Vilnius - St Petersburg

Running up the hill to the station I can see that the clock shows two minutes until the train leaves. I burst through the station doors, rush out onto the platform, pull open the door and jump aboard. The provodnista, ruler of the Russian train carriage, has a more kindly face than some but she says I'm in the wrong carriage and indicates the door. By the time I have pulled my most plaintive face the train has started moving anyway so she sighs and leads me back down to the platskartny, dormitory carriage. Here the 54 bunks, arranged in groups of six, are presided over by a stricter mistress. She scrutinisies my passport and tickets for several minutes, unwilling to take responsibility for this problem child.

Provodnistas never have Dress Down Fridays. Our bundle of joy is wearing knee high leather boots with sharp heels, several inches long, to go with her crisp blue uniform. The heels click as she marches up and down the gangway between the beds, exasperatedly delivering sheets and blankets. Chris, a Polish guy sitting in the same section as me, politely inquires at what time the bar will close. "Ask someone," she snaps. This draws a sharp hiss of breath from Jelena, an eldery woman who is another of our bunk mates.

In the dining car, which is Lithuanian until we reach the border, one provodnista is glued to a Russian television drama about five pregnant women. Chris and I eat some passable local fare and chat about his trip to St Petersburg, where he will be studying for a term at one of the universities there. After exams he will return to the Warsaw School of Economics and will almost immediately face exams there too.

Interesting interviews with Chris and Jelena, with Chris acting as interpreter. Jelena still refers to St Petersburg as Leningrad. I also talk with Vladmir, who is a Russian living in Daugavpils but studying maritime naviagtion in St Petersburg. Most interesting is his passion for Manchester United, even to the extent of making the long trip to Old Trafford itself, via, by accident, the cricket ground of the same name. When talking of the club he does speak a little louder and more passionately. By the time we have finished many are in bed and someone comes over to tell us politely to do the same.

TRAVELLERS TIP: Don't bother trying to do serious interviews after people have seen you trying to climb into the wafer thin gap of the top bunk while wearing only boxer shorts.

Sleeper train is something of a misnomer. No sooner has my head begun to nuzzle into my sleeping bag, the lights are on and someone is calling for my passport. Not long after the same again, though this time in my haste to wake up and comply I knock myself senseless on the bunk roof. A dog excitedly laps its way among bags and slippers, licking drowsy faces that are too slow to react. I think it was supposed to be searching for drugs. The routine is repeated four times in all throughout the night, with minor variations in uniform, questions asked and speed. Finally, with snow falling in fat flakes outside, we are in Russia and can sleep until St Petersburg.

On the radio in the morning the two DJs talk of how the world views the Russian people in general. I can view specific individuals up close while waiting in the queue for the refreshingly rusty and medieval looking and sounding bathroom. The provodnista is wearing flat shows but this seems to have put her in an even worse mood. A huge white fish, one looped line and a dot, adorns a building in the suburbs and then is replicated thousands of times in minature graffiti form on the trackside walls, all the way into the station.