07.06.2013 (2)
To start with, I was sent in all sorts of directions, including the one you're thinking of. A little later, I figured out it was better to ask the police for directions (I only ran into Black officers). I went down to the station and bought a ticket, not without some trouble, of course. I said "Wells, Maine," after which the ticket agent joyfully informed me that such a city didn't exist in the USA. Soon she caught on and said, "Probably, Wells, State Maine," I replied "sort of" and turned away. I didn't know that you had to clarify what was already obvious. It's like saying "Barnaul, Altai" or "Barnaul, Altai Krai."
Anyway, I felt a pit in my stomach, so I went to check out some fast food. The manager of the joint and I spent a long time trying to figure out what I needed; he was grimacing and didn't understand me, but with great difficulty, it all worked out and I ate. I must note that it was tasty, despite my general malaise and nausea (I'd been on the road for too long).
I followed the example of the others and just flopped down on the floor, later discovering a waiting room for those with tickets. I managed to figure out the board displaying the routes and directions. The thing is, there are 10 tracks and they all go in different directions. Passengers stand and wait for boarding, and as soon as they see the designated track (you can't know it in advance), they rush toward it headlong, as boarding only lasts a few minutes.
While rushing to board, I caught a snippet of Russian speech; a man was talking to someone on the phone. I jumped on the train and found out that I actually had business class with Wi-Fi, outlets, and other perks that were of little use. The outlets were 125V with a different plug than ours (which I hadn't even suspected), my old, dead-as-a-doornail phone wouldn't connect to the internet, and my SIM card didn't work on the phones (I had prudently brought two, remember: always check if your phone supports CDMA).
The situation was as follows: the guys in Wells know I'm arriving at night, but they don't know when; I have no way to contact them at the moment; I don't know the address of the house where I'll be living; and I have no idea how to get to the North Station in Boston.
In short, it's just how I like it: minimal information, lots of tasks, but I reckon we'll pull through. A girl in the next seat was surfing the net, and I wanted to ask if she knew about 220V outlets and if they could be found on the train, but we never got around to talking. The architecture of NY was stunning, both during my short walk and now on the train. I tried to sleep, but it didn't work... 5 hours later... I started not knowing which station to get off at in Boston, but eventually, I found that info on my ticket and the digital board.
I hopped off in Boston and followed the crowd; it was pouring rain and cold. People at the exit started hailing taxis. I thought about the subway, but in the end, I didn't skimp and took a cab. At North Station, I was struck by the number of people in Boston Bruins fan gear. I got lucky; it was the final, Boston Bruins against the Penguins. It felt like the whole city had come to this station just to watch the game. Everyone—young, adult, old, children, people of any height, skin color, profession, or religion—everyone was just in BB gear. They won 1-0 that time, after which the whole crowd started chanting, "We've won the cup." I had fun, in short. I bought something to drink and we headed to Wells.
Two hours or so on the road to this coastal town, I had no strength left and kept nodding off. As we were approaching the destination, I got to talking with a man who was getting off at the same place. I told him about the program and my participation in it; he asked why I liked the Yankees (the baseball team), and I didn't understand what he meant. As it turned out, the cap my father gave me was a fan cap for the NY Yankees, and they are die-hard Red Sox (or Sox, never mind) fans here. I explained scientifically that I don't root for either team and am not really interested in baseball at all, and he cooled down and gave me a Red Sox cap, for which I gave him a magnet with a picture of my city in return. I assumed he was on a business trip, which I asked about; as it turned out, quoting him: "Drinking and losing money in Las Vegas." Well, you can't forbid living beautifully. I told him about my problem and not knowing where to go in this tourist town; he was very concerned and, after getting off, set me up with some female taxi driver who promised to come back for me in... some number of minutes.
And now the scene: the small station is empty, not a soul, it's dark, it's pouring rain, I'm freezing and shivering, the streetlights are shining, foreshadowing some popular movie maniac, and on top of that, I'm feeling nauseous. I walk into the station lobby, where there's no one, the station itself is closed, the workers are sleeping peacefully at home, no guard, no one. About 30 minutes passed, no one returned, I open one of the two cartons of cigarettes I was bringing to the guys in America from Russia, since the price tag for this pleasure in the States is quite "hefty," and I light up. I must note that I don't smoke, it's just that the situation was conducive...
