First class it was.
I have to admit, it was impossible to escape each other's physical presence and I began to wonder how many transiberian journeys ended in divorce. We needed a drink. Quickly, we discovered that there was no bar on board (a discovery of apocalyptic proportions for me) and the only place selling alcohol was the restaurant located nine cars away from ours. But we were thirsty and stubborn and determined to digest our new accommodation with the help of some high octane concoctions.
The restaurant seemed to have been closed for years. By the kitchen door, sat an old woman with sad blue eyes that told stories of deprivation, imprisonment, gulags, fear. She extinguished her cigarette and hurried to our table, happy, almost surprised to see tourists at the restaurant. She brought us two warm Baltikas and a menu in Russian (we had left our dictionary back at our "first class" cabin). We resorted to mimicking. Tom did a shabby cow with his hands sticking out of his forehead--the horns-- as he let out a clear mooo. Nyet, she said amused. No meat. It was my turn. I did a ridiculous chicken, both arms flapping against my rib cage, and a pitchy cackle that didn't sound at all like a chicken. After several attempts at this exhausting charade, she got it. Nyet, no chicken either. We would have to hunt and gather at every train station across Russia for the next seven days. Problem solved.
Then came the shower issue.