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Whore Train
eXile - Issue #162 - Whore-R Stories - Whore-r Stories: a Tale of Two Whores - By Mark Ames Moscow-based alternativenewspaper Search the eXile All Issues This Issue This Author This Column | Advanced Search... Email thousands of beautiful Russian Ladies! Home | Archive | Club Guide | Restaurant Guide | Songs | Field Guide To Moscow | Political Trading Cards | About Us Browse Column (19) Previous (3) Next (15) Whore-r Stories: a Tale of Two Whores By Mark Ames ( editor at exile ru ) Browse Author (147) Previous (58) Next (86) T he Sex Machine and I grabbed a taxi and headed down to Whore Alley on Leninsky Prospekt. It was around midnight last Friday, perfect trawling time. "You're looking for girls?" our driver asked. He was young, with slicked back hair. He took the job with enthusiasm. "My name is Marius, but call me Mario, it's easier. I'm from Lithuania." The first mamochka we saw tiptoeing by the Leninsky curb in her parka and sweat pants directed us to a small sidestreet. We turned off and found ourselves in a line of cars -- like something out of a drive-in hamburger joint from the 50s. About a dozen cars were jammed into the narrow pereulok, some trying to turn around, others trying to cheat their way to the front of the line. Some drivers complained to the mamochka why she didn't direct the traffic better. She ignored them and approached me. "70, 100 or 150?" she asked through my window. "100," I said. "100! Hey, 100!! Olga! Sasha! Get over here! 100!" You can't tell where the girls come from come from: cars, bushes, sewers...But suddenly there's a line-up of 20 girls, straightening out their skirts, each with their own expression ranging from weary anticipation to loathing to coquettish flirting. As a rule johns inside the cars, flash the brights and choose. But I wanted inspect for myself, close. I shouldn't have got out. The flaws I saw in the lineup were the stuff of medical science. "150," I said. "150! Come out! 100 go back! 150, come here!" That was when I noticed about two or three Caucasian men in track suits. They loafed around in the dark, but one emerged with a tall, extremely attractive girl. She said she was 17. One of the prettiest street whores I'd ever seen -- smiling too. But I didn't want to drop 150 and risk another dud. Besides, the Caucasian grinned at me like, "Hey, we can be molochniye bratya." "No good?" Marius asked when I got back in the car. "The best place is down Leningradsky Shosse just outside the MKAD. It's cheaper there. For 500 rubles I'll take you there, find you a girl and take you back." Marius didn't lie. Well down Leningradskoe Shosse on the way to Sheremetyevo, outside the MKAD, past the GAI checkpoint and the Grand Mebel store, there are so many whore markets that you start to wonder if entire villages haven't been depopulated of their 17-23-year-old females. You could tell by the abundance of mamachki on the roadside. They stood on the main highway sometimes as close as 50 yards away from each other, each representing their own unique whore market. Some markets were hard to reach. We had to drive through deep puddles and mud roads, behind abandoned sheds or storage houses and into dark alleys with fencing. Other times we drove down narrow dirt paths behind rows of trees, through mud and slush, waiting in line to view the girls like back in the oil crisis days. Rudnitsky and I were enjoying the window shopping too much to end it with a hasty purchase. Marius took over some of the negotiating for us to make sure we got the best deal. "They'll hear your Western accent and stiff you," he said. He didn't understand why we had to get out of the car all the time. Marius was the one who spotted Sveta. "What about the ryzhinka?" he said to me, pointing her out in the 100 lineup. She'd been placed in the center of a line-up of about 25 girls. The center is the choice spot; the girls get ranker on the ends. "Sveta!" the mamochka yelled. "Come here!" She gleefully ran up. "Yes, take me," she said enthusiastically. Then she leaned into the car and licked my ear. "Take me, let's go!" Her positive work ethic was something that I wanted to reward. I handed the mamochka a 100-spot, and took the back seat with Sveta. That was when I noticed her first flaw: she was missing at least two incisors, had a hole in a left front tooth that looked like a bb had been shot through it and another was blackening along the vertical edge. Rudnitsky hadn't tired yet of shopping. We hit about five more tochki, with Sveta eagerly helping out the hunt. She'd run into the lineup of girls and drag back the one she thought was best. In between tochki, she negotiated with Marius possible future tricks. Call me old-fashioned, but I didn't like that one plum bit. "Are there always this many tochki here?" Jake asked her. "Last summer I once counted 37 tochki just around here, each with about 70 girls." The math is incredible: 2500 girls just in this one strip. Rudnitsky finally settled on Oksana, a tiny redhead who seemed shy and unhappy. Sveta did her best to cheer Oksana up. On our way back to my apartment, Marius got a flat. So we bade our fair oarsman fare thee well and hitched a ride in a shestoyrka. Both Oksana and Sveta came from Ukraine. Which prompted my curiousity. I always have to ask a Ukrainian whether or not the saying, "Gde proshyol hohol, evreem nechego delats" (When a Ukrainian comes around, even a Jew is screwed) is valid. "Da!" They both said, laughing. "So it's true that Ukrainians are more cunning than Jews?" I asked. "I know a woman who fucked over a Jew," Sveta said. "She's Ukrainian, and she's the only person I know who ever managed to cheat a Jew." One thing about Sveta: she couldn't shut her mouth. I don't think I've ever heard someone talk so goddamn much in my life. I tried calming her down at my apartment with the equivalent of extra-strength Ritalin, but it only made her squeeze in twice as many words into each breath. "How old are you?" I asked. "20. I've been doing this for two years. I've been in Moscow two years. I'm from Krivoi Rog in Ukraine." Death Porn readers may recognize Krivoi Rog as one of the most celebrated death-pits where some of the rankest murders have taken place. I was with a legend. A real krivoirogcha. "How did you wind up in Moscow?" I asked. "It was easy. A girlfriend who lived in my podyezd in Krivoi Rog worked at a tochka in Moscow told me all about it when she came home once. It sounded good to me. I planned to study at the hairstyling institute. Get a degree. And work the tochka. So I came out here when I was 18." "How did you get here? I mean did they accompany you on the train or trick you or take your passport?" "No, no. That kind of thing doesn't happen anymore where they steal your passport and hold you. My friend bought me my train ticket. I paid her back on my own. I didn't owe anyone, you know? I could work or not work. Anyway I didn't work the entire time. I went to the institute for awhile then quit. I moved to Tula for almost a year with my boyfriend. He was bisexual. He was very sexy and thin. He left me for his boyfriend. They didn't have sex but he loved him. One time I was with him and his brother in a sauna, and we took another girl for 300 rubles. She didn't give good head so my boyfriend showed her how by sucking his brother. Prikin [can you believe it]?!" I had to verbally wrestle her away from the subject of her bisexual boyfriends. Makes it harder to suppress the Lost In Space voice in your head: "Danger! Danger! Will Robinson! This whore is a danger!" Anyway no danger just then: I was so wired that I had what we call "the walnut," when your unit shrivels up into a sweaty walnut, as useful as a human tail bone. She tried jerking and blowing life into the walnut, but it wouldn't crack. I noticed dark purple track marks on the veins on the back of her hands. They looked like bites. Like the bites on the insides of her elbows. "Do you do smack?" "Yes. Not all the time. I don't like shooting. I hate needles." "So how does it all work. How much does each person at the tochka make?" I asked. "The mamochka who stands out on the street? She makes 10%. So let's say you have a 2500 ruble trick. She gets 250 rubles for bringing in business, standing there." "Like a commission." "But the mamochka who runs the tochka - the hozyain - gets 25%. That's a real mamochka, not like the girl who stands out on the street. It can be either a man or a woman. Usually a woman, an ex-hooker. She knows how to organize, how to take care of the girls, how to price, how to keep everyone happy. So she keeps a list on a piece of paper. There's a piece of paper with all the names. And if a girl goes, the mamochka takes the money then writes the amount down next to the name, like, 'Sveta, 2500 rubles.' Then there's the okhranik. He gets 25% for protection. And the girl, she gets 50%." "You mean after the first mamochka takes her 10%, right?" I asked. "Then we also have one day a month where we work for free. I mean any tricks are free, I even pay for my own taxi to the tochka. The money from the free day goes to the local militsia precinct. We all have to do it. Keeps the cops happy. So when they have to sweep us or round us up, the just book us for an hour and release us rather than locking us up for 10 days in the tank with the bums or a subotnik or deportation." The subotnik was, in communist times, the day that enthusiastic proletarians would work for free. Often it was on Lenin's birthday. Nowadays subotnik is usually the day in mid-spring when residents chip in to clean their dvori after the muddy thaw. For street whores, a subotnik meant either a free gang bang or a gang rape by the militsia, whichever you want to call it. "I lost my passport so right now I have to be really careful," she said. She'd even made Marius drive a circuitous route into Moscow when we first picked her. "If the trash catch a Russian hooker without a propusk they'll fine her 100 rubles, but if she's Ukrainian it's 500 rubles. Prikin'? I don't even have my passport so I just pretend I'm Russian. But they can ask for 100 dollars. Or 500 dollars. That's what happened to me last summer. Listen to this." She lurched forward on my bed, wearing only my Serb paramilitary T-shirt and red lace underwear. "I was rounded up with about ten other girls from the tochka. We didn't get away in time when the cops swept. I thought they'd leave us alone because of our krysha. We paid our free day. But something happened. They were different cops or they were making a point, I don't know. So instead of just releasing us after an hour like usual, they drove us to the holding tank in Sergeev Posad where they put bums. Bums! We had to stay there for 10 days. It was so cold inside the cell even though it was warm outside. We had to sleep on hard wooden planks with no bedding. We couldn't change our clothes. They'd let us out a few times a day. You could shower but the water was so cold that I couldn't stand under it. It hurt. When I washed my underwear or socks, they couldn't dry because there was no hot pipe to dry them on. It took days to dry. They wouldn't let us call our mamochka. They threatened to deport us. It was so dirty there. There were bums...not in our cell but in others. "After 10 days they released us. I was so happy. I appreciated everything. The first thing I did was go meet some friends by the tochka. We started smoking pot on the street. Right then a cop car comes up. My friends ran away because they didn't have passports. But I had a spravka from the police holding tank in Sergeev Posad that allowed me to stay in Moscow for three days. That's the law, that's how it works. You have three days to leave once you're released from jail. So I thought I was safe. The cop gets out and takes me. I said, 'You can't take me, I have a spravka.' He said, 'I don't care about your spravka, I'm taking you in jail.' Prikin'? I was so upset. He put me in the back of the car. I still hadn't bathed in 10 days, my hair was a mess. He put me in jail with a bunch of girls. Then a short time later he had a bunch of us line up and he pulled me out. He told me that it was his best friend's birthday and he wanted to give me to him as a gift. A subotnik - otherwise I wouldn't get out of jail. I was even willing to stay in jail but he told me I had no choice. The cop put me in his car. He asked, 'What do you want to drink?' I said, 'Vodka.' He said, 'What sweets would you like?' I said some kind of chocolate. Then he said, 'What else would you like?' I said, 'A bath.' He looked at me like, poor thing. We went to his friend's apartment. The friend was nice looking. I took a two-hour bath. I was so happy. A warm apartment. A bath! A chair with cushions! Soap! I had sex for hours with the guy. I hadn't seen a guy in 10 days. That was so long for me! I was so horny. We fucked every which way. We had anal sex. He really enjoyed it. Then he passed out. I made food. I left the next morning. He gave me his phone number. We still talk sometimes. Then I went to my apartment to finally relax. When I got there, the girl I lived with had a guest over who brought poppy straw with him. He found out what happened to me, boiled up some poppy straw and we shot it up. I got so high. Then another girlfriend came over. I had sex with the girl. I taught her how to lick me. Then I relaxed and she licked me so much. Can you believe it? All that in just those few days. Prikin'?" "Have you ever been raped? Has it been dangerous?" "Not really, no. People know that they can't mistreat us. Well, once I was taken by five guys. One of them had sex with me. Then four of the guys left and one stayed behind. He raped me anally four times. He did it to hurt me. I was crying. He went slow, he threatened me. He made it hurt and made me bleed. He was sick. I was so lucky and happy to get out alive." "Didn't you tell your okhraniki?" "I was too scared then. It was when I first started working. I just didn't know. But they do act. One time a group of rebyata took two girls from our tochka. They brought them to a sauna and raped them. They were really cruel. One guy held a knife to a girl's throat. They made them fuck all night, didn't let them sleep. They beat the girls. They fucked one so hard that she started her period early. Then when they were through with them, they took them to a construction site out in Khimki and sold them to the workers. The workers fucked and raped them. Then three hours later, the guys come back and take them to another construction site to sell them again. Later they beat the girls, held them, raped them some more. Two days later they drove up to the tochka in two cars with the girls. They got out yelling at the mamochka that they wanted their money back because one of the girls was on her period. Prikin'? They were yelling, 'What the fuck are you doing selling us bitches on the rag? Give us our fucking money back!' The mamochka took the bleeding girl aside and she told her the real story. So the mamochka told the rebyata to fuck off. That's when our okhraniki came out. One of our guys is huge, really huge. The rebyata ran back to their cars but they were drunk. One car got away. But the other car didn't. The driver of that car had his ear torn off. I mean torn off. The other guy - he was the one who put the knife up to the girl's throat - he was pulled out of the car and beaten so much. All his arms and legs... he'd fall on the ground limp and our guy picked him up, smashed him and threw him on the ground. Again and again. He was coughing blood everywhere. The mamochka even got worried enough to call the skory pomoch'. I think that guy might have died. He didn't move after the okhranik stopped beating him. "The thing is, as the mamochka explained later, you don't fuck with the whores. What's the problem? Just pay the money and have a good time with them. Why do you have to hurt them? But it wasn't just that. What's worse is that after they hurt the girls they sold them to other people. They don't have the right to do that! That's like theft. And then, to come back two days later and demand your money back - no, that was - they couldn't let them get away with it. It wasn't allowed." Sveta told me several sex stories in a row - I couldn't stop her. They seemed to merge into each other: bisexual boyfriends, saunas, binges, bisexual girls. For her life was a series of swings from one intense moment to the next with as few in-between dead space moments as possible. I have a weakness for the type. They live like protagonists. "It's impossible for a Russian girl to be faithful," she said. "Russian men too." The only confession that made her uncomfortable was telling me that she lost her virginity at age 13. "I'm blushing," she said. "That's young, isn't it?" Her boyfriend was 15 at the time. They stayed together for a year then split up. She has a younger brother and a younger sister. And several half-brothers and sisters. Her father left when she was four. He remarried once, had two more daughters, divorced, and married again to a woman who had a son from a previous marriage. "My father and I haven't spoken since I was four. Since he left. He never talked to me or my mother again. She hates him." "Are you mad at him?" I asked. "No, why would I be? I saw him just a couple years ago at the rynok in Krivoi Rog. I saw him getting off a bus. I knew it was him because we look so much alike. It's impossible not to notice, everyone says this. We have the same mouth and lips, the same chin, and especially the same eyes." Sveta had a small cleft in her chin, full red lips and large, bright chestnut eyes. "My father's very handsome. He's a little shorter than me. The only thing I have of my mother's is her nose. I wish I had my father's nose." "Did you say anything to him when you saw him?" "Oh no! I wasn't dressed right. I looked awful. I was wearing sneakers and jeans and a shirt. If a daughter is to see her father for the first time in a long time, I want him to think I'm beautiful. I'm his daughter after all. I'd want to get made up, wear a nice dress and shoes, do my hair. I wasn't going to see him like that." At first I thought she'd want to look beautiful to make her father regret leaving her, but she really wasn't vengeful or angry. She simply wanted her father to be proud of her. "Some day I'll go see him, not now. I heard he's sick. That he has heart problems." Sveta was obsessive. She could spend an hour or more trying to bring the walnut to life. She spent two hours at one point playing solitaire on my Palm Pilot - I couldn't pull her away from it. The Sex Machine lived up to his name, working off on Oksana like a cat on a scratching post. Youth wasn't wasted on him. He felt bad for me and made a Viagra run to his apartment. Then he left for good to go home. Later, when Oksana woke up, she begged me to allow her to stay. "Mark, pozhaaaulsto. I'll cook you borscht, I'll make you all kinds of vareniki. I'll clean, I'll take care of you. Just let me stay." Oksana didn't have the same enthusiasm for her job or life as Sveta did. She was miserable and trapped, according to Jake. For all of Sveta's abuse her body was remarkably taut. Her small breasts had large nipples that stood erect from the minute she got into the paramilitary shirt. She told me that she used to be fat - it was hard to see how. Her snapper was oddly tight but too dry for a 20-year-old, defying the Limonov Theorom on Vaginal Moisture. Within minutes my walnut unfolded like a sow bug. She was eager to fuck. She turned around, then rolled on her back and came within a minute after I entered her. She apologized for having finished first. "I waited all night for this, I couldn't help it," she said. I didn't care - I had my own agenda. Sveta must have faked the second orgasm, the one that climaxed just as I did. Some guys get off on that, on the power they feel pleasing even a whore. When the girls left, Oksana wrote down her phone number but Sveta declined to. "I never leave my number," she said. She didn't seem particularly eager to see me again, not for another week at the earliest. With desire gone and the girls gone, fear knocked and let itself inside. I'll try not to think about it too much: the track marks, the liaisons with bisexual men, the anal sex stories, "working two years..." I popped a thousand milligrams of sumamed and plan to check my hep boosters by the end of the week. You can't get the really good stories by practicing safe sex. Because there is no such thing as safe sex with a girl like Sveta, even if you wear a condom. It's called eXtreme journalism, folks, and you'll only get it here in the eXile. Issue In #162 20 Mar 03 (2 years, 9 months old) Also in this Issue The Road to Perdition: America 2000 - 2005 Feature Story Now that UN troops have conquered the American homeland, ending a the terror by the Bushites, the world can afford to catch its breath... Death Porn FULLY FURNISHED... FRIEND OR DINNER?... UP IN SMOKE... Your Letters SIC! JAY, AYE... THE QURAN NERD... ULT-IMATE FAN... [SIC] IN THE SHIT... PROPOSITION... SUI-[sic] LETTER... Remedial Slander: Dolphins They only save drowning sailors because they like to play with floating bodies... Prince of Parasites: the Guinea Worm Our Newest Schopenhauer Award nominee!... The Bad and the Bland Press Review byPhilbyBurgess We were privileged to witness true greatness last week - "Amnesty the Oligarchs" by Anders Aslund in the Moscow Times... Hardcore We sent photographer Oleg Belikov to spend a wild up afternoon with the Dead Kennedys... Accenti: Quiet Perfection Restaurant Review byElizabethFamilton Accenti, which has just opened in a quiet lane in Kropotskinskaya, is essentially a seafood restaurant... Bardak Calendar Another Shitty eXile Party... Shaggy... Pete Tong... Cesaria Evora... Gloria Gaynor... "We Bomb - U Bone" Winner! The first war casualty is a page 23 whore, whom we promised to the reader who guessed closest to the date of the start of the war... World Book Encyclopedia, 2004 Edition: Iraq Iraq, the proud new 51st state of the USA, was once a seething hive of freedom-hating terrorists linked to international terrorism... Le Gratitude byPepeLePew As the quintessential frog, I'd like to thank George W. and his crew for putting France back on the map... Gangs Of Shite Kino Korner byMarkAmes This kino korner is my first chance to comment on the Academy Awards ceremony this coming Sunday... Paddy Goes Better with Coke City Beat byJohnDolan Red and white were the colors flying over this year's St Patrick's Day parade in Moscow... Nostalgia for the Blood Mop byJohnDolan I wheedled a press ticket to the World Championship of No-Rules Fighting last Saturday night... MOAB: the Monster Truck of American Ordnance War Nerd byGaryBrecher The one people've been asking me about is this MOAB, this new giant conventional bomb... Escape from Tynda byJakeRudnitsky Towards the end of my stay, perversion, paranoia and violence were circling closer than ever... Don't Come to this Cabaret Club Review byDenisSalnikov A secret about a club so cool that I didn't want to ruin it by attracting unwanted attention... Set Font This feature requires JavaScript. Other Formats Printer-friendly Plain Text Email Article Email address(es): Note: Affiliate Links By buying from these merchants, you help to support and enhance our online presence. 200 beautiful RussianBrides a week! Photo galleries, personal profiles, introduction services. Travel to Russia Visa support, hotels, train tickets, tours and cruises. See your message here! Write to web_adv at exile ru Interested in advertising? Write to the_exile at mail ru "the eXile". Tel: +7 (095) 795-3376 , fax: +7 (095) 245-1415 E-mail: office at exile ru (website-related issues: webperson at exile ru )
Whore Train
LazyBastard.Com: October 29, 2001-- On The Train From Paris to Berlin Home LazyBastard.Com toward Prague: October 29, 2001--On The Train From Paris to Berlin It's autumn, oh, yes, the skeletal horses in the fields, and the leafless trees rubbing the sky's grey belly certainly attest to that. Level after level after level of gray, as if the world were a low resolution screen--the world on glass, covered with insincere craftsmanship, painted for quick sale in cheap art fairs, in weekend street galleries, the world as caught by the insincere and the speedy. The world, in short, very much like the way I catch the world, and only the occasional (less than occasional) moment of purity counterpointing all the swift graytone perceptions, the illusion of depth created through negative space and the judicious use of gradation. Suddenly we have a town in France, suddenly it's the undescribed bullet train, suddenly we're in the middle of Jeff's life. You can't help but hold up the book with an expression to indicate that it smells bad. Who wrote this? And who, I ask? I 'm looking up now at the blinding eye of the sun, brilliant even through the layers of high cloud cover--more gray and white, although finally with some streaks of blue far up there. But I look at the sun, looking down unblinkingly like the eye of a reptile and wonder if this is the author I should thank. I want to be believe that there's a warmer ore mammalian eye up there. But maybe not. Maybe the secret all pet owners know is that the world is a gnostic dream--a petting zoo gone awry. The fish are outside the tank watching us. It's the lizard's terrarium that holds us now. And there's not much to do but watch us foul our water and spill our food, let the cows fall where they may. As long as the music keeps playing, I guess we really can't be too upset. [] Yes, the phantom limb, the scourge of San Francisco, and only brave M. Druisellet can curb the evil mastermind's terrible plans for vengeance! The phantom limb, mistaken by other people as their own heart or their own mind, but actually my renegade soul, escaped from me during a fierce attack of heartbreak, and lurking even now in the BART tunnels under the city. And while it runs amok, here I am, the only man who could stop it, on the train moving through the vast trainyard and car dealership that is Brussels (admittedly traveling by rail will make almost any city seem like a vast trainyard). Actually, now that we've turned a corner, Brussels seems more interesting to me--a modern city with some sort of ancient ruin in the center and the typical Provencal-style buildings, as functional and as decorative as shoe trees, plus the complete regularity with which windows are applied to them, as if it were every European's guaranteed right to defenestrate themselves at a moment's notice. It may seem arrogant, but I think Europe has a lot to learn from us Americans now. How, after all, will Europe take to the coming homogenization--greater than it's ever been--presented by the Euro and its borders, perhaps never before spread so wide. How sorry a state of affairs conquerors would find this now. Who has replaced the blood of our countrymen with milk, they would ask. Who allows such free interbreeding between cultures? The answer, of course, would be America, land of the mongrel and the mutt, the weak-blooded and the apathetic; my lack of history, my lack of culture, except for what I choose to make of it. The Internet seems odd over here, not nearly as in place as I thought it would be. I can't help but seeing all the Internet signs with the jaundiced eye of a San Franciscan. Perhaps the Internet is a particularly American dynamic, an American "utility" that people don't really want or need in a world of porous borders. Maybe the Europeans will want their own little Euronets, where they can meet people from their own countries, their own history. History is spread everywhere across like Europe, like mayonnaise, inescapable and informing the way every person dressses, every person sits, every person sleeps. Whereas the Internet is about an attempt to build history and culture in a country that has traditionally tried to destory it--let us build our own culture, let us choose our own history. Such ideas would seem impossible everywhere but in America. But here in Europe where there are already too many histories, too many cultures, and you can walk down the street to the local church three times older than America, who needs or wants to build a culture? It would be like putting a swimming pool in an aquarium. I'm torn, then, as to what I would say to the Europeans if they were to ask me for advice. Part of me is tempted to say, throw out your culture, put in the megamall. There is not much good that can come from your brasseries that all serve the same thing badly, there is nothing to be gained, no comfort to be had in a house filled with old ghosts and open windows. Burn down the trainyards, destroy your old lederhosen, and for god's sake destroy your belief in anarchy. How embarrassing is it to see signs supporting anarchy in cities so old they've outlived every possible citizen dozens of times over. Anarchists in European cities just seem to me like badly spoiled children. I can see it in America where history is mutable and corrupt. But in Europe? Come on! If you're that fond of anarchy why are you keeping all these ugly old buildings? Why are you shivering under the weight of woolen blankets in hard-walled rooms? Why do you keep passing the open windows? There is nothing be had here of anarchy. Either embrace your part as drone and messenger, as citizen and envoy of a city that is the actual European (not you) or else cast off this mark of Cain and try to begin again. It took you thousands of years to invent the bourgeois and half of you still act like you want to get rid of him. I would call the bourgeois the greatest creation since sliced bread if it wasn't for the fact that I believe the bourgeois was a by-product of sliced bread and so is contemporaneous. No, admit to yourselves what anarchy is in Europe. It's a hobby: lepidoptery, philately, anarchy. [] Between my typing and this keyboard, the English language is devolving before what would be my very eyes if I was even looking at it. Instead, I'm staring at a variety of passengers in the mirror above me, at the backs of the French businessmen in the seat in front of Dave, in the dashing about of the bored children who seem to yell and shriek and cause the youngest one to burst into tears every eight minutes. It would actually be more quiet to be riding outside the train at this point, and I've thought about wandering to another car, or else kicking the kids up to the next coach. I guess we're not allowed any special privileges in second class, such as infanticide. [] I think also that my history where we have Redwoods and intelligences that walk in the woods far older than these cities, have left me a bit more jaded than perhaps other Americans. To be in a wood and feel the breath on your neck of something that was old long before men even glimpsed the forest line, much less tried to enter it, makes me wonder if I'm to have few surprises in Europe apart for the occasional ogling of the architecture. Or perhaps I'm missing the point of Europe, which is that it is our first alien intelligence, the city as subject, as hero of a narrative, and a chance to visit that narrative even as it's being acted out. To see Beowulf when Beowulf was young, to move through the veins of Daedalus as he constructs the prison from which no one can escape. And perhaps I'm just fooling myself, but when the catacombs of Paris are roughly as old as San Francisco and hold 6 million people (outnumbering San Franciscans by at least six to one), it seems to me that I'm come from a city that is about sentient as a retarded infant. It has received so little succor, it has barely begun to open its eye and look around and it has been mired in the stunting cigarette smoke of political corruption for most of its life--it amuses me that I was ever afraid of San Francisco, its sentience. To be afraid of a city is to be afraid of one's own death, but the more comfortable with that subject one becomes, the more comfortable a city is. It's not half as horrible as the woods, as the field, as the stream, where nature has programmed itself with a blind thrusting version of mindfulness that is avaricious and yet apathetic, barely avoidable and awesome; only rarely strange, but even then more strange than Paris can aspire to. All cities that have streets are, if you think about it, only streetwalkers, possessing their initial gaudy appeal and then later their laziness and vanity. Whereas to live in the country is to have the willow-wife, the river wife, the lady of the woods, a relationship that is both stranger and deeper, capable of troubling and depressing but also rewarding at a level that is almost religious, to grow old and die in the crushing, ever-fecund arms of the willow wife, as opposed to dying alone, with the chattery gossip of the streetwalker city in your ear. If there is an appeal to Europe, I've decided, it's that the cities can frequently resemble nature. They can be so imperious as to resemble the silent wives of nature, even though it is in fact merely the stillness of the matronly madam, the borrowed airs of those who inherited strength through simple attrition, those who have cut low the forests of their own youth. The city, though, is all whore, and all chatter, talking outside your window and not caring if you die. Whereas the willow wife will hold her breath, if only for a minute, before she continues to envelop your house, and your body, and all that you have accomplished. To be married to the wood, or to live in the adultery of the city: are those the only choices available to me? Maybe there's something else I'll realize as we move through Berlin, through Prague and toward Venice, another possibility that will be offered through the embellishment of urban accretion. [] I don't know why I love the train so much. After all, the train is merely a bus without any potential for free will. Or, come to think of it, maybe that's what I love about the train. [] Just now, as I'm sitting here writing finally with my eyes closed, I can't help but wonder how safe it is to be riding at this high speed with one's eyes closed. What does the future hold to a man who willingly blinds himself to it. It's somewhat hard to believe that the future will provide if you're not willing to do anything about it. "Chance favors the prepared monkey." I believe Pasteur himself, whose face is currently in my wallet, said that. But who knows. There are guys like Einstein, to whom you can attribute any sort of half-assed truism and people will repeat it endlessly. Or you can say something that seems to finally have more than the slightest gram of truth to it, and all of a sudden every one wants to believe that Einstein wrote it, or that Murphy legislated it, and it's nothing like that. The world and the ideas exist---more and more I'm not sure if we exist as anything other than a conduit between the two. We are horses, we are autos, we are trains, shuttling about the passengers who live inside us to their desired destination. [] The dingy glass of the Berlin supertrain makes one think of all of the surrounding countryside as dingier than one would necessarily expect it to be. The seats on the train are comfortable but claustrophobic--it's like being smothered to death by a beloved uncle or aunt, perhaps. I'm sitting across from a woman with a face like poorly baked bread. Not particularly old, but having even a greater amount of the sort of joylessness and dead-eyed maturity I've come to expect from most Euros. Let's see, what else? Oh, yes. Mr. Tod's Wild Ride. I thought that one up while in the snug bathroom, the jostling moving bathroom, the sort of odd anti-uterus in which one doesn't kick but is kicked. And also none of this three language stuff for us now---it's all German all the time, unless they're breaking into Danish or some other sort of thing I'm not following. The houses are spinning right by, and I don't know why but I get the feeling I'm not going to like Germany much. So far it seems like France but with the flavor boiled out of it. More songs about buildings and food, I guess you'd call it. [] Previous: October 28, 2001--Paris, France Next: October 31, 2001--On The Train To Prague Email me . All material on these pages is ©2001 by Jeff Lester. With the exception of non-profit distribution, all other rights are reserved.