My Swiss friend Michael and Mona helped me finish off a bottle of wine while the wheels were put back on the train. I was looking forward to laying down watching the nighttime scenery slide by my window and closing the door on 5 great weeks in Mongolia. It was 2am and tomorrow would bring China, Beijing, the Olympics and a new chapter.

The train was back up to speed after changing the wheels, regaining the rhythm of creaking, clacking, and the swaying that I love about train rides. The interior of car and all its’ 10 cabins were quiet; most passengers had retired hours ago after a brief amusement with the process of switching the wheels. I was quietly arranging my belongings into their sleep positions in my berth when I was startled by a man now standing behind me making the throaty/nasal noises of Mongolian speech. “Sain baina uu” (hello) I said, thankful that one of the three things I can say in Mongolian was at least appropriate. He muttered a few more words in Mongolian and then pegged me as a German. Not really thinking, I corrected him and said “USA” as I sat down on my bunk.

This prompted an excited response “USA, Dream Team!”. “You go to Beijing for Olympic games?” A simple “no” probably would have resulted in him continuing on his way. I was not weighing the options of my responses and just rattled off a quick “yes, yes Beijing. Olympic games, very exciting”. The subtly of my slightly dismissive response was clearly lost in translation because I now had a rather large Mongolian man sitting right next to me on my bunk.

He started rattling off names of Dream Team players following each name with the question “you know?”. I nodded and successively repeated “yes, yes, yes” after each name, as though I actually knew any of these players. I didn’t really have anything to add to this list so I just smiled and nodded. He gave a brief speech “China – no good, Dream Team – Good, Yao Ming – bad, Lebrahn James – good” which finally brought him around to the source of his excitement, and the real reason he wanted to talk this evening. “You know Judo?” he asked me. My nodding and smiling causing him to continue right along with his story. “Mongolia win 1st gold medal today – Judo” he said with obvious pride. This I understood clearly, and now realized the purpose of this conversation was to be able to boast of Mongolia’s success to a foreigner.

I was genuinely excited by this news myself, mostly because I know how proud Mongolians are of their country. During my time in Mongolia I had sensed disappointment among the people that Mongolia rarely gets a presence on the world stage. My passive smile and nodding turn to genuine congratulations, hand shaking, and praise for Mongolia. He now felt it was time to share a bottle of Chingiss Khann Vodka he had been holding. The last thing I wanted at the moment was to drink warm vodka, but I weighed the effort of a protest, along with his disappointment, and then took my turn with the bottle.

My brain started giving me a familiar speech ”You realize this means you will probably not sleep tonight and end up finishing this bottle of vodka…” The lecture from my brain was interrupted when he turned to me and said “friend I sing to you a song for celebration.” I certainly wasn’t expecting him to say that. Before I could even think to say anything he clears his throat and begins to sing. The awkwardness of the situation; One large American and this rather stout Mongolian man sitting uncomfortably close in a small train cabin, was compounded by his strange choice of songs. He hadn’t chosen some Mongolian traditional song, but an American pop ballad he sang in broken English. The song was filled with lines like “I love you baby” and “I cried when you broke my heart” along with other assorted pop clichés. I recognized the chorus, but didn’t really know the song. When he attempted a soulful finish, that must have been practiced many times at a karaoke bar, I just kept thinking Jesus I’m glad American pop tunes are short.

I had no idea what to say when he was done. I can only assume his lack of English prevented him from knowing what he was singing to me. Mongolian men are pretty manly men and this was some sort of sappy Michael Bolton style love ballad. There was nothing but silence for a moment as I struggled for an appropriate response. I thanked him and said that he was a very good singer. He followed by saying “Back Street Boys – good!” and I was so glad no one was awake to hear me when I had to smile, nod and say “yes, yes, very good.” Of course this was followed by another round of Vodka. Then just as quickly as this impromptu celebration began it was brought to an end. My new friend’s song had been a bit loud for 2am and this brought one of the train’s attendants to break things up. She told us very briefly, but very clearly “Quiet time now. No sing. You sleep”.

Trains are so romantic.