“Is he still missing that one foot, Lenin?”

I have managed to hitch a ride back to Vilnius after two buses ruthlessly blew past me at the bus stop. The third person who stopped for my outstretched thumb was headed in my direction and picked me up without hassle. He is an older man and we speak Russian. Or rather, he does most of the speaking, but he listens patiently and helps me out when I slowly and shakily form my Russian sentences. Mostly we sit in silence and listen to his mix-CD.

He’s been to Grutas Park some years ago, and he tells me stories of local places whenever we pass them. Around this forest, he once found a purple Fly Agaric. In this village, the Germans killed everyone – here’s the memorial. This is the river Merkys. He tells me about his military service and how he did not have to go to clean up at Chernobyl, thankfully. He tells me about his children and grandchildren.

I feel safe and happy for the kindness of a stranger, happy for the help without any expectations and relieved to not have to wait three hours for the next bus. He drops me off and wishes me well, and I wish him well, too.

…

(This story told in pictures.)