Keeping It Together

It was 11:00 pm, and it was the summer before my 20th birthday. I was standing with a group of other Americans on a train platform in Moscow, Russia, waiting to depart on an overnight trip to St. Petersburg. It is a common way of travelling in Europe -- go to sleep, and then wake up at your destination. We drew numbers from our administrator to determine which bunks would be ours (four bunks to a room), and my friend and I were excited because I drew consecutive numbers, so we knew that we would be together for our trip. When it came time board, I hugged my backpack to my chest (in contained everything I was bringing with me for the four-day excursion) and formed a line with the others. We entered the dark train, still in a perfect queue, and marched down the very narrow hallway to find our bunks. I started counting up with my friend, as we passed each room. There were all sorts of people aboard -- children, grandmothers, business men, but I am sure I was among the only group of tourists. Thirteen, 14, 15, and, finally, 16, my number and the final bunk open in the room. I peered in, disappointed that my friend and I would be neighbors, rather than bunk mates, and was shocked (definitely an understatement) to see three men perched on their chosen beds, all sharing the bottle of vodka resting on the table between the bunks. They each lifted their heads and nodded at me when I walked into the little cabin. This couldn't be right. I double-checked my number. There was no way I was going to be able to ride an entire night, locked in a room with three men who had been drinking. Choking back sobs, I fled the room for the end of the hallway, seeking out my administrator. Surely he wouldn't be able to get away with something like this. He had to fix it for me. After discussing it at length, and even speaking with the ticket office, he found that the situation could not be changed. No Russian wanted to change rooms, so that another one of the girls in the group could share my room, so I was stuck. I determined that I would spend the entire night in the cramped hallway and not step foot in the room once the lights were turned out. I soon found out that people were not allowed to even sit in the hallway, and I was instructed by the woman who rented the sheets (yes, you rent sheets for like $1 to sleep on when you travel) that I would need to spend the night in my room. Once the train got going, you would not believe how dark it was. I couldn't see my fingers for my hands. Soon I was listening to the sounds of my roommates' rhythmic snoring. Could they all be asleep? I was wide awake, laying on my rented sheets with my shoes still on. I used my backpack as a pillow. I couldn't imagine that I would get any rest on this trip. Within 30 minutes, the jostling of the train, and my taut nerves turned the urge to urinate up full blast. There was no way I would be able to fall asleep with such a full bladder. The problem was that I couldn't see a thing, let alone the latch that would open the door. Feeling around like a blind person for what seemed like a lifetime, I found my way out of the room and down to the restroom -- so disgusting I almost puked as soon as I walked in. When you "flushed" the bottom of the toilet opened up onto the track below. With a newly empty bladder, I returned to my room for what turned out to be a night of intermittent sleep. I awoke for good at sunrise, and quietly left the room for the hallway, where I could watch the Russian landscape rush by, in its varying shades of brown and green, through the long, narrow windows. It wasn't long before I was joined by some of my friends, also crumpled from a night of little sleep. As tired as I was, though, I felt elated. I had done it! I was so sure the evening before that I wouldn't survive the night, but here I was, no worse for the wear. It's funny how daylight can put a whole new slant on things. When I returned to my room to fold my sheets, my cabin-mates were awake and chatting in guttural Russian. They each had their own smile for me. Instead of looking menacing and lascivious, as I had seen them the night before, they looked like friendly fathers and brothers who were heading home from business trips or on a visit to a grandmother. The youngest of the bunch spent quite a while practicing his English skills with me, and I cringed to think that he might have understood some of the horrible things I had said about them the night before (words like rapist, smelly, drunks, etc.). If he did, he never showed it.

I've tried to write down several times what I learned from that experience. Suffice it to say that I have felt forever changed by it. I emerged a stronger, more confident person. After that night, I also decided to immerse myself in the Russian culture, rather than just stand by and watch. These people were just as real as my own family and friends; they led real lives. Often, when faced with something that seems impossible, I think of that night. "Remember that night," I ask myself, "that you spent locked in a room with three Russian men? You didn't think you could do it. But you did. And everything turned out alright."

Amy