Eastbound Trainology

Gallery: Warsaw

peregrin — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 17:55:00 GMT

warsaw and countryside

Lessons in Table Etiquette

peregrin — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 04:01:00 GMT

Arriving in Urumqi was probably the most surreal moment of my life. Exhausted from the journey- mainly thanks to the unpleasant customs officials and the invasive nature of a search and our surly cabin mates, we were disheartened by how bewildering the station was. The sheer mass of people congregating outside made it overwhelming and confusing. We were the only true westerners on the train. Naturally people stared openly at us struggling through the crowd with our heavy backpacks but there seemed to be a lot of curiosity as to why exactly we were there.

All of the signage was bilingual, insofar as it was either in mandarin or in arabic script, neither of which either of us were wholly familiar with. This made directing ourselves to the ticket office, taxi rank and hotel a small scale mission. Urumqi boasts a rich culture made up of 43 separate peoples. This fact alone is evident by walking around, you certainly feel you're not in the far east. Especially with the heavy emphasis on arabic flavours and sights- like the stalls selling dried fruit and nuts or the shish kebabs (shashlik) turning on coals.

Once we'd sorted our tickets to Shanghai (by figuring out how Shanghai is written in chinese characters we were able to deduce which of the mile long 20 strong queues to wait in) and found our hotel, we were ready to be fed and watered. We spotted a restaurant near the hotel which looked clean and friendly.

After establishing that we were to get grass carp, sweet potato and cabbage, we drank our beer, cheered by the thought of a hot meal. All we knew of Chinese food and table manners was the basic chopstick wielding technique and to put elbows on the table.

A hot pot arrived and was placed between us on a stove to keep it bubbling. This pot was divided into two, much like a yin yang sign. One side had death-chili oil bubbling away and the left had a broth complete with vegetables. Keen to eat and to show off our chopstick ability, we spooned broth into our bowls.

The waitress was immediately at our side, perplexed and unhappy about something she embarrassedly shook her head and stopped our hand. These are the rules we since learnt after dinner:

The pot in front of you is for cooking food. Do not spoon out broth or boiling oil into a bowl to eat.
You will be served a whole fish. The eye is the delicacy, eat it with relish. Feel free to not eat bones, although where to leave them is a mystery.
Beer is drunk from glass glasses by locals, you will be given paper kiddie cups as standard.
Don't be surprised if the table next to you appears excessively rowdy by smashing glasses against the wall, windows, floors etc.. do like everyone else and act as if nothing happened.
Put salt in your tea not sugar.
Put yoghurt in your tea, not milk.
Eat everything served at the temperature of magma.
Don't attempt to mix your wasabi-type paste into soy sauce yourself, the waitress likes to do it.
Eating 3kg of food in one sitting is standard, no one raised an eyebrow to us having a whole carp each and what amounted to a small field's worth of veg.
Tea is sipped at all times
Tissues, napkins etc.. will NOT be available (this goes for toilets too- although there's mysterious bins filled with used paper) bring your own. The hot, wet towel is for after.
Women aren't offered beer, thats the way the noodle rolls.

Other than that, you should get through a meal unscathed...... Our feast came to about 120 yuan.. or £8.

All the waitresses here are pretty interactive thankfully, so all faux pas are monitored and damage control is undertaken swiftly. Although it is a little embarrassing to have someone shadowing your chopstick ability with an eagle eye!

Another train..

peregrin — Mon, 8 Sep 2008 14:34:00 GMT

After four days in Almaty, it was time to move on. The train from Almaty to Urumqi is much the same design as the train to Almaty from Russia although this time, we decided to travel a lower class to glean a more accurate idea of travelling by train. Our positive experience with Anatoly made us fearless of who we'd meet. Our new cabin was much the same except for an extra two bunks.

We were to share with two men who claimed to be brothers although there was little family resemblance. One was a Chinese telecommunications engineer from Urumqi and the other, from Uzbekistan, was a "business man" who spoke no English or Chinese. The Chinese brother spoke English, though judging from his vapourous breath, it was an alcoholic friendliness that brought him to speak.

At the start, I thought it would be a more pleasant journey than the previous, if only for the cleaner bathrooms and friendly guard who delighted in saying my name, pronouncing it with a Spanish inflection- the 'x' taking on the throaty iberian rasp. He rush to open the bathroom for me if it had been locked for cleaning and would always say hello which was a pleasant change from the glass eyed stare of the previous guard. He gave me a teapot and bowls for tea which meant I didn't have to resort to theft of crockery this time.

All took a turn for the worse the first morning on the train. In his drunken lucidity, Jongqin had confessed that although Kazakhs don't smile, they're honest about their feelings. He warned that Urumqians and Chinese smile a lot but you shouldn't trust them when they do. Apparently they're always plotting something. How presentient he realised he was being, I will never know. The next morning, the atmosphere had changed considerably. Charlie told me once all other occupants were out of earshot, that the brothers had pressed him to 'pretend' that the $15000 they were carrying was his. Not being a mug and realising this amounted to smuggling, he rightly declined. However, after this the atmosphere was a lot less convivial in cabin III.

Similarly, the limited exchanges with the train guard and other passengers un-used to western faces up close took on a far lewder friendliness with their previous glances turning into more appraising stares. This was only the beginning of the discomfort as the 7 hour customs check at the border was waiting. Bear in mind that over those 7 hours you cannot leave the train, use the toilet or sleep. Once the wheels were changed again and the rigmarole of baggage unpacking started. These guards were thorough, a body pat down, a flick through all my photos on my camera, leafing through all my books, opening toiletries to sniff. All very invasive and unpleasant. Also, a twice repeated procedure, once in Kazakhstan and once in China. Although the Chinese were friendlier about it and quicker. They were confused as to our relationship and were suspicious of us not being married or in any sort of relationship other than coursemate. Also, they couldn't understand why anyone would want to take a train such a long distance when people have planes now. Feeling that the nuance of the idea of transcience would be lost in translation we just laughed about being gluttons for punishment.

After the searches we were both tired, irritable and disappointed. This was a mutual low point for the whole holiday as it all seemed so unecessary, so suspicious and since discovering that we wouldn't be complicit in his crimes, our cabin mate stubbornly refused to help us fill out forms in chinese or translate barked orders.

As it turns out he'd stuffed the lot in his socks and underpants and they weren't caught despite the pat down. WE were glad to finally reach Urumqi the third morning although it became clear, very quickly, how alien the whole place was to me. Maybe I'm naive in placing so much importance on sincere expression but I'll certainly think twice the next time an Urumqian smiles at me outside of a service.

Gallery: Moscow-Almaty

peregrin — Fri, 5 Sep 2008 16:00:00 GMT

Train to Almaty

The City of Books

peregrin — Thu, 4 Sep 2008 14:03:00 GMT

It took a day and a night to cross the length of Kazakhstan to Almaty, in the south. The countryside appears poor, the train fairly stumbled along the ill kept tracks past slums, their lean-to corrugated roofs glinting tiredly in the sun. Every town we passed through gave an image of not being quite there, they looked overgrown and worn. Lulled into the belief that the technological age hadn't happened, an occasional anachronistic tell-tale sign of life would brazenly show itself; achingly new satellite dishes perched self conciously on the edge of crumbling eaves.

These grey villages peppered the yellow undulations of the Kazakhstan countryside and I prepared myself for the type of pseudo-modern capital cities I became accustomed to in Africa. Where proud two storey concrete buildings nudge past bungalow shacks. This, mostly because I'm an engineering snob, which is a failing I suppose.

This shameful prediction was gladly inaccurate. We pulled into Almaty II, home of possibly the world's most confusing platform system. Stepping off the train straight onto ground, you're immediately surrounded by hundreds of people shouldering massive packs, weathered taxi drivers advertising their availability and eagerness to ferry you loudly and in your face, porters shouldering past with trolleys and the ubiquitous old lady in a headscarf, carrying two too many carpet bags. The station is no where to be seen, the platform just petering out to nothingness either end. Grinning our goodbyes at our train guard who offered a smiley thumbs up in return, we decided to follow the general direction of the exodus.. it soon became clear that they were just walking off the edge of the platform onto the tracks to home. Trying to shake off the persistent and numerous taxi drivers, their growling "taxi taxi" call fascinating if only for the glimpse of a full set of gold teeth, we stepped off the platform and crossed the tracks like true Kazakhs. Although, unlike the old ladies touting their slippers and scarves, we opted to walk around the other trains as opposed to underneath them.

Almaty is a valley town, surrounded by a U of snowcapped mountains. Their quiet massiveness lending a beautiful backdrop to the surprisingly well kept and plentiful public gardens. This place couldn't be more different to Moscow- for every soldier and policeman brooding and scowling at you in Russia, there's a gardener or street sweeper ignoring you in Almaty.

Every street is a wide avenue filled with parklands and limed trees. With efficient subway crossings which double up as supermarkets. The only difficulty being that the cyrillic is slightly different so any potential pronunciation of street names is met with confusion. Saying that, everyone is very willing to help but hardly anyone speaks english or any other language we had to hand.

Almaty was a perfect place to spend my birthday. Sitting in the warm, dry evening eating lamb stew and drinking a surprisingly smooth Kazakh cabernet, I couldn't have thought of a better place to face the pain of turning 25.

Although Almaty was quite expensive, bafflingly so at times (drinks would be at london prices yet a bottle of alcohol in a shop would be only 4 pounds), it was such a pleasant and calm place that I wouldn't hesitate to go back and perhaps see the mountains. The only advice I can offer is if you choose to stay in the grubby hostel in the station, arrive well before the advertised closing time of midnight. We returned from my birthday meal happy and sleepy only to find that the train guard refused to let us in the station despite our explanations (in easily understandable Russian) that we were staying in the hostel. Panicking at the thought of sleeping rough in a country that neither of us knew, I spied an open ground floor window to the ladies' loo. Jumping in, I ran upstairs to the hostel with the guard screeching at me, presumably telling me to come back. Summoning the troops in the form of our landlady, I returned to the foyer and the guard had to concede bitterly that she was wrong.

A little too much adventure perhaps, but it made my birthday memorable!

Entering the desert

peregrin — Wed, 3 Sep 2008 14:56:00 GMT

Feeling like we'd only just woken up, we were subjected to yet another search. They kindly allow you a full 5 hours between your 'wee small hours of the morning' search and your 'early bird' search. This time it was a little less irksome as the custom official was a polite and well presented young lady. With her danish pastry twirled blonde hair and eager smile, Charlie was charmed enough to comply with any luggage unpacking and repacking. This signalled our last customs stop, the next was to be for passengers alighting only and our first taste of Kazakh air.

We pulled into the first station, a dusty, rundown shack with the platform and track in a sort of symbiotic perilous whole. People waited right up at the edge of the sleepers and their cows and dogs meandered across metal tracks, seemingly oblivious to the potential several thousand tonnes pulling in next to them. I got off to stretch my legs and explore with Anatoly. He pressed to buy 'real food' concerned that oatcakes and fruit just don't hit the spot. I inspected the fare on offer: various dry, greasy looking meat pies, looking for all the world like elephatesque samosas burnt a little too long. Whole roast chickens hung on string, offered with rounds of flat bread and then as a sweet, what can only be described as solid balls of blanc mange. I quite liked the thought of chicken but a complete lack of cutlery or plates soon put stop to that. A student at heart, I opted instead for Kazakh pot noodles.

However, pot noodles are quite tricky to manipulate without cutlery... it requires technical savvy far beyond my capabilities. Trying to drink it like soup results in the whole sorry clump of noodles stubbornly threatening to land on your face, making it an all or nothing dilemma. I resorted to using my fingers much against all my taught table manners. Charlie used a pen so I was in good company.

Our course was now directly southeast and would go through kazakh desert. It has been interesting to see how the landscape, climate and physical features of people have changed over that time. Going from the dark, loamy lushness of Poland, with its endless forests and rectalinear buildings to the grey expanse of European Russia with its small houses. Then to discover Southern Russia with its wide grey rivers, bright green plains and endless pylons. Entering Kazakhstan was obvious, suddenly all civil engineering went overground. Huge pipes coursing in parallel a metre off the ground, leaping to square arches across roads made for interesting land decoration.

We stopped at Turkistan which is a pilgrimage site for Islamic people. Made up of mainly nomadic people, their religion has changed over the centuries from pagan, to buddhist, to christian to Islam. It's evident in the mix of cultures you see by the trainside, although Islam, being fairly new, is the most noticeable- new mosques and headscarves abound. We contemplate our surroundings whilst munching on lamb shashlik. A man comes past our cabin, flashes open a briefcase filled with gaudy, shiny wtaches and urges us to buy one. He's insistant but we decline. In his place, ten women seem to bustle past trying to sell us alcohol, scarves, twittering bird toys and magazines. It's quite tiring constantly turning them down so we close our cabin door and go back to watching the treeless mountains.

Eventually the landscape petered out to a dry green sandiness, the sky the palpable blue of holidays filled with cartoon-like clouds. This marked the beginning of the desert, starting with shrubby dunes, anchoring a perfect sunset.

Long Haul to Almaty

peregrin — Tue, 2 Sep 2008 18:17:00 GMT

The journey from Moscow to Almaty takes four days. Considering that includes crossing Russia completely and then the length of a country the size of westrn europe, it isn't at all lengthy.

Our home for the next four days was to be a brown cabin. First class here means a cabin for two people, complete with a sheet and blanket, a mirror, two lights (one held together with parcel tape) and, most importantly, a lock on the door. Unlike the Warsaw to Moscow train, there was no sink and the carriage toilet (shared with the ten other cabins) was a stainless steel box with a hole in the floor and an Asian toilet (the low kind with foot grips where the seat would be- assumed position is a flat footed squat on the seat) the tiny sink had no tap at first glance. The bathroom is perfumed with eau de sewage from day one and the basin proved to be beyond my technical competence. The train guard helped me out and indicated a sort of milking motion to extract water from the tap.

Usually, the train also contains a restaurant car but it happened to be undergoing restoration so there was to be no food available. Thankfully Charlie and I had thought ahead and bought a feast for our cabin. Bread and proper food is reasonably expensive but a litre of vodka is less than 5 pounds so it appeared we would be subsisting on that instead of a usual 5 a day. Moscow is the only place I've been to where a relatively fast food meal costs 12 pounds. A small cup of coffee is 5 pounds.. at these prices is easier to understand alcoholism.

Our first day on the train was tricky, the train guard spoke Kazakhstani as opposed to Russian and although they share many words they're not pronounced the same. He seemed not to be able to make head nor tail of us, the only two travellers in the cabin. There may have been more foreigners down the train, second class means sharing with 5 others and no lock, 3rd is an open plan barracks for 46 people so much respect to them if they choose to sleep there!

The language barrier was really starting to perturb me. Even to ask for toilet paper (rarely any left) or why the toilet was permanently locked (to avoid stowaways I assume) was incredibly frustrating so it was with genuine pleasure that I made a new friend. The whole of first class had one English speaker! Anatoly, a professor of law at the university in Almaty, our subsequent saviour for the entire trip. We seemed to stop an inordinately high number of times to pass through customs or to have our passports checked and he took pity on us so made himself our translator and general entertainer for the rest of the trip. He explained that the guard had never come across English travellers who had nothing to do with kazakhstan aboard the train. WE were a complete novelty and he kept insinuating that he thought we were using our cover as student travellers to mask our true secret agent identities. Regaling us with baffling stories about americans who used to hide their laptops (evidently spies) and Brits "posing as professor in history" who kept having cryptic phone conferences. Whether he's being suspicious or if there's an element of truth in it will be a mystery forever.

He took pity on our feast of biscuits and fruit and offered to "share his special smoked sausage" with us. I tried to mask my inherent immaturity by not sniggering when he proudly introduced his sausage which actually turned out to be a lightly peppered salami and not anything usually considered more puerile. After our meal of sausage, vodka and apple juice we stopped at yet another customs check. Anatoly insisted we drink our vodka in one gulp from bowls pilfered from the guards' kitchen (Anatoly's work, not ours) and after three toasts to new friends we'd already finished most of the bottle so the customs were more fun than they might have been.

The next toast was to Anatoly's "new english heroes" and anytime we try to sip our drink he roars with laughter, urging us to just down it as it cleanses the body. It's actually surprisingly smooth and the juice renders it childishly palatable. After six of these I was ready for sleep but for Anatoly it signalled our true friendship and therefore the beginning of and exchange of political ideas. We discussed the discrepancies between teh UK's media coverage of Georgia vs Russia and what he claimed to be the truth. We spoke of America, of Iraq, of democracy. He is staunchly pro-Russia but concedes that he has been formed from years of conditioning.

We move onto other journeys we could make in Russia: the Krasnoyarsk to Dudinka boat along the Yenisey sounds beautiful, the Arkangelsk to Moscow to Astrakan boat along te Volga- filled with churches to see sounds romantic and filled with the names of Russian fables. Then he suggested Lake Baikal for a cruise, which is as the deepest freshwater lake sounds like a promising experience.

Torwards 1:30am, full of vodka, smoked sausage and dreams of faraway towns, we stopped for yet another border crossing. This part of teh route weaves in and out of the borders, or rather, teh borders snake across the railway. with Anatoly on our side, the officials seem a lot less scary, they simply want to check we're not smugglers or spies. A simple request...

Once the customs people were satisfied with their search, we snatched a few hours sleep, sound in teh knowledge that we now knew how to lock the door properly (thanks to veteran train traveller Anatoly). Reinforced with an extra lock from him- he explained, not unkindly, that we were more likely victims of theft than he would be. With friends like him to talk with, these four days were looking more promising.

Back in the.. Russian Federation

peregrin — Mon, 1 Sep 2008 17:12:00 GMT

The train journey was surprisingly smooth and I'd slept well. Looking out of the window all I could see were steep inclined roofs with echoes of the Scandinavian countryside and a little of a child's drawing of a house. The ubiquitous square with a triangle roof and four perfectly symmetrical windows. The effect wasn't unpleasant but it highlighted how much more elaborate housing is architecturally elsewhere. The effect of foreigness was cemented by the flashes of cyrillic labelled stations we sped through on our way to Moscow.

The first impression I had of Moscow was of coldness, expanses of grey and the confusion of busyness. After an intial bewildering moment where nothing looked like a proper city centre and no where stood out as an entrance to the metro we finally made our way towards red square. The ticket lady graciously smiled at my pathetic attempt to ask for two five journey tickets in Russian but I was estactic more because hers was the first smile I'd seen since Poland rather than having been understood.

The underground is old with a feel of the sixties about it in its spacious barrel vaulted interior. Beige being the colour of choice which contrasts nicely with the grey beige of the outside world. It was almost a revelation to finally step into Red Square with its richer hues and smiling pedestrians (although I hate to add that the only smiling people were the tourists, I had still only been graced with a single Russian smile). Moscow is made of contrasts however, the only elaborate decor allowed is reserved for cathedrals which si the russian do with aplomb. Gilt domes and colourful stone boast next to the usual stark, monolithic buildings. The best of these are found in the Kremlin. No less than five churches in a mile or so square. Each built around the 15th century in the usual orthodox square with central pillars to carry five domes. The walls, ceilings and pillars are painted like icons, giving the impression of saints swimming everywhere in eyeline in a golden maelstrom to the peak of the centre dome. My favourite was the Church of the deposition for its unassuming, more purist exterior and its petite interior filled with less gold but more colour.

Moscow feels very different from Europe. The streets are lined with familiar shops and chains, a notion of capitalism I expect but the streets are filled with more soldiers and policemen than I've ever seen in an unoccupied country. Everyone seems sad and consumed by image. The ostentatiousness only revealing the slight desperation broiling under the surface. Everything seems temporary. The huge corinthian columns lining the parliament house were in abandonned repair, their insipid buttermilk yellow striped white with polyfilla and just left. The early stages of compressive failure just smoothed over but it all lends the feeling of it not being quite right. Much like all of Moscow, as long as it looks like a western and aesthetically correct town, no one will notice the flaws. Unless, of course, you happen to catch then mid-touch up.

The race to the Eastward station that evening brought its own reward. I came across a babushka selling a couple of ears of sweetcorn in her thick pink tights, stuffed into sensible brown brogues with her purple skirt and embroided blouse partially hideen by a large wool coat. Her wide, crinkly face framed with a sparkly headscarf and a permanent grim expression.

I found Moscow intimidating and was frankly, glad to leave. With a four day train journey to Almaty to look forward to, I hope the unfriendliness didn't increase with longitude eastwards.

Gallery: Kremlin and other stories

peregrin — Mon, 1 Sep 2008 14:05:00 GMT

Moscow and train

The Great Train Snobbery

peregrin — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 23:32:00 GMT

Leaving Warsaw was quite upsetting. I'd just begun to get used to the shush-shush of Polish and to the pronunciation of words when it was time to leave. The first sign of ill-portent was the hunt for stamps. No one in Poland sells stamps- only the office will help you. Then the ticket displayed the departure time of the train as MOSCOW TIME. This is an urban myth- there is no such thing.. the train leaves at the displyed time but it is, as one might logically expect, the time of the country the train is actually in. After running at a million miles per hour to catch our train to Moscow, we arrived at the station on ly to fid that we were two hours early! So the only thing left to do was to have a cup of coffee. We sat upstairs to while away the minutes, attempting to drink pseudo-non filtered coffee in glass mugs. These are served preferably at approximately the temperature of the sun so you're simultaneously straining coffee grains with your teeth and enjoying the sensation of the top layer of your tongue melting away. If anything, coffee makes you look forward to a 24 hour train ride even more when your digestive system is noticeably more roasted.

After being serenaded by a man playing a chair for coins and promising that I'd be back in 2010 for chopin's bicentennary festival, I waved goodbye to Warsaw and stepped on the train for Belarus.

The mysterious feature about leaving European railways for easterly travel is that the wheels have to be changed. The tracks are narrower in Russia which requires a complicated parking system, lifting the carriage on enormous hydraulic jacks and attaching a new set of wheels to the base. This whole process takes 3 hours during which you move forwards about a mile, then the train reverses, stops, moves forward again, reverses a little, starts, stops, starts. People get on- mostly middle aged ladies trying to convince you to buy 120% proof vodka from tattered plastic bags. Apparently it's your last chance to buy piwo, wodka etc.. before Russia. Belarus is on the wagon- presumably not one which needs its wheels changed.

With only a Lonely Planet guide to russian to guide us, Charlie and I tried to translate two complicated registration documents and a customs declaration which beat us in its complexity. None of it was in our limited dictionary- apart from 'baggage' and 'citizen' and bizarrely, 'many children'. One interesting point to note is that as friendly as Poland was, it mis-prepared us for Belarus (and indeed, Russia). The people on this side of the border are horrifically unfriendly. My attempts at saying hello, thank you etc.. in (probably incorrectly pronounced) Russian was met with steely glares and unrecognition. The only person who proved to be slightly friendly was the overly drunk man in the next door cabin who came up to us, talked at us in Russian and upon my attempts to find the phrase I wanted to convey incomprehension in my phrasebook, laughed and said something along the lines of "don't look it up, feel the Russian, understand the Russian in your head". Easier said than done.. He spoke louder and clearer just in case parodying a Brit communicating with 'them foreigners' would help but alas the 'beat the person with the volume of your voice' technique doesn't work for Russian either. As Charlie and I sat there in miserable incomprehension, he kept swaying towards us, breathing 'Prost' and 'Nishe' on us, peppering our faces with beer tinged spittle hoping perhaps, that we'd been enlightened since his last attempt at communication. I'd reached the point of desperate boredom of this game when his jolly friend came along to rescue us and physically drag him back to his own cabin.

Our first night sleeping on the train passed remarkably well. It did feel like what I'd imagine trying to sleep on a bucking bronco with whooping cough might be like but snatches of sleep aren't a complete impossibility. With two hours before Minsk, we looked out of our darkened carriage into the pitch black Belarussian countryside to be met with a heavy blanket of stars, the plough, draco and auriga were clearly visible and if you really squished your face against the window- even cassiopeia could be seen, an extra bright cluster in the velvet blackness.

Tired from all our days adventures and from the stress of potential altercations, we decided to sleep once we reached Minsk. Which, from the train, is disappointingly nothing to write home about. Clambering up to the top bunk and wrapping myself in the scratchy wool blanket 1st class offers you, I settled down to sleep. Tomorrow will be Moscow, and then a further adventure still.

The Scrabble Challenge

peregrin — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 22:57:00 GMT

I had no idea what to expect from Warsaw. My good Polish friends had looked worryingly disappointed in my chosen destination in Poland. They maintained that Warsaw wasn't all that special and not altogether attractive. Landing here, in the endless rain and pregnant grey clouds I almost agreed. This is the first time I've been to a country where I really don't speak any of the language, where the roots aren't romtely similar to other languages I've been exposed to. To be perfectly honest, it's strange.. I'm so used to being able to pick up a notion of understanding that's a novel feeling. Not wholly unpleasant but a little disconcerting nonetheless.

A point for future travellers to note, the bus is a great way to travel but buy a travelcard and make sure you know exactly which bus to take. My travelling companion and I jumped on the 188 and at once noted that seeing out of the windows was impossible. All we could make out was a permanent cocoon of greenery with the occasional plaque displaying the name of the stop. Not terribly helpful in our case as all the names are made from the dregs of scrabble bags. Who knew that words could be formed purely from consonants? We finally passed what must have been a 368 point score word when a young man overheard our mutual panic at the non existance of 'town centre' and asked us in quiet English where we were going. It so happened that we in entirely the wrong direction so he got off teh bus with us and walked us to a tram station which would take us to the area we needed.

Now, those lucky enough to live in Croydon will be used to trams but these still hold a modicom of novelty for me. I was terribly excited abotu the tram, which didn't reduce when I saw the rickety, gaily painted double carriage come clattering down the wide avenue. Up we climbed (it's a good 1m off the ground) and made ourselve comfortable on their antisocial monoseating which, in garish red and yellow, felt a little like a macdonalds.

I have been won over by the charm of Warsaw although I will admit it looks far prettier at nighttime. We wandered around along the river to find a place to eat and I was struck by how happy and calm the inhabitants seemed as a whole. Smart shops bordered the avenues and these stayed open until very late. There was no rubbish on the street and no rowdy drunks a la Edinburgh. We settled on a restaurant promising polska cuisine which was a great success. Pork loin with plums accompanied with cabbage and beetroot. The obligatory dessert, Charlie was upset that his creme brulee was about a quarter of the size of my very generous apple pie. I know my dessert though, so would never make such a foolish error as to have an undersized portion.

Our first evening was concluded with a zobrowka and apple juice which, although it sounds repulsive, is delicious.. My first impressions of Warsaw are that it's a charming town and if you're lucky enough to bump into anyone, they'll be polite and light hearted people. That's the only problem with Warsaw- it's empty. Probably because, as my Polish friend would say, all the Poles are in London!