Minsk Is Like an Interrogation With Charm

Minsk Pulled Me In Like a Vortex

Minsk sucked me in like an old toilet whirlpool—suddenly, coldly, and without much hope of resurfacing clean. I came from Lithuania, straight out of a quiet seaside village into a capital where women are beautiful like state crimes, and the weather feels like a polite interrogation.

The Border Guard Who Knew Things

At the border, a guard approached me with the face of someone convinced I personally burned down his garage. He asked why I was coming. I said, honestly: “Just visiting.” He, honestly, didn’t believe me. He stared at my passport, stared at me, like he was trying to recall if I bullied him in childhood. He let me through. No smile. I think he gave up.

Even “Exit to City” Feels Ominous Here

I stepped off the train in Minsk and immediately felt the weight. Even signs like “Exit to city” sound like sentences. The city is clean, flat, and slightly artificial. Like it was built two days ago based on blueprints from 1983.

War, Jelly Candy, and a Woman Without Emotion

I rented an apartment in a building that smelled like war and marmalade. The host was a woman with a bone where most people have emotions. She showed me how to turn on the TV and left with a look that said, “You won’t be here long.” I poured some tea, sat on the windowsill, and watched Minsk through the glass like a zoo—except the animals were watching me back. We’re all temporary here, if you think about it.

Walking Through a Museum of Post-War Optimism

I walked the city like it was a museum of post-war optimism. Everything loomed above, making you feel small and vaguely guilty. The people weren’t grim, but they gave the impression they knew exactly where you were last night. I bought a hat that said “Belarus.” A reminder that warmth is a luxury, and jokes are best kept hidden.

Love, Suspicion, and Giant Potato Pancakes

I found a café serving potato pancakes the size of a toaster. The waitress gave me that look—part suspicion, part silent accusation, maybe even a dash of affection. She clearly thought I might be a spy. Still brought me sour cream. Respect.

Patriotism and the Guy in the “Abibas” Jacket

On Independence Avenue, I almost became a patriot. I wanted to stand tall, say “Yes, Batka!” and march on. In the metro, I saw a guy wearing an “Abibas” jacket with eyes like someone who’s just been asked, “Why are you alive?” I got him. We rode in silence to Lenin Square. He got off. I stayed. The rest felt like a novel without an ending.

Minsk Leaves a Mark

On the way back to Vilnius, I stared out the window. Minsk receded slowly—like an ex who you still kind of owe something.

And one thought kept circling my head:
— Nobody leaves Minsk the same. Some don’t leave at all.