After years of playing soccer with especially sweaty humans (teenage girls), I know the smell of feet. From a mile away. If that smell could be personified, then that stinky little character is trapped somewhere on a traincar in Siberia. Our last train car, to be exact.

Though the situation was less than rosy, in either complexion and odor, I was thankful for two things: that there wasn't  actually hot weather (though onlookers could probably be found scratching their heads at the tank tops and board short outfit combinations due to the cranked up temperature aboard the train) and the fact that, as I previously mentioned,  Caitlin can't smell.

As we boarded, we had to pause for her to de-fog her glasses (the sudden, smelly humidity was like walking through a swamp) and I politely informed her that the smell she was missing out on was a conservative blend of warm salami and unwashed feet. Deep down, I know she was upset to be missing the authenticity that was being offered to us.  

We drifted off to sleep that first night to the light sounds of train life, while unsocked feet pointed at us from all directions. It was like a sound machine of the forest, except instead of crickets and chirps, we heard burps and farts. 

This was going to be a long ride.

Not four hours later, I woke up suddenly to a hand on my knee. It wasn't a bump in the night or someone stumbling through the train. Someone (A shameless middle aged man.) was fully gripping my knee. His stoic face and tight grasp let me know that he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

I immediately shot a very unpleasant (and very un caffeinated) glare at the offender only to find a completely indifferent comrade using my knee to balance as he put on his boots. He was just staring at me, plain as day, and going about his boot business. 

At this point, I should point out that a bit before and during the stops the train cars turn on the lights for passengers disembarking. It is overwhelmingly helpful even at the expense of those sleeping. (Again, we're in third class.  Cause we fancy.) 

This knee gripping man and his (48 unsocked feet wielding) friends disembarked with more luggage than I have ever seen. Military backpacks of all shapes and sizes, endless boxes, and questionable containers were lugged off with extreme effort, all while the passengers spoke hurriedly to one another, every now and then knocking my knees and elbows. (My knees and nose are the obvious victims of this story.)

The package parade in front of my eyes prompted me to remember hearing that there is a not-so-inconsequential underground market between Mongolia and Russia. I don't often assume such when I see strange boxes and containers, but there had to have been some under-the-table entrepreneurship behind the packages. 

With the masses disembarking, we were privy to a an open car door for the duration of the stop, which allowed for us to pick up some non-salami-and-foot ridden air and, eventually, some peace and quiet. 

The remainder of our second train leg (three nights and two full days) was thankfully vastly different from our first night and the moments of craziness during our first train experience. Less stale vodka breath, more familiar exchanges. And even a (very unofficial and slightly unacknowledged) book club! 

One of these women noticed the type of meat that I purchased at one of our stops; apparently my thrifty purchase wasn't up to her standards. 

Here, I'd like to remind you that we are comfortably situated in third class.  Not to sound like Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, but - what the hell kind of meat doesn't meet (see what I did there) third class standards?! I have no idea what I purchased, but we eventually ate it. 

I thought she wanted us to try the meat and cheese, but when she saw what I was only cutting off a small amount, I was immediately reprimanded again. I just laughed and shook my head -  Angel Lady, we don't get it! 

She smiled knowingly and began hacking at the meat and cheese, clobbering off enough to feed us for more than a snack. Gratefully we munched, while we smiled and mumbled 'thank you' between bites. Later that day when we wanted another snack, she saw that we reached for our other meat, and she immediately ran over and insisted on more meat and cheese from her supply, leaving the entire hunks with us.  Seriously, have we mentioned how much we love Russian people?!