![]() ![]() Maria took one look at them, turned to me and said "Welcome to genuine Russia experience. They smelled like a combination of cheap vodka, sausage and sweat. Three thick men in their 50s sat jammed together on one bunk, their reddened eyes and raised voices indicating a pretrain tailgate. I entered my alcove to stumble upon the Three Stooges of Siberia. ![]() Two more beds folded out from the hallway wall, which meant every six people shared a space 10 feet long and 5 feet wide. There were 100 people crammed into a 2-foot-wide hallway, tossing bedclothes, linens and provisions all over beds, tables and each other.Įach rail car had 15 doorless alcoves, each with two sets of bunk beds that left everyone's feet hanging in the hallway. I entered the rail car a bit before midnight and felt like I was on a prison train to summer camp. We departed on the night train to Moscow, where we would connect with the Tran-Siberian. She was a young local who shared our rail cabins, vodka and surprises as we traced the path of the last czar to the literal end of his line in Siberia. Maria was literally an Intrepid guide (from the Australian company of the same name), a far cry from the propaganda-spouting old Soviet Intourist handlers. The "guard" for my trip was waiting by the statue. Only blocks away, Nicholas II had been snatched from his palace during the 1917 revolution and sent away under guard by train. ![]() Petersburg station, Lenin's bust was long gone, replaced by one of Peter the Great. I was hoping for a better outcome on my trip to explore the new Russia on this old route.Īt my group's meeting point in St. He and his family ended up shot, burned, doused in acid and dumped in a mine shaft. Ninety years ago to the week, the last czar, Nicholas II, traveled on my same path from St. ![]()
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