Yaroslavsky Station in Moscow looked, from the air, like a cake decorated by an enthusiast. Green and white turrets. Pointed roofs. Gold trim. The architect, Fyodor Shekhtel, had designed it in 1902.
Polly came in low through the city haze. Moscow in June was warm and bright. 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 and seven time zones later.
Polly had a window berth in second class compartment 7. The conductor had taken one look at her glasses and decided, sensibly, that this was not his problem.
Her compartment was a small wood-panelled room with two upper and two lower bunks. Two bunks were already taken. One by a quiet retired woman in a beige cardigan, reading. The other by a young man with a beard typing on a laptop, who saw Polly, said "OK," and went back to typing.
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Polly hopped onto the small table and looked out the window. The platform was full of motion. A samovar in the corner of the carriage hissed.
At exactly one o'clock, the train moved. It did not feel like a beginning. The wheels found their rhythm in two minutes and held it. The platform slid away.
Within half an hour, Moscow had thinned to suburbs. Within an hour, suburbs to dachas, small Russian summer houses. Within two hours, dachas to forest. Polly tilted her glasses straight against her beak.
The quiet woman looked up. "First time?" she said in careful English. Polly tilted her red head. "It is a long way. Settle in."
