Part II
Natasha suddenly clues in to the unusual number of travelers, "I must change day I go to Village," she says, as usual missing a few articles and prepositions, "It dacha season."
"Ah," I respond.
The weather is clearing and it's time for planting. Many Russians have dachas, remote kitchen gardens outside of the city where they plant fruits and vegetables to supplement their meager incomes. In many of these gardens you will see a small and very humble yet colorful wooden hut or cottage where the owners can stay over the weekend while they dig, plant, weed and harvest. Today, many of the passengers carry boxes and bags full of starter plants for tomatoes, potatoes, squash, cucumbers, herbs and flowers � a veritable garden on wheels. Some carry fencing and roofing materials as well as tools and food. The train promises to be very full on the weekends throughout dacha season as city dwellers pour out of their brick apartments onto the countryside.
The odor of damp earth and young plants mingled with the smells of humans packed closely together permeates the air. An old man sitting shoulder-to-shoulder beside me, carrying his burden dacha-bound, sleeps, snoring loudly. I worry he will miss his stop. But like so many city commuters I've observed, he wakes just before his stop, disembarks and walks across the tracks to a small cluster of dachas not far distant. Out the train window across the isle, I watch him follow a well-worn trail accompanied by dozens of others, sleepily making their way to their individual plots. I see some elderly couples walking companionably toward their dacha, a spring in their step as they look forward to planting and growing life after the long winter, sharing a task as they've done for so many years. You see, dachas represent so much to these people. The love and care they put into their gardens is in deep and surprising contrast to the barren ugly exterior of their apartment buildings in the city where they have been assigned to live in equality with everyone else. Here one can see their creativity come to life. Their individuality, once suppressed by the system they lived in for most of their lives, comes to life here where they expressed their hopes, their dreams, and the artistry of their thoughts � of their very hearts and souls � a small yet safe rebellion of spirit. It's no wonder their spirits are light and joyful this day.
Natasha looks out the window and smiles, happy to be on a train. We have found something else we have in common � travel by train. It's not very comfortable, by U.S. standards, but the child-like joy we feel is certainly the same. The big green electric powered train quietly surges through the countryside to our destination. We disembark at the Nikolaivka station and look for our driver. Natasha has finally found someone willing to driver her to the various homes she visits each week. We locate him and are on our way.
