I started nodding off to the rhythmic rattling of the train. Strange how something so industrial, so Soviet, could be so soothing.
The terraced houses stacked on each side of the tracks were melting away like sand castles into the sea. With a gentle gradient they were replaced by smaller blocks, then pockets of houses then no houses at all, just open fields.
They seemed to stretch forever, those fields. I imagined fleets of tanks sailing back and forth on those seas of wheat in the depths of World War Two. Or maybe I just had my geography (and history) completely wrong.
It’s quite easy to see who’s going to the musical festival and who are the civilians. There were some businessmen in tired suits, some older folk who probably got lost in the city and are being sent back and a clutch of families most likely on their way to reluctantly visit relatives out in the country.
There was a lot less variation amongst my kind. We were clad in a uniform of bandanas, mismatching t-shirts and unnecessarily large hiking packs. I felt a silent camaraderie amongst the others. But for now we were still far away and the open fields gave us no answers.