October 29, 1984. Departure from Moscow’s Yaroslavsky Station. Six days and 7,700 kilometres later, the ochres of Beijing, at last.
A plunge into the immensity of Russia: forests unfurling to the horizon; large rivers carrying drifting ice; barren deserts; tiny wooden stations swallowed by the night, glimpsed beneath the barely raised curtain of the window.
Space, yes, but time as well: the rare luxury of idleness, of letting the mind drift, forehead resting against the compartment window, rocked by the metronomic pulse of the rails.
And encounters…
The mother of all journeys
A plunge into the immensity of Russia: forests unfurling to the horizon; large rivers carrying drifting ice; barren deserts; tiny wooden stations swallowed by the night, glimpsed beneath the barely raised curtain of the window.
Space, yes, but time as well: the rare luxury of idleness, of letting the mind drift, forehead resting against the compartment window, rocked by the metronomic pulse of the rails.
And encounters…
The mother of all journeys
Transsibérien - 1984
Transsibérien - 1984
