Not long after crossing out of Erenhot, we arrived at Zamyn-Üüd, the border city in Mongolia. Border police came aboard to take our passports and inspect our luggage, and it took nearly two hours of back-and-forth before we were cleared. I hadn’t had time before departure to get a health certificate and international vaccination certificate (it sounded oddly like paperwork for exporting live hogs), so I kept worrying they would catch it and deny entry—but in the end we got through safely.

First Taste of Life on the Special Train

When boarding, each passenger received a full bedding kit, including towels, sheets, and a duvet cover or two. A characteristic of the Mongolia-Russia railway is that you have to make your bed from top to bottom yourself; honestly, it ends up being cleaner. Still, I spent ages trying to tell the sheets and duvet covers apart and couldn’t, so halfway through the night I had to knock on the attendant’s door again. The plump Mongolian auntie was not very happy.

Maybe to make up for the tougher conditions on China Railway’s side, the Mongolian carriages seem designed to give you a touch of luxury travel. Thanks to a friend, I got a first-class sleeper (the so-called "gaobao") at a very friendly price, and because there were so few passengers on this train today, I was the only one in the whole carriage. Walking around and checking the other compartments felt almost like being on a presidential train.

A first-class sleeper is supposed to be for two people.

A sudden glimpse when the door opens

Apparently the auntie was still annoyed from last night’s mix-up, so I had to offer her another Chinese peach I’d bought in Erenhot. This train compartment, with a sofa and private bathroom, reminded me of a room I’d once seen on the Orient Express. The whole carriage has a Nordic minimalist style and the amenities are complete; the comfort is obviously not on the same level as a room with just a fan. So if you’re planning to ride this route in the future, I strongly recommend choosing the high-end sleeper.

The bedding was folded like a bundle of dried preserved greens—embarrassing.

A couch that makes you want to lie back on it all day

The private bath looks like it should have a shower, but the water flow is tiny.

I have never seen an operational TV on this train.

Wow, thinking about the people on luxury trains like the Pride of Africa, I can’t help but drool. The only regret is that train No. 23 has switched to newer air-conditioned 25G coaches, so we couldn’t see the truly distinctive redwood gaobao cars and the luxury Mongolian dining car full of wood carvings on K3.

A dining car so plain it could make you cry

But there is a small bar where you can drink and take in the scenery. I slept until a little after 7:00, checked a few WeChat messages, and then rolled over for another nap. Time on a train moves slowly—slow enough that you never feel rushed to do anything. My only task today was to sit by the big window and watch the blue sky and green Mongolian steppe.

The biggest difference between train travel and train commuting is that you can’t treat a train like a mere transport method, or you’ll get killed by long-distance travel boredom. At that point, the tiny compartment becomes a moving home—you can read, daydream, watch movies, scroll Douyin, just like at home. If you’re traveling with someone, you can even style the room however you want, and it feels much cozier.

I used the extra time to sort out my room, let some people in for fresh air, and just enjoy the scenery.

Everyone’s watching the scenery, and you’re the one still wiping the window.

Mongolian Transcontinental Line

When I woke up, the train was already racing across the green steppe all the way to Ulaanbaatar. The vastness of the Mongolian grasslands was breathtaking.

This railway is called the "Mongolian Zhang Zhenyue"—no, actually the Mongolian Transverse Line. It branches off from the Trans-Siberian at Ulan-Ude, passes through Sükhbaatar, Ulaanbaatar, Saínshanda and other major political, economic, and military centers, and connects to Mongolia’s industrial resource bases for copper, molybdenum, and more.

A “small town” on the steppe is really just three buildings and a tiny central playground. With limited transport in Mongolia—roads (like a roller coaster), aviation (understandable), and waterways (and yes, I still admire that Mongolia can boast a seven-person navy)—the railway becomes absolutely critical. Indeed, this is true not only in Mongolia but in China too: the rail network functions like a major artery, continuously supplying momentum across regions or feeding the core. If you want to get rich, build roads first. The old wisdom is not a lie.

The steppe weather changes in an instant. For a moment, I thought a typhoon had come back.

This shot probably describes it best: sunrise in the east, rain in the west.

Back when China began building high-speed rail on a large scale, I once pitied the loss of cheap rail travel for ordinary people, feeling that high-speed rail was taking away their options. Reality hit hard. Today, the domestic high-speed network has massively increased labor mobility across regions and deserves huge credit for accelerating development.

So decisions based purely on popular sentiment are often not the best, and may even be very inefficient. Sometimes a firmer and more decisive approach can work better. Where exactly is the balance between “best” and “fairest” in government policy?

First Impressions of Ulaanbaatar

A little after 2:00 p.m., the train slowly rolled into Ulaanbaatar station. What was interesting was that a friend noticed we happened to be on the same train as QI, a train KOL/influencer from Douban, and we chatted for a bit—we all know influencers tend to know each other.

QI said there’s nowhere more diesel-punk than Ulaanbaatar Railway Station, though I’m not even sure what that means exactly. The trains he photographed are truly amazing (his Douban nickname is "Bavarian Bacchus"). The reason I didn’t see those iron-and-steel machines he shot was that I was frozen numb. It’s not even halfway through August in Ulaanbaatar, and already there’s a slight chill in the air. The moment we got off, a shiver ran through me, so I rushed toward the exit. Seeing people on the street calmly wearing thin down jackets, I...

I huckstered a ride from two foreigners at the exit to a hostel. I was so happy about successfully getting a free transfer that I completely forgot I still needed to buy tickets at the station for the next leg a few days later. Two hours later, I had to go back and buy them myself. Ulaanbaatar is the capital of Mongolia, but like Beijing, it is also a capital of congestion. A trip of a little over four kilometers took forty-five minutes; I said, once again........ and from then on, I gave up taking small rides in Ulaanbaatar.

This is seriously traffic-choked: two full rows of cars parked on such a narrow road.

It doesn’t look like this is going to clear up.

Even in a traffic jam, you still can’t tape up a windshield.

After dropping my bag at the nearby famous "State Department Store," I exchanged some cash for Mongolian tugrik, then headed along Peace Avenue to Sükhbaatar Square to pay my respects to Genghis Khan. But it was already past opening time at the History Museum, so I headed back and had a lively meal, then happened to spot a great rooftop bar in the building next to the hostel.

If these place names feel unfamiliar, here’s a Beijing version: I dropped my stuff at the hostel and freshened up, turned left at the entrance to Wangfujing Department Store to exchange cash, walked along Chang’an Avenue to Tiananmen Square to admire the monument, but the National Museum was already closed, so I was disappointed and ended up eating an 18-yuan set at Qingfeng Baozi and then heading to the rooftop bar at the large building near Guomao for a drink to watch the sunset. In recent years, as more Mongolians move into Ulaanbaatar, the city has expanded rapidly. Steel-and-concrete blocks stretch out to the horizon in every direction.

As the sun sank behind the Kentei Mountains, the moon was already hanging above the city. Only then did I remember it was almost the night of the full moon. A month from now it will be Mid-Autumn Festival—what are my family back home doing then? I started missing them.

How is the moon back home tonight?

I’m going to bed early. Tomorrow I head to Kharkhorin to reminisce about the glow of the empire’s former glory. Goodbye, night in Ulaanbaatar—I’ll see you again in a few days.