The Great Train Escapade

Day 4

Rivulets of sweat are streaming down my face, I'm wheezing and gasping like an asthmatic-with a stoma, and my eyes are soaked -sweat and tears intermingling.

We had left the hostel about an hour earlier, laden like lumbering beasts of burden. By the time we were de-escalating into the metro, we were already feeling rather toasty, our winter coats like an unwelcome embrace. We were then thrust into the crush of people. Meanwhile, my mind was flooded with safety tips syncopated with trying to stay with the group, "Camera-check-blond hair-Bethany-purse secure-check-white coat-Dave-don't stare-check-tall person-Mark-don't panic-um, um...." We scurried/power walked/penguin waddled from train to train, the threat of getting smashed in the doors (again) ever present. Finally we reached the station, set our bags down, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Well, it was the WRONG station!!! We slung our burdens back over our shoulders and set off at a dead run. We sprinted for about thirty seconds, paused to bob and weave, and sprinted again. I fought as hard as I could, but the rest of the group was disappearing into the distance. Suddenly, I was twelve again. My blue Adidas shorts were hiked up half way to my neck and the rest of the cross country team was nowhere to be seen. I snapped back into real time, my bag and back breaking and my heart aching with the sickening feeling that I was running through an impossible nightmare. Finally, when I was convinced I was about to collapse into a sobbing, gasping heap, I saw Natalia up ahead, an angel of mercy practically wreathed in celestial light. Emas called out, "You made it!" in his typically easy-going, boyish way, though I could tell that even he was visibly relieved. And that is why I boarded the train to St. Petersburg approximately three minutes before it departed.

Besides the Great Train Escapade, there were a couple other notable events which transpired. The day started out with a snack at the McDonald's, our cheeseburgers steaming in the early morning chill. Next we got in line to get into the Red Square. We passed through a metal detector manned by guards with contempt for tourists burning in their eyes. When we finally entered our ultimate destination, one guard angrily gestured for me to take my hands out of my pockets and other guards spaced every fifteen feet gave us their undivided attention. Then we descended a dimly lit staircase into the ominous and all encompassing darkness, into the inner sanctum. And there he was in his glass display case, as though he were someone's butterfly collection and not a man who had changed the course of history. Just as in the pictures he had his trademark goatee. I noticed that one of his hands was open and the other was clenched. His skin looked a bit waxy, though overall he looked great for having been dead since 1924. Mostly, he just seemed small and frail. I almost expected a nurse to bustle in with a tray and ask, "Mr. Lenin, would you like some chicken soup now?"

We also went to the New Tretyakov Gallery which we were told was modern and Soviet art. Upon arriving I was relieved to see that they had kept the cubism to a minimum. The pieces consisted mostly of pencil sketches, vibrantly hued surrealist paintings, and images of infectiously happy and healthy men, women, and children. There was one of a female shot putter I particularly liked. She stood there contentedly as the metal sphere sat in her palm and the sunlight danced in her golden hair and reflected off her strong arms. If only things could have worked out that way...