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| 1398 miles approx. |
I woke up in Poland dying for some breakfast and a cup of anything so I headed for the restaurant car. Only problem was, there wasn't one. I managed instead to convince the non English speaking attendant to make me a coffee with his kettle and sell me one of his bottles of orange juice for four dollars. I would have given him twenty. I stood by the window for half an hour taking in the views and chatting to passers by who looked mournfully at my (disgusting instant Polish) coffee. The windows were grubby as hell but the views were lovely. I saw lots of rabbits and deer and something that looked like a raccoon. There was also plenty of graffiti on every available surface and more snow than I've seen in years.
We arrived in Warsaw late morning and I repaired to the only available place in the station, which was a Café Nero. Giant bucket of fresh orange juice, espresso and baguette later I was ready for the day ahead - more sitting on trains!
I found my train, which appeared to have been built several decades ago. I apprehensively boarded and was shown to my very own private compartment. Bliss!
It was exactly I as I expected a Russian train to look - as though time stopped in 1973. I even had my very own stepladder in the cupboard next to a chintz cushion that had mildew at the edges. I loved it! I also appeared to be the only non-Russian on board but quickly got to know my neighbours, who were mostly women and extremely friendly. The railway manager taught me please and thank you and was clearly perplexed at my pronunciation and smiled at me as though I were a simpleton.
We arrived at Belarus border control later that afternoon and passports were shown on demand. The police were very efficient and had the whole train checked in under an hour. We then set off again and around four minutes later, the Russian police boarded. A very small man in a very big hat checked my passport and looked alarmed as he realised that I was a fugitive, escaping through Russian soil, probably carrying weapons and a stash of a million pounds-worth of gear. He kept saying 'Niet' and being angry. I explained that the photograph is almost a decade old and my hair was short. My face, obviously, was the same. 'Niet. Niet. Niet.' A kindly lady in the next cabin came to my rescue and acted as a translator. She also kept rubbing my arm in a show of solidarity, which at the time I thought was sympathy for my imminent imprisonment. He was adamant that I wasn't me. The train manager joined in, explaining that I was British, as though that was an explanation for my acceptable chameleon-like change of identity. Eventually, after around fifteen minutes of explaining that nobody looks the same as they did in their mid twenties, and pulling various expressions for him to examine me smiling, not smiling, smiling a little etc., his colleagues came over and we had to start again. Niet was insistent, but what seemed to be the whole carriage, the manager, my translator and his colleagues were all trying to convince him that I really was me. He angrily told me to fill in a tiny piece of paper and took it away. Everyone disappeared and that was that. Turns out, I really am me. Who knew?
By now it was either 5pm, 6pm, 7pm or 8pm - I couldn't tell as I didn't know where we were and what exactly the time was in order for me to work out the difference, so I drank the tea, made myself some pasta and watched a movie (thanks Neil) while men with broomsticks, exactly like the ones witches have in fairy tales, changed the bogies so that we could continue on the different gauge Russian railway line. I didn't take pictures just in case Niet was watching me, waiting for evidence of my ulterior motives. The bogie-changing took a swift four hours and once completed we were on our way to Moscow.
