There we are. My real journey is beginning. Getting on the tracks is an experience itself. How can you honestly realise the immensity of distance the tracks in front of you are covering? It’s insane how big this country is, even more for a Swiss like me, from a country that looks like a neighborhood for Russians. Yet here I am, at the edge of the longest train tracks humans ever built. All thanks to mother Russia. Time to embark. Train 70, Wagon 6, spot 26. From Moscow to Irkutsk in one go. Estimated time: 85h.

The first impressions are vivid. The Provotnista (Wagon manager) is in charge of everything. We are but guests in her domain, and she makes it clear from the first second. The metal compartment is designed for efficiency. Esthetics don’t have their place here. Everything is made of cold metal, but beautifully engineered.

At first, my 4-beds berth is empty. I’m a bit relieved, but sad at the same time. The upper bed is for me, 2nd class. I have just the time to put my stuff up in the compartment, and already I’m joined by a Russian man. A special one. Unlike most of the people on the street, the first thing he does is smile at me, and speak to me in English. Believe me, it’s not the norm in Russia! They call this the “frown faces problem”. People here usually give a very cold first impression, and have a serious look on their face. But after breaking the ice, you discover the real person they are. Russian people seem to me like extreme people, and there are two possibilities after breaking the ice:

• They’ll just ignore you, or roughly tell you to fuck off, almost shouting at you and breaking all rules of politeness.
• They’ll reveal to you their hospitality, welcome you, feed you, do everything they can to help you, event though they only speak Russian, and make you feel at home. The kindness I was welcomed with was overwhelming and comforting. The people living in harsh countries know how important human relations and caring for each other is. 

After some time, I began discussing with Sergei, exchanging point of view, life stories, and answering all kinds of questions. It was fascinating for him and for me to see how different our lives were. Then we were joined by an elderly couple of Russians, Maria and Mickael, who spoke nothing but Russian. Cold at first, they revealed themselves to be extraordinary people. We shared stories and discussed, Sergei acting as interpreter, shared a meal, schnapps, vodka and beer. The evening was filled of warm laughs, cute moments, touching stories and smiles. I couldn’t have asked for more. This was Russia, I was their guest and they were about to show me how they welcome foreigners here. 

I ended up the evening sharing a cigarette and a deep conversation with Sergei, that will always stay in my heart. “My family is my world” he told me, a bright smile on his face, with the intensity only Russians are capable of. I could sense the intensity of the sentence he just let out. A touching and honest fact. This lead us in a discussion of the place of the man in society, the virility and strength that are expected from them, and how hard it is to be a man gifted with emotions, empathy and sentiment in today’s society, especially Russia. What a world we live in. I’m glad people like Sergei exist, and that we had the chance to meet.

Sergei left, too soon for my taste, and I spent the next two days, trying to communicate with Maria and Mickael. It’s not an easy feat, but whatever would happen, they’d call me down from my bed, to go eat with them and discuss a bit each time they were having a meal. They treated me like their grandson for two days, with all the love and warmth they were capable of. Maria was reacting at my Russian words and progress as she would have done for a newborn first step, and fed me more than reason, which led me to really learn fast the expression “Tchuik-tchiuk” that meat “just a little bit” to avoid dying of overfeeding. 

The next days were more multinational. I met a lot of German, French and Dutch people, share beautiful nights, beers and card games with people traveling like me. Victor, Johannes, Dennis, Nicky, Kimmick, only to name them, made my days on the train very special ones, that I won’t forget. (for more faces and names, see The crossroads / La croisée des chemins)

When you cross two time zones per day, by train, time becomes a very vague concept. Your day adapts its pace to the landscapes passing by, to the warmth of tea, to the taste of dried noodles, to the snoring of your cabin neighbours, to the colors of spring gaining in intensity, as you progress through a whole continent, slowly, at 60 km/h, with all the time you need to read, write, talk. Contemplation becomes meditation. A special state between sleep and deep thoughts, your eyes lost in the vague, as birch trees with leaves of a bright yellow pass by,  in the repetitive sound of the train, metal wheels against metal tracks, a wonderful symphony engineered decades ago.

Before you even realise it, but as your body tells you that you are slowly getting fed up of having a moving home, you are arriving at your destination. You lost some friends on the way, gained new ones, crossed half a continent, but most of all, you had time to talk to yourself, to think, to be, to reach a mystical place.

Great Baikal Lake, here I come!