Journey of the Americanist

Part 1

There are two kinds of journeys...

A. Tvardovsky

... the alien, boundless elements,

striving to scoop up at least a drop.

A. Fet

This time the States began with Canada. Perhaps, the narrative should have started with Canada as well, but it only passed through the consciousness of our protagonist in transit, just as he transited along the edge of Montreal, from Mirabel Airport to Dorval Airport. Outside the shaded window of the shuttle bus, like on a wide cinema screen, colorful images unfolded of a beautiful late autumn in the Land of Maple Leaves. Along the road, single-story industrial buildings lay like large matchboxes, and on the road, cars silently and smoothly glided—all of them of foreign makes.

The cinematic narrative was accompanied by a young voice behind, loud, not yet fully awakened on the ground, still overcoming the hum of the plane, clear and resonant. It was evident that the owner of the voice had crossed the ocean for the first time. Like a young child naming all passing objects from his stroller, excitedly discovering a new world, the voice owner marveled at the multitude of Japanese cars, guessed the purpose of the booths blocking the road, from which men and women in uniform reached out to the drivers, taking money or special coupons as payment for passage. He marveled at the smoothness and width of the highway and, again loudly and openly, commented on the imperfections of the homeland roads.

Our hero half-eyed looked at the foreign land passing by the window, and half-attended as the strong, ironic voice of a young compatriot revealed what had long been discovered by him. He conserved his strength, experiencing fatigue from the long flight and the impatience of a person eager to reach his goal and unwilling to be distracted by anything along the way.

That short and gray October day, which began for the bus passengers early in the morning at Sheremetyevo Airport, was already extinguished at home. However, here, on the eastern edge of another continent, lagging behind Moscow by eight hours, it still burned and lingered. Yet, evening and night were approaching here as well. He did not count on a direct flight to Washington but knew that in this part of the North American continent, the most populous Canadian city, Montreal, was in the transport orbit of the most populous American city, New York. He aimed to reach New York earlier and then proceed to Washington without an overnight stay—that was his goal. From there, he knew, shuttle flights (that's what they are called) operated every hour by the "Eastern" airline. However, his Aeroflot ticket had a Montreal–New York flight on the same "Eastern" airline, but it was late, scheduled for seven in the evening, threatening an overnight stay in New York. And on the bus, where a carefree fellow passenger behind him shared his discoveries aloud, our tired hero was anxiously dreaming of an earlier flight.