Travel Memoir

A Friendly Northerner on a Russian Train

From Berlin to Paris on the Moscow-Paris Express

Author note: I wrote most of this in 2020 and 2021, long before Russia’s invasion of Ukraine.

August 18–19, 2017

An overnight train was Desmond’s (my seven-year-old son) only request, but finding a suitable one was a challenge. Forty-five years ago, overnight trains crisscrossed the continent en masse (there were thirty night trains in the UK alone), but since the advent of no-frills airlines and high-speed day trains, overnight trains, as we once knew them, have become an endangered species*.

While planning this trip, we found a couple of overnight trains to Paris, one from Andorre-L’Hospitalet, a small town in the Pyrenees, and the other from Rome. The train from the Pyrenees meant we had to double back on ourselves because our ultimate destination was the south of Spain. And the one from Rome — well, let’s just say that its reviews on TripAdvisor were less than flattering.

I would have taken the Trello (without kids) in my twenties, but not now, not with Des. In fact, we’d nearly given up hope on any overnighter when we discovered an obscure reference on seat61.com about a train called the Moscow-Paris Express.

It ran once per week, departing Moscow’s Belorussky Station on Wednesday evenings and would arrive in Paris on Friday mornings with stops in Belarus, Poland, and Germany. Scheduled to reach Berlin on Thursdays at around 9 pm, it leisurely winds its way through western Germany and eastern France, taking about twelve hours to get to Paris from Berlin.

I did my best to temper our enthusiasm and excitement because I needed to read the reviews first. I mean, seriously, how good is a Russian train? My only recollection of traveling on anything Russian was when I went to Moscow with my parents over forty years ago. They, my parents, hauled me aboard a rickety-old Aeroflot Tupolev Tu-134, a plane which NATO gave the codename Crusty. When we boarded the aircraft in Burgas, Bulgaria, we were greeted (and I use that term loosely) by an over-caffeinated pilot. We picked the only seats that looked firmly bolted down, and, given that our seatbelts lacked any kind of fastening mechanism, we knotted the belts around our waists as one would tie one’s shoes. My dad told me not to tie a double knot because the last thing anybody wants amid a catastrophic aircraft failure is to pick apart a knot one can’t undo. The aircraft’s sole flight attendant, who shared the pilot’s penchant for nervous anxiety, made no safety announcements of any kind. She didn’t do much of anything other than remain planted in a jump seat while grasping the main cabin door with both hands as if it springing open mid-flight might happen. And if this is my (albeit grossly exaggerated) memory of a Russian plane, then what, for crying out loud, would a Russian train be like?

Astonishingly, the reviews proved to be quite good. Forty years is a long time, and the Soviet Union is long gone. Russian Railways employs new trains utilizing the latest German Siemens rolling stock. That said, Russian trains may have significantly improved since the Soviet era, but as of three years ago, their website remained firmly locked in 1994. Making the reservation for a Russian train via the website was a traumatic experience, even for Ksenia, my Russian-speaking colleague. But she did, and it worked. And we got our ticket. And this is why we started the trip in Berlin!

The train pulled into the station and passengers hung their heads out of the open door windows. I watched the train come to a stop, and it struck me how bored these passengers must be. The Moscow-Paris Express is an all-sleeper train — except for the restaurant car. There are no cars with just seats where passengers can socialize so there isn’t an awful lot to do. Bear in mind that most of the passengers probably didn’t know each other and, by the looks of things, had been randomly bunked together in compartments, up to four at a time in cramped quarters. They’d been on the train for over twenty-four hours, and the best thing to happen to them in the last few hours may have been the delight of experiencing the grubby innards of Berlin’s central rail station.

Immaculately dressed provodniks and provodnitsas, in grey uniforms, opened the doors and helped the passengers off the train. There was a provodnik for every carriage. Our provodnik checked our tickets and we boarded the train. It all felt very classy, very up-market. Our provodnik, who spoke only Russian and German, told us something in Russian, which we assumed meant we had to wait. So, Fiona and I both said “okay” like you do when you have no idea. Then he gestured for us to proceed. “Oh!” we both said, nodding, and then we got on the train and found our compartment.

Our compartment door was already open. The lights were on, and all the beds were down in nighttime configuration and slept in. I waited for Desmond to channel his inner Goldilocks and say, “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed.” As if by magic, the provodnik appeared again and started to strip the beds. He managed to explain, by way of very deliberate pointing, that the passengers in our compartment had left the train in Berlin, and it would just take a few minutes for him to fix the room for us. Watching him make the beds was like watching Lewis Hamilton’s pit crew change tires. Then he showed us how to use the fancy room key (a magnetic strip like a hotel room key) and the compartment heating, then left the three of us in peace.

Des decided ninety seconds was just about long enough not to be doing anything. “Let’s go explore!” he said, jumping up and down as he does. So he and I set off for the restaurant car.

As we walked along the train’s narrow corridors, the passengers, most of whom I assumed were Russian, moped around, not doing much of anything. Surprising to me was the varying degrees of dress, or rather, undress, paraded around as we made our way to the rear of the train. People lay on their bunks in a very relaxed posture, chatting, reading, or watching a movie wearing clothes they slept in — PJs, shorts — all laid bare.

The corridor was narrow. And so, well, when a passenger approached from the opposite direction, we had an awkward dance, and it was all a bit of a squeeze, and, you know, when you pass someone in a confined space like that, butts touch. It just can’t be helped. I tried to be social; I tried to make a light-hearted joke of it.

The reason I smile so much in the company of those unfamiliar to me is that I’m from Bolton in northern England. Friendliness was beaten into all Boltonians at a young age, and it’s in our nature to torture everyone else with it. It’s just what we do. If you want to know more, watch this satirical piece from the BBC’s Mash Report — “A Northerner was apprehended by police in London today after walking around and saying “Hello” to strangers.”

A 2003 scientific survey conducted by the British Science Association also found that Boltonians are among the friendliest of the friendly. We just can’t help ourselves. My first American girlfriend thought there was something wrong with me because I would ask “Y’alright?” more than fifty times a day. She was an Oklahoman, and Oklahomans are indubitably friendly, and my friendliness freaked her out — so this is the scale we’re talking about.

And this is where I struggled. If you and I are forced to jostle past each other in a confined space where our butts will inevitably touch, and you’re wearing the clothes you would normally wear to bed, I’m going to insist we exchange pleasantries first. Whether you like it or not, I’m throwing you a beaming grin and nod, chased with a gregarious “Y’alright?” My urge to smile and grin at strangers is innate. In fact, the more unknown to me you are, the more amiable I will become. On a train brimming with Russians, all this friendliness was received exactly how you’d expect, with the same icy stare you’d get if you told someone you’d bludgeoned their firstborn to death.

At the end of each carriage, the provodnik, who, by now, had removed their spiffy grey uniform, sat around in their casual wear, drinking tea. About eight carriages down, as Des and I were exiting a carriage, an arm thrust out of a compartment and a Russian gentleman, in casual wear, and a provodnik’s hat, said “Nyet!” I grinned and said “Y’alright?” He then said something in Russian, paused, and then he said “Restaurant?” and I said “Da!” and he pointed to the other end of the train.

Undeterred, we walked back the train’s entire length, back past our compartment, grinning and smiling at everyone we passed, and to the front of the train where the buffet car was. This buffet car was swapped in at Warsaw. It’s a Polish buffet car, complete with Polish staff, who only spoke Russian, and presumably Polish. We’d been on the train for about thirty minutes, and so I led with the joke “I’ve walked here all the way from Berlin!” but Des didn’t find it funny either — and he usually laughs at everything. The good thing was that our Polish friends could at least count to five in German, so I could point at what we wanted and specify the correct quantity. We bought one big bag (eins) of Polish chips, a couple (Zwei) of beers, and some dodgy candy. We took it back to the compartment and shared our bounty with Fiona.

The compartment comfortably accommodates up to four people. With the beds put away, it has two very comfortable bench seats that face each other in day mode. There’s plenty of space under the seats to put your luggage. There’s also a little table by the window suitable for playing games and eating snacks. And, you can fold it up to expose a nifty tiny sink so you can wash your hands and brush your teeth before bedtime. I suppose if you were using the compartment by yourself and were feeling cheeky, you could have a sneaky little pee in there too — just make sure you pull down the window blind in case the train stops at a station. And it would be polite to rinse the bowl, afterwards, too.

In night mode, the beds kind of swing down, making two pairs of bunk beds on either side of the compartment. The top bunks have a vertical bar that locks up to stop whoever is in the top bunk from waking up on the bottom bunk with a concussion.

The ride was surprisingly smooth, probably the smoothest overnighter I’ve ever traveled on. Compared to the Amtrak, where the train mainly travels on freight rails, it’s an absolute dream. That track between Buffalo and Cleveland is the worst. Against the Inverness to London overnight train, it’s pretty close, but the Moscow-Paris Express feels like it travels faster. In terms of comfort, the Moscow Paris Express beats the other two, hands down. The Inverness to London train’s compartment was a bunk room (it has been since updated), nothing else. If you wanted a sit on something that wasn’t a bed, you had to go to the lounge car. On the Amtrak, Des and I shared a Viewliner Roomette, which is tiny — so maybe I’m comparing apples to oranges here. I hear that the Amtrak’s full-size rooms have a bathroom, which neither the Moscow-Paris Express nor the Inverness-London train had.

We nestled down and tried to sleep, but honestly, I never sleep well on trains or planes (I had one of those fancy beds on a plane once from Japan, but I didn’t successfully sleep on that either). Des slept well on the train, but I think Fiona was the same as me. For some people, the gentle rocking motion is relaxing but it just makes me clench when the train goes over some points, and I’m constantly worried that we’re going to hit something. If I allow myself to drowse, I have one of those weird waking dreams where I’m driving a car and trying not to fall asleep.

When 7 am rolled around, the realization that I could give up on trying to sleep was quite liberating. I wandered down the carriage (as the day was breaking, in the Ardennes, it was stunning) to the bathroom and then back. By the time I was in the compartment again, Fiona was up, awake and packing her bags. We had also just learned of a terrorist attack on that day’s final destination, Barcelona. Des, however, was still fast asleep, so Fiona and I quietly discussed our concerns until we woke him. He was slow to wake, but when we opened the blind, life jumped into him, and we went to the lounge car for a quick breakfast.

The train pulled into Paris’ Gare de L’Est station only a few minutes late, and considering it’s Europe’s longest rail route, I was nothing short of impressed.

Footnotes

*As I write this in 2022, overnight trains, particularly in Europe, are making a bit of a comeback. A few more routes here and there, nothing like the heyday of the turn of the 20th century, but things look a bit more promising. And surprisingly, it looks like Moscow-Paris Express is still running, albeit once per week and not two/three per week pre-invasion.