Last leg of the Trans Siberian

We boarded our train at Ekaterinburg late last night, and set off to Moscow.

I had grand plans for this leg of the trip.

I wanted to get off and take a picture at the Nizhny Novgorod station.

Nizhny Novgorod is the favourite golf course of the greatest Russian writer who never lived, Vladimir Brusillof.

We had quite a long tiring day at Ekaterinburg and just crashed out.

I woke up and checked where we were.

Wait, is Google Maps glitching? Am I supposed to be so far north? Shouldn't we be going along the Volga by now?

I checked again, and we were definitely near Perm.

Perm? Didn't the Dominion of the comedian just send some fireworks that way and hit a chemical plant a few days ago?

I was pretty sure of it. I had reached out to our travel partner when it happened, and was told that the line was nowhere near Perm.

Then why the holy fish was I in Perm?

To cut a long story short, we seem to be booked on the wrong train.

This was 'a' train from Ekaterinburg to Moscow. Not 'the' Trans Siberian.

We should have gone to Moscow via Kazan and Nizhny Novgorod (home of Brusillof) to reach Moscow.

But we're on a train that's taking us through Perm and Kirov where there was s bombing last week and a chemical leak alert.

If I sound weirder than normal, you know why.

Story of my life. If it can go wrong it will.

Move over Murphy. Let's call this Vidya's law.

I was looking for Ukrainian drones as I typed.

At this time we're well away from Perm, and somewhere way north of Moscow, and if I am reading the map right, at a little higher latitude that St Petersburg.

Probably the farthest North I have been in my life.

Now that we know all's well in my life, for now, let's get back to the train.

This seems to be a newer carriage than the ones we travelled on so far. Same configuration as the last leg, but with newer fanicer fittings. 

There's no built-in compartment under the berth, so we had ample space to stash our bags under the seat itself. Finally.

My biggest grouse is the fancy hot and cold water dispenser.

The water's warm. Almost tepid. Not the piping hot water dispensed by the good old samovars.

I need to write to RZD ( the Russian Rail) and have them being the Samovars back.

My chai isn't hot enough.

Should I go on strike??

Anyway, all's well with our world now.

But I didn't get to pay homage to Vladimir Brusillof, the greatest Russian writer who never lived.