In Moscow

Of course I left too many things to the last minute. Friday morning, I received an email from Teresa. She told me where to meet her. I told her I had bought her MCAT book. She asked me for clarification. She had asked me to bring her a GMAT book. I told her I'd exchange it.

I walked to Barnes and Noble in Tribeca. They had just opened and only one register was staffed. I waited in line. I walked to Old Navy to buy a scarf. Teresa warned me that the weather had turned cold and rainy. They said it was too early in the season and they didn't stock any. I waited for Uniqlo to open. Their scarves were almost fifty dollars. I walked to H+M and bought one for five.

I stopped by a bookstore on Prince Street. I was looking for novels and histories to read on the train. Barnes and Noble didn't have the books I was looking for. Unfortunately, neither did the store I was in. However, they had a shelf of Russian novels. I picked up a novel by Andrei Platonov. On another shelf I found a personal history by Kapuchinski. I brought them both up to the counter.

Back home I finished packing. I thought about whether to bring my heavy coat and decided against it. I cut my hair and took a shower. I donned my shoes. I bid adieu to my roommate, kissing her on both cheeks, shouldered my bag, and decended the stairs.

Moments later, I was back. I had forgotten my watch.

The flight to Frankfurt was uneventful. In the terminal, caught in the purgatory between connecting flights, I contemplated the idea of death. Platonov's lyrical novella "Soul" and my half-awake, half-asleep state made me wonder if death were merely the forgetting of life. Asleep, without dreaming, does one remember what it is to be alive? If one forgot completely, is that not a state like death?

Attendants appeared at the empty counters. "Moscow?" one asked. I nodded. He called me forward. He checked my passport, visa, and tickets. He let me through to the waiting room. I waited.

I slept on the flight to Moscow. We landed on time and taxiied to the terminal. Outside, trees lined the tarmac. The skies were grey.

Passport control was surprisingly quick. I walked into the terminal and looked for Teresa. I didn't see her. I walked back and scanned the crowd a second time, and then walked to the Hertz booth, where we had agreed to meet. I waited a moment and then saw her approach. She asked me how long I had waited and said she was surprised I had emerged so quickly.

We took the train into the city. The suburbs passed, but I didn't see them. We were engrossed in conversation. Once at the terminal, we entered the marbled metro system. The subway cars were the same as those in Budapest. We transferred at Revolution Square. Bronze statues of heroes supported the roof. A tour group wandered the platform. Women sat on benches. Teresa explained to me that people often met in the metro system to avoid waiting in the cold.

We took the train to her stop and walked to her apartment. Teresa bought a torpedo melon from a street stall. At home she cut it open and sectioned it into cubes. She promised me it would be better than any melon I had had in the States. She was right. She put out hummus and olives and hard bread and we sat and ate and talked while tea brewed on the counter. The sun threatened to emerge from the clouds. Outside, the sound of a man shoveling dirt from the street served a rhythmic backdrop to our conversation.
Posted by eku at September 13, 2008 9:15 AM