The art of being Russian

I took a night train from Moscow to St Petersburg. This was a money-saving suggestion from the Russian agent organizing our logistics. I shared the four bunks of my tiny birth with three Russian travelers. There was a twenty-something couple returning from holiday in Moscow, and an early thirties-aged man coming back from business. It was quiet at first as we tried to pretend we weren't knee to knee. The husband brought back tea for he and his wife, then poured a dash of Jamesons into each. He asked, in broken english, if I would like some. I accepted and set out to get a cup of tea. A uniformed woman working out of a space the size of a small closet, assembled the hot drink for me a few moments later. Unable to make change for my 1,000 Ruble note (about $30) she waved me off as the lucky recipient of free tea. Soon my new friend had fortified the beverage and we were all underway getting to know each other. They asked me about mountain climbing. I asked them about life in St Petersburg. They suggested restaurants. They suggested attractions. They suggested I not look like a tourist. "How," asked. "No backpack," they demanded. I said I could manage that. "And don't look up with your mouth open," the wife counseled. "Like this, I asked in feigned amazement. "YES," she confirmed, laughing giddily. "And something else," she added, "try to make your face like Russian." Recognizing the improv game New Choice, I set about swinging between vast extreme's of facial expressions, each illicitting both horror and laughter. "No. NO! no. NO!!!!!!" I finally settled on a sort of tired-sunday-in-the-park look. "Yes," they applauded. Then we made up our bunks and said good night.