The night train to Moscow : 15/09/06

Getting out of St Petersburg turned out to have about the same level of intimidation and Cold War menace as getting in. There was the same lock down of the train carriage and the WCs, the unsmiling guards and military police checking our passports, and the counting and checking of each pair of persons in adjacent seats or beds. This was serious George Smiley territory and it was all deeply enjoyable. But instead of Orson Welles lurking in the shadows, there were train crooks, people who haunt the night trains and creep into your compartment when you're asleep so they can rob you.



Rumours flew around that the current favoured method was gas. You wake up with a headache, the doors are open and everything's gone. Luckily we had our wardress, the unsmiling functionary who stood to attention by the carriage door as we loaded ourselves in, in pairs. How she reminded one of The Freak, the favourite Nurse Ratchett of every Prisoner devotee. We giggled obediently when ordered back into our compartments to sit on our bunk beds until the train departed. But her tender side was soon on display when she carried a small bag of tiny alcoholic bottles along the corridor and allowed us each to choose one for our night cap. After that she commanded us to treble lock our doors, and finally turned off the awful Russian muzak. I think I slept, although when my 'bunkie's' efforts to untreble the locks woke me I was convinced the 'gypsies' had somehow got inside the compartment. And yes, perhaps I did have a dream that one of them might come in black-face to drag me away and be his bride (thank you for pointing that out darl).

At daybreak the lights all came on again, the muzak returned and so did the wardress but this time with glass mugs of shining water decanted from a samovar.

I threw in a sugar cube and tea-bag, ate up my 'dry' breakfast (the caviar was quite good) and loafed around to admire the Muscovite suburbs as they rolled by in an unending identical mass.


It was some time after we arrived that we realized we had to get off the train. It was hardly the Grand Central Station of a great metropolis. But there was the sign.

So we dragged our luggage through the puddles, down a ramp and into the start of what is clearly the world's first meta traffic jam. I feel sure the same trucks, buses, 4WDs and taxis were still there on Arbat tonight when we walked back from the National Library. One thing that has been instantly noticeable after St Petersburg. It is really really cold.