Fish Heads and Pinstripes

IRKUTSK, Russia — The Trans-Siberian is meant to be an endurance test, not only a person's mental faculties but also the liver. Russia invented vodka, and they know the best way to consume it is unmixed and to the point of blacking out. And there is no better place to imbibe the national beverage than in a confined space where there's nothing to do the next day or the day after that.

But there's been something strange about this particular voyage on the Rossiya. There's been no vodka on board, not in this cabin or the ones or either side. The carriage attendant hasn't tried to sell us any, neither have the babushkas rail side.

In fact, these past four days I've been in the strange position of being the cabin's lush. Most nights I buy a pint can of Baltika beer and sip it a few hours after dinner. The beer is always ice cold, and comes in a variety of flavors: #0, non-alcoholic; #1, light; #2, pale; #3, classic; #4, original; #5, gold; #6, porter; #7, export; #8, wheat; and #9, extra. I'm trying to drink through the numbers, although #1, 4, and 6 aren't sold out here in Siberia. I'd say #7 is the best, but #3 is also pretty good and about half the price.

My cabin mates seems perplexed by my casual sipping. I'm not sure if the glass of wine after work is really a tradition in Russia, I think here it's drink hard or not at all. Olga doesn't seem to mind, but I get strange looks from the guys when I'm drinking my brew. On the second day, I try to buy Vasily a drink but he refuses.

The fifth, and final, night, aboard is more festive. At an evening stop in Slyudyanka, Sergei sneaks out for a smoke and comes back with a bag of smoked fish. The train is closing in on Lake Baikal, a crescent-shape gash on Siberia that is the world's deepest lake, and that means new food. The fish is omul, about the size of a flounder with sharp, high fins.

Uncharacteristically, the train stops again a couple hours later, and this time I get off as well. I go to the small kiosk to buy my nightly beer, and am surprised to see Vasily behind me. He buys three beers, the first he's bought all trip, and then I decide to buy another.

Back aboard, the three men each crack open a beer, and start doing what men do when they can't talk: play cards. Throughout the journey we've been playing this Russian card game. I don't know the name, the rules or how to win this card game, but we continue to play. The first day I couldn't move without Sergei or Olga saying, "Nyet." But slowly, very slowly I started learning what things weren't allowed, such as playing a three after a seven. Dozens of rounds later, I frankly still don't understand the strategy, but I can get through a round with only one or two nyets.

The rounds start getting longer, as we keep getting distracted. Vasily takes the Russian Phrasebook, and turns to the section on sex. He starts pointing and then saying the dirtiest expressions in the book, including "How much for an hour?" and "Do you like missionary, or some other position?" He stutters them out in English, and then says the Russian translation, much to the delight of Sergei.

The commotion attracts a visitor from the next cabin. It's a man that I've seen several times during the journey. He is almost comically large, several inches taller than me and easily 300 pounds. His hair is lone gone and he's worn a black-and-white horizontally striped wife beater the entire journey from Moscow. He can't speak English at all, but he's friendly and we've had several conversations of my broken Russian and hand gestures on my goings to the bathroom from time to time. Now we invite him inside and offer him a place on the bunk next to me, as Olga is away talking with the carriage attendant.

I soon learn that the Zebra stripes belong to Sasha, destination Chita, about a day to the East. He works in automobile repair and this is not first voyage on the Trans-Siberian. Sasha is giant-sized Vasily, goofy and excitable.

He brings over his own supply of beer, Sergei gets out the smoke fish, and I try once more to finish my supply of chips. After a few brews the Russian men lighten up about their body image and take a crisp. I start speaking nonsense Russian around beer three, combining my studies at the Sweet Moscow Hostel and thumbing through the phrasebook.

"Amerika, da! Russiya, da! Yzumitelno! Yzumitelno, Yzumitelno!" I say.

Sasha starts listening to my iPod, which is almost dead. He another hip-hop fan, and starts bouncing his head in an endearingly awkward way. Vasily mispronounces "condom" and "tampon." Olga comes in and takes a few sips of my beer. I realize that looking ridiculous is absolutely O.K. This is the ultimate guy's night out, where what transpires won't matter or be remembered in the morning. It's a happy, almost transcendent moment.

The crew is up until dawn, bonding. We didn't even need a drop of vodka.