At The Train Station

"Dobry vyecher. Mozhne adin?" I asked the woman at the counter, handing over my piece of paper. She glanced at me without smiling, looked at what I'd written down, typed some numbers into her computer, then tapped a pen three times against the screen. "Da," I said, by now almost exhausting my supply of Russian (all I had left was no, goodbye and Can I have a beer, please?, none of which seemed particularly helpful). She turned around, scrawled the price across the bottom of my paper, and pushed it back without a word. "Spaseeba balshoi," I smiled. "Dasvidaniya." There wasn't a reply; she didn't even bother to look up.