Train from Minsk

As I wait with my fully loaded bike for the train to Sigulda, where I will start to ride, a train that could be from any decade in the past century arrives from Minsk. The carriages have little lacy curtains.


When it stops, the man waiting with the bouquet of flowers tips the conductrice and climbs aboard to help his wife and daughter down. The wife descends holding the flowers in one hand, her husband’s hand in the other.

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