Passenger in train-ing

I sat at the train station, waiting for the airport-like signs to tell me which platform I would be departing from. (Not that I knew the locations of any of the platforms.) I had gotten to the station a full three hours or more before my departure time, driven there by what I can assume was a family friend of my host’s; a taxi driver who refused payment for his services. This long-term, sedentary waiting was an odd conclusion to my time in Moscow. My gracious host Sveta insisted on waiting with me, maintaining that I would need help getting my luggage onto the train. I hated the thought of her spending hours twiddling her thumbs at the station waiting to help me carry bags that I had already managed to get halfway around the world largely on my own. I also didn’t want us to remember each other that way; each wishing we were somewhere else, smiling nervously at each other after all areas of small talk had been exhausted and no new topics presented themselves. But just how hard can you push in insisting that someone leave you and go away?

Eventually, my mild insistences and the reality of the situation prevailed, and I said goodbye to Sveta. And finally, all this waiting paid off and it was time to hurry off to my platform, which turned out to be quite far away. Not only that; I was assigned a berth in carriage #3, which meant I had to make my way past 15 carriages once I had reached my platform. Glancing nervously at the time throughout, I finally made it on board with just under 10 minutes remaining before the train was scheduled to depart.

The first thing I noticed about the train was how many Mongolians were on board. I had expected riders to be predominantly Russian, with a few Mongolians and foreigners rounding things out. I was thrilled; the Russians I had met had all been kind and helpful people, but I felt I could relate better to Mongolians. The second thing I noticed was an immensely unpleasant Australian who would be living a couple of doors down from me. He filled the carriage with his loud blustering about whatever displeased him, which incidentally seemed to be pretty much everything. The accommodations weren’t luxurious enough, there was too much activity as people bustled around, why didn’t his room have a private bathroom? He was an absolute caricature of the Ugly American (right down to the prodigious waistline), and I immediately worried that I was going to be associated with him simply by being an English-speaking person.

As the train filled with people, it also filled with merchandise. As it turns out, this particular train is a bit of a shopping mall on wheels. Great parcels of purses, clothing, and foodstuffs were hefted on board. These were parceled out and distributed across whole carriages, to my intrigued amusement and to the great displeasure of my vociferous neighbor. Once things settled down, I found myself alone in my compartment, but for the company of an impressive number of vinyl handbags. As the train slowly began to roll out of the station, I took one last look at Moscow, obscured as it was by the night. Excitement and trepidation warred within me for pride of place. Excitement won out, and I grinned widely as Moscow slid into darkness.