The King of Herbs

TAISHET, Russia — It's late afternoon, at least by the watches on board that still believe we are in Moscow. The real time is much later, as we've now traveled 2,000 miles to the east and the sun ended its brief mid-winter appearance several hours ago. But on the train at least, there are still a couple hours until dinner, and I am perched on my bed, reading a book.

Vasily, seated on Sergei's lower bunk, interrupts my reading with an offer.

"Jon! Jon! Come look!" he says.

In his hands are several photographs. I sit down next to him as he leaves through the three by five inch images. The first is of a young woman, obvious Russian with dyed-magenta hair and a long, thin nose, approximately the same age as Vasily.

Through hand gestures, his scattered English from grade school and frequent consultation of my Russian-English phrasebook, Vasily manages to explain why he is on the train. He's getting married next month, but before doing so, he's taking a trip home to Khabarovosk, on the Pacific Ocean. His fiancée is staying at home and working, so he is traveling alone.

His trip makes mine resemble an afternoon drive through the countryside. Vasily's home town is just a few hours north of Vladivostok, the last stop on the Trans-Siberian and nearly eight days from Moscow. And he didn't start in the capital, rather Vasily works ("in business") and lives in Astrakhan, a small city on the Caspian Sea. That means it will take 10 days point to point - or almost three weeks round-trip to see the folks. I hope they're appreciative.

Russians are supposed to be too poor and too busy for families, but Vasily will be married before his 23rd birthday. He works a good job (although I'm not really sure what he does) and wants children soon.

He obviously cares for his fiancée, showing his affection by looking at her picture frequently. They speak on the phone at least once a day, using a brand-new cell phone Vasily attaches to one of his belt loops. Vasily figures out ways to bring her into our limited conversations, frequently asking about my current relationship status, former loves and whether I find Russian women attractive. With Olga in the cabin, I decide it's not the best time to talk about the "babushka theory," wherein Russian woman are extremely attractive for their teens and twenties, and then seemingly overnight morph into wrinkled, overweight grandmothers with scarves around their necks. Instead I tell him that Russian women are beautiful.

Family matters aside, Vasily strikes me as a very normal person. He loves hip-hop, and is constantly asking to borrow my iPod to listen to the stray 50 Cent, Jay-Z and T.I. songs scattered among my German electronic music. On the train he wears blue jeans and a couple different sweaters with a white T-shirt underneath. He appears to have spent some time battling acne, and there are still a few pox marks on his cheek.

Vasily is the Slavic equivalent of the name Basil, which means "royal" in Greek. In antiquity Basil was the king of herbs, with a strong flavor prized in Mediterranean cooking. Basil is powerful, but it is also fragile. Dried basil is mostly flavorless, and the herb is usually added at the last second to preserve flavor. I wonder if I am encountering Vasily just as he begins to dry out. Will his marriage, children and the responsibility that comes with it destroy his excitable nature? Perhaps Vasily will have a "babushka moment" of his own, and transform into a crotchety old man with little notice. That would be unfortunate, as dour Russia can be a bit on low people who just want to hang out and listen to 50 Cent.