Three Saturdays ago Sveta and I caught the 5:50 a.m. bus out of Perm. We were going to visit Vala at her farm. An hour or so later, we were dropped off at a village. A dog greeted all the passengers, barking happily at each of us -- glad to see some guests, some of whom undoubtedly were carrying food. The Russian village seems cozy. Small, wooden houses, women leading goats along the paths, little but dense fields, all enclosed by ancient forests. But Vala didn’t live in this village, so Sveta and I walked toward a gravel road up a little ways. The sign told us 11 kilometers. I remember Vala had been shocked when at the memorial dinner we had told her that we wouldn't consider hitchhiking. But now with a bag made heavy
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