I don't much enjoy travelling, but I have always longed to take a

Host: The station was a cathedral of iron and mist. Steam curled from the waiting train, its windows glowing faintly like warm eyes in the pale morning fog. The sound of suitcases, whistles, and boots on old tiles filled the air, a rhythmic hymn to departure. Jack and Jeeny stood near the edge of the platform, each holding a cup of bitter station coffee, their breath rising in little clouds that mingled before fading into the gray.

The train before them bore a small plaque: Moscow Express — via Warsaw, Minsk.

It would take six days.

Host: Jane Birkin’s words — quiet, wistful, profoundly human — had settled into their conversation earlier that morning like a pebble dropped into deep water. “I don't much enjoy travelling, but I have always longed to take a slow train to Russia... with only a pencil and piece of paper as company.”

Now, standing among the scent of oil and smoke, her longing had become a kind of mirror for their own unfinished stories.

Jeeny: Her eyes were on the train, her voice soft, almost dreaming. “You know what I love about that? It’s not about getting somewhere. It’s about the in-between — the silence, the motion, the watching. I think that’s why she wanted to go alone. To let the world unfold without needing to touch it.”

Jack: He smirked, pulling his coat tighter. “Or maybe she just didn’t like people. Not everyone wants to turn loneliness into art.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she didn’t see it as loneliness. Maybe it’s solitude — the kind that lets you hear yourself again. You ever notice how noise follows you everywhere? Phones, deadlines, expectations… But on a train like that — no one asks anything of you. You just exist.”

Jack: He sipped his coffee, grimacing. “Existence is overrated. You romanticize stillness. Me, I need direction — a reason to go somewhere. Sitting on a train with a notebook sounds like a slow form of death.”

Host: A whistle pierced the fog. The train conductor, cap tilted low, walked the platform like a quiet ghost. The sound of metal wheels groaned as the cars shifted, alive with anticipation.

Jeeny: “You’d be surprised, Jack. Sometimes stillness reveals more movement than motion ever could. Think about it — every window on that train is a film. Faces passing, cities changing, languages colliding. She wasn’t escaping life; she was sketching it, piece by piece.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those travel essays people write after a weekend abroad. Everything turns into revelation. ‘The man selling bread at dawn looked into my soul.’”

Jeeny: She laughed, but there was sadness in it. “You mock because you’re afraid of quiet. You need noise to feel alive. But people like Birkin — they find life in the small details. The reflection of a woman brushing her hair in a train window. The sound of a coin rolling across a compartment floor. Those moments are more real than half the world’s noise.”

Jack: “Details don’t build a life, Jeeny. Decisions do. The world doesn’t stop for you to observe it.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the tragedy — that it should. We’re moving too fast. Always arriving, never inhabiting. When’s the last time you watched someone without judging, or listened without waiting to answer?”

Host: A child nearby laughed, chasing a stray pigeon down the platform. The bird fluttered up and vanished into the haze. Jack watched the boy for a moment, then looked back at Jeeny, something shifting in his expression — just slightly.

Jack: “So you think she wanted the train for meaning. For some poetic awakening?”

Jeeny: “No. I think she wanted it because it was honest. A train doesn’t pretend. It moves slowly, makes noise, smells of oil and old fabric. It demands patience. And patience is where truth begins.”

Jack: “Truth.” He scoffed softly. “You think staring out a window makes someone wiser?”

Jeeny: “Not wiser. But maybe gentler. When you see how much passes and how little you control, you stop fighting the world so hard.”

Host: The station clock ticked loudly above them — each second stretching like a held breath. Jeeny’s hand brushed the side of her bag, where a small sketchbook peeked out — worn edges, a pencil tucked into the spine.

Jack: His eyes caught it. “You brought a sketchbook. You’re not actually planning to get on that train, are you?”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Maybe. Maybe not. But if I did, I’d draw the people. The lovers who don’t speak the same language but share a compartment. The soldier polishing his boots. The old woman guarding her basket like treasure. That’s what Birkin understood — that the beauty of life hides in strangers.”

Jack: “Or maybe she was just bored.”

Jeeny: “Boredom is the birthplace of wonder, Jack. It’s what forces the soul to look closer.”

Host: A long hiss filled the air — the train doors opening like a slow sigh. Passengers moved, embraced, hurried, waited. The rhythm of departure began.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I envy her — Birkin. To want to go alone, and yet not be lonely. To believe there’s meaning in motion for its own sake. I’ve never had that kind of faith.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why you should go. To see if silence can teach you something.”

Jack: He looked out at the line of carriages, his face caught between doubt and longing. “And if it teaches me nothing?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you’ll have been still long enough to find out.”

Host: The PA system crackled overhead: “Last call for Moscow Express. Departure in three minutes.” The words echoed, then faded into the soft thunder of engines warming.

Jeeny: Quietly. “Imagine it, Jack. Six days of strangers. No past, no future — just the rhythm of wheels and time. You could lose yourself and find something truer in return.”

Jack: “Or realize I’ve been running from something all along.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She smiled, and for the first time that morning, he didn’t argue. The world outside the station blurred into watercolor — buildings, rain, light — everything trembling in the uncertain dawn.

Jack and Jeeny stood together in silence as the train whistle rose, long and mournful.

Jack: Softly. “Maybe that’s the real magic of it. You board a train thinking you’re traveling through the world — and end up traveling through yourself.”

Jeeny: “Birkin would’ve liked that.”

Host: The train began to move, slow at first, then steady. Its windows passed like memories — faces turning, eyes glancing back, moments caught and released.

Jeeny’s sketchbook lay open in her hand now, a blank page trembling in the breeze. She watched, pencil poised, ready to capture the simplest of miracles — people in motion, seen but never known.

Jack watched her, then the train, then the horizon swallowing it whole.

And when the last carriage disappeared, the world felt a little quieter — as if, somewhere beyond that gray line of distance, someone had just begun to write.

Because every journey, no matter how slow, begins with the decision to observe —
and to be changed by what one sees.