Raisa Petrovna paused dramatically, briefly scanning our faces for signs of anticipation: “HER husband left her that very same year. He was having an affair with her secretary!” Kirill and I both chuckled dutifully. Our unlikely quartet had formed just an hour earlier, as we took up our bunks in Carriage L on the 17:42 non-express service from Kyiv to Chernivtsi — a 17-hour chug through beautiful scenes of countryside and forests. “Which of you youngsters has a bottom bunk? No one wants to see a granny bust her remaining good hip!” Raisa Petrovna immediately declared. Kirill, a builder in his forties with an advancing bald spot, gallantly ceded his spot: “Of course, granny! Shall I help you with your bags?”. Our final companion was a young girl. Upon arrival, she promptly laid out her assigned bedding and set up camp in her top bunk, a slight crackle of pop music emanating from her headphones. Raisa Petrovna, Kirill and I congregated below. Our conversation had seamlessly evolved from operative summaries of origin and destination, to a brutal deep-dive into the glaring character flaws of Raisa Petrovna’s former colleague. “Platzkart” train travel holds a significant place in the collective cultural dialogue of the former Soviet Union. Essentially the “third class” option, the 54-bunk communal carriage is well known to all Ukrainians – the subject of countless novels, films and anecdotes. The carriages that traverse Ukraine’s expansive landscape today were constructed in the Soviet Union. Despite apparent renovation, they have a distinctly Soviet aesthetic – down to the rusty radio points, which, in that era, used to blare out incessant agitprop. These are, thankfully, no longer in operation. This antiquity comes into sharp contrast with signals of modernity, as carriages are increasingly dotted with young management types wielding laptops and iPads. The technology, inevitably, dies within the first few hours – there is only so much modernisation that a Platzkart train will accept. Upon arrival, everyone in the carriage had launched into a feverish frenzy — unloading countless food items onto each section’s assigned miniscule table. Pre-cut salami delicately resting in greasy newspapers, pickle jars filled with home-made soups, pre-peeled boiled eggs glistening in the dim carriage lighting – the collective feast was underway before we had even left the station. Many tables also proudly showcased bottles of vodka – a portal into deepening newfound connections. By now, my local miniscule table was somewhat depleted – Raisa Petrovna had distributed all but one of her handcrafted cabbage vareniki, and all that was left of Kirill’s dinner was a crumpled cellophane bag of crumbs. All around us, people had settled into the familiar format of Ukrainian train life. Occasionally, the carriage’s comforting murmur was punctuated with the crescendoing wails of its resident baby, explosions of laughter, or an unintentionally heavy descent from a top bunk. As the scenery outside our window turned to blackness, we were still deep in conversation. In the space of a few hours, Raisa Petrovna and I had had a dramatic falling out over religion, set aside our insurmountable differences, and were now enthusiastically advising Kirill on how to handle his teenage daughter’s overeager suitors. There is something infinitely comforting about socialising in such an environment. For one, you have a captive audience for whatever odd conversation material you wish to trial. But most vitally – you momentarily find an emotional intimacy with otherwise complete strangers. You share advice, fears and insecurities, you exchange jokes as if you had known each other forever. No Platzkart journey, despite the uniformity of those carriages and gluttonous banquets, is ever the same. On that summer evening, for an insignificant portion of our lives, an elderly woman with a sharp tongue, a builder with a kind face, a Londoner and a silent melomaniac had existed in that micro-environment, oblivious to any other goings-on in the world. The next morning we wished each other the best, and dispersed to live the rest of our lives.