Glamour

“Molooodetz” the man across from me mumbles, half-asleep, as I finally manage to shove my mattress—worn-out, beige, yet with unsettling dark spots—into the space above my cot. It’s 3am on an airless Ukrainian train. I’m exhausted.

This is the peculiarity of travel, in light of its routinely romanticized and mythologized presence. As I move from place to place, replaying my mind is Paul Theroux’s quip: “travel is only glamorous in retrospect.” Such “glamour” is what becomes present in the memories-turned-narrative for the heroic doer to recount. But there is nothing glamorous in the way I feel: hot, not having slept in two days—I’m anticipating another sleepless night. And all of this reminding me that there are few things more self-conscious than the state of discomfort, and there is nothing less sexy than a confined space scattered with inebriated, sweaty men in their underwear. And as dearly as I hold on to myself, the smells, the lack of personal space, the same tired conversations; I hold to my sense that movement, often any movement, is a gesture towards something.

When I boarded the train eight hours earlier, I mourned the shower I so prudently managed to fit in that morning. Now meaningless, I’m highly aware of the odor that seems to be settling on my skin. It’s thick, almost paste-like. I dig in my backpack for a wet wipe. I always hated wet wipes. Even the name made me feel dirty—wet wipes. They remind me of all-you-can-eat buffets. White, smug little packets piled carelessly next to the barbequed ribs, waiting to make your hands smell like alcohol and creamsicles. But here they’ve become a close and constant companion.

I dig further. Deodorant, dirty underwear, journal I always mean to write it, book I never seem to finish...ah hah: wet wipes. As I remove one and start to clean my face, the woman to my right approaches me. She’s kind-looking, mid-fifties, with the sort of face that carries life in its lines and cracks.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“To Lviv.”

“hmm...to Lviv....What time do you arrive?”

“thirteen am”

“What?”

“oops. No. Three am. Sorry.”

I still confuse numbers. My excuse is that I can’t even use them properly in English.

She points to her suitcase. “Can I put my bags under your seat? I don’t have enough room.”

“Of course! Take it all.”

At that moment, I gave little thought to the grandness of my gesture, but several minutes later she places a cookie in front of me, announcing proudly, “one for you and one for me!” I thanked her graciously; she nods, chews, and lightly dabs her mouth with a napkin. The cookie is followed by a large apple, which she pulls out of a bag with the sort of gusto one might expect from a game show host. “смачного!” she says, and I hold the apple up as a toast.

Myself and the lovely Cristen Vernon. Lviv.

It’s these moments when I recognize the simple and unexpected human connections, occuring most often when I don’t realize how much I need them.

I arrive in Lviv at 3am and bid farewell to the mubling man across from me, making my wait to the train station's crowded sitting room. My friends will arrive from Poland in a few hours.