5 november

Riding on a train, on the lower berth, in the aisle. Can’t sleep, for whatever reason. Maybe it’s the slight amount of light that never gets turned off in these platskart vahons, these second—third?—class cars. Maybe I’m wondering why I’ve decided to take a 9-hour train for what will most likely be a super-short doctor’s appointment and an errand or two totaling an hour or three, then turn around and take the next 9-hour train right back. Genius. Inspiration. Also, the lack of funds to spend on overnight accommodation in the shining city on a hill that is my host nation’s capital.

I roll, twist, curl. Despite the warm air, I still like to be covered. My feet don’t, though, so they unwrap themselves from the damp sheet in somewhat unnecessary defiance. The two girls across from me chattering quietly don’t seem to notice the unnecessarily rude stance my feet have adopted. The snores from the bunks above them don’t seem to care, either. I squeeze my eyes shut, following the example.

The train rumbles on, as it is wont to do. One and then another sleep traveler stumbles down the corridor, toward the bathroom or out for a smoke break. Suddenly, my eyes fly open as I feel a warm liquid on my feet. I see one stumbler heading past, unsteadily aiming for the far end of the car.

So gross, I think, instantly certain that this man is drunk and has spilled his beer on me. I reach down in the murky dark to touch and smell for certain, but this is not the smell of beer, and suddenly I am wide awake and reaching for my glasses. I lean to inspect my feet, ankles, sheets, and then the floor… Noticing that the trail leads from one end of the car to the other, I am disturbed, and noticeably so, even in the dark. The two girls have stopped chatting and are staring at me, the floor, the sheets.