I flew into Dushanbe on a black cloudless night. Fissures of light hovered in tight clusters throughout the empty dark, the incandescent striae spinning and weaving webs of gold and blue. I gazed out and felt the vacancy: I forgot the window, the plane, the city. I almost forgot the earth itself.
This small galaxy, Central Asia, Tajikistan, is between worlds. There is no direct route, no overland travel save by hired car or foot – Istanbul to Dushanbe, Osh to Dushanbe, Moscow to Dushanbe. The country is almost entirely mountainous, the towering peaks accounting for over ninety-three percent of the land mass, while the vast majority of the population crams into the valleys.
As I approached the city by air, urban constellations hung like chandeliers without a rooftop or tether. Then they flickered. At first, I thought something was wrong with my eyes. I blinked and looked closer.
Sure enough, those earthly stars were twinkling, as though so many heavenly wishes had been made. Each glow glinted before it flashed, faded and disappeared. Soviet electricity, I guess, or what was left of it. Dozens of lights danced beneath the plane, then died.
If I never go to outer space, I can still say this: I flew into Dushanbe on a black, cloudless night.
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