Somewhere down the line from Yekaterinburg I am deep in conversation with Nikolai, a young Russian from Omsk with a broad smile and flashing golden teeth who reminds me a little of the Jaws character in some of the James Bond films.
Nikolai, who has started on the beer but not yet the vodka, has ushered me into his compartment and introduced me to his friends Victor and Walli.
“Omsk very good! London very good! America very good!” he declares. I nod in agreement at the first two statements but hesitate at the third and they all smile. The Cold War seems a long time ago and Nikolai seems to want to declare eternal friendship as he tries to persuade me to get out at Omsk and explore the city together with his brother and “my girl”.
I explain that we are going on - to Irkutsk at first and then Beijing - otherwise of course we’d love to. Instead he teaches me a few essentials: dobra yehootra for good morning, dobri dyen for good day, dobri vyechyer for good evening. I’ll obviously be all right if and when I ever do make it to Omsk.
It is easy to fall into friendships of this kind on the train and they are a very welcome part of the experience.
Such encounters also break up the almost never ending vistas of silver birch trees and forests and the vast open spaces that have been with us ever since we left Moscow.
Some people find the scenery on this journey monotonous but I find it uplifting and can gaze out of the window for hours at a time.
On the second evening of the trip, as we pull away from Perm, we hit a glorious stretch incorporating streams, dramatic rock faces and beautiful forests, all bathed in the last of the day’s sun.
I share the experience with Alexander, a kindly train engineer from Kolomna, just outside Moscow, who is travelling to Barabinsk for a few day's work.
“This is the real Russia,” he exclaims as he beats his heart, “It is wonderful - also for me.“
Beyond the birch trees there are some impressive rivers (the Kama the Ishim, the Irtysh) and although the cities are uniformly ugly, there are prettier settlements with more traditional, albeit modest, dacha-style wooden residences.
There are other diversions in the form of station stops for which we are generally allowed out for about 15 minutes to stretch our legs and stock up on bread and fruit and great pieces of smoked fish. Here too we can barter with hawkers over the price of woollen shawls, huge cuddly toys and authentic Russian, or more accurately Siberian, fur hats. I buy a shawl and, by way of gratitude, the vendor declares slightly randomly “Michael Owen”.
There’s time too to read (I’ve brought Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina), to play cards, to catch up, to sit and think.
There are also the little run-ins with Maria, our provodnitsa (attendant). Though she undoubtedly has a lovely smile, she can be quite the tyrant. When we open the corridor windows for fresh air (and sharper pictures) she snaps at us to shut it immediately. When we accidentally spill some beer on the floor she runs a finger across her throat in a rather chilling manner (we have, after all, just entered Siberia). When one of the German travellers in our carriage spends what she considers to be too long in the wash room she shouts at him for a full five minutes.
“It’s just like being at school,” says one of our carriage companions (or should that be comrades?)
But Maria’s bark is rather worse than her bite. Later on she’s all smiles again as she knocks on the door and hands us a package of biscuits, sugar and butter.
She smiles and gesticulates towards the restaurant car. “Tonight disco,” she says, beginning to do a little jig.
Boogieing Russian-style on the Trans-Siberian Express. Now that sounds like an experience worth checking out…