There is a plane in hell that resembles travelling by Polish rail, second class, surrounded by surly locals, italian and american tourists, and the poor doomed soul is given a standard size backpack. I’m sure there are worse rail experiences, but right now I can’t think of any that I’ve haad, except maybe trying to catch a train from Subiaco oval after a game, or trying to catch a train in Melbourne during a heat wave. Will the next two hours get better? I doubt it. For consolation, I’m probably going to spend that time sweating out last nights vodka, making my travel compartment companions uncomfortable, too. Too small, not…