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govern that smoking must be done in these spaces between cars—but that rule seems to
change with the weather. When it's too cold to smoke outside, many Russians hang in the
indoor corridors puffing away. In the evenings, Russian passengers seem too desperate for
a cigarette to care much about appearance, and you routinely find people lingering with ci-
garettes in the hallway wearing nightgowns or, in the case of men, boxer shorts and tank
tops.
None of this seems, on its face, all that pleasant. Yet, I would take it over a ride on
Amtrak any day of the week. There's nothing boring about riding the Trans-Siberian. It's
hard yet poetic, perplexing yet entertaining. And you develop a routine. Morning, wake up,
attempt to wash off in the cramped lavatory with the metal sink and toilet bowl. Use the hot
water canister at the front of the train car to make instant coffee and instant oatmeal. Return
for more hot water at lunchtime to make tea and instant noodles. Read, chat with passen-
gers. In the evening, venture to the dining car for borscht or make more instant noodles.
Visit a neighbor in his or her compartment and wash the night away with vodka.
Many Russians pass the time reading. In the budget-class cars, where there are no separ-
ate compartments—just bunks and tables, creating the feel of a wall-less hostel—younger
Russians are reading tattered books. In the second- and first-class cabins, passengers are
reading literature on Kindles and iPads. Seeing passengers dressed in little more than their
underwear, smoking obsessively into the night, drinking vodka until they pass out, makes
it easy to dismiss them as backward. But this is a mistake. Russia remains one of the most
educated and literate societies on earth. I can see that in the Kindles being read, and sense
it in the conversations.
Tonight, Sergei and I have a second-class compartment for four people. The doors to the
compartments are lining the hallway to our left. Recalling the urgency with which our fel-
low passenger begged for lower beds back at the ticket office, Sergei and I feel fortunate to
have the two lower beds on this trip. We enter our compartment, store our suitcases beneath
the two lower berths, and sit down, knowing two strangers should be arriving soon.
S
HARING CLOSE QUARTERS
is second nature to many Russians, something I learned from
Boris. He, Sergei, and I were once having dinner at a restaurant called Delicatessen, not
far from NPR's office in central Moscow. Conversation among the three of us can be diffi-
cult—hardest on Sergei, because as much as he wants to engage in casual chatter, he's also
translating. Boris knew enough English and I knew enough Russian for the two of us to get
by—often with the help of hand gestures, noises, and second and third chances—but when
we were all together we leaned on Sergei.
Delicatessen is a casual café. Like so many restaurants in Moscow, it's hidden under-
ground. This struck Rose and me as odd when we first moved here. As if the city were not
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