The End of the Route

“Theis baits drawe many hither, some for Curiositie, others for Luxurie, there being wayes to gett, but many more to spend.”

And thus, I had my tablecloth to be brought home and stained with life. Some future nephew, grandchild, or yard-sale picker will unfold it from the bottom of whatever trunk I end up stuffing it in and wonder what they can get for it.

But before that, it will be a beautiful part of the homes Sara, and Milo, and I make together. A bright beacon to our guests, and a layer between Ruggles and the cold surface of the table. He will greatly enjoy picking the seeds from the sewn-silk pomegranates. It's more than a souvenir, it's a symbol of a life domestic and of the trip that made me desire such life.

Made the meandering way back, passing a small public banya (bath) and considered taking one. Deciding against it, I made myself laugh with the phrase "banya mañana," just the kind of dumb multilingual rhyme my brain needed. I'll take a bath tomorrow, banya mañana, banya mañana. He is never clean, it's always banya mañana with him. I began to get annoyed with myself for repeating it so much, and I was grateful no one else was there for me to bother. On the other hand, they might have stopped me and thereby saved me.

Back at the guesthouse, I was force-fed more hot gourd chunks, golden raisins, and tea before I could get to the room. You can't get past that giant table. I was only able to escape when grandma turned her back to check the kettle. This place sure fills you up. Spent a pleasant hour in my room listening to music and repacking my suitcase to accommodate the new purchases.

At this point, there was still a week left in the trip. I was scheduled to leave Khiva in the morning, but there was still some question about the next destination. It was a repetition of the feelings I'd had earlier, a free fall of unknowing. What I would choose to do. All outcomes seemed possible. Schrodinger's tourist. 

In the sealed box of my room I was both pushing on to Nukus to see the Aral Sea disaster and heading back to Tashkent for four days of comfortable reading and writing. Both outcomes were appealing to me. My mother has a thing where she says if you're trying to decide, flip a coin, but don't look at it when it lands. Your heart will tell you which side you hoped the coin landed on, and you should do the thing that side indicates.

For me, it often feels like the coin never lands. 

I went back out to see the sun set over the minarets. To do so, I had to dodge grandma's offer of what looked like Jurassic pistachios.

Quiet and cool inside the walls of the darkling fortress. I felt peaceful and alive. My headache was gone. If it meant anything other than dehydration, the pattern indicates I will know some time over coffee in a few weeks. I'll be reading or working and.. something will happen. I have a brain scan scheduled for the day after I return, which is timely. For all my freewheeling, I do have a small streak of responsibility.

I was enjoying the glow of a lighted advertisement for coffee, when I heard "salaam alaikum" in an Australian accent. I responded with "alaikum salaam." It was Eric taking in the same air under the same sky. If Maxu had been there, I could have pointed and shouted "My friend!"

We shook hands and compared notes. He had been a pleasant constant this last week, but with the Silk Route complete, he was headed to Malaysia! I was headed away, but... not there. We pledged eternal friendship, the brotherhood of the road.

I went to try the plov at a place next to the place he recommended. He's not the boss of me! I eat where I want!

A very beautiful cat lay on the pillows and carpets and observed a night-bird with great concern. The plov was the best I'd had on the trip. Finally, some good plov! In the streets outside, old men in fur hats crossed their arms and rubbed their shoulders to warm themselves. Vendors and artists were packing away their unsold wares. Credits rolling at the end of a film. 

A feast was waiting for me at the guesthouse. I was full of plov and touched my belly to indicate this, but Granny Uzbek would have none of it. She turned up the volume on a Turkish soap opera and gently pushed me to the table where piles of bread and fruit surrounded a bowl of dumpling soup. Fine. Fine! The broth was good, but I chose not to eat what was either a giant bell pepper or a dog's ear. I had not seen any bell peppers on this trip in any of the markets, so... it may have been pumpkin shell. In fact, I'm sure of it. Yes. That has to be what it was. It is so.

In my room, I planned for the morning. The train to Tashkent looked sold out online. You can only buy tickets online if you are a local or have a Russian passport, and even then they are twice the price. But it's useful to use to check the schedule and availability. There is a place that will sell tickets to Americans online, but the service takes four days (and is three times the price). In person, the ticket office only takes cash, and there is no ATM. So... in the morning I would go to the station, hold out my remaining cash and and buy a ticket for as close to Tashkent as I could get. Ideally, Tashkent itself.

This meant I had decided against Nukus. But... if the train was sold out... or too expensive... maybe I would have enough for the bus to Nukus. Anything could happen! I had purposefully built in five "open" days to make my way back, since I had known this ambiguity was a possibility.

In the morning, my options were reduced still further. When the taxi arrived, I was making my farewells, putting on my boots, when I was presented with an enormous bill for all the food.

Granny Uzbek was making a silk purse out of a dog's ear.

I was fairly outraged, and of course they only took cash. But that was my train-ticket money. I didn't want to pay. What was I going to do, yell at an old woman? And the taxi driver was her son. If I didn't pay, would he still take me to the train station? I felt taken advantage of almost as badly as with the cabbie in Almaty. I gave her the pumpkin blood-money in tight-lipped silence.

I didn't touch my heart when I left. Burn!

Of course, it was fun to ride in the Damas again, and I had some hope the trains wouldn't all be sold out, so my spirits were aroused. I could have asked the driver to take me to the same bank on the outskirts of town as Maxu had, but.. what if we took the time to do that and during that time the trains sold out? Lord Almaty. So... I stuck to the plan and got to the ticket window. There WAS a seat to Tashkent, but I no longer had enough money. They outta call it Cashkent.

I had enough to make it to Bukhara, though! (Or Nukus). I chose Bukhara, because I knew it, it would be easy to find a room there... and I already knew the best ATMs and coffee shops. And thus, back through the desert.

Nukus and Mo'ynaq, though still very appealing, were deeper in the desert, and near an ecological disaster (nuke us indeed!), and I wasn't sure it was wise, ultimately.

I had made the safe choice, and I was also at peace with Grandma Uzbek. The food had been good, and the shorter train trip would be better for me than the endless overnighter to Tashkent, and thus her theft was for the greater good. She was like Robin Hood and the Green Goblin mixed together. Because of the pumpkins. He's a Spider-Man villain who throws exploding pumpkins.

Very short on cash, I had enough for a bottle of water. There were also a few walnuts left from.. somewhere. A long ride ahead of me, but I'd eaten enough over the last few days... I would be ok..probably.

An hour in, a stranger offered me bread and tea. I was rationing my walnuts, when the stranger handed me the cup from his Thermos and bade me drink. I did, and I was warmed by it. He tore a crust from his large, round loaf and bade me eat. I did, and I was filled by it.

Chai and non. Tea and bread. I spoke the words like a child. It was an act of great kindness, and I felt like a pilgrim on the Silk Route from centuries past. I rested and read.

I had finished A Ride to Khiva, and I started a long book in which a journalist goes through Molotov's library and visits different cities in Russia. It was a giant pile of facts with very little art to their presentation. And the theme didn't really coalesce. I'd read so many great books on this trip, I felt like pushing through this one for balance, and so by the time we reached Bukhara, I had finished it.

On the platform, a British couple took selfies with a gang of locals, all of them roaring drunk and having the best time. A marvelous scene under the moon with night trains creaking and snuffling past us like arthritic mastiffs.

No ATM at the station (no surprise), so the few, wrinkled bills I had left were going to have to get me a cab. It was midnight, and I wasn't sure if the bus I had taken before was still running. During the day, the price is $2. I had $3. The first guy who offered to take me asked for $15. I cackled in his face like a witch.

It was out of surprise, frustration, and residual anger. It probably wasn't a good idea to shriek in a dude's face. What if he'd felt disrespected or humiliated and gotten angry? I mean, the price he quoted was some real Uzbek chutzpah (and don't think I didn't banya mañana the hell out of that phrase), but a simple "no thank you," would have been more appropriate than the mocking rusty-chain sounds that came out of me.

His friends were there, and they pushed him and made fun of him. He took it with a sly smile. It was an, 'ow you say, sweeng and the meese. Ultimately, it may have humbled him, because he agreed to take me for $3.

My host, Sukhrob, had expected my late arrival and was very kind to me, taking my bags up the stairs and sparing me too long of a tour of the property. I slept and slept.

Ate the last of the walnut dust for breakfast, drank tea and wrote for a few hours, then took a very long walk into the old city. This apartment was pretty far from the action, but I was already familiar with the action, and I wanted to see the "real" city.

And boy, did I. Watermelons on wagons, a funeral procession with singing pall bearers, and everywhere the smell of hot, fresh bread. With the last of my coins, I bought some water from an old woman. She owed me change, but (as had happened once before) gave it to me in the form of chewing gum. Hilarious, but now I was truly penniless.

I invented an old Uzbek saying on the way to the ATM. "Money is cold in your pocket, but gum is sweet in your mouth." If someone told me it was real, I would have believed them.

Got my money (the sound of it coming out of the machine!!) and had the biggest cup of coffee and the largest somsa (hot pocket) I could find. I felt very confident and free, having been here and having learned its ways.

I had packed a novel by a Hungarian writer about a woman's relationship with her elderly servant, and though dense and full of complicated emotions, I was passing sick of Russian history and travelogues, and I was very grateful for it. I spent the next four hours on a series of buses back to the train station, so I could buy my ticket to Tashkent. It was exactly how I wanted to spend my day here. Crammed into public transport with a book and a mission.

That's not a joke. It was wonderful to feel invisible and to disappear into the story and to be surrounded with the ambiance of a place so very far from home. No tours, no famous landmarks. Just people on a bus headed to the train station. And back again.

Along with the metro in Tashkent, it was one of my favorite experiences.

Ticket acquired, I headed back. Took the long way again. Packed up. Finished the Hungarian book and got a lot of out it. There were situations and relationships I want to draw on when I am writing Shores of Kentucky. Which, is one of the things I came here to do. It's so hard to produce things and so easy to consume them. I want to be a producer.

I was writing, when Sukhrob messaged to ask if he could take me out to dinner to practice his English in conversation. I was feeling like a homebody, and it had been a long day, but... when was I going to have this sort of opportunity again?

He mostly wanted to try out jokes, so I was very glad I accepted. Over pizza he asked me "Why is America the most powerful country?"

Why?

"Because the people are all Emirs and Khans. Emir-n-kahns."  (!!!!!)

He asked me if I liked the joke. I told him I loved it.

To set the next one up, he told me that in Central Asia, it is the custom to pour your own tea first before pouring your guest's. This is because the tea tastes better the longer it is in the pot. So, by delaying the guest's pour, you are honoring them with a superior cup of tea.

He asked the server for tea. It was brought to the table, and he acted this next part out. "As well, he said, "the process is to pour yourself a cup, then pour it back into the pot. You repeat this three times"

It was fun to watch him do it. It's ritual behavior, but the time it takes to do this lines up with when the tea is "ready." He asked me if I understood, and when I said I did, he launched into the joke.

"Ok, got it? Ok, so the gracious host is entertaining a foreign guest. He pours the tea into his own cup and back into the pot three times. Then he pours his cup to drink, then the guest's cup.

The guest said, 'thank you for the tea, but why did you wash your own cup and not mine?"

That was the punchline. He should have led with that and ended with the Emir. When he asked me if I liked the joke, instead of saying yes, I told him his English was very good. This sort of positive deflection is a gift my mother gave me.

He was pleased and ordered desert. Then he said, "Oh! Oh! The word for 'brother' in Uzbek is 'aka.'" I said ok, and he said, so America could be the Emir-aka. I laughed like hell. America is powerful, because it is the emir's brother!

We toasted one another with a hearty "God bless Emir-aka," and he took me back home.

On the way, he pointed out the library where he used to work. "It was once the only building Bukhara have internet," he said. I showed him where the old woman had given me gum instead of change, and he said, "That one!? You are lucky you got candy! Me, she gives matches!"

How I laughed. I felt very close to him. It was a privilege to help him work out his jokes and to see his history.

And thus, I have reached the end of the Silk Route and "done the 'stans." Just a train to Tashkent and a golden horde of airliners 'til I am home.

I met interesting people, read inspiring books, missed my home, got cheated by a whole gang of old ladies, and will leave forever changed. I feel inspired, enriched, and ready to move forward to the next play. These were beautiful, challenging places, and that balance (beauty and struggle) is the key to tossing you up like a tablecloth. Before you land, mostly in place. Needing just a little straightening.

Thank you for reading, fools. Maybe Greece and Albania next year. Or maybe home. Happily and for a very long time.