That certainly wasn't the case in Russia. What a curious form of purgatory this is. Too noisy to think, way too noisy to speak to anyone except by yelling though their earplugs and gesticulating. Certainly no conversations. From the dim recess of the plane's interior the portholes are like halogen bulbs, almost painful to look at with dark-adapted eyes.
People lay back, some dozing, buried under parkas and layers of gear.
Some lay on the floor, on their gear. Some wander listlessly back and forth, stepping over the slumbering masses of padding and boots like an obstacle course. It alternately blows hot then cold. Suddenly, a transformation. Perhaps induced by as simple an action as turning down the heat in the cabin.