I boarded my platzkart wagon heading out of Izhevsk feeling like I could die. And that was BEFORE entering platzkart–the infamous Russian third-class railway carriage. The train car, packed to the brim with foul-smelling Izhevsk hicks, was like one giant sweaty armpit. Everything stank from the moist vapors of BO, mouth rot and peregar hanging in the air.
I was about to start a17-hour Platzkart Hell journey back to Moscow, and this was the kicker: I was suffering from brutal food poisoning that I’d picked up in platzkart on the way out to Izhevsk. I was shivering, every muscle in my body ached, and my guts were cramping with unbearable pain. If the diarrhea started up again, I’d be fucked. You don’t want to have unstoppable diarrhea attacks in a platzkart toilet, trust me.
December 15th, 2006 | Leave Comment