"HARD seat," the woman writes in block letters and pushes my notepad back across the counter. No, that's impossible. "Soft sleeper," I scrawl below by way of correction. She has obviously misunderstood me.
But she hasn't - sleeper tickets have sold out. I will have to sit upright and uncushioned for the nine-hour journey tonight from Vietnam's capital, Hanoi, to the north-west town of Lao Cai. Having had my heart set on a sleeper, I am now devastated.
In the station waiting room, I ache for one of those cosy carriages for four with my own bunk to stretch out on. Such affordable luxury!
Sleeper trains are scheduled to leave first so the waiting room rapidly drains of tourists. Just before 10pm, those of us remaining are finally allowed to cross the tracks to our train, far away on the furthest platform.
I tower like a skyscraper amid the group. The thought of those unyielding slats against my already tired back makes me want to weep. Cruelly, we are forced to wait while a departing sleeper crosses our path.
The train starts moving and a cold wind blows through the carriage.
Yet, as I gaze enviously in the windows of each internally lit compartment, something within me shifts like a shunting locomotive. Inside the sleeper train are tourists peering out into the night, as though longingly, at the crowd of locals they'd travelled so far to be with - the crowd of which I am a part. My own train fills quickly. I'm aware of being stared at as I take my allocated seat beside the aisle and huddle under my flimsy woollen shawl - it's winter, and so much colder than I'd expected.
Opposite me are two men; beside me, another. The train starts moving and a cold wind blows through the carriage. The food trolley comes past and I buy a small cup of coffee.
Some time later, the man beside me leaves and I take his place next to the wall, lean my pack against the side of the carriage and snooze on and off in its embrace.
A woman sits beside me and, with her back to mine, rests the full weight of her body against me and falls asleep. The windows are shut and I warm up.
I wake at dawn when the food trolley passes. The woman who slept against me is no longer there. I say "Lao Cai" to another woman sitting nearby and point in the direction the train is moving, raising my voice and shoulders in a hopeful gesture. She reassures me that I haven't missed the stop by saying "Lao Cai" and pointing to herself.
People get on the train selling food from baskets and I buy some green parcels. The woman who takes my money shows me how to rip back the leaves to eat the sweet, sticky contents. I share them with the two men opposite, who have also travelled all night.
By the time I arrive in Lao Cai, my coldness and gross sense of entitlement are now as far away as the country's capital.
