Plazkart is the cheapest ticket category—an open-plan carriage with bunk beds. People willing to pay more sleep in a kupe, a compartment with a sliding door for two to four people.
I board the ten o’clock train at ten-thirty, which is possible as all long-distance trains in the country run on Moscow time and Astrakhan is one hour ahead. Every coach is guarded by a uniformed provodniza, the conductress and undoubted sole authority over the carriage, who checks tickets and passports. Once you’re past her, the real tests are still to come—stowing luggage beneath the lowest bunk in a small closet, changing out of hiking boots and into flip-flops (beginners will find them, of course, at the bottom of their backpacks), rolling out the mattress and putting on the sheets, and finally, finding a position that is reasonably comfortable. I have particular problems with the latter as at six foot two I seem to exceed the average size of Russian travelers. On the top bunk I’m unable to sit upright and if I stretch out, both my feet hang in the aisle at exactly the head height of passing passengers. A well-intended metal security bar along the edge of the bed prevents a lethal fall, but also means that when I lie on my side, there’s not enough room for my knees. I practice experimental night-train yoga for nine long hours in an attempt to find the best position to stow my torso and limbs in an orthopedically optimal manner. Result: lying on my back, one knee slightly bent and to the left, resting on the wall. In this position I reach Volgograd.
VOLGOGRAD
Population: 1,021,000
Federal District: South Russia
ONE PERCENT
AS SOON AS you exit the station there’s no doubt about what, from a historical viewpoint, is important here. Souvenir stalls sell mugs with war motifs, victory statuettes, and Stalin figures; a huge information board depicts a map with the cities and towns involved in the Battle of Stalingrad, the name of Volgograd until 1961. The entrance to the station is flanked by two tableaux of soldiers with arms at the ready. They are positioned in such a way as to suggest that danger is coming from one of the lampposts nearby.
My hosts are named Sergei, Krisia, and Grisha, and are fifty-five, thirty-seven, and three years old, respectively. In his profile Sergei included a quotation from his mother, which I liked: “A maximum of one percent of people are absolutely wonderful and perfect and one percent are totally evil. The remaining ninety-eight percent are a complicated mixture of good and bad. In life you usually meet people who are neither angels nor devils but a mixture of both. If you want to live among angels you have to prompt them to show only their good sides.”
In my travels I have experienced this to be true. In particular, in countries on the receiving end of negative press, I have often experienced the most wonderful things with ordinary people, which don’t appear to match the bad image projected in the media. I find these statistics totally plausible, even at the bottom end. It’s perfectly possible that one percent of Russians are complete and utter dorks. And one percent of Austrians, one percent of Muslims, one percent of Americans, one percent of Germans, one percent of Christians, one percent of Nigerians, one percent of refugees, one percent of women, one percent of left-handers. Unfortunately this one percent often generates a great deal of attention. And even though the proportion is very small, mathematically, with a global population of 7.4 billion, we arrive at 74 million idiots worldwide. That’s enough to cause quite a bit of damage.
Sergei is actually a historian, but works as a cab driver. He has a mustache and many laugh lines and radiates down-to-earth warmth. If Russia were a fairground, he would be the much-beloved organ-grinder away from the hurly-burly. At home he likes to display his extensive belly by only wearing swimming shorts. Krisia also has a large belly, but for different reasons. “It wasn’t planned; I already have two kids, Sergei and Grisha,” she quips. “Oh, can you take care of the boy for fifteen minutes? We have to drop in on the neighbors briefly.”
Of course I can. But as soon as the door closes the absence of his mother seems to trigger a certain unease in Grisha. First he tests how often you have to brrrm a toy car along the floor before it loses its wheels (result: thirteen times). He then begins to select single CDs from their plastic case to test their suitability as Frisbees in various rooms. I try a diversionary tactic with a foam ball that was lying around, and he is immediately distracted from the shiny discs. He pops the ball in his mouth and with obviously suicidal intent crawls into a large plastic bag. After I prohibit this, the little lemming dashes to the kitchen and climbs on the sill of an open window. There, he tries to shake the wooden safety grille loose; outside it’s four floors to the ground.
Truth No. 8:
Fifteen minutes can be an eternity.
“Was Grisha well-behaved?” asks Krisia on her return.
“Yes, a remarkable boy,” I reply.
The plan for the rest of the day is made quickly: buy fish and beer, then watch a movie. In a small store we get a number of one-and-a-half-liter plastic bottles filled with “Bavaria” beer and buy warm smoked milkfish and cold smoked bream. Russian liquor stores often have a fish display and smell accordingly. At home we spread it all out on newspaper.
The name of a powder detergent that’s produced in Russia, though consumers are led to believe it’s a quality product “Made in Germany.” One of its competitors is called Meine Liebe (My Love); it’s described in German on the package as “a gel for washing black and dark materials.” The slogan accompanying Grüntäler cheese is slightly more cryptic and promises, in good old Google Translate fashion: “Tastes of spice herbs—delicate spiciness, tart flowering.” In a well-stocked Russian shopping center you can find suits from Kanzler (Chancellor), butter from Danke Anke (Thanks, Anke), muesli from Dr. Körner (Doctor Grains), stationery from Erich Krause, Bork electronic goods, and Altstein beer. All these products are made somewhere, but not in Germany. Find this dishonest? Then look and see how many fictitious Russian-sounding names you can find on the vodka shelf of your local supermarket.
Another guest rings the doorbell, a full-bearded New Zealander named David on a world tour. He pulls up a seat in the kitchen, marveling at the notes of thanks and mottos that Sergei’s previous guests have scribbled on the wall in felt tip. Why does he enjoy having guests so much? “I’m a hunter, a fisherman, and you are my victims. You’ve become caught in my net and I’m going to drink your blood.” Then he toasts us. “To fishing!” The victims from New Zealand and Germany look slightly puzzled at the man in his underwear. “What I mean,” says Sergei, “is the certainty that you are more interesting than my neighbor. If you were normal you wouldn’t be traveling here. Cheers!” That sounds a little bit better.