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I had known about Burning Man for years. For several seasons I had joined side events: our camp built an art sauna out in the desert. But that year I wasn’t planning to go anywhere. We were living with my wife and our newborn son in a cozy house outside Buenos Aires, running our business and enjoying a calm, steady life.

And then a message popped up in a friends’ chat: someone was selling Burning Man tickets for the day after tomorrow. I stared at the screen, realized this might be my only chance, and of course I grabbed three plane tickets for that very evening.

“What? We’re flying in four hours?” my wife asked.

But this wasn’t our first spontaneous trip, and she quickly agreed. We each packed a tiny carry‑on, threw in our favorite Burner costumes (“you should always know where your Burner costume is”, D. Adams), and headed for the airport. Evening Buenos Aires blurred by outside the taxi window, we raced through traffic, barely made our flight, sprinted through security, collapsed into our seats, and that’s when it hit me: I am flying to Burning Man. 

On the plane I opened a list from my friend, the legendary “list of things you absolutely must bring.” Around a hundred items, some of them bizarre. Nasal spray. Dust masks. A bicycle. I scrolled through and realized: not a single one of these things was in our luggage. And it was far too late to change anything.

We landed, rented a Jeep, grabbed coffee by the San Francisco bridge and entered straight to Walmart.

After an hour I was starving. After two hours I wanted a divorce. After three, a friend dropped me a message: “Hey, can you bring another twenty bikes for the camp?” Five hours in, our son spiked a fever, and it became clear I’d be driving to the desert alone.

We crammed everything into the car. Stopped in a McDonald’s parking lot to unpack boxes and ditch extra packaging. Obviously there are no trash bins in the desert. I left my wife and son at a hotel in Rino, and at exactly midnight I drove through the gate. That was the start of an adventure I’ll never forget.

Now, for anyone crazy enough to try something like this here’s how to do it properly. To pull off a spontaneous Burning Man trip, you need two things:

- a remote assistant

- a friend in San Francisco

The step‑by‑step plan:

1. Buy your plane ticket

2. Your assistant orders all one hundred items from the list on Amazon Prime, shipping them to your friend’s address.

3. You land in the US, your stuff is already waiting in the garage, you pack in a couple of hours, and you’re off to the desert. That’s it. You’re magnificent.

See you on the playa this year?

P.S. To this day, I still get a nervous twitch when I see bicycles in a supermarket. And yes, this was 2023, the very year when, two days after I arrived, the entire desert flooded. But that’s another story.

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.