The weird world of sleeper trains.

I've just arrived in Vienna, and of course I'm hopelessly lost. Last night's train journey was charming and bizarre in equal measure. After spending what seemed like a lifetime hanging around in Strasbourg station until late in the evening, I made my way to the indicated platform, only to find there was some confusion as to the correct carriage, the air conditioning having "gone crazy" in my originally allocated compartment. Re-installed after some debate over the validity of my reservation, I was ushered into a ship-like cabin, with numerous folding devices and contraptions. My co-traveler was a middle-aged gentleman, of hard to determine extraction and limited French, who's primary distinction was his smell. Nevertheless, I presumed that my nostrils would acclimatise, as indeed they did, and he seemed amiable if somewhat quiet.

The train manager brought blankets, pillows and a sort of train-optimised sheet sleeping bag, and with little else to do, I climbed onto my bunk and made preparations to go to sleep. It was here that I learned my first lesson in "couchette etiquette" - don't dangle heavy-booted feet over the edge of bunks, as my traveling companion knocked his head painfully-sounding against them. After profuse embarrassed apologies from me, I carefully removed my footwear, and settled in with my book, read by a small reading light above my head, as the train rumbled into the blackness.

The calm was regularly broken by additions and subtractions to our carriage at various stops, so my sleep was fitful at best, no doubt exacerbated by my sense of excitement at what seemed like the first proper journey of my trip. I eventually woke early as my last remaining companion - the same strong smelling gentleman from the night before, put away his things anticipating our arrival.

The train was running late, so after tidying my own things and installing myself on the bottom bunk/seat, I went back to my novel. After an hour or so, a bearded man in jeans and casual denim jacket came to the door of our compartment. I took him to be the friend of my co-traveler, until he produced a crested badge from a leather holder, and I realised he was an immigration policeman. He was accompanied by a further male and female colleague, also in plain clothes, and asked to see our passports. He briefly quizzed me in perfect English as to the purpose of my visit, but it was clear that his focus was on the other gentleman, who it transpired (from what little I grasped of the German conversation) was Albanian. The policeman somewhat forcefully began to rifle through the gentleman's bag, whilst his colleagues barked questions and noted details on a laptop. The Albanian looked rather frightened, and nervously emptied the contents of his suitcase, whilst I pretended to read my novel nonchalantly. As the first policeman bent over to examine the case more closely, I noticed the barrel of a handgun poking out from underneath his jacket, the sight of which sent an irrational shiver down me, so utterly foreign are such things to us cosseted British. I felt that the police were being a little pedantic, and was waiting for them to move on to the next carriage, when the policeman produced from the Albanian´s bag a two large metallic slabs, one the size of a paperback book, the other smaller and squarer, wrapped in some sort of tightly fitting fabric. The policeman barked something like "Magnetten?", and the Albanian, angrily grabbed for them, clearly keen that the two pieces be kept apart. The my imagination quickly darted to the cold-war thriller scenario of smuggled plutonium, kept in pieces that must be kept apart to avoid a critical reaction. However, the policemen seemed unconcerned, and it became clear that the pieces were simply very powerful magnets. At this point the Albanian produced a plastic shopping bag which he emptied onto the bench, out of which spilled hundreds of gaming dice, of all shapes sizes and colours. The purpose of the magnets seemed to be to test the magnetism of the dice - presumably to avoid cheating. The police spent some time examining the dice, and placing a number against one or other of the magnets. The first policeman then produced a camera-phone, and after taking a number of pictures of the bounty spread over the compartment, he nodded to his colleagues and they left as suddenly as they had arrived. The Albanian looked across at me and gave me a sheepish grin, which I returned, with a sense that I had witnessed something bizarre slightly beyond my comprehension, but that in such circumstances it is best not to pry too deeply. The Albanian packed up his things, and we arrived in Vienna shortly afterwards to a grey and drizzly day.