A Disquisition on Mother Russia

From my handwritten journal, enroute to Turkey:

My trip to the former Soviet Union was never meant to be a vacation, despite some occasional mind-detours to Aruba here and there, undoubtedly induced by comically low blood sugar. My assignment was to truly absorb this important, complicated and misunderstood culture in all of its richness. And over nine time zones of complexity, from emerald Belarus to Mongolian Russia to the chaotic streets of Moscow, I got it, at least a snapshot. The greens and the greys. The sweat, piss, perfume and dust. Granite and grass. Urban rain and chalky roads. Laughter, confusion, joy, awe, lust, hunger, xenophobia, beauty, numbness. Heartbreak, misery, unbridled potential. Solitude.

Peering out undulating train windows for hours on end, seeing and smelling the tremendousness of Siberia and the Urals, and their unusually happy inhabitants, has made me and my way of being feel small. The pain and the promise of Russia, especially Moscow, has amplified nagging questions, making me perhaps yearn for another model of living life.

I miss my friends and family -- and Mexican food -- but not my fishbowl. Soon, [over]work will again dominate me, snuffing out that which masquerades as a personal life, itself seemingly increasingly open to intrusive and offensive public scrutiny. Missing more bill deadlines because of the crushing ordeal of being an academic flying solo. Inaction delivered under the guise of policy discussions. Inflexibility crushing once promising opportunities.

Restlessness in unbelievably gorgeous Pacific Coast small town America.