Glory Po Ruski Znachet Slava

It was more so in the way she, Olya, said it, "You will grow older quicker if you don't have children," [for those of you who know about my centenarian obsession of sorts, my ears perked a bit]. It came up three times, actually the only topic of conversation, over chai breaks on the train ride to Petropavlovsk. She sang the praises of motherhood and the independence [possibly recognizing the hint of Western musk in the audience] a woman gains after using the man's donation of seed, heh, feminism rears a beautiful head. Surely, it was no coincidence that directions on childbearing made their way into the train cabin just as they had in 2005 when we were instructed to keep our waist properly protected with warm clothes so as steer clear of barren-osity that bitter winters bring.

Asia, a Chechen beauty, caught a glimpse of the emotional goodbyes in Almaty and decided to keep me close company on the way to North Kazakhstan. Her laughs, accompanied by the slap on the arm or leg and/or lean-into, were as familiar as interactions with all loved ones back home. As a newcomer in Armenia, proximity to others remains substantially distant - I could see Nik wilting like an unkempt floral arrangement in such circumstances that lack the tackle-bear-hug every now and again. It is comforting to see men in Armenia kissing on the lips when parting or standing with arms linked.
Not better or worse intimacy, just different. ... Asia had that type of loving-purity about her, the type that takes some to politics or some to work at the pound, a place where they can freely splash their charisma all over the audiences. I sat and listened to the Russian conversations - absorbing new words/concepts where I could, but also relishing in the memories of a engaged younger me that her mannerisms ceaselessly stirred. In observer moments such as these I remembered the point of connection with a classmate when I realized the language barrier she faced was like that of mine when living in another country...words...









Someone asked why I wasn't flying to my destination, a question that they themselves answered immediately with, "The train is romantic isn't it?" I did leave most of the steppe of Kazakhstan for my gazing eyes and less for the lens that loves to share with you. simply a taste.


For those who've seen Eastern Promises, there was a passerby on the train who caught my attention by the nagolka [tattooed - nagolka is the Russian name for the homemade skin art done in prison] story written in depth on his arms and the clean-cut nubs of his right ring and pinky fingers. An image ran through my head of his reaction to the removal of him from his body pieces, void of the vocal, sweat screaming out each pore, and lips wringing - a tough one.

Four days on a Kazakhstani train can get the mind lancing into stories untold by guidebooks... the reason I may have started from a middle squeezed between the sweetest of reunions








viva!