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streetlights

There is no easy way to say it. I was married to someone I hid from. Tucking E into a sling, I would disappear for hours saying I was going shopping for dinner, and if she fell asleep the excuse was that she needed fresh air as I sat on a park bench with her tiny hand grabbing my pinky until she eventually woke up. I would make my way along the side streets of Greenwich as the sun went down, leaning into store windows but not going in. Eventually I would go home, and as I turned the corner there was a security light that would switch on - obviously attached to some motion sensor. In those strange and lonely moments, I would talk to that light. Each time it clicked on, I felt somehow that the night ahead could be survived no matter what madness waited for us behind the front door.

That was twelve years ago.

Another life, another country.

Today, I turned a corner in Moscow with an all-too familiar bag of groceries swinging from my shoulder. A street light flickered on and all at once I…

old school


Even here, the sad undertow of modernization takes its toll. There are a fleet of shiny blue busses on our route now. They replaced a series of random ones, covered in mud, lurching and shaking, held together with duct tape and lumpy welds, floors slick with spilled soda and beer. The old drivers were like the seven dwarves, one always laughing and smiling, one fiercely angry, one tired with red bags under his eyes, one fat, one skinny. And then, one day they were replaced. The new busses were driven by faceless men behind a glass, taking no money making no jokes just a yellow box to swipe your transit card against and recorded announcements for each stop. 

On the return trip home, we stand in a messy parking lot where different busses slam their brakes letting people off, drivers grabbing cigarettes and plastic cups of hot tea, gunning their engines and roaring off towards the river or the forest or the White House. Many of their routes pass close enough to us, so we have a habit of taking the one that is ready to leave instead of waiting for the shiny blue ones. We need to call out our stop to them in a loud voice or they will just keep driving. 

394 is ours today. The bus is an old Soviet design  - all giant bubble windows, seats on strange pedestals but plenty of room. The ceiling does not hover inches above our heads, but feels more like a miniature cathedral. No one squeezes past me as they make their way down the aisle on this ride. The drivers are all short, hairy little men that must own a single, dull razor they use randomly every few weeks. His hands are filthy as I hand the exact change to him.

The bus is half-full and he turns the ignition. A spark emerges, then a strange sound and the lights go off. A man who drives another one of the same busses leaps from the sidewalk, yanking the folding door open and pushing the bus. The driver throws the transmission into gear by force, and the bus rolls slowly, quietly. The man pushing us is wheezing, singing some strange song, repeating some curious poem. I nudge E's elbow and we smile at each other. We have a front row seat at the circus, for 30 rubles a piece. 

People are running down the sidewalk, shoving past the man that is still pushing us, getting onto the bus while it is in motion, not apologizing or saying thank you, just trampling him. The motor does not start and we are rolling slowly into traffic. The driver yanks the emergency brake on. He climbs back towards us, and pulls a floorboard up. I see what I think is the battery there, mid-way back in the giant machine, exposed to the road, no cover. How many times did we sit there, with our feet resting on it? He shakes some clips, and there is a little spark. We smell ozone now.

He nods at the passenger sitting next to the driver's seat and tells him to turn the ignition. The man leans out and does this without hesitating. The lights flick on. People are still shoving their way onto the bus. One steps on the driver's hands. He says nothing, swinging back to his seat and the engine does turn over now, all lusty diesel and smoke. We roll off towards the river as he makes change for the people standing in the aisle. 













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