A brief jaunt into Finland
before taking on Russia saw
me catching up with a chap I met on my last Round-the-World trip, a Finn who
was working in Helsinki.
We popped out for a knees-up of some interestingly priced beers... and I
thought London
was expensive! Rather than burden the bedsit he shared with his girlfriend with
my hulking presence, I put myself up in a hostel. Good job I did as well, as I
met a great Irish girl who was studying in St Petersburg, and we planned a meet-up when
I finally got there.
After some shenanigans with my visa I finally had everything in order to
enter the Motherland. You need all sorts to get in - an invitation (which is
just a sham, really), a visa (complete with your name written in the Russian
alphabet - something to show the folks back home) and seemingly some kind of
guardian angel smiling down upon you at the moment the border guard checks your
papers. This particular woman looked me up and down, and proceeded to rifle
through my passport for what seemed like an eternity, checking the paper texture,
the laminate and even the stamps under the UV light. I stared back at her
vacantly, remembering not to smile (Russians don't smile at strangers; only
insane people smile at strangers in Russia).
Finally I got the green light and I re-boarded my bus which continued its
chugging journey to my first Russian city, the elegant St. Petersburg.
I had been speed-learning the Cyrillic alphabet on the journey, but my
studying days are long behind me and all I could remember was that Cyrillic P's
were our R's and their C's were our S's. This meant I could at least
vaguely recognise the country I was in when in written form - Россия - but
didn't really help much with the rest of the Cyrillic I soon found I was
surrounded by.
Culture shocks are nice in retrospect, but at the time they feel
bewildering. As I left the bus I had a sinking feeling that it had not
stopped where I had expected it to. My carefully-laid out map to walk to
the hostel I hadn't yet booked was useless. Mild panic set in as I
realised I didn't have a clue where I was, no-one could speak English, I
couldn't speak Russian, I couldn't read anything as my map was in English but
the signs were in Cyrillic (good one, Lonely Planet), I didn't have any
accommodation and it was freezing at 10pm at night in a St. Petersburg full of
drunk Russians (and that was just the drivers). Erk!
Most things do tend to fall into place, however, especially after one and a
half hours of wandering the streets. I had found a map in front of a
train station that gave me bearings, and so I set off to my chosen
hostel. Unfortunately, it didn't appear to exist any more, or so I
gathered from the tone of the Russian person who answered the door I had
knocked on and probably woken up. I marched on, and on, past a massive
traffic jam at a roundabout with fifty car drivers all leaning on their horns,
not to mention a chap trying to bump start his Lada, and with the witching hour
approaching I reached the YHA, which was still open - but only just.
Success! The wonderful girl on reception - smiling from ear to ear,
perhaps she was insane? - assigned me to a Soviet military-style dorm of eight
single beds, none of which were thankfully occupied. I had the room to
myself.
In the cold light of day St.
Petersburg was far more sedate. I transferred
hostels, to a great place called Crazy Duck Hostel run by a bunch of incredibly
laid back Russian yoofs, and wandered the city to get my bearings, taking in
the main thoroughfare of Nevsky Prospekt and some fine sculptures of horses on
a bridge that sounded like an extra pizza topping (Anchovy Most or something).
There were fur hats and fine buildings everywhere. It was all rather
grandiose and, dare I say, more classically European-looking than distinctly
Russian.
That evening I met up with the girl I had met in Finland
who had just moved to St. Petersburg
to study, and had a good old knees-up with her and her mates at a great
club. In a moment of drunken generosity she very kindly offered to go to
the railway station with me the next day and order my first few train tickets
for me. This I jumped at, as I knew getting tickets was going to be one
of my main bugbears due to the language barrier. A stressful experience
it was indeed - and I didnt even have to do anything... but thanks to my
new-found friend I had three beautiful Trans-Siberian Railway tickets in my
possession, the first taking me away to Moscow.
My first train journey was a delight.
An overnighter, I was assigned a lower bunk with three other Russian
blokes. We were all mute to each other,
but we exchanged polite nods. This was
fine by me – I was just looking forward to curling up on my first
Trans-Siberian bunk. It was so
comfortable, and cosily warm in the carriage, and with earplugs firmly in I had
a fabulous night’s sleep being rocked all the way to Moscow.
Setting up in a hostel on arrival, they registered me with
immigration (a requirement within three working days of arrival, else you can
be fined) and I let myself loose on Moscow,
making a beeline for the Kremlin. It is immense.
I followed its walls around as night fell, dodging any police officers
(they like to “check” the registration documents of tourists and find
“problems” which can lead to a “fine” – basically, looking to supplement their
income by scamming tourists. Avoid them
at all costs and if you do get collared by one, never give over your original
documents, only photocopies).
I arrived without any brushes with the boys in blue at Red Square, which was, er, more of a rectangular shape,
really. Not at all how I had imagined
it. The magnificent – albeit smaller
than imagined – cathedral known as St. Basil’s (incorrectly – St. Basil’s is
just a chapel in it) sat beside it silently, its stripy, colourful domes
beautifully floodlit.
I saw a bit more of the real Moscow when I trudged several miles south of the
Kremlin to the office of an English-speaking travel agency. There a girl who was probably called Natalya
(most people seemed to be called Natalya) helped me book up another wodge of
train tickets for my hop-on, hop-off journey across Russia. The experience was a great deal more relaxed
than queuing up at the ticket booths and performing a mime would’ve been.
I had planned to take the Metro back but it was around rush
hour and there were people queuing in a crushing crowd that went far outside
the entrance. Bugger that for a lark.
The next day I got to meet a real-life Moscovian
up-close. He tried to steal my camera.
I was taking a brief snapshot of a towering old Soviet
building on the far side of a busy road when he came up to me and started
shouting “Militski! Passport!” or something like that. Terrified, I took it to mean he (allegedly)
was a policeman and wanted to see my passport.
Since without uniform or badge it was more likely he was Kermit the Frog
than a policeman, I started backing away with a “Nyet! Nyet! Nyet!” (Translation: no thanks, matey). He grabbed me by a bag strap and started
shouting “fotoapparat!”. He wanted my camera. I switched from nyet to talking in English to passers by – this was a busy street
at midday in a business district of Moscow, by the way. This made him release me and so I legged it
off down the street, adrenaline flying, and decided to move on from Moscow that evening.
Moscow
had been fairly overwhelming in general.
Aside from the attempted mugging, the pollution was choking, the six
lane roads were tough to navigate across without dying, and having both
criminals and police out to get you in different ways didn’t really make for a
safe feeling when walking around. I had
preferred St. Petersburg,
and I hoped that none of my other Russian destinations would result in brushes
with the criminal-minded.
I thought wrong.
