Hello, my name’s Floor
“Moy Poest”, I wave my ticket towards the display, “Pozniy, Da?”, the man peers at my ticket, “Da”, he replies ambivalently and goes back to his newspapaer. 
Believe it or not, trains in Russia aren’t often late, though it’s said that this is mainly due to generous timetabling. This one, number 5, started it’s journey to Moscow from Ulan-Bator in Mongolia so I’m assuming it was held up at the border. I’m pleased with myself, it’s not a mammoth step but I successfully understood the Russian on the display without looking at my book.
“Your name in Russian should be павл (Pavl), not пол (Pol)”, says the friendly girl, “пол (Pol) means floor“. 
She is referring to the Russian transliteration of my name on my visa which she’s reading to check me into a hostel, my cheapest and friendliest accomodation so far in Russia. After a mere 7 hour train ride, much of it around the southern shore of beautiful Lake Baikal with three Russian university professors who kept handing me cups of wine and cognac, I’m in the city of Irkutsk from where in a couple of days I’ll be heading down to see the lake for myself. Maybe when I get there I’ll introduce myself as Pavl rather than Floor.
