On the way to Babrujsk I passed a number of impromptu babuska stalls on the side of the highway selling buckets of apples and lines of fresh caught or smoked fish. When darkness came I passed local cyclists creaking along on their one speeds in the night completely obscured in the dark, and I figured if Belarusans were accustomed to dodging these cyclists, I should be just fine in my more reflective and illuminated kit. I had to ask around extensively in town to find the only hotel, which was not marked as such. When I approached reception I was met with a full-bodied administrator with a severe jet-black Kruschev-era beehive behind the desk who met my faltering Russian inquiry about rooms by producing three extensive forms for me to complete in cyrillic. The hotel was a really bizarre mish-mash of permanent apartments, a reeking nail studio run out of a hotel room, a buffet run out of a hotel room, and then the small handful of hotel rooms actually used as hotel rooms. The decor of the hallways and my room was something like a cross between Breshnev and The Shining, with deep-toned wall paper and dull bedding that seemed 50 years old. I had to hit four grocery stores in town to find breakfast food; the West definitely has yet to meet Babrujsk. In the morning I recovered the money that I was overcharged the night before by asking for a receipt and then demanding the difference between what I had handed over, and justice was served once again. (12-20-04)

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Babruysk, Belarus