Travellers have started to climb into the cars of the train that's sitting idly on the platform. The ride from Vilnius to Warsaw is nine hours long: three hours from Vilnius to Sestokai - the last stop before the Polish border - then a further six hours to Warshawna Centralna. The train looks old and decrepit: rectangular metal boxes on wheels, each box a dull colour and almost worn to the bone by age. Like all trains I've ridden on in Lithuania it stands high up from the platform. The steps to climb into a car are made of thick metal and are almost vertical to each other, like in a ladder. Sometimes I have to first swing my heavy backpack to the top before climbing the steps.
In the car I'm in there's a stream of people that have come from other cars, looking left and right at seats, and leaving at the other end. Seat-hunters scavenging for the best possible compromise between sharing and private space. On one side of the aisle are individual chairs facing each other while on the other side are benches facing each other. I choose a bench and set my gear down . Sitting opposite me was a heavy-set middle-aged man. His face was red and fatty, his hair short and curly grey. He had on a worn grey sweater with faded jeans. A light stuble covered his chin and cheeks. The man didn't seem to notice me. He stared vacantly outside the window, at the people on the platform.
*
I'm feeling weary. The padding on the bench I'm sitting on is stiff. I've been travelling for less than a month and already it's getting to me, the stressful routine of unpacking, acclimating myself to the place I'm in, meeting people, leaving and starting all over again some place else. The balance between being a tourist and indulging in my creative world still escapes me. A lot of days feel wasted searching for it.
The car softly rocks left and right as the train moves forwards at a casually speed. In the background, like a soothing lullaby, is the constant sound of wheels on train tracks and the creaking of joints. At the front of the car are three girls talking and laughing loudly. Coming from somewhere behind is music from someone's headphones - AC/DC's Highway to Hell. A railway employee forcefully opens the door to our car. Stiff on it's hinges, the door gives way against its will. The employee rushes forwards, his boots thumping down the aisle to the other end.
There's no progress in the creative writing department: the few English language journals I've contacted in Lithuania have not responded and there seems to be very little interest in my blog. Maybe it's time I take it in a new direction and write for myself, to satisfy my creative and artistic inclinations.
"Biletai." A voice to my right. I turn and see a woman dressed professionally. A name tag hangs on her dark jacket and she holds somekind of object in her right hand. I hand her my ticket. She studies it briefly, stamps it with the object and hands the ticket back to me.
In the ticket office in Lithuania I met a Londoner also heading to Warsaw. A thin and tall fellow wearing a leather hat and leather jacket. He overheard me buying my ticket and started up a conversation with me. We chatted briefly - talked about our journey in this part of Europe - then split ways to buy food supplies for the train ride. I turned to look behind me, at the bench where he's sitting. His arms were crossed, his eyes closed and his leather hat sat on top his head. His body gently rocked in synch with the car. I faced forwards again. The middle-aged man in front of me removed a plastic 1.5 L bottle of beer from the bag between his legs, took long swigs from it, bottled it shut and replaced it back in his bag.
The sky is a dull grey, the countryside outside is dark green and wild. The farm houses stare sadly at us, looking overwhelmed by their surroundings. Now and again factories appear - giant concrete buildings darker than the greyness of the day. Their windows are shattered and boarded up. Trash and rubble everywhere around them. These factories sit there abandoned, falling apart, their life very slowly seeping away into rust and dust.
The train began to slow down in a screech of metal plates. I looked out the window, searching for the name of the station. Once the train stopped a voice said: "Kaunas." The grey haired middle-aged man looked at me. He didn't so much say the name of the station as cough it out of his system. He paused, turned his gaze to the people on the platform then mumbled: "Still one hour more." I gave a short nod. Minutes later the train jerked forwards, as if hit from behind, and slowly started moving forwards. The man in front of me leaned his head back on the pad and closed his eyes.
*
In the small station of Sestokai all passengers heading to Warsaw stepped out of the train, walked to the other side of the platform and climbed up the cars of the train that pulled in a few minutes later. The Londoner and I shared an eight-seater cabin with an elderly couple from Canada and an American fellow wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap. Everyone greeted the other politely and said nothing more. The train jerked forwards and started moving. The couple softly talked amongst themselves in French, the Londoner crossed his arms over his stomach and the American fellow looked at each of us curiously, as if measuring the situation. I sat near the window and looked out at the tall trees passing by. A while later I noticed the train has still not picked up speed, then, on impulse, I voiced my thought: "I wonder if we've reached maximum speed..." Everybody laughed. The Londoner cracked a joke about the old train and the rest jumped in.
After joking around we all introduced each other and talked about our respective journeys. Each of us started in the Baltics; the Londoner and the Canadian couple are ending their trip in Berlin; The American fellow has no final destination. A short and dark skinned middle-aged man, at first guess I would place him from the Asian subcontinent, but I never got to know for sure. He started talking about his trip and then went on about his previous trips. He's travelled all over the world and has had countless interesting experiences, which should make him very interesting if it wasn't for the fact that he doesn't know how to 'share' his experiences with others. He 'dumps' them on his listeners. Once he took the floor he owned the airspace. Every now and again I sensed an opportunity to change the course of his monologue. I'd jump in and share a story that would amuse everyone or that would get everyone in the cabin involved. But the fellow with the Yankees hat could not be denied, he always regained control of the conversation. This went on for hours on end until he finally went to sleep. Even then, the man snored as much as he talked when awake.
No one in the cabin ever got to know what the fellow with the Yankees hat does for a living to be able to travel so much - we all thought it was too improper to ask that question. Even the man's name is a mystery. The londoner heard it, but forgot it right away. Said it sounded unusual and that it begins with an 'F' or a 'V.' The last I saw of the mysterious man with the Yankees hat was him ploughing his way through the crowds of people in Warshawna Centralna to catch the next train to Krakow.
*
Warshawna Centralna is a maze of claustrophobic corridors lined with stalls on one side selling everything from DVDs to journals and tickets to public transportation. The walls of these corridors are grey, rotten and filled with bodies, the sounds of voices, trains and footsteps. The Londoner and I finally happened on stairs leading up to an exit. We ended up in the open air, by a busy overpass and motorway. Long yellow buses lined the side-walk. Inside were passengers sitting idly, covered up in winter clothing. Bright neon lights shone from somewhere. I turned around and saw, among other neon signs, the McDonald's golden arches and the word 'Saturn' in orange on the side of a massive modern building curving away from me. Across the motorway were tall modern block buildings. I was a bit overwhelmed - it's been over two weeks since I've been in a big city. The sound of cars from the other side of the overpass grew louder, like a wave gathering strength.
.
