironic stare into capitalism’s face. Lenin’s tomb now lies directly across a warm yellow shopping mall. My mind often humored at the irony of this and his stiff waxed body that is being preserved in his tomb is symbolic of his eternal agony as capitalism slowly replaces his dream (it was also against his specific wishes to be made into a monument in his honor). In a way, he is observing his own version of hell.

As we have taken our tour of the country the contrast into the state has been something to behold. Small towns offer tacked up houses and pollution seems beyond repair. The streams long stopped flowing and are now a thick green substance where bottles and trash are frozen floating for all time until they finally rot. The rolling landscapes are not extensions of a free market and farms and goods do not seem in abundance. The communist backlash seems to continue and the drab gray buildings still offer the residents that opportunity to move up from the umber worn houses.

Not that the landscape does not offer a unique beauty to it. It is neither tundra nor a wild forest. The mind does not race with a fairy tale, but stories of survival and perseverance come to mind. The human ability to conquer its elements. The grass becomes a golden mat and the sky while a persistent gray does turn to a romantic blanket after many miles. The houses become treasure boxes and one ponders what treasures lay in the deep dark windows that have become closed eyes seemingly waiting to be woken from their long slumber and offer their ocean of wisdom into the world.

A Humble Home

From the travel notebook of Rusel Parish:

As our little blue train maneuvers its way through the small mounds of the Ural Mountains my glance penetrates the three panes of glass that each of the train’s windows have to withstand the cold heart of Russia. My eyes fall not on the Alps, the Rocky Mountains or even the Catskills. You would expect the mountains dividing the mighty continents of Europe and Asia to be an impressive rock edge that would protrude from the earth in some heroic manner toward the heavens. That somehow, nature would celebrate the separation of these two great landmasses that have had such a profound impact on our world with something worthy of a legend.

Instead, the mountains do not rise more than 1640 feet. As the images enter the train’s window with a small whimper they do call my attention in a way, the golden grass now long dead lays flat and thousands of birch trees rise and fall in simple two-note symphonies that seem grander than Beethoven’s 9th. Along the trails small wooden houses form basket-like patterns here and there.

These are not the cozy suburbs of New Jersey or of the small towns in Nebraska filled with homes with an apple pie at its window set to cool. These are houses built out of any given number of raw umber slabs nailed together, often haphazardly, something more like Little House on the Prairie if Michael Landon built it himself. The cold banal exteriors multiply into small towns where well-covered Russians occasionally emerge from missing slabs onto the landscape and quietly shuffle in the muddy roads. Their breaths stain the soft violet air as they march and you can follow their footsteps as they make the same trek daily. There is no center of town or even anything that would mark a store.

This is not the introduction to the Siberian landscape as I had imagined. My mind fades as we climb five feet higher over an hour and the houses appear to loose shape and often function. I catch myself pondering whether it is some ghostly abandoned town that even Clint Eastwood would shy from, but people do indeed reside and puffs of smoke penetrate each slanted roof like a smoldering cigarette. The smoke almost seems to speak that the house does indeed breathe, that people do survive even under these sunless conditions.

It almost seems as though some mass flood birthed onto these mountain shores and devastated the region, ripping away birch leaves and sides of houses. Somehow New Orleans seemed to happen everyday here and as people washed upon these shallow mounds they took pieces of houses with them that washed up. As they rebuilt they grabbed a door here and a window from over there and prepared for the next flood that would inevitably come the next day.

These hardly seem like homes; especially of a country we once considered a super power. It is hard to imagine these conditions existing in the US, even during the cold war. That these were our enemies, the ones who posed a nuclear threat. These people seem so gentle and fragile, a far contrast of the proud walls of the Kremlin or the sneer of Lenin’s tomb. This landscape seems more out of the Wild West, had it taken place in Northern Canada during January.

The Thief, The Prophet and The Drunk Part III

This is the final posting in a three-part series.

The Prophet

By Rusel Parish

Whenever I travel, on some level, I am searching for the meaning of life; a purpose or some great answer to an unknown. Having gone through this a few times I always come back not knowing any more but full of more questions.

Russia was a vigorous battle to which little answers were unveiled. On our adventure to Lake Baikal we met a man whom I call “The Prophet.” He is named after Saint Sergey, who is considered the holiest saint in all of Russia. He told us that this saint speaks to him and he bears this cross of a name with a “Lion Heart” and ultimately, it has helped him to become a teacher to his community.

In him we tapped into a deep reservoir of knowledge and over the course of about ten hours while we  were at Nikita's we had the opportunity to talk with him. He opened our shuteyes to a different side of Russia. To start, he summed up Russia as “sour and bitter.” I thought it funny that he did not say “sweet” to conclude his thought. However, after traveling through Russia, it has not been sweet -- although occasionally we did stumble upon kindness the likes of which he showed us at the lake.

Lake Baikal is considered a spiritual place. The lake is pure clean water, so pure that you can drink from its well without fear.  In Russia the lake is revered and honored as well as celebrated for its healing effects. Many come here seeking spiritual fulfillment, in fact the island is considered a general place of enlightenment. Buddhists, the largest religious group here, have a celebrated trek to the waters once a year to drink from its mouth.

Sergey is here establishing a Russian orthodox community church, which is small and humble. He advocates for it, keeps the keys and builds on its mission. After a quick meeting he took us to the church to show us around and we quickly went into question mode, where he told us how the church was founded (a story that deserves its own post, but too long now) and the spiritual history of the island. We quickly hit it off and I asked him the full gambit of questions and absorbed as much as I could. I told him I was agnostic, but clearly eager to discuss faith and philosophical understanding. He was well studied in both and our conversation ranged from Kant, Hume and then back to God.

The conversation veered through history and his beliefs. I asked him about infinity (replaced for the word of enlightenment, nirvana, spirituality, fulfillment etc. which I have found is pretty interchangeable with most religions and philosophers, regardless of belief – being agnostic I am typically uncomfortable using strong religious words to convey my beliefs). I told him that I sought to understand infinity but that I was troubled. I do not understand a world where enlightenment clearly seems to exist; yet vast seas of people continually seek it out. The reward of infinity or enlightenment seems unlikely, as I have not actually seen the proof. I question: is this path indeed worthy of pursuit? Does it exist?

He told me that not all people had the ability of infinity or understanding. He believed that God gave this ability to only some people and all others either sought it in vain or just lived as if they were a member of a herd (not in a condescending sense – but just lived a life in society – more of a biblical sense: there is Jesus, and we are his herd).

But no one knows who has the ability to reach enlightenment and who does not. I told him that I did not now if it was worth searching and struggling to understand infinity, as I had not known if I had ever crossed paths with someone who had obtained it and perhaps my time would be better spent at other activities. I asked him if he had crossed anyone who had been enlightened and what his thoughts were. He said he had not, but he had faith that his religious leaders, Jesus and his saints had achieved the feat.

He then told us a short story, which would sum up his thoughts. He said that a wise man traveled to a monastery high in the mountains to study. It was considered the best and brightest in the land. Upon going there he asked the monks: What is your wisdom and enlightenment?

They said: “Love your enemy.” He said, “I do.”

They said:  “Love God.” He said,  “I do.”

They said: “Love yourself.” “He said,  “I do.”

They said: “Depart then; we have nothing to teach you because you are already enlightened.”

At this advice he was saddened and felt that even the wisest men in the land were as clueless as he. For the next 50 years he continued to study, struggle, seek discipline and seek to understand infinity. Then one day, in deep thought and study, he realized infinity and that he had had this knowledge since that day at the monastery. He looked back on his life and mused at the great journey he had taken for something he already had.

The Prophet told me that it is not infinity, but the journey of understanding infinity. That I may never reach it, that I may not be the one that God made to understand such things, but to continue my journey, for it was the journey that was important. .

I am not sure if he actually provided me with any different answers from what I already understood but I thanked him for the spirituality he had shared with us.

He told us we were very curious for Americans.

Goodbye, Russia. Hello, Mongolia!

We made it back to Irkutsk from the island on Wednesday without much incident. We caught the minibus back – by the time we made it down to the “bus station” on the island (someone’s brown wooden house with blue windows), it was already packed full and we were the last people to board.

Of course, there was a completely insane man on the bus who talked the entire trip. At first I thought that he was talking to the woman next to him, but she quickly nodded off yet he kept talking. And talking. He talked to nobody in particular the entire trip. He was dirty and appeared as if he hadn’t showered in years – I read somewhere that during the Revolution, Siberian peasants didn’t shower the entire winter and it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if this man was carrying on that tradition. At one point, he ate a hotdog without the bun by opening it up from the skin and eating the meat inside, bit by bit, and then throwing the skin out the window with his dirt-stained fingers. At that point, he had dropped little pieces of hotdog all over the van. Nice.

Once at Irkutsk, we went to an amazing market and stocked up on food for the 36-hour trip to Mongolia – the market had whole aisles devoted to cheese, an aisle to meat, an aisle to vegetables – and everything seemed fresh off the farm (although I don’t think we saw one farm the entire time we were in Russia, which struck us as odd). We went to a wireless café but had some problems and had to abandon everything mid-way through our work (my blogging) to hurry to catch the train -- so I apologize for the state that I left it in the past few days. You have no idea how it killed me!

The train to Mongolia was probably one of the nicest we’ve been on yet – and as luck would have it, we had the entire compartment to ourselves for the 36-hour journey. The train was exceptionally clean, and hardly full at all. In the compartment next to us were three Swedish people about our age, and one compartment over on the other side was a very sweet Mongolian family that we befriended. For most of the trip, that was it.

The train looped around the southern end of Lake Baikal and then started heading south towards Mongolia. This is where we have ventured off of the traditional trans-Siberian train journey and begin taking an alternate route down to Beijing. Many people continue on to Vladivostok (the end of the line in Russia) but we have opted to go to Mongolia and then Beijing instead. As we went south, it began to snow and the train went through a little mini-blizzard. We were now going through a desert, ringed by mountains, and it was gorgeous with the snow. Being on the train can be tiresome at times, but then I look out the window and remember what it's all about. The terrain did get a bit monotonous at times in Russia but suddenly, everything outside our window had changed and it was a good change.

The hardest part of the journey was definitely crossing the border from Russia into China – it required patience on both of our parts. We stopped at the Russian border town of Nauski around 1:30 in the afternoon. Our Mongolian friend, Bolor, spoke near-perfect English and told us that immigration would show up at the train around 4:00, and that we should feel free to wander around the village until then.

We ventured into the village, which was completely desolate with only a burned-out car body or lonely babushka standing in front of her house, staring at us. We walked around a bit but quickly realized that there wasn’t much to see and then there was always the idea, in the back of both of our minds, that the train could just leave at any point without us (although unfounded, both of us have had nightmares about this a few times! I have no idea what I would do in the middle of Siberia with nothing at all – although it would make a great book!). We went back onto the train and basically sat there through immigration and customs, and left Russia around 6:00. We slowly chugged along to Mongolia and this side was a bit faster – we were out of there in about three hours. All in all, the process took about 8 hours, all to go about 10 miles.

That was last night – we spent two nights on that train and one day. We were awakened this morning at 5:30 a.m. by our provodnitsa when our train arrived in Ulaanbaatar (or “UB” for short) at 6:30 a.m. Our Mongolian friend had sweetly lent us his phone (our Russian number is no longer, great that I got to talk to you Paige! We’ll update with our Chinese number soon) on the train to call ahead and arrange accommodation once we arrived. As we stumbled off the train into the dark morning, I saw someone holding a sign that said “Gana’s Guesthouse,” the place we had arranged to stay.
“Welcome to Mongolia!” the woman holding the sign sang out. She had the sweetest voice to go with her sweet face framed by a fur-lined hood. Even though it was way too early to smile, I got such a rush of happiness: We were in Mongolia!

Rusel and I both appreciated our adventures in Russia but to be honest, after three weeks, we were ready to move on. I would say that we had some very high highs and some very low lows there – but I loved every minute of it and will always remember the time and the place fondly. We have already promised to return to Olkhon Island one day and I know that we will. It was just one of those spots where everything was aligned, and perfect. We both loved it.

The Thief, The Prophet and The Drunk Part II

This is the second in a three-part series.

The Drunk


When Rusel and I arrived at Nikita’s, we had been traveling for almost three weeks without really conversing with anyone above and beyond the basic Russian we had picked up, and the basic English words spoken by charitable Russians along the way. After only talking to each other, Rusel and I were beginning to look like that couple you see at a restaurant, perhaps at the next table over, who aren’t talking at all.

Then, suddenly, you’ll see one of them open up their mouth and you wait, with baited breath, to eavesdrop and hear what he or she has to say to their companion.

“Could you please pass the salt?”

I always look at these people and think to myself, “If I am ever in a relationship like that – when I have nothing at all to say to my boyfriend at dinner – just shoot me.”

Yet here Rusel and I were, arriving just in time for lunch at Nikita’s, almost all talked out. The dining area was perhaps the best thing about the homestead because it was the communal area where meals were eaten, vodka was drank, instruments were played and they always had hot tea and coffee brewing.

We immediately sat down at a table with a lone guy eating his lunch.

“Hi, mind if we sit with you?” we asked.

“Please, sit!” he said with a big smile. He introduced himself as Marcus and so began a beautiful friendship. Marcus is German and had been traveling via train since Germany.

“I wanted to see how the train cars changed along the way,” he said. He had been there for a few days so he already knew the ropes of the place and was happy to show us around, introduce us to people and provide interesting conversation. As far as companions go, we had hit the jackpot. He was interesting, funny, sweet and intelligent.

He admired Rusel’s camera at lunch, and soon they were both talking shop about photography. Rusel had met his match regarding the art of photo taking and when we met up after lunch, Marcus had his slightly-better-and-bigger camera along, giving Rusel camera envy. Soon, they were both playing dueling cameras, each trying to get the best shot of the extremely photogenic island.

When we were dining with Marcus at lunch, a Russian man named Sergey (also known as The Prophet…more later) came to our table and asked Marcus if he would do him a favor – take photographs of the land next to the new church on the hill. A man in Moscow was thinking about purchasing the land to build a house, and when he died he would leave the house to the church. Marcus said he was happy to do it but wasn’t sure how he would transfer the photos to Sergey, as there isn’t really much of an Internet connection on the island. Rusel said that he could do it, download the pictures onto his computer and then burn them onto a disk for him, and so it was decided that Rusel would take the pictures.

So we all met up after lunch and hiked to the top of the hill in back of Nikita’s. The church had just been built, and Sergey was the church’s caretaker. He also lives at Nikita’s and seems like a jack-of-all-trades. He let us into the church and gave us a tour, patiently answering all of the questions that Rusel and I have about the churches here after touring so many. We were especially interested in the iconography of the churches and we learned so much from him about the Russian Orthodox church in general and that church specifically. He was absolutely lovely.

That night when we went to the dining area for dinner, Rusel and I sat on our own because Marcus was at a table of Russians and all of the travelers who had arrived that day were sitting together at one table with no room for even one more person to squeeze in. We were soon eating a mouth-watering, hot meal and loving every bite of it.

Each night at 9:00, if people are around, a concert is held in the dining area. Anyone who is there and can play an instrument is invited to join in. There is a piano located there against one wall, they have a communal guitar, and one of the older men who works there, Nicholai, plays the accordion like nobody I’ve ever seen. As it was Marcus’ last night there and Sergey was leaving the next morning for Moscow, we encouraged both of them to play something.

Marcus staggered up from his table.

“I am just a little bit…..drunken…..” Marcus said. “I will try to play something, but you know…..I am drunken.” He said. His eyes were beet-red and had a faraway look at his face. The Russians at his table had gotten to him – it is rude to refuse vodka if it is offered, and Russians drink it neat in cold, little shot glasses. Marcus did not look well.

“But I will play something for you. What would you like to hear? How about I play you…..this song……but I am drunken…..” he said.

He started to play the beginning chords to a Red Hot Chili Peppers song and had just made it to the opening verse when he stopped short.

“I knew this last night. Who knows the words? I am too…..drunken,” he said sadly, but with a mischievous look on his face – like a kid who had just had too much candy at Halloween but didn’t regret it for one minute. He tried again to play the same song – again he failed. “I have been….drunken….since I left Germany. I am traveling the trains….drunken.”

Although I’ve obviously seen drunk people before, Marcus was such a charmingly funny drunk as he attempted one song after another after another, only to get to the words and completely forget them. A few times he would just shout out the one or two words that he could remember, play a little bit longer, and ultimately stop again.

Soon Sergey stepped in with his guitar and began playing Russian folk songs. Playing backup to Sergey seemed to be something that Marcus could handle, and as Sergey played and Marcus sobered up a bit, they were soon making beautiful music together. When they played a Western song that Rusel and I knew, we sang along and when they played a Russian song we didn’t know, the Russian woman in the corner would chime in.

The experience we had at Nikita’s encapsulates everything that is good and right about traveling. It’s these little moments of beauty and understanding with people that geographically never should’ve crossed paths -- but for reasons no one can quite explain or understand are all together on one cold Siberian night in a warm room, singing songs together.

Russian Redemption: Olkhon Island

For the past three days, we’ve been staying on Olkhon Island, located in Lake Baikal in Siberia. If St. Petersburg was a golden delicious piece of decadent cake, Olkhon is the infinitely exquisite icing on top that makes you want to go and lick the bowl.

I was afraid that, after all of the hassle it took to get here, we would arrive and it wouldn’t live up to our expectations and if that had happened, I probably would’ve broken down and had a good, deserved cry. Luckily that fear was unjustified. As we bumped and jangled along the road in our hitchhiked-ride to Nikita’s, we reached the peak of the main hill and looked down upon the valley that holds the main town here and I knew in that instant that everything was going to be okay.

The beauty of this place is hard to describe, but I will try. I’ve seen beautiful mountains before. I’ve seen huge, gorgeous lakes so big that they look like the sea. I’ve seen large deserts. I’ve seen dramatic cliffs. But I’ve never seen them all four combined – it’s almost as if we’re witnessing some whacky science project by Mother Nature herself. At one moment we feel as if we’re in what we expected Siberia to be – wide, open spaces as far as the eye can see – and then we’ll turn the corner and the road is completely made of desert sand -- and then we’ll look across the lake at the epic, snow-capped mountains. It’s all exhilaratingly disorienting.

The lake is the deepest in the world and it seems to change color daily – when we arrived, it was a light sky blue, yesterday it was evergreen, today a deep sapphire. Apparently, many Russians believe that the water holds mystical and redemptive powers and I can see how it would inspire these thoughts.

In some areas, like a short distance from Nikita’s, you can see across to the mountains that are located directly across the water on mainland Russia. In other areas, like the northernmost tip of the island where we went yesterday on a hiking expedition, you can’t see the end of the lake, so it appears like one, huge sea. It’s too cold to swim right now, which is disappointing because I’m sure it’s a fun thing to do in the summer. In the winter, it freezes over and people drive cars and trucks over the ice.

One reason I’m so glad that we came is because the people here are just as gorgeous as the landscape. Dealing with the Russian cities was definitely wearing both Rusel and I down, and when we couldn’t buy tickets on the bus here it was almost the straw that broke the camel’s back. The momentum from St. Petersburg that we had been coasting on was starting to wear off and our “light-bulb, amazing traveling moments” were becoming fewer and farther between. I really wanted to explore one of the tiny villages that we had seen outside our train window, but each time we alighted from the train we were greeted by one concrete block after another, accompanied by stony city faces.

But Olkhon Island is truly a special place physically and Nikita’s, where we’re staying, is a world unto it’s own. As I’ve mentioned before, Nikita was Russia’s table tennis (pink pong) champion for Russia in 1986. After winning the title, he came to Olkhon Island and became a hermit for a while, next he became a table tennis instructor for children here on the island, and finally he opened his guesthouse. But even as I type the words guesthouse, I do pause for a moment because it’s really so much more. It’s also a commune, and anyone who wants to stay and work can do so and receive free room and board. So although there are tourists here, there is also a large amount of Russian and Mongolian people on the commune working (and quite hard, I might add), building and moving and constructing and cleaning.

And the smiles! Suddenly, we’ve been inundated with smiles. Not to give anyone a “drink the punch” type of feeling, but everyone located inside the walls of the compound seems so genuinely happy. Yesterday morning as I was walking to the eating area, Nikita was outside talking to some of the workers. He looked at me, smiled, and sang:

Good morning, good morning, good morning to you!

Good morning, good morning, I’m glad to see you!

And as corny as the song is, he meant every word of it and he said it so happily that I was instantly warmed, although it’s bone-chillingly cold out, as you would expect Siberia to be right now. As he sang the song, each verse turned into a white puff of air as they exited his mouth.

Another nice thing for both Rusel and I is that we arrived on the same day as about nine English-speaking travelers (a blessing and a curse, because they are the ones who bought all of the tickets on the minibus, beginning the string of events that led to our hitchhiking experience). They have been really friendly and fun, and yesterday we went on an all-day hiking expedition with them, arranged by Nikita’s. It was great and nice for both of us to interact with other people. The highlight of the day was when we did one big hike, which ended at the beat-up van that brought us there and the driver had cooked us a nice, big warm meal and we all ate it in the afternoon sun right next to the dense Siberian forest.

Rusel stayed up late last night playing an epic game of Uno with the group and drinking vodka – I opted to head back to our room (heated by a wood-burning stove) and read Anna Karenina. I think that it was the first night we spent doing separate activities since we started traveling and it was a nice break for us.

The food has been amazing here as well – I get the sense that everything is grown or raised here – and they understand the concept of vegetarianism! And every night there is a schedule where everyone has “banya time,“ a luxury as well as a necessity because none of the rooms have showers and all of the toilets are shared as well. A slight hardship but also one which gives everyone a “we are all in this together“ type of feeling that adds to the experience. If that is how the locals are doing it, we are happy to oblige.

We’re leaving tomorrow, ultimately to catch our 2-night, one-day train to Mongolia and I’m already feeling pangs of sadness because it’s so meditatively beautiful here.  Tomorrow when we get to Irkusk, we’re hoping to hit up the wireless Internet place so we can upload some photos of the island (Editor's Note: They have since been uploaded, enjoy!).

And although I am sad to be leaving, we were able to buy tickets for the bus back so I’m happy that we actually can leave as scheduled! Although when it comes to me and transportation, you never know……

Please, Bear With Me....

Well, as I think I mentioned in a blog before, computer access on islands is never something that you can count on, and this island is no different.

I finally located the internet cafe, only to learn that the man who runs it is out of town for three days. This was shouted at to me by his baboushka mother over a fence. I coldly walked around a bit more until I located the one computer in town which has access at the local post office, where I now sit.

So I apologize for not updating my blog sooner. I am in Siberia! How is that for an excuse! Question mark key does not work so sorry about that, too. In fact, the connection is excruciatingly slow, many of the keys are broken or out of order and most of the punctuation does not work. Uploading pictures is out of the question, so I am sorry that you cannot see some of the absolutely gorgeous pictures Rusel has been taking of this amazing island. We return to the city on Wednesday so we will try to upload the pictures then and also fix everything on the blog that is now broken like the inability to list the proper names of places without huge spaces being added in, yet another quirk of my Siberian post office computer. So sorry! Thank you for your patience!

Also, my posts today are out of order and I have spent the last 20 minutes trying to reorder, to no avail. Slow Train To Siberia should appear after Pack It In, and then the lovely vegetarian post co authored by both Rusel and I is next, followed by The Thief, The Prophet and The Drunk. Stay tuned for exciting posts about The Prophet and The Drunk, two wonderful characters we have met here on the island. We are having a great time here and it is a fabulous way to end our stay in Russia. I will post more tomorrow and again I apologize about the blog today as well as our out of touchness for those who have emailed. I am off to dinner, it will be a cold walk back in the Siberian winter. Wish me luck. We are well!