The next day's plan was this: in the morning everyone goes their own way, and in the evening we go to the thermal baths. I love railways. So, when I saw some rusty steam locomotives in a photo, I didn't think twice, I just immediately wanted to go to them.
First, though, we stopped for breakfast at a hipster vegan cafe with a sky-high rating. Luckily, everything is close by. There are some pluses to living in the city center, not just noise and clamor. The cafe is so hipster that a cake is called "too raw", and the subtitle says "100% raw, 100% vegan, 100% paleo, 100% gluten-free". Practically poison for a rational person. Well, what can you do, I hoped I wouldn't drop dead, and scarfed it down. Together with a traditional latte, of course.
Zvarg A warned us that flip-flops are mandatory in the thermal baths. We did grab towels from home, but we slipped up with the slippers. To avoid paying exorbitant prices for them at the bathhouse itself, on the way to the train station I dropped into a Decathlon, since it was right there. I bought pairs of slippers for everyone, and for myself, a lumberjack shirt to boot. An interesting detail — the shirt turned out to have a reinforced shoulder part, apparently for carrying a backpack frequently.
Long story short, I finally made it to the train station. I installed the app beforehand, so I was hoping there'd be no issues. Alas, this ain't Switzerland. I couldn't buy a ticket, no matter how hard I tried. Why, I couldn't figure out. I only had to travel two stops, to be fair. Nevertheless, closer to the second one I spotted a ticket inspector, and ran away from him to the back of the train. Luckily, I managed to hop out in time. I figured that on the way back I would definitely buy a ticket in advance. As they say, if you want to make the Great Spaghetti Monster laugh, tell him about your plans.
I got off on a platform amidst concrete pillars. There was no sign of a ticket office, or even ticket machines nearby. There were, however, some half-abandoned buildings, a very long concrete fence, and behind it — a fine specimen of Soviet rolling stock in a half-rotten state. I figured out that the buildings were an auto repair shop and a billiards club. I trudged in the other direction, trying to find an entrance using every possible map. No dice. The fact that every two hundred meters in the fence there were steel doors with combination locks didn't add much optimism either.
"Something is wrong here," thought Stirlitz.
