Monika

MOSCOW – Monika is quarrelsome; I say three things and she finds fault with two.

She's Polish, and winces when I say that I've only visited Warsaw. The capital, she says, echoing a common Polish lament, is so ugly, why didn't you go to the coast, or to Krakow? She doesn't care for all the drinking in the hostel, which spills over nightly from the tiny gathering room into the bedroom she shares with five other guests. It's infurirating that she finds so much to criticise, especially since I'm her roommate.

But if I didn't have Monika at arm's length to complain, I wouldn't be close enough to see the contents of her suitcase, laid across the lumpy top bunk in neat stacks. On top is the Intermediate Mandarian Chinese Reader, and below, several thick grammar texts.

Monika is here en route to Tianjin, a large Chinese city on the coast not far from Beijing. She studied last year at Tianjin University, and received a fellowship from the government to return for another six months. When she uses the common phone to contact a Chinese acquaintance here in Moscow I hear the crispnessness of her tones and instantly know her language level is far above mine.

I compliment her language.

"I speak quite poorly!" she replies, sharply.

I believe her language standards are a little too exacting. Monika will only travel to countries where she knows the languages. Granted, she is a bit of a polyglot, with some knoweldge six languages, but this seems to be a crazy standard. Why must a person spend years in a classroom before they are allowed to step foot in a foreign land?

Too frequently I am fooled by Monika's appearance, which nails every librarian stereotype effortlessly: a big, bunchy earth-toned sweater; dark, round glasses; sensible shoes; an ochre-toned face with little exposure to the sun. This is true, but Monika has no pressed-leaf collection, nor does she aspire to a secretarial job at a local paper facility.

Monika's parents believe that after Christmas, she went to Warsaw and boarded a plane toward China. This is true, but that plane stopped here in Moscow. She got off, and Monika is using funds the Chinese government gave her for a plane ticket to fianance this trip. That means living at the Sweet Moscow Hostel, eating meals from the supermarket, and travelling to Tianjin on the cheapest train, the dreaded platzkart class. Moscow alternative weekly the eXile describes platzkart as "long distance transportation hell," where 54 people are crammed into one train car. Monika gave up a free plane ticket to spend an entire week in this car, where she won't have any money to buy fresh food and will probably be crammed between chain smoking Chinese businessmen and vodka-downing Russian businessmen. Definitely not librarian style.

In tight spaces and cold climates, Monika and I have many opportunities each day for conversation. I find it hard to develop a routine with Monika. Maybe it is her foreigness – although I didn't have this problem with other people I met in Poland – but I keep bumping into sore spots in our relations.

One afternoon she's on the hostel computer. I ask when she will be finished – so I can blog – expecting a mean look. Instead I get an invitation to look at an e-mail she's sending to a friend in China. Monika types to her Chinese friends in pinyin, a romanizined version of Chinese, and claims it's easier to type than characters. I'm curious, so I start to read the message.

Zhe liang tian qian hen shao. These past few days qian is very little.

"What's qian?"

Monika's cheeks rouge. "Oh, it's -- it's personal," she says, and then I turn red when I realize that qian here means money, and this sentence is informing her friend that funds will be tight this semester. I pretend to keep skimming the e-mail, but after a minute forget about blogging.

Sweet Moscow is close to several tourist attractions but there are no obvious clubs on the street. With nighttime temperatures well below zero, most guests come back after dinner and spend the evenings indoors, venturing outdoors only to the small grocery across the street to grab a snack and bottles of Baltika beer. On Monika's final night there are only four people in our bedroom, the other two being a boisterious British pair, Tom and Sam. By the third bottle of beer – well after midnight – Sam is asleep and Tom and I are deep into an argument about whether Putin will step aside at the end of his term next year. Monika is above the conversation, as she sits on her top bunk and studies her Chinese books while we debate the future of the Russian state.

Tom tries to bring her into the conversation, asking her what she believes.

"I'm not sure I have an opinion about the political situation here," she says, her Eastern-European accent making a stronger than normal apperanence in this rebuff.

Feeling miscevious after a few drinks, I decided to press Monika further. What about the Chinese government, what do you think about the lack of elections there?

"I'm not sure I know enough about the situation to have an opinion," she says. Another dodge.

But surely, I ask, things are better in Poland now that there are elections? Monika can remember the first real elections, the rise of Solidarity and the collapse of an imperialist rule based in this very city.

She nods, and silently conceeds the point.

Emboldened, I keep going. I'm troubled by China, I say. I love China and I hate it. I am fascinated by Chinese culture, I have met many interesting Chinese people and inside the country had some of the best conversations of my life. The People's Republic of China has brought more people out of poverty than any government in history, in less time. It's a miracle, yet the state is still run by thugs, and every time I go inside the country, and have my passport stamped, I'm validating the rule of these thugs. So my question is, are you, as someone born into a repressive regime, worried about taking money and sponsorship from another one?

She's quiet for a minute, and then speaks up. "I want to learn the language. I like this university. They gave me the money, so I will go back."

Tom steps in with an ill-informed comment about Tibetan independence. It's not true, but Monika and I are both grateful for him to take the reigns of conversation and rail on about the Chinese for many minutes. I'm afraid that I squashed rather than merely stepped on Monika's toes this time, and make a point of waiting until after I hear her leave the flat for breakfast to get up late the next morning.

We see each other one last time, in the foyer as she is leaving for the train station. Unexpectedly it is Monika who speaks first.

"I think you will be a good journalist," she says. "You ask good questions. And you listen."

Again, I miscalculate Monika's emotions. Whereas I thought my questions came off as probing or meddlesome, to Monika we were exploring our different perspectives on life. We exchange e-mail addresses and phone numbers in China, and I find myself wishing as we hug goodbye that I was on her train to Beijing. I have so many more questions.