All the way to Moscow

And so it is that, on the 7th September 2010, 5 months after starting to plan this trip, I finally boarded my first train in Lisbon, still unsure of what awaited me along the tracks.

 Day 1: All aboard!

The build up of excitement reached its peak, when I finally had my last meal in Lisbon with my brother and sister, just beside the St. Apolónia station; the last time I had been there was in 1991, coming back from a train trip to Spain.

Estação de St. Apolónia

Sud-expresso train

The (very short) walk from the car to the station allowed me to appreciate just how heavy my bag really was. Lisbon bid me goodbye with gray skies, and suddenly there I was, the first of thousands of kilometers!

The people in the train were mainly Portuguese emigrants, returning home after their summer holidays; here and there however were a few Spanish tourists, and young Eurorail travellers. It was not long before I was engaged in conversation with a few people: José, an emigrant that boarded the train in Coimbra, going all the way to the Spanish border, and then changing to a Spanish train; Eunice, a design student from Castelo Branco; Rui, another emigrant, returning to his home in Lausanne.

We all gathered in the restaurant wagon, chatting to Rodrigo, the barman. Many beers were consumed around the bar, with the conversation centered mainly around emigrant life. At around midnight, we arrived to the Portuguese-Spanish border in Vilar Formoso. While waiting for the locomotive to be changed, I wandered around and took a few shots.

After the bar finally closed at 2am, we all wandered back to our seats. Large as they were, they were still seats, and that combined with the loud partying of those that refused to stop drinking once the bar closed, meant a very rough night- and my earplugs were right in the bottom of my backpack. Lesson learned: from the next day onwards, they were always in my jacket pocket.

Day 2: Back to France

I reached Hendaye in France, at 0710.  Back in France once again, after my move at the start of the year. The 4 hours waiting for my TGV were hard, struggling not to fall asleep. But once in the Hendaye-Paris service, I slept a few good hours on its far more comfortable seats. I reached Paris in the evening, and walking to Nico's house, I regretted my lack of success in travelling light - although after leaving a few bottles at friends' houses the weight reduced considerably.

I had a lovely evening with my very good friends Nico, Louis, Alex and Tno, and slept a much needed evening in a real bed.

Day 3: Paris and onwards

Being back in Paris, albeit for a short time, was great, and gave me a sort of a homecoming feeling. I wandered around the neighbourhood where I used to live, and was even spotted in Rue Daguerre by a shopkeeper who remembered me, we had a lovely chat. I also had a great lunch with Nico and Florence; I miss French bistros!

I hardly had time to enjoy Paris, though, before it was time to say goodbye to my good friend, and make my way to Gare de l'Est, to catch my overnight train to Berlin. The train was a really international one: German carriages mixed with a few Russian ones (the famous "Paris-Moskau" service), and the staff were a mix of French, German and Russian, and each only speaking their own language: I struggled to order my food and beer in German in the bar. I met Martin there, an Englishman travelling from London to Zagreb by train; we shared quite a few beers, chatting about travelling experiences.

Sleeping was really problematic, though. I had another seat, but this time it was in a 6-person compartment, with 5 of us, and the seats were too narrow, and too close to each other. Met an old French lady there, who was weary of taking the night train on her own, afraid to find herself alone in a compartment with only men. I reassured her: with her and 3 other German women there, I should be the one afraid! I let her use the empty seat to try and stretch her legs a bit, and spent many hours pointlessly trying to fall asleep. Still, we were better off than the people two compartments down, who had a crying baby.

Day 4: Germany and Poland

Berlin Hauptbahnhof

I arrived really tired to Berlin, realising that my choice of saving money by buying seats on my European trains was maybe not the wisest: arriving exhausted to my destinations didn't allow me to enjoy them as much. But fighting the urge to just hang around the train station while waiting for my Moscow train, I decided to go for a nice long walk along Alexander Platz.

The morning rain had cleared away, and after my walk I sat for lunch by the TV tower, enjoying the sun and chilling out.

In the middle of the afternoon I caught my train, which would take me all the way to Moscow. And then culture shock hit me without warning: what I thought would be my last German train, turned out to be a 100% Russian service. Meaning: Russian train, Russian staff, and Russian passengers. And like that, without warning, I had to start using my stuttering Russian.

I quickly got acquainted with Yuri, my 57 year old compartment companion, who upon discovering that I spoke a bit of Russian never stopped talking to me until Moscow, telling me all sorts of stories, jokes, explanations, which were really interesting but hard to follow; my lack of sleep from the previous journeys didn't help.

The conversation went on and on, and became even livelier when another Russian joined us in Poland, along with an old dedushka from the next compartment, who insisted in speaking with me in German because I was a foreigner, and therefore I couldn't possibly understand Russian - Yuri had to keep translating... back to Russian. He was worried about me travelling in Russia on my own ("Don't stay in hostels! Stay in big hotels!"). All this while the Polak (like me and Yuri called our companion, as he never told us his name) proudly exhibited his coffee mug with pictures of Cristiano Ronaldo and Kaká.

By this time, I had realised that my toothbrush, deodorant, shampoo, and all associated products had decided to stay in Paris, meaning no brushing and a stinky t-shirt until reaching Moscow... But at least I would sleep comfortably: this was my first train with a real bed.

Day 5: Belarus and then Moscow!

I woke up around 2am, with a lot of movement going on, and quickly understood that the guards had boarded the train, looking for passports. I handed over mine, and was surprised at how easy the whole process was, after reading tales of all the usual trouble getting into Belarus and Russia. 20 minutes later, I understood why: those were the Polish border guards. Once the Belorussian guards came on board, no-one was smiling anymore. Especially the Polak: when we left the train in Moscow and I realised how heavy his bag was, I sort of understood his nerves.

I handed over my passport again, and the first border guard seemed almost disappointed to see that I had the required transit visa for Belarus (it's a common problem with tourists going to Russia). It was still taken away from me for half an hour, while I was left filling the customs form. Even the train chief had his private compartment thoroughly checked, and didn't seem the least amused. But in the end all seemed to be in order, and I got my passport back.

The train then moved onto a massive hangar, to change the wheels for Russian gauge (about 10cm larger than the standard gauge used in Europe). The process is heroic: each carriage is separated from the rest, the wheels are unbolted, it is lifted up, new wheels are ran under, the carriage is lowered, and the new wheels are finally bolted.

I stayed up really late, observing the whole process, and finally went back to bed, only to be woken up by Yuri a couple of hours later (around 6am GMT, which was already 8am): he was bored, and wanted to chat with me!!

A few hours later, we went for lunch in the restaurant wagon, where I had my first Russian meal: солянка (a lovely meat soup), followed by котлеты and salad. There was a Belorussian guy in the restaurant, seriously drunk, who upon discovering that I was a foreigner offered me a shot of vodka: with the help of Yuri, I managed to convince him to give me beer instead!

I was expecting more trouble at the Russian border, but (obviously) there was no border control, so before I noticed we were arriving at Smolensk (the infamous border city, destroyed by all invading armies, from the Poles to Napoleon and then Hitler). Moscow was drawing closer and closer, and everyone seemed keen on preparing me for it: the old man telling tales of robberies and abductions, and Yuri praising the physical attributes of Moscow women.

Finally, late in the evening, we arrived to Moscow, Belorussian station. The train station was packed, with both travellers and policemen, stopping people at random. I quickly realised the pattern: anyone with a beard or slightly dark coloured was immediately stopped and searched. Thankfully, according to Yuri, I was lucky to look like a Russian (I never knew I did, until then).

Yuri was extremely nice, and offered to help me buy my first Russian train tickets. I was really glad: given the trouble he had, I would have seriously suffered. Then he extended his help even further, and actually took the metro with me, and walked me all the way to my hostel! He was extremely nice, and we've stayed in touch since.

Pushkin statue

The "hostel" was in fact a large apartment, decorated in typical Soviet style. The "receptionist" was Luiza, who lived there with her two children: depending on the type of room a costumer had booked, they would sleep somewhere else (that evening I was staying in a 3 bunk room, along with her two kids).

I dropped my bags, and set out to explore Moscow! I walked along the long avenues, saw the beautiful centre buildings and statues, stared at any sign that crossed my path, trying to decipher what it said. I simply could not believe that I was finally in Moscow.

And then I arrived to the Red Square:

I was mesmerised by its beauty, and spent hours just walking along, taking pictures; never once did I feel threatened. I finally went back to the hostel at 6am, exhausted, but with a big smile and a drained camera battery.