Through the night by train — Delhi to Jaisalmer

DELHI TO JAISALMER, India — The British-built Indian rail network is one of the largest in the world. Everyone rides the trains. We did, too — for 20 hours overnight on a 921-mile trip from Delhi to the desert city of Jaisalmer, 100 miles from the Pakistan border in western Rajasthan.

Unless you're riding the luxury Palace on Wheels or the Royal Orient, train travel in India doesn't promise to be comfortable, or even relaxing, but it's always interesting, and very cheap.

Our seats in the best class of car available on this train — 2/AC (There was no first-class) cost $36 each.

Here are a few highlights — and lowlights — of a night aboard the Jaisalmer Intercity Express:

4:30 p.m — Taxi gets stuck in a 45-minute taxi jam in the narrow streets leading to the Old Delhi Railway Station.

It's gridlock in every direction, with cows pulling carts loaded with bags of cement, bicycle rickshaw drivers hauling sacks of crushed tin cans, and motorcycles, three-wheeled auto-rickshaws and cars inches apart, blowing their horns and turning four lanes of traffic into eight or nine.

5:30 p.m. — We make it to the station a half-hour before train is due to leave.

Two porters in red jackets grab our roller suitcases, hoist them onto their heads and run down the platform, past the non-air-conditioned cars with slatted wooden seats already packed with people, to our car at the front, one of two air-conditioned cars on the train.

6 p.m. — With the porters' help, we find our places — two facing blue plastic seats that fold down into a six-by-two-foot single berth for sleeping, with another bunk above.

Across the aisle, an Australian high-tech manager on vacation has four berths to himself, the equivalent of being bumped up to first-class.

Separating us are curtains that we can close later for privacy.

It's bring-your-own soap/toilet paper/towels/(most) food and water. There's one sink and two toilets for the car, one squat, one western. Bedding provided.

"It reminds me of a ship," says the Australian.

It reminds me of a combination of spending the night in the middle seat in coach on a jet and camping out.

7 p.m. — "Chai, chai." An attendant comes through offering hot tea with milk served in plastic espresso cups.

We buy cups for six cents each, and think about eating the sandwiches we brought along, but the attendant comes by again, this time offering a veg dinner for 75 cents. On the advice of the Australian, we decide to save the sandwiches and see what it's like.

8 p.m. — Dinner is served. It's three foil packets, one with rice and a cheese and pea curry; another with two pieces of chapati (Indian bread) and another with yellow lentils.

The Australian invites us to his compartment, and we break out bottles of airline Merlot that I've been saving.

8:40 p.m. — Go to the sink to wash and brush teeth before climbing into the top berth for bed. The Australian says goodnight and closes his curtain. Five minutes later, he's asleep and snoring.

9:30 p.m. — A Greek woman a few seats down tries climbing into her top bunk at the same time I do. There are no ladders, so our husbands hoist us up, using their hands as stirrups. We're in tears with laughter.

10 p.m. — I put in ear plugs and it's easier than I thought it would be to to fall asleep. The train is quiet and the ride is smooth. No one's talking loudly or smoking in the aisles, common on trains in some other countries.

Midnight — I wake up up freezing. The AC is blasting. I reach my hand down and "knock" on my husband's curtain to see if he can find an extra blanket. He does and this "knock" becomes our signal two more times during the night when I need to jump down to get to the bathroom.

1:30 a.m. — The train pulls into Jaipur, and takes on new passengers. The empty berths fill up, and the Australian gets three new sleepmates.

Our little side berths may be more cramped than the others, but I'm appreciating the privacy.

7 a.m. — People start to switch lights on and cell phones start to ring.

7:45 a.m. — "Breakfast, breakfast!" The attendant comes around with omelettes on toast in foil packets. We break out the cheese sandwiches we brought, and step off the train at the next stop to buy more chai from a vendor on the platform.

The sun is up and the landscape and the weather change as we move through the countryside. Peacocks appear, and we start to see houses made from red clay bricks and round mud huts with thatched roofs.

10 a .m. — Three hours to go. We're in the desert now, and the scenery reminds me of Eastern Washington.

I see a farmer in a red turban tending to a herd of cows. Women in robes of bright pink and orange add splotches of color to a dusty, sandy landscape. Standing outside the station in a town called Samaru is a man with a turned-up moustache dressed like he could be posing for photograph. His head is wrapped in a white turban. He's wearing a long white tunic, white pants that balloon at the hips and black sandals.

Sitting here, looking out the window, sipping another cup of chai, I'm feeling better about our decision to take this train instead of flying part way (Jaisalmer's airport is closed) and going the rest of the way by car.

It's not luxury travel, but neither is it a train from hell, especially considering how most of the other people on board are traveling, without air conditioning or sleeping berths.

11 a.m. — We spot our first camel, a one-humper wandering by itself in a barren patch of flat desert.

2 p.m. — The train rolls into Jaisalmer. We can see its honey-colored sandstone fort atop the hill in the distance.

The driver from our hotel is there to pick us up. We pile into the back of his jeep along with two tourists from Germany and a man from London who's been working in Delhi.

"Welcome to Islamabad," he jokes.

We're still in India, of course, but compared to Delhi, this city of 80,000 feels as if it's in a different part of the world.

I can't wait to start exploring.