Typical Ukraine

The marshrukta wasn’t there. It was usually right there, waiting to bus us to a town an hour away, but its curbside home still showed curb. I asked a stranger in Russian if she was also going to the capital, and she responded in English yes, no problem. Was my accent so obvious? I went inside the building for information, and as I returned the pale-white mini-bus creakily rounded the snowy corner, slowly, and docked at our impatient crossed arms. We boarded.

Now, these capital trips were long, usually 10 hours. More if inclement weather. The mini bus, unheated, held you for the first hour then dropped you in front of a shop in a strange town an hour away, where you waited to catch a double-decker the rest of the way. This time, a blizzard had come through, and the roads were fairly skatable so this time, the double-decker was waiting expectedly for us.

We boarded, hurried lemmings, into its warm bosom. Seats only nominally designated, I found an open pair to myself. Soon I had neatly arranged my two small bags parallel beneath my twofer, removed my boots, and turned the corner on hour 5 of Gaiman’s ‘American Gods’. My headphones’ cumbersomeness were usually outweighed by their quality, except when trying to sleep on a bus.

My eyes, tiny circular water-tight windows like a submarine’s, had observed all this passively, just alert enough to notice anything unordinary. And like such a vessel, the world inside was bristling with life. Gaiman had stolen my afternoon with his words, with which he had created a world with vivid characters and moving parts, but somehow of both of our design. If an author constructs the vessel and hires its workers, the reader decides the interior details and other mundanities. And somewhere, far deep in the proverbial woodwork of it all, I was astonished and rejuvenated that my love for reading had been rekindled at such an old age of 25. Soon, having found a sleepable contortion, I had pulled the curtains over the windows, and venturing more and more, until entirely into the novel’s world of absurd characters and subtle truths.

I awoke, strangely startled to realize we were stopped. ‘Men, come get us unstuck’, the stewardess called out in Russian. The clock read 00:07, but at least the sky was clear. A few men strode past me down the center aisle, grumpy but valiant, as I laced up my boots. The bus began rocking as I queasily made my way off. I wandered around back to the bed-wanting bevy. The more intelligent of them were ridding the snow from under the tires, while most of the grunts heaved from the back. I joined the crew on a corner spot to up the rocking to a swaying, then the tire-men joined to make it a full-on swinging. If we could just get a little more...I planted my feet and pushed with more strength, grunting to inspire, and within 5 seconds we had done it! The bus continued on, as we hurried to catch up on the fly!

“Так, мы теперь поедем бесплатно, да?” somebody snarked in Russian, asking for a free ride as reward. We chuckled, exhausted and annoyed, knowing full-well the answer.

“Ну, будем спать лучше,” another answered, saying we’d sleep easier at least.

And we were on our way.