camera mounted on the wall and were instructed to smile. We did so. And then, after we’d climbed out of the contraption and negotiated the moving floor, we were offered the opportunity to purchase these glimpses of our happy selves. To this day in my workroom at home there is a photo on the wall that shows yours truly with a man in a maroon robe who looks as pleased and excited as any child in any candy store.
And, oh, the candy store! From the photo desk we marched downstairs into a sugar addict’s paradise, every imaginable chocolate confection from chocolate-chip cookies to dark chocolate, 150 different variations on the sugar vehicle dreamed up by Hershey engineers. The squeals of children spun in the air around us, the pressing of cash register buttons sang an anthem of profit. I did not hold back. A package of ROLO for Natasha, a bag of Mr. Goodbar for Jeannie, Almond Joy for Anthony, and a healthy supply of dark chocolate for myself. Rinpoche was admiring thephotograph of us and saying, “How fast! How could it happen so fast?” but seemed less than tempted by the shelves of delights.
Nevertheless, I bought a bag of Kisses and pressed them into his hands, telling him, or trying to tell him, that this, all this—the gold of the ROLO wrapper, the blue and crinkled white of Almond Joy, the little twirl of tissue erupting from the Kiss’s peak—was like the snap of firecrackers on Fourth of July, or football games on Thanksgiving—an essential Americana, a kind of national flag of my childhood. I wanted to ask him if he carried in his mind similar images from the early years in Skovorodino. Yak butter biscuits, maybe. Or cheap framed portraits of Lenin on the schoolroom wall. Or those fun days of setting kopecks on the rails and waiting for the Trans-Siberian Express to come along at dawn and mash them thin.
But I didn’t.
After leaving the shop, we joined a river of humanity making its way at tidal speed toward a sea of windshields and SUV bumpers glinting in the hot day. A parade of fossil-fuel burners crept toward the exit. Eventually we were on the road again, at last free of the mob. After passing one farmer’s field with a sign that said EVERYONE SHALL GIVE ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF TO GOD ( How do you know? I wanted to shout out the window as we passed. How is it that you claim to know? ), we saw the entrance for Interstate 76 West, curled down the ramp, and pointed the nose of the car toward the startling abundance of the American heartland.
It had been an odd morning—the dirt in my glass at breakfast, the immaculate shelves of sweets—and though I tried once or twice to start a conversation, I soon learnedthat Rinpoche was not in a talkative mood. To fill the empty air I turned on the radio and found a talk show where the host was waxing eloquent about the need for torturing people. I looked across at Rinpoche to gauge his response, but, though his eyes were open, he did not seem to be listening.
West of Hershey, the state of Pennsylvania turned more severe: rough rock faces, a slag pile, steep hillsides, deep valleys, unpeopled it seemed, and not as pretty as what we had passed through earlier in the day. At one point, having returned from his daydreaming, Rinpoche wrestled with the plastic Kisses bag, and when he finally managed to tear it open, the candies sprayed out onto his lap and the floor. He laughed with his face turned up, then tidied up the silvery mess. He saved one kiss and contemplated it for quite a good while, turning it this way and that, tapping the ribbon of tissue from side to side, finally tugging on it, peeling away the foil, and then spending another good while tracing a fingertip along the smooth sides of the hard little brown dollop. At last, as if he’d prayed sufficiently over this miniature feast, he popped it into his mouth. I could see him rolling it comically from one side to the other, the eyebrows up, eyes wide, lips and cheeks working. Another minute or so of rolling
And, oh, the candy store! From the photo desk we marched downstairs into a sugar addict’s paradise, every imaginable chocolate confection from chocolate-chip cookies to dark chocolate, 150 different variations on the sugar vehicle dreamed up by Hershey engineers. The squeals of children spun in the air around us, the pressing of cash register buttons sang an anthem of profit. I did not hold back. A package of ROLO for Natasha, a bag of Mr. Goodbar for Jeannie, Almond Joy for Anthony, and a healthy supply of dark chocolate for myself. Rinpoche was admiring thephotograph of us and saying, “How fast! How could it happen so fast?” but seemed less than tempted by the shelves of delights.
Nevertheless, I bought a bag of Kisses and pressed them into his hands, telling him, or trying to tell him, that this, all this—the gold of the ROLO wrapper, the blue and crinkled white of Almond Joy, the little twirl of tissue erupting from the Kiss’s peak—was like the snap of firecrackers on Fourth of July, or football games on Thanksgiving—an essential Americana, a kind of national flag of my childhood. I wanted to ask him if he carried in his mind similar images from the early years in Skovorodino. Yak butter biscuits, maybe. Or cheap framed portraits of Lenin on the schoolroom wall. Or those fun days of setting kopecks on the rails and waiting for the Trans-Siberian Express to come along at dawn and mash them thin.
But I didn’t.
After leaving the shop, we joined a river of humanity making its way at tidal speed toward a sea of windshields and SUV bumpers glinting in the hot day. A parade of fossil-fuel burners crept toward the exit. Eventually we were on the road again, at last free of the mob. After passing one farmer’s field with a sign that said EVERYONE SHALL GIVE ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF TO GOD ( How do you know? I wanted to shout out the window as we passed. How is it that you claim to know? ), we saw the entrance for Interstate 76 West, curled down the ramp, and pointed the nose of the car toward the startling abundance of the American heartland.
It had been an odd morning—the dirt in my glass at breakfast, the immaculate shelves of sweets—and though I tried once or twice to start a conversation, I soon learnedthat Rinpoche was not in a talkative mood. To fill the empty air I turned on the radio and found a talk show where the host was waxing eloquent about the need for torturing people. I looked across at Rinpoche to gauge his response, but, though his eyes were open, he did not seem to be listening.
West of Hershey, the state of Pennsylvania turned more severe: rough rock faces, a slag pile, steep hillsides, deep valleys, unpeopled it seemed, and not as pretty as what we had passed through earlier in the day. At one point, having returned from his daydreaming, Rinpoche wrestled with the plastic Kisses bag, and when he finally managed to tear it open, the candies sprayed out onto his lap and the floor. He laughed with his face turned up, then tidied up the silvery mess. He saved one kiss and contemplated it for quite a good while, turning it this way and that, tapping the ribbon of tissue from side to side, finally tugging on it, peeling away the foil, and then spending another good while tracing a fingertip along the smooth sides of the hard little brown dollop. At last, as if he’d prayed sufficiently over this miniature feast, he popped it into his mouth. I could see him rolling it comically from one side to the other, the eyebrows up, eyes wide, lips and cheeks working. Another minute or so of rolling
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