I love Russia, I hate Russia. I love Russia, I hate Russia.

The rest of the passengers in our car were already asleep when I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and was confronted by our beautiful train attendant who was leaning against the door into her personal cabin. She was in uniform but she wore hers a couple sizes to small and the skirt and jacket hugged her curves so tightly that it looked as if the buttons could burst off at any time. She peeked down the corridor of the train as if to check if everyone was already asleep and then with her index finger beckoned into her room. I followed the seductress inside and she quickly slammed the door shut, locked it, and began to relieve her salacious curves of the constrictive uniform.

Then I felt a strong push against my hips, then a shove and suddenly I woke up.

I was lying on my short bunk and a Russian man who had slept on the top bunk shoved his way onto my bed for a place to sit during the early hours of the morning. Horrified, confused, and grumpy, I rose out of bed and took a look around me.

We were the only foreigners of the 50 or so passengers in the car and probably the only ones who felt it necessary to maintain our personal hygiene along the way. When we initially boarded the train we were horrified with our seat assignments. We were under the impression that we had paid the expensive fare for 2nd class in order to escape riding for 60 hours to Moscow in such conditions. At first we didn’t know if we were ripped off or simply given the wrong tickets but our excitement for the 60 hour luxurious train ride quickly turned into a resentful, bitter attitude, wishing horrible things on the bitch behind the ticket counter and the rest of her god-forsaken country. We eventually cleared up what had happened and felt a little bit better and even perhaps regretted some of the horrible things we had said. We had asked for 2nd class but it was full, and we were instead given 3rd class. The tickets were, in fact, not that expensive and had we actually been able to book 2nd class tickets, I for one would not have been able to afford them.

As people continued to rise out of bed and began to eat breakfast, the cool air that had made the previous night surprisingly comfortable began to heat up with the smells of sausage, smoked fish, dried squid, and kefir. Bodies began to warm up, vodka was poured, and the odor of unwashed armpits, feet, and other unholy body parts emanated from the Russian crowd making the air suffocating.

There were no separate compartments but around my bed were characters I couldn’t have imagined in a nightmare. A woman over 50 had obvious “let go” years ago but she wore her daisy dukes proudly, her belly always jiggling out the top and her butt cheeks mooning out from below. Her mother was an extremely large lady who couldn’t walk down the aisle without hip checking every other passenger along the way and I was horrified even momentarily imagining her using the tiny metal toilet at the end of the car (sure, that’s sick but when you’re on a train for 60 hours you start to go a little crazy). Another older man slept on the other bunk, preferring to sit shirtless unabashed by his large beer belly, man breasts and the sweaty mess of hair covering all of it. The quarters were so small that there was only limited room where one could sit without having to rub up against either of these three characters while the train coasted down the tracks towards Moscow.

Sara, Peter, and I all agreed that escape was immediately necessary and we fled to the dining car hoping for air conditioning and reasonably priced beers. The 11-car adventure to the dining car was worthy of a 1-hour Discovery Channel Special in itself. To our amazement there were cars hotter and fouler smelling than our own. We raced through these cars holding our breath dodging small children, sweaty bodies, and unwashed feet hanging from the top bunks. The 2nd class cars were obviously nicer than our 3rd class slums. Compartments held four large beds each and air conditioning made the entire car as cold as our car was hot. The ends of the car had digital signs noting the time of day, temperature, and car number. I didn’t dare tease myself by witnessing 1st class but I heard it boasted TVs with DVD players as well as hanging potted plants and free gourmet dinners.

The dining car proved to be our perfect refuge and we gladly overpaid for beer as long as we weren’t forced to return back to our assigned beds in the last car. To ensure we kept on the good side of the waitress and in hopes of sleeping easier, we kept ordering beers and occasionally ordering underwhelming plates of food. We met a Belgian couple with whom we chatted a little while before playing some Texas hold-em with chips from a German political board game. Unremarkable countryside of tall pines and purple and yellow wildflowers passed outside the window and old Russian movies played on a TV as we played out our hands. Somehow the Belgians won all of our chips, and after a couple more pivos (beers) they escaped back to their 2nd class cabin. We on the other hand stayed as long as we could in the car before we had to return to our seats. The nights are long in Russia but when the sun finally goes down, most of the people go with it. Once it was nighttime our car was incredibly quiet and surprisingly cool. Whenever the car would make a stop silencing the loud clickty-clacking, the entire train was silent except for the obnoxious snoring of the sleeping passengers. The sound of the snoring choir was hilarious but relatively soothing compared to the zoo-like nature of the train during the day.

The next morning was the beginning of our last full day on the train. We planned to spend the entire day hiding in the dining car again but were happily surprised when rainy weather helped to keep our car cool and tolerable. Still, we preferred to get away from our sweaty neighbors and fought our way back to the dining car where we resumed drinking beer and playing cards.

By the end of the afternoon we finished an epic game of gin rummy, drank more pivos than necessary and I memorized all three of the Russian movies by heart. A Russian Peter Sellers was the star of the strange Russian comedies and I didn’t need to understand a word to get the movies. My favorite part was when a Grandpa in one scene was rocking back and forth in a rocking chair staring through a large magnifying glass at the breasts of the Venus de Milo.

Eventually we decided to return to our car and when we arrived back we were surprised to see a couple new passengers lying in the beds. The characters I mentioned were all there but a young girl named Sasha was my new bunkmate. Suddenly I was hit with a horrible panic. I looked to where I head left some of my things to find all of it gone. A couple things were missing but most valuable (to me) was my journal. None of the Russians were witness to its disappearance. It’s was a tough loss on a long journey especially when it’s a journal that’s made it through seven countries is and suddenly went missing because some asshole Russian decided he’d take it just for the hell of it. The empty feeling of being robbed is a horrible one but even more so when it’s something irreplaceable and something that I can’t imagine an ignorant Russian would have no use for. Nonetheless it was gone and really, I can only blame myself for having been dumb enough to leave anything out in the open in a large car full of Russians. Sasha spoke wonderful English. She was a student on her way to Germany to study English and German. She was delighted to practice her English with us and soon she found herself as translator between the three of us and the rest of our neighbors, who were excited to finally be able to ask us questions about what the hell we were doing slumming it on a 3rd class car bound for Moscow.

Ms. unflattering Daisy Dukes didn’t speak much, but her mother was very interested in our travels and told us that she used to live in Tajikistan before the fall of the Soviet Union before seeking refuge back inside Russia.

The fat old man had put on a presentable shirt and somehow lost his body odor. He was suddenly a chipper old guy and he asked if he could sing for us. He sang an operatic piece for us completely that was the complete opposite of the grotesque picture we had had about him previously. Sasha then sang a song as well and she too had a wonderful voice. After we attempted a horrible rendition of “Under the Bridge” the old man and Sasha took turns singing and the old man even recited a couple poems, acting them out like a charismatic bard. Despite all of our talents, Sara, Peter, and I sat in that train car without any way to prove we were capable of anything so great. We have all read a multitude of poems but none of us could recite even a couple lines of any of them. Between the three of us we couldn’t even come up with all of the lyrics for a single song. Admittedly all addicted to internet and technology in general, we were at a loss without any of it in that train car. I did find one outlet however. Between songs they asked if we had any pictures of home or of our travels. Despite some jerk’s sticky fingers, I took out my laptop and played several slideshows showing them pictures from Thailand, Laos, China, Mongolia, and their beloved Russia. Our new friends as well as others who took notice slipped on reading glasses and began to watch the pictures silently. Like the middle of the nights the car was suddenly calm and comfortable and we didn’t mind the 3rd class at all.


Soon after the sun fell and we all retired to bed. Our less than comfortable beds prevented any of us from getting a great night’s sleep but early the next morning our train pulled into Moscow Station and we had survived the train ride.

Despite the several hours of disgusting human wet sauna and my pilfered journal, the ride had been surprisingly relaxing and didn’t take as long as we expected. Though we began the ride on bitter and on edge with our unsanitary bunkmates, on the last night of our ride they came to life and we said goodbye like we were bidding farewell to great friends. That said, we couldn’t have been happier getting off that damned train and finally setting foot in Moscow.