The view from my hostel in Cusco to the local train station. I was on the edge of my seat,
nervous that the tardy taxi would cause me to miss the departure. Miraculously,
I had 30 seconds to spare, and was the last passenger to sit down.
****
I was probably the only Westerner on that train. It’s not like I didn’t see it coming: the green boarding pass the tour company provided only bore non-translated Cyrillic script, excluding my English name that seemed to be squished between the random sequence of backwards Rs and Ks. I can’t say it didn’t make sense, given I was traveling domestically in what was once part of the Soviet Union. I knew when I purchased the ticket through an online travel agency the month prior that I was supposed to depart sometime that night and arrive sometime the next day.
Inside the station, none of the rapidly-changing timetables
were in English, and my requests for help were met with equally-lost facial
expressions. Looking above, the tall and intimidating nineteenth-century
architecture seemed to stretch into the dark winter sky, and looking forward,
the intersecting escalators and staircases under indiscernible info boards only
added to my confusion. It was when I finally stood still in that bustling central
terminal, with my heavy suitcase and camera in one hand and little green ticket
in the other, that I truly felt lost. And the clock was ticking.
****
My next train experience, one year later, was much more
organized. Even after climbing aboard at the eleventh hour – thanks to a
pre-arranged taxi that never arrived – I felt much more at ease. Unlike before,
nearly everyone spoke English, including the PA announcer, whose translation I
liked to think I didn’t need given the previous year I had spent in Cuba. The
on-board services – drinks, snacks, and a clean
unisex bathroom – was a world of difference from the Cold War-era caboose I was
on before. There was much more to see out the window, anyway: the autumn sun
glistened off the babbling brooks below, and the lush green trees seemed to
paint the towering Andean mountain peaks that flanked our skinny rail track. We
couldn’t see other people, villages or roads on the four-hour trip to Aguas Calientes; the only way to
traverse the rugged, diverse terrain is by foot or train. I sat down in my
cushioned seat, and did what I couldn’t do before: share and laugh with my
fellow passengers, and enjoy the ride.
Sometimes, the ride is just as fun as the destination. Machu Picchu, Peru.
****
My saving grace in that cold train station nearly two years
ago came in dark-rimmed glasses and long blonde hair. I don’t remember her
name, but I am certain she could see my relief when I heard her answer to the
defeated question I had already asked too many times to too many people:
“English?” She was about my age, enjoying a break from school, and was traveling to
visit her family in a city not far from Kiev. She happily, calmly, walked me to
my train, which had already begun taking passengers. We parted ways before I
could truly express my appreciation for her kindness, which I could have used
more of throughout my impending overnight (and sleepless) adventure.
Looking back, I am grateful I took that 16-hour train ride.
It was one of those trips that make you appreciate all of your future
experiences on public transportation, no matter how much you hear those around
you complain. The four-person booth I was assigned to sleep in resembled more
of a tight, walk-in closet than actual sleeping quarters. In fact, it wasn’t
really adequate to even hold just the luggage of all four occupants. The stiff
double-stacked beds, hardly wider than an ironing board, proved tough to stay
in in the bouncing metal car. Not that anyone would want to sleep in them,
anyway: my curled legs would have extended well beyond the length of it, if it
wasn’t closed in on three sides by thin steel dividers. The heater, dialed on
suffocatingly high, replaced the desire of a blanket for the brisk air that
teased us through the small windows. The all-silver restroom down the hall, soaked in a mysterious layer of water that sparkled with the moonlight,
lacked soap and toilet paper. If the collective hot B.O. from so many squished
people didn’t already make me irritable, one of my three roommates certainly
did.
He was very nice at first. He opened big bags of chips and
snacks for all of us that would occasionally fall from the small center table
and sprinkle my luggage underneath. Slightly overweight, gregarious and full of
smiles, this middle-aged Ukrainian man for whatever reason decided to pursue a
friendship with me, the lone American in the group. He offered me a tall, cold
bottle of beer he brought aboard that I couldn’t refuse, and we communicated
through a twelve-year-old boy that came in from the hallway to translate for
us. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for things to get weird. He handled me a
scribbled e-mail address and kept insisting that I marry his fifteen-year-old
daughter, living God-knows-where in Ukraine, and kept opening me more bottles.
After two drinks, and a few friendly declines for more, he took my refusals as
disrespectful. He quickly became red and agitated, undoubtedly intoxicated from
his impressive stash. He made his disapproval known, and my trip worse, by
opening yet another bottle, shaking it, and spraying me with the beer. The
clothes I had worn that day exploring Kiev, the same ones I would be sleeping
in that night and be wearing for half the next day, were now covered in sticky booze.
I was furious, with the heat and the noise and the bumps and the lack of space,
and opted for some alone time in the quiet hallway to breathe. The slightly
cracked-open windows certainly helped. When I returned, he was snoring, finally
asleep, and no longer rambling in Ukrainian.
Sometimes, it does take bad experiences to make us
appreciate future situations. Airplanes are a joy for me now – I always know
that there is a restroom in which I can sit down, a personal air conditioner I
can direct on my face, and a cushioned seat I can lean back in. Check-in,
security inspections, delays, and cancelled flights don’t bother me, since
every international airport I’ve been to has had English translations and personal
space, even if it is on a tile floor in the corner of a waiting room.
Sevastopol, Crimea. I'm happy to say I got to spend a long weekend on the peninsula
before it was annexed by Russia, but it came at a price. Being optimistic, the
less-than-comfortable train ride to get there has made every trip I've taken
since incredibly joyful.
One of the best parts of traveling is earning those precious passport stamps.
Overlooking the city of Cusco, Peru, from my hostel's balcony.
At the end of the day, it is the people you meet along the
way that can truly make or break your experience. A smile and simple directions
from a stranger, or even a warm conversation with a fellow traveler, can make
all the difference. My train rides from Cusco to Aguas Calientes and back were
entertaining and fulfilling, largely thanks to the kind people that sat around
me. In the outward trip, I was surrounded by three young ladies – all friends
traveling together from the States – who were engaging and entertaining through
their stories of growing up in the Philippines and traveling to other places
together. On the return trip, I was again flanked by three women, this time all
in their 60s, traveling with a photo adventure group. We shared white wine,
delicious food, and hearty laughs over the silly stories of the struggles we had
trying conquer the same mountain – Machu Picchu – now memories that we will
carry with us for the rest of our lives.
While I tribute my experience in the overnighter Soviet train
from Kiev to Crimea (weeks before the annexation) to enriching the travel
adventures that followed, it was the kindness from those I met along the way –
the girl at the station that took time to help a stranger in need and the boy
on the train that shared my interest in video games – that remind me even the
worst situations are opportunities for memories I can smile upon.
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