Minsk, Like an Interrogation

How Minsk Sucked Me In

Minsk sucked me in like a whirlpool in an old toilet bowl: sudden, cold, and with zero chance of surfacing unscathed. I came from Lithuania, straight from the coziness and quiet of a seaside village into the capital, where the women are as beautiful as state crimes, and the weather is as iffy as a polite interrogation.

The Border Guard Who Knew Something

At the border a guard approached me with a face like I'd personally burned down his garage. He asked why I was coming. I said, honestly, to look around. He, just as honestly, didn't buy it. He studied my passport, studied me, as if trying to remember whether I'd wronged him back in childhood. Then he let me through. No smile. He'd apparently just given up.

A City Where "Exit to Town" Sounds Like a Sentence

I stepped out at the train station and immediately felt that everything here is dead serious. Even the signs reading "exit to town" sound like a verdict. The city is clean, orderly, faintly fake — as if it had all been built the day before yesterday, but out of 1983-vintage materials.

War, Marmalade, and a Woman Made of Bone

I rented an apartment in a building whose stairwell smelled of war and marmalade. The landlady was a woman built entirely out of bone where the emotions should be. She showed me how to turn on the TV and left with an expression that said "you won't be here long." I poured myself some tea, sat on the windowsill, and studied Minsk through the glass like a zoo where the animals study you right back. None of us are here for long, if you think about it.

A Museum of Postwar Optimism

I walked the city as if touring a museum of postwar optimism. Everything monumental, as if you're small and guilty by default. The people are reserved — not exactly grim, but as if they always know where you were last night. I bought myself a hat that said "Belarus," a reminder that warmth is a luxury and jokes are best kept well hidden.

Potato Pancakes, Love, and Suspicion

I stopped at a café serving draniki the size of a toaster. Toward the waitress I immediately felt either love or fear, possibly both at once. She looked at me as if she suspected I was some kind of agent, but brought the sour cream anyway. Respect.

Independence Avenue and Abibas

On Independence Avenue I nearly became a patriot. I wanted to straighten my spine, say "Yes, Batka!" and carry on. In the metro I met a guy in an "Abibas" jacket with the eyes of someone who'd just been asked, out of nowhere, "why do you even live?" I understood him completely. We rode in silence to Lenin Square. He got off. I stayed on. What followed was like a novel with no ending.

Minsk, Like an Ex

On the way back to Vilnius I stared out the window for a long time. Minsk receded slowly, like an ex you still owe a little something to.

And one thought kept looping in my head:
— No one leaves Minsk unchanged. Some don't even leave.