How I Learned Russian

So, my company decided to send me to Russia for two months to teach. And mind you, this was back when it was still behind the Iron Curtain.
Yes, that Russia. The land of Communism, mystery, and suspiciously identical gray buildings.

Please don’t ask me why; it wasn’t even my region.
But that’s how companies think:
“You speak multiple languages? Perfect! You’re practically Russian! Go teach there!”

The plan sounded simple enough: teach five days in one city, fly back to Moscow for the weekend, then start again Monday morning a thousand miles away, somewhere new. Easy.

After a few weeks of airports, delays, and the same sad hotel breakfasts, I thought, why not take a train instead?
I could see more of the country, relax a bit, maybe even save time.

So on Friday afternoon, I bought a ticket from Odessa to Krivoy Rog. On the map, it looked close, maybe one or two hours. Saturday morning, I packed, grabbed a sandwich, and marched to the station feeling like a brave explorer.

One small problem: I couldn’t speak Russian or read Cyrillic.
Those letters looked like an alphabet designed by a drunk alien.
Every sign said things like “ЖД ВОКЗАЛ” or “КРЫВЫЙ РОГ,” and I had no clue whether that meant “Welcome aboard” or “Beware of wolves.”
So I did what any confident foreigner would do, followed the crowd and hoped I was on the right train.

The train started moving. Slowly. Painfully slowly.
After fifteen minutes, it still hadn’t picked up speed.
I looked out the window and saw a street dog walking beside the train, walking, not running.
The dog was faster. He even looked back at me like, pathetic human.

Two hours later, a train attendant came down the aisle handing out blankets and pillows.
I thought, wow, what service! Only in Russia do you get bedding for a two-hour trip.
Then it hit me, why were we getting blankets?

I tried to ask her when we would arrive in Krivoy Rog.
She didn’t speak English, and I didn’t speak Russian, so we started what could only be described as an international art class.
I drew a clock showing “9” on the paper, then pointed at it and said “Odessa,” hoping she would understand.
Next, I drew another clock with a big question mark and said “Krivoy Rog,” adding another question mark for good measure.
Finally, she nodded, took the paper, and calmly wrote “6” on it.

I smiled, relieved. “Ah! Six o’clock! Perfect.”

Then came the moment of truth.
She looked at me like I was five years old, slowly held up six fingers, counted them one by one, pointed out the window, and mimed a sunrise.
That’s when I realized she meant six in the morning.

Six a.m.? You mean this train is an overnight hotel on wheels?
I had prepared for a two- to three-hour ride, eaten a light breakfast, and brought no snacks.
I was not ready for a twenty-hour survival mission across Soviet territory.

By evening, my stomach growled louder than the train.
Then I smelled food, glorious food.
The passengers around me unpacked their supplies like professional campers: bread, sausages, pickles, and of course, the national solution to all problems, vodka.

The older man across from me smiled and waved me over.
Two younger guys poured drinks and said, “Sit, friend!”

And that’s when cultural diplomacy began.

After a few vodkas, okay, several vodkas, something miraculous happened.
My Russian became fluent, and their English became perfect.
We ate, drank, and laughed like old friends.
There was absolutely no communication barrier.
Vodka, I discovered, is the best translator on Earth.

Later, they helped me turn my seat into a bed.
The old man tucked me in like his adopted nephew.
The train rocked gently through the night, people snored softly, and the windows fogged with warmth and laughter.

Somewhere between two dreams and one last shot of vodka, I thought,
“Next time, I’ll just fly. Or at least pack more snacks.”

But honestly, I’ll never forget that trip and the wonderful, friendly people.
Because in Russia, a short ride means twenty hours, dogs outrun trains, and the Cyrillic alphabet isn’t something you read, it’s something you survive.