Where the Road Takes Us

I could have just flown. Quickly. Safely. I could have. But that nostalgic feeling still plays within me, when there's a backpack on my shoulders, comfortable sneakers on my feet, and miles of passing landscapes outside the window. Yes, I miss the meaningless trips by bus to Jersey, Atlantic City, and Philly. Just for fun. I miss the strange and slightly eccentric fellow passengers. I miss the aimless walks through the vibrant, neon-lit streets of New York, where you can just lie down on the asphalt, mesmerized by the melancholic music of Manhattan's sleepless streets. I miss the selfless smiles of strangers and that slightly absurd but charming “Mamacita!” called out by a random mexican passerby.

Moscow is different, but I just wanted to feel like that 20-year-old girl again, with a head full of bright red hair. And I don't understand how anyone could trade that for the comfort of an airplane cabin. The road — it’s always honest with you. The road listens to your thoughts. The most interesting part is that you never know who your next travel companion might be.

This time, my musical solitude was interrupted by a fragile girl in a short fur coat. Reluctantly, I pulled off my red headphones, raising my eyebrows slightly with irritation, as if to say, "I'm not in the mood for a conversation right now, even out of politeness." (When did I become such a grouch?). But when I looked at her bewildered face and the worried wrinkle on her forehead, my inner philanthropist automatically switched on.

“Can I sit next to you?” she asked hesitantly, glancing around nervously.

Following her lead, I looked around the rapidly filling cabin and understood the reason for her concern. More than half of the passengers were men, mostly of caucasian descent. Where did they all come from all of a sudden? A lump of anxiety formed in my throat. I was well aware of the fiery temperament of these guys. I cleared the seat next to me for her. We sat like that for about 15 minutes. In complete silence. Watching the incoming passengers intently. I even felt how we exhaled in sync when we saw families and a few women among them.

What followed was a formal introduction. Anara, as my travel companion was named, turned out to be a rather pleasant, though slightly talkative girl. I could barely keep up with all the details of her story as she quickly switched to new topics. Observing closely, I realized that she was speaking out of nervousness. It felt like something was troubling her, and there was that almost panicked fear in her eyes.

She kept talking, trying to blunt her emotions. And I listened. Outside, it quickly grew dark. It was a bit scary driving down the snowy road. The bus shook and rattled at times. Suddenly, snow started falling heavily, turning the scenery into something out of a low-budget american horror movie—you remember "Wrong Turn," right?

It was pitch black outside, like the darkness could swallow you whole if you took just a few steps away from the bus. Creepy! I hurried back to the cabin, pushing away persistent thoughts of evil spirits lurking on the road. Why did kazakh grandmothers, instead of telling us fairy tales about beautiful princesses, constantly try to scare us with wild stories about shaitans? I suppose this is just another part of our postcolonial trauma.

Thank goodness the body is a predictable thing, and my eyelids began to grow heavy as my body settled into the hard seat and uncomfortable armrests.

And then I heard faint sobs. My mind insisted, “Sleep! Sleep! It’s none of your business!”—but my body was already turning 90 degrees toward the source of the disruption. Leaning against the window, my petite neighbor was quietly crying. Tears rolled down her face in fat drops, and she didn’t even seem to notice, just kept breathing rapidly, trying to fight off a sudden weakness. Her vacant gaze was directed at the emptiness outside the window. I don’t know what to say in such moments, but the only thing that came to mind was: “Do you want some chocolate?”

Oh, my goodness! It was 2 in the morning, the entire cabin was shamelessly snoring and snuffling, and here I was, offering her chocolate! I wanted to kill myself at that moment! But you know, she turned to me and smiled. Moreover, she suddenly wanted chocolate too. Then I remembered that I only had one Twix bar left, which I had intended to save for breakfast, but I had to swallow my pride.

I reluctantly waited for her to finish my Twix and finally forced myself to ask the right questions. And then she poured out so much that my sleepiness vanished instantly.

Anara was anxious about her reckless decision. And once again, love was to blame. That unreliable feeling can throw you off balance. Her love had made her do the most insane thing in her life. She was heading to Moscow to meet the man she had met online and had never seen in person. I forgot to mention that Anara struggled with russian, just as I was only passably fluent in kazakh, making our conversation amusing. She had never traveled anywhere beyond Atyrau, which for her, a simple village girl, already seemed like a metropolis.

You know, if it had been someone else, I might have thought cynically and reproachfully. But Anara wasn’t just anyone; she wasn’t seeking a better or easier life. And it was hard to call her a gold-digger eager to move to the big city. You could tell by her eyes, by her direct gaze, by her not-at-all delicate hands. She hadn’t told her parents anything. She hadn’t even packed much. Just one bag and her documents.

Anara was the oldest in her family, and to my surprise, she was even older than me. All her life, she had tried to set an example for her younger siblings, working and taking care of her elderly parents. She spent all her money on her siblings’ education, depriving herself of many things. She told me everything in one breath. There was no resentment in her words, just a slight bitterness. The young man she loved, whom she trusted, who she saw as her reward… left her alone… in a delicate situation. The tears flowed faster. Her voice changed. Sometimes it was thin, piercingly deep, and then heavy and hoarse, like it belonged to a hundred-year-old woman. And her face aged in an instant. It wasn’t easy for her to open up like this to a stranger, but whether it was the road, or fate that had brought us together on this bus.

She had ended the life growing inside her. It tormented her. Tormented her for a long time, turning her from a person into a shadow. She lived only because she had obligations, a duty to her family. But I felt, I was sure, that this decision had been the hardest of her life! She spoke of him. of her child in such a way! You can't imagine how much love and pain were in her words. And I believed her. I believed her because she hadn’t resigned herself; she bore it like a burden. And now, five years later, after she had buried herself as a woman, he appeared. A distant yet incredibly close Andrei. A russian guy with ukrainian roots. A year of correspondence, calls, and confessions, and now she had made up her mind. “I just want to see him. To understand if he is the one for me. So that I don’t suffer later from ‘what ifs.’ I just want to live a little for myself. I want to be happy, even if just a little.”

In the morning, I escorted her to the airport and gave her a tight hug. Now I was afraid for her too. Now I understood the risk. But also, I had a great deal of respect for her as a woman who wanted to fight for her happiness.

As I watched Anara disappear into the bustling airport crowd, I felt a wave of emotion wash over me. I realized that courage isn't always about being fearless. It's about facing the unknown with a heart open to both joy and pain. It's about risking everything for a chance at true happiness, even when the outcome is uncertain.

The road teaches us many things, but above all, it teaches us to be brave in our pursuit of what truly matters.