|The crooked staircase leading to the abandoned amusement park|
I am writing to you, as I so often do, on a long train. This one is the Kaunas, Lithuania to Bialystok, Poland version. It’s a three carriage affair with bright new red seats that was, for the first half of the journey, so silent and empty that I had an entire carriage to myself in which to shamelessly roll out a yoga mat in the aisle for half an hour. Considering this was a four hour, no, surprise, you forgot about the time change, five hour train, that kind of first half was certainly appreciated. Currently in the second half of the journey the train is more bustling, with cell phone conversations and seniors on bike holidays and painfully cool teenagers who are studiously and self-consciously draping themselves into various positions of could not care less- no, really, I don’t care, see? I see. The mother two aisles back from me has been desperately wrangling a small bouncing child, who has now resorted to screeching a protest against the time spent on the train. The train is indifferent to the protests, and continues to pursue the track at a slow and methodical “yes, we will take five entire hours to get there” pace.
The scenery sliding by my window could be the American midwest: rolling hills, cows dotting the countryside, flocks of white birds bursting low across the tops of fields. The skies are summertime blue, clouds are obligingly white, and coupled with the farmhouses that crop up intermittently it is thoroughly earning the description idyllic. Nothing is left of the sopping day before. That day was wrung out in Kaunas, spent biking into a constant faceful of cold, pricking mist that frequently turned to fine, persistent rain. It doesn’t occur to me to feel anything towards this seemingly bad weather luck, even though one would think rain and trains and sun and bikes fit together more nicely. Generally speaking, this is true, but there are always exceptions. Almost nothing reinforces a lack of responsibility more than willfully, slowly, moving your body through the rain without concern for the consequences. No matter being wet, hair frizzled, smelling slightly of outdoor cat and wet leaves, sweat mixed with humidity, a fine layer of grit all over- to move unhindered by, and uncovered in, the rain is to declare that absolutely nothing is expected that would require being presentable.
And so every pedal stroke over every slick surface chanted Iamonvacationrightnow, round and round. I was spectrums of wet and disheveled all over that town- there was no quick dash from shelter to shelter, no wait it out, it was all let’s swan through, take the time, look at that statue, have another turn around the square. I walked through an abandoned amusement park under trees dutifully turning leaves full of water over onto my head with every breeze. I sat down to lunch decidedly not dry all over, my hair expanded into a water born creature with a life and goals of its own. I visited a bakery after carelessly sitting in the puddle my bike seat had collected while I observed a church organ for as long as I wanted, humid and thoughtful. That evening, I crept softly through the shelves of a local bookshop with my jacket quietly weeping down my legs, rain drop curls clinging to my neck. The clerk responded to my request for Lithuanian poets with a handwritten note that listed four names; she pressed it into my damp palm where it promptly transferred the authors backwards into my hand, passport stamp proof of that strange and lovely day.
I will remember Kaunas as a cold, grey bowl of a world, explored lazily on a rented bicycle, guided by a paper map, the meandering route in the wind and rain punctuated with these warm pockets: the abrupt, stark silence of the unexpectedly stunning cathedral; the circle of heat from the pizza oven at lunch; the yeasty air of the bakery; the bookshop scented with coffee and pastries. This might not even be Kaunas- who knows what the sun brings- but it’s the Kaunas I had, and it was gloriously grey scale and otherworldly.
I’m telling you this part after a train station layover, now on the final leg to Warsaw- the first time for that city, but the third visit to Poland. Returning to foreign countries is something I never thought I would do and will probably never get used to. It still seems lucky and strange to me to get to visit new places at all; going back to old places and enjoying familiarity and favourite spots and comfort feels like a luxury that belongs to other people with different lives. I don’t know if the person I was a few years ago would have been able to make the most out of the one day spent in a small town being surrendered to rain without being filled with regret. Everything felt so tenuous, so desperately important, when I was first traveling and living abroad. There were so many firsts to be had, an almost endless parade of them that I knew I wanted, and I also knew I didn’t want anything to be squandered. Being able to graciously rinse a day out in the rain, or leave earlier than planned, or stay later than expected, or “waste” vacation days going back to the same city just because I liked it on a previous trip, is a freedom that has come with getting to the point where I have satisfied so much of what I needed to satisfy.
I realized, even just now as I was writing this, that I don’t travel like I am starving anymore, like I need to consume the world in one mad dash to make up for lost time (which is usually not lost at all, just defined as such, and so it finds itself lost). I have spent years of my life pursuing what I needed to have, and I have been able to have so much of it. I am finally at a point where I can give all the time I want to it. I can stay longer. I can go back. There isn’t an arbitrary expiration date hanging over me anymore, wagging a finger that I need to hurry up. I don’t have to pray for sunny days, or hope a school will hire me in spite of lack of experience, or wonder if my funds will travel with me as far as I want to go.
I’ve reached the point where Kaunas can rain, and I can let Kaunas rain, and nothing feels ruined or lost. This is the current version of the product of all these decisions over the last five years. I have traveled and explored and searched my way into feeling like I am walking through places now, and letting them wash over me, instead of running after them. I liked the running- it felt good to know I could run to get the things I wanted, when I needed to. I don’t need to anymore, and that feels good, too.