Journey through Siberia

“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.”
-Anthony Bourdain

My grandfather spent a few years in Russia, when it was still the Soviet Union.  He used to tell me about the train rides, the freezing winters, the vodka, beets, cabbages, and smoked fish, the beautiful Russian girls.  My little head would soak up his tales like a sponge, dreaming that one day, I’d get to see them myself.

When I finally made my way to Russia, it was less about my grandfather’s stories, and rather about him.  I was really trying to trace his footsteps, to see what he saw, to see if I could understand a little more of him, of what made him the person that I knew him to be.

It would be the most audacious journey I had ever undertaken.  From one end of the Pacific Ocean, I would fly across North America and the Atlantic Ocean, and then Europe to arrive at Moscow. From there, I would take the Siberian railway east, crossing Asia to arrive at Vladivostok, at the other end of the Pacific Ocean. It was about as adventurous as how my grandfather did it. He took the train north through China into Russia, then crossing Siberia to arrive at Moscow. There was not an aviation industry in Vietnam during those days. There wasn’t much of an industry of anything.

I didn’t speak Russian, and Russians didn’t speak English.  In addition to learning common phrases, I spent time picking up their writing system, the Cyrillic script, hoping to at least be able to read street signs and train schedules.

My first stop was Yekaterinburg. Exhausted from the hours traveling from California to Moscow, I passed out on the train and almost missed my stop if not for the provodnik, the train attendant. He saw my traveler backpack, that I had gone into a (temporary) coma, and was kind enough to wake me up on time. When you travel by yourself in a place where you can barely understand the language, you depend on the kindness of those around you. On the train, I was lucky to meet a family whose daughter happened to speak English astonishingly well. She spent a day giving me a tour of the city. She told me about her fiancé whom she met during a family vacation in Turkey. Later, they got married and moved to Thailand where he worked. She probably has learned to speak Turkish and Thai by now. Perhaps they communicate in English too, like many other inter-language relationships.

There was a certain air of respect when I told folks that I came from the United States. I could see it in their eyes, admitting that “there was an arms race; you won the game. You put your money where your mouth was while our economy tanked like an over-leavened cake collapsing onto itself.” Or perhaps they were just bewildered why a little woman like me would want to ride the train across Siberia alone. So fascinated with me that I was even invited for a drink by a couple of guys. You don’t refuse an invitation by the locals, unless it’s unsafe. It’s your best chance to get to know the place you’re visiting more intimately. But I also knew that once the vodka started flowing, it wouldn’t stop until someone dropped on the floor. Less conflicting and just as convivial were invitations to share meals. It’s potluck style where all I contributed were instant noodles and instant coffee while they brought out a feast of Russian bread, smoked fish, ham and sausages, dill pickles, and Russian candy.

Russian girls are beautiful. They were well dressed, always in nice heels. Some of them looked like they were plucked straight from a page of Victoria’s Secret’s catalog. I befriended a little girl on the train. I thought her so pretty that she could be on her way into their catalog too.

It’s Asia all the way after Yekaterinburg, most evidently so once I reached lake Baikal, the Sacred Sea of Siberia, where sacred trees were tied with ribbons and scarves to honor the local spirits believed to be among the livings. Life was simple on lake Baikal. Roads were made of dirt and gravel. People raised their own animals and vegetables in greenhouses made of clear tarps over wooden structures. It was breathtakingly beautiful here.

My book of choice for this journey was War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy, as it seemed appropriate for the setting. If there was ever a time that I could finish this book, it would be on this train ride with no internet or an English-speaking population. Yet, even without any bells and whistles to keep me distracted, I could not finish the last chapter of this 1200-page saga over the Franco-Russian war of 1812. It may help to start this historically blended soap at 12 years old, apparently the age to start appreciating this epic of a story. Recently I was looking for the BBC series on the book; instead I found on HBO one produced by Mosfilm in 1966-1967. It was beautifully done in the artistic style of the 1800’s Romantic era.

Trains were mostly on schedule, but when they were late, they were incredibly late. I arrived at Vladivostok roughly after 3 weeks. Then I took a flight back to Moscow and St. Petersburg for the museums, palaces, and a glimpse of the Russian aristocratic life where it all happened in War and Peace.

It wasn’t always pretty. It wasn’t always comfortable. But it felt like I had achieved a milestone, and I was proud to have done it.

Bourdain had said that his favorite destination was Vietnam. He must have seen things that broke his heart, but I hope that his favorite corner of the world also became a part of the person that he was.