We're almost to mid-November and the first snows have fallen near Warsaw. The train stops at the main station, Warszawa Centralna, but my time is transient, in less than an hour I press route destination Belarus. From the limited perspective offered by the window, I notice that the whole city is in flux, and the many cranes now built modern buildings of glass and concrete. Meanwhile, the train runs throughout the afternoon the vast plains of rural eastern Poland to reach Terespol. It is here where the crossing occurs with the counterpart to Brussels. The physical border between Poland and Belarus is via the bridge across the River Bug, best known as the starting point of the German invasion in the summer of 41s against the Red Army forces, and marked the future of the whole the vast territory in which I am about to enter. I notice the faces of concern and resignation among some travelers to the nearby border post, and we all stand still in our respective compartments. The passport and visa control by the Belarusian customs police without any mishap takes place, contrary to all the comments he had heard. I am surprised because I also have a Russian visa stamped, when I realize the customs have already left, decided to downplay the issue.

Arrival in Brest, a city closely linked to the contemporary history of our time. Here is where I have my first contact with the babuchkas, grandmothers and mothers who seek the difficult economic support among travelers. On arrival of our train is installed on the platform with all sorts of products, a makeshift sign in the time it takes to stop. Some get on the train offering meat, especially chicken, but also fruits, vegetables, eggs and dairy products. I have a vision of an austere and sober human landscape that is intertwined with the gloom of an overcast sky announcing snow and cold, a subtle combination of the legacy of the former communist bloc is still perceived in Belarus. It is now where the differences are evident social and economic frontier of the new European Union.

In Brest the change is made to European gauge bogies for the Russian wide common to the entire network of the former Soviet Union. The maneuvers will not leave anyone indifferent. A Russian passenger air I noted with disapproval the origin crane workshop... "Made in Germany"; the wounds of the Great Patriotic War have not healed completely. With the start of the night, we resume the march back to Minsk, with increasingly intense cold that is felt in contact with the window. During the night I sleepless several times awaiting the passport at the border with Russia, sure we are not far from Orsha and Smolensk, although I have the feeling that slow down the train, listening to his steady and monotonous until I finally slept. Finally makes no stops and no customs control. Now I understand the Russian visa stamped at the border of Brest.

The next day, the little daylight that passes through the curtains dawn wakes me up in this cold November morning. Outside, all I see out my window is a typically Russian winter, parading between snowy forests and wooden cottages seem to have escaped of my dreams at night. Soon the natural environment gives way to a more urban landscape to finish near the big city Moscow. As the train slows its progress and thus heralds the end of the trip, I start to feel a tingling that starts in my stomach, a slight pressure on my chest that rises slowly to my head, surrounding my spine through my neck... So, I remain in a temporary state of great emotional stress, invisible vibrations that travel every muscle in my body without even blinking. This is also my personal ad on arrival to a new place, perfect symbiosis of the unknown, how exciting... Upon reaching the station I dismiss Belorruskaya Theodore and Leonid, and after leaving the safety of the train, now I have the feeling of seeing me in another world entirely. I have come to Moscow.