A long, bumpy train ride to Moscow (02/15/06)

It's after 10 p.m. and you're waiting for the train from Zheleznogorsk.

Actually, though the city is Zheleznogorsk, the station is named after the iron mine which dominates the city's economy.

The station is new but uninviting. Cold marble floors and stainless steel don't make for much of a welcome when it's something like 25 degrees below zero Celsius outside. When the door opens, as it does every 30 seconds when more passengers stream in, the bitter cold snakes in around your ankles. Your toes remind you that maybe you should have worn another pair of socks.

Before long, the train arrives and you join the rest of the crowd pushing through the doorway into the night.

With help, you find your railway car. It's seen better days.

A narrow corridor runs along the east side. A row of passenger compartments runs along the west.

You're in compartment number six, which — like the rest — features four narrow benches arranged like two sets of bunk beds. They're roughly two feet by six feet, and when you lift up the seats on the lower berths you find a coffin-like space in which to stow some of your luggage.

In a matter of minutes, you learn that you're not alone in compartment six.

It's to be shared by four people. You may know one of them, but the other two — a traveling businessman with a bald head and a forlorn-looking little guy with a fur hat — are strangers to you.

At least they were. In such close quarters, you are thrust into a level of intimacy that's taken for granted.

While you step into the corridor, which is barely wide enough for two people to pass, the bald businessman changes out of his blue suit and red tie into a jogging suit that will serve as his jammies for the evening.

Feel free to slip into something more comfortable, or do what I do, hang up your coat, take off your shoes, and claim your berth.

The seats are assigned, and you have a lower. It would have been better if it were a first-class compartment just shared by two, but the budget's tight so you take what's offered.

No one really settles in until the attendant comes by offering sheets for you to sleep on.

There's a grungy-looking pad rolled up to make the night marginally more comfortable, but you'll gladly pay 70 rubles (about $3.50) for a set of sheets and a pillow case. (The pillow looks even grungier than the sleeping pad, if that's possible.)

The four strangers, now roommates, work through an etiquette that's been developed over generations. They know when to step outside, when to assist, and when to get out of the way.

Before long, all four of you are bedded down for the night.

The train has been heading north to Moscow now for some time, and you can't help but notice that it's not much like the trains in storybooks or Hollywood films.

Instead of the rhythm of the rails, you get an inconsistent, unpredictable jostling. Rather than being rocked to sleep, you're being poked at and prodded at irregular but persistent intervals. Instead of a roomy, James Bond-style compartment from the movies, it's elbow-to-elbow and cheek-to-jowl.

The good news is, none of the roommates are drinkers.

There's no vodka and no nonsense.

There is snoring, lots of it.

But look at it this way, the guy in the top berth on the other side of the compartment snores even louder than you do.

And the guy in the compartment next door snores so loudly that you can hear him in your compartment.

Take a deep breath. It's going to be a long, bumpy ride to Moscow.

See you in the morning.[[In-content Ad]]