WRITING CULTURE 2012: Film, Food & Beyond

Being home after six years abroad feels weird. Contrasts are met not only in NYC. Expensive cars jump on the roads-washboards of Saratov. This make you feel like they have just had a war, after what they fixed everything but the roads. And yet I love my people. Because they care. And because they have huge hearts.

On a train ride from Saratov to Moscow I shared a room with a girl. As soon as the girl spoke to me, I fell in love with her personality. Her simple joyful manner and her eagerness to help out bought me. “Please don’t be mad at me”-she smiled to someone on the phone-“I knew you did not want to speak to me thats why I did not even tell you I left. Masha, I want to be friends with you and stop all the fighting, so please lets forget it.” Then we shared our food with each other. She told me she was going to Moscow to work at a resort. She even gave me the figures: “$1000 for the whole summer. And I wont have to pay for the food or rent. Much better than Egypt. They pay 300 for half a year plus you have to buy a return ticket yourself if you dont like it there.”

On one of the train stations another passenger joined us. He was dressed in a t-shirt that had multiple stitches and patches, so old, it has become see-through; under his black sandals you could see somewhere grey and somewhere still white socks. He threw his stuff on a seat and asked us to watch it. A pair of dusty flip flops was sticking out of his tied plastic bag. Ten minutes later he came back smelling like cigarettes.  “Whew, almost missed the train”- he wiped the sweat off his forehead. The man was around 35 years old. His face reminded me of a face of my neighbor, Sergey from my childhood. Sergey did not have a landline phone , so he used to come to us to make some calls. Whenever he came by, he smelled of alcohol, sweat and cheap perfume which he thought was able to cover the first two. He would always bring a piece of fruit, which kept this strong sweet smell even after I cut it. Every time after he left, the phone would keep the smell, and when I used the phone after him, it felt like I was touching his unshaven unwashed cheek, and long after I put the phone down, I would still smell like an alcoholic. Later he stopped visiting us because he was killed by his girlfriend. AND THIS IS A FUCKING TRUE STORY. The guy who was sitting next to me on the train looked like Sergey: his face was too wrinkled and too grey, though by looking at his eyes you knew he was still young. He told us why he was traveling to Moscow without us even asking him: “I’m going to Moscow to work. I work as a security guy and get $800 a month. They keep you as long as you do not drink. If they see you drunk, be ready to go home next day-” the newcomer did not stop his monologue “-well, I am fine working there, because I can make my own schedule and I can drink as much as I can when I come back home to my village.” When the train conductor was passing by, she asked him if he was going to rent the sheets to sleep. The guy said he will be fine sleeping on a mattress. The train conductor,  big woman with bleach blond hair, was unhappily surprised: “No, young man, we just got the new mattresses, so I wont let you sleep on it.” Reluctantly,he paid $7 for the sheets. How many are there people like him in Russia? People of labor, with true souls of kindness, those who live off 800 a month with no way out?

Two policeman showed up soon. Right before them a man in a white shirt passed by with a basket full of beers and goodies.  One of the passengers bought a beer from him. Five minutes later the Russian cops took this guy somewhere. You are not allowed to drink alcohol on the train. The question is: why are the conductors allowed to sell it then?

Being home after six years abroad feels weird. Contrasts are met not only in NYC. Expensive cars jump on the roads-washboards of Saratov. This make you feel like they have just had a war, after what they fixed everything but the roads. And yet I love my people. Because they care. And because they have huge hearts.

On a train ride from Saratov to Moscow I shared a room with a girl. As soon as the girl spoke to me, I fell in love with her personality. Her simple joyful manner and her eagerness to help out bought me. “Please don’t be mad at me”-she smiled to someone on the phone-“I knew you did not want to speak to me thats why I did not even tell you I left. Masha, I want to be friends with you and stop all the fighting, so please lets forget it.” Then we shared our food with each other. She told me she was going to Moscow to work at a resort. She even gave me the figures: “$1000 for the whole summer. And I wont have to pay for the food or rent. Much better than Egypt. They pay 300 for half a year plus you have to buy a return ticket yourself if you dont like it there.”

On one of the train stations another passenger joined us. He was dressed in a t-shirt that had multiple stitches and patches, so old, it has become see-through; under his black sandals you could see somewhere grey and somewhere still white socks. He threw his stuff on a seat and asked us to watch it. A pair of dusty flip flops was sticking out of his tied plastic bag. Ten minutes later he came back smelling like cigarettes.  “Whew, almost missed the train”- he wiped the sweat off his forehead. The man was around 35 years old. His face reminded me of a face of my neighbor, Sergey from my childhood. Sergey did not have a landline phone , so he used to come to us to make some calls. Whenever he came by, he smelled of alcohol, sweat and cheap perfume which he thought was able to cover the first two. He would always bring a piece of fruit, which kept this strong sweet smell even after I cut it. Every time after he left, the phone would keep the smell, and when I used the phone after him, it felt like I was touching his unshaven unwashed cheek, and long after I put the phone down, I would still smell like an alcoholic. Later he stopped visiting us because he was killed by his girlfriend. AND THIS IS A FUCKING TRUE STORY. The guy who was sitting next to me on the train looked like Sergey: his face was too wrinkled and too grey, though by looking at his eyes you knew he was still young. He told us why he was traveling to Moscow without us even asking him: “I’m going to Moscow to work. I work as a security guy and get $800 a month. They keep you as long as you do not drink. If they see you drunk, be ready to go home next day-” the newcomer did not stop his monologue “-well, I am fine working there, because I can make my own schedule and I can drink as much as I can when I come back home to my village.” When the train conductor was passing by, she asked him if he was going to rent the sheets to sleep. The guy said he will be fine sleeping on a mattress. The train conductor,  big woman with bleach blond hair, was unhappily surprised: “No, young man, we just got the new mattresses, so I wont let you sleep on it.” Reluctantly,he paid $7 for the sheets. How many are there people like him in Russia? People of labor, with true souls of kindness, those who live off 800 a month with no way out?

Two policeman showed up soon. Right before them a man in a white shirt passed by with a basket full of beers and goodies.  One of the passengers bought a beer from him. Five minutes later the Russian cops took this guy somewhere. You are not allowed to drink alcohol on the train. The question is: why are the conductors allowed to sell it then?