A day like a gift

As the ups and downs of life go, we are presented with a picture-book day today. We would never have thought that the sun could rebel against winter like this. There is no longer any sign of the dreary monotony. As if a fairy had unpacked her paintbrush and painted the earth out of pure pleasure and joy, we drive through a magnificent world. The small wooden houses in the villages suddenly no longer look so run-down and poor. Their blue window frames seem to smile at us. The corrugated iron roofs shine in red and even the gray shines vividly in the sunlight. A final flower bed adds a splendid purple to the pot of color and the few leaves on the trees round off the picture with a bright yellow. At 15 degrees in the sun, a blue sky arches over us. Only a few clouds adorn it. It seems to me that Mother Earth or “All That Is” wants to show us once again at the end of our journey how wonderful it is to be on the road. Perhaps this day really is a gift to us. A farewell gift from Russia on the first of November to be able to feel a little warmth and life again.

After just a few kilometers, a truck driver stops us. “Can I take a picture of you?” he asks very kindly. “Gladly,” we reply, posing in front of his cell phone as usual. “Please take,” he says and holds out a dried fish to me. “Thank you very much,” I say happily and put the stiff fish in my box. Nicolai then hands us an orange and a jar of strawberry jam. “Made by my wife herself,” he laughs. “But you need your food for yourself. You still have a long way to go,” I try to refuse. “No, I’ve had enough. Please take it. You need it much more than I do,” replies the nice man. Then he gets back into his truck and drives off, waving. We also continue our journey towards Samara. We happily kick our horses over a few bumps of earth that have been stretching their backs out of the plain for a few days now. Are these already the first foothills of the Ural Mountains?

In a street village we stop next to three women selling hot tea, coffee and homemade dumplings. Hungry, we devour one of the tasty pastries filled with cabbage or potatoes. We answer the curious questions and explain our journey. One of the poor women immediately gives me a mug of hot tea. It would be rude to refuse, so I accept it and say thank you. To give the woman at least a little business, we drink another cup of coffee and eat another dumpling. A truck driver joins us. With gestures and funny facial expressions, he wants to make us realize how cold it will soon be. “You won’t be able to ride a bike. Why don’t you install a motor? Or better still, get into a car with heating. Brrrrrrr, much too cold, brrrrrrr. No, no, that wouldn’t be for me. Why do you do that?” he babbles. Then he looks at me and asks me why I’m not flying home with my pretty wife. “Do you have many such pretty women in Germany? I’d like to have one too,” he jokes, changing the subject. “Put it in the parcel and have it sent,” Tanja replies with a laugh. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll just have one sent to me. But maybe I’ll get one from Prague,” he replies, his face contorted in such a way that the three sales clerks have to hold their stomachs with laughter. Then we wish each other good luck and good health and set our luggage on wheels in motion again. A sign appears. It reads 100 kilometers to Samara. “Samara, we’re coming!” Tanja and I shout as if from the same mouth, soon excited.

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