Train matrons are stout, stern women in caps, low heels, and blue uniforms. But they are not as formidable as the busty officials in white shirts who are charged with rousting drunk passengers from trains. In the overnight train’s dining car, they find two passengers in punk hair styles whom they confront. They accuse them loudly of being drunk and inform them that the police are coming to throw them off the train.
Witness forces to be reckoned with in a dining car that is brightly decorated in white and red. Judi and I share a booth with a young Muscovite who says he goes to Novgorod for “work on the left.” It’s only a moment before we decide that this is not a political job, it is a literal translation for “work on the side.” He’s equally bewildered about why we would refer in English to such work as “moonlighting.” It’s done during the day like any other desk job.
We decline our fellow traveller’s generous offer to share his order of pickled herring, onions, and vodka. He recommends that we order a Russian Standard. We do, but our young guide intercedes so that we are not the next ones to be thrown off the train. Our guide adroitly intercepts the waitress with our order so that we receive two 50-proof shots instead of two standard 100 proof shots of vodka.
Our sleeping car has four berths. Our guide works to shuffle our small group like a bent deck of cards. Those in our group who had the bad judgment to bring huge luggage must share compartments with those of us who pack like we are travelling instead of moving a household of five. We sleep in loose clothes, and allow the pack animals to take the top bunks along with their puzzle about how to cohabitate with their massive amount of belongings.
Our cabin locks. You can open it from the inside, but not from the outside without the assistance of the car’s matron who controls the single pass key. For an inconvenient sum of about 100 roubles, you can buy a duplicate key to your cabin. No one but those who have medical necessity to bolt to the bathroom with great frequency bothers with this key purchase. Instead, someone from our cabin stays in the cabin while the other goes to the WC, where we also take turns walking in on Russian men who don’t lock the door, but swear at the intrusion.
A half an hour before arrival, we hear the sharp click of the matron’s single knock that alerts each cabin that the station is minutes away. Judi and I are ready to step into the new city. Our cabin mates use the last few minutes on board to struggle against the crowd in the aisles in order to use the bathroom for the first time.
You could be you, or you could be them.
Sometimes it really seems hard to be them.
notnyet 