Yaroslavsky Station in Moscow looked, from the air, like a cake decorated by an enthusiast. Green and white turrets. Pointed roofs. Gold trim where you might not expect it. The architect, Fyodor Shekhtel, had designed it in 1902 in a style called Russian Revival, which mostly meant looking like an old Russian wooden church but built of stone and three times the size.
Polly came in low through the city haze. Moscow in June was warm and bright, the long evenings of a northern summer just beginning. She circled the station once and landed on the iron canopy over the main entrance.
The Trans-Siberian Railway begins here. It runs east for 9,289 kilometres, the length of the entire Eurasian landmass, ending at Vladivostok on the Pacific. The line was completed in 1916. It is still the longest railway line in the world. The flagship train, the Rossiya, leaves Yaroslavsky Station every other day at one in the afternoon. It arrives in Vladivostok seven days, seven time zones, and one continent later.
Polly had a window seat. Or, more precisely, she had been promised a window berth in second class compartment 7, by a conductor who had taken one look at her glasses and her clipboard and decided, sensibly, that this was not his problem.
Her compartment was a small wood-panelled room with two upper and two lower bunks, a small folding table between them, and a heavy curtained window. Two of the bunks were already taken. One belonged to a quiet, retired woman in a beige cardigan, reading. The other belonged to a young man in his twenties with a beard and a laptop, who looked up, saw Polly, said "OK," and went back to typing.
Polly hopped onto the table and looked out the window. The platform was full of motion. A family was hugging a son goodbye. A conductor was checking a clipboard in green ink. A samovar in the corner of the carriage hissed quietly.
Read it. Then say it.
Shadow this paragraph in the PollyStop app — record yourself, see how close your pronunciation gets to a native speaker's, sentence by sentence. Free.
At exactly one o'clock, the train moved.
It did not feel like a beginning. It felt like the conclusion of something that had been arranging itself for many years. The wheels found their rhythm in the first two minutes and held it. The platform slid away. The station became a shape against the sky. Then it was gone.
Within half an hour, Moscow had thinned to suburbs. Within an hour, the suburbs had thinned to dachas, small wooden summer houses with neat gardens. Within two hours, the dachas had thinned to forest. Polly looked at her glasses in the reflection of the window and tilted them straight against her beak.
The quiet woman in the beige cardigan looked up from her book. "First time?" she said in careful English. Polly tilted her red head. The woman smiled. "It is a long way. Settle in."
