The next day I met with Sasha, a Russian linguistics graduate who spoke surprisingly mint American English and had offered to show me round the city.
"Do you like walking?" she asked, "Cos we're gonna do a lot of it today".
Sasha was sharp of tongue and quick of foot. Amongst my favourite comments were: "What's with the nose ring, it's so ugly" and "get a haircut".
I held my own with a series of purposefully ignorant and mildly xenophobic comments. Great banter littered our walk (she walked insanely fast, with me in tired toddler mode lagging behind) as we dived-bombed into touristic bliss. St Peter & Paul Fortress was first on the march, it was where moy druk Dostoevsky was briefly imprisoned, and was followed by the rather large, impressive (and free!) Aurora, whose gunshot heralded the 1917 revolution. We power-walked through the centre of SPB (as the locals like to abbreviate it) and in the evening she introduced me to more couchsurfing friends at a meeting in a local bar, where I met another ex-pat who, like most, was teaching English here. There was a heated debate (not involving your "cool your boots, man" narrator) about whether English or Russian made the better TEFL teachers and I dragged myself back to Avtovo, looking forward to a pre-sleep scuffle with Schnapps.
Blinis, metro, coffee, metro, Nevsky Prospekt, metro, get off a stop too early, metro... and a day or so later I found myself back being verbally abused by Sasha, "Keep up! You're so slow", "why haven't you got your visa registered?". Ah yes, the visa registration...
Google this little gem and you will find a thousand faceless advisors clammering to scaremonger how failure to register every lungful of Russian air will see you jettisoned into the nearest Kartorga. Cut back to entry into Murmansk where I happily re-read Brynn Thomas "You must register within 3 days of arrival in each Russian city". Not planning on staying in Murmansk for 3 days, I believed I was safe until SPB, where I would look into registering. Unfortunately I relied on this one source for advice, it should in fact have read "all visas must be registered within 3 days of arrival into Russia". A really poor piece of wording in an otherwise excellent guide could have and could still cost me a hefty fine. But more on this story later (I miss BBC).
Sasha took photos of me posing next to graves of the talented in the Aleksandr Nevsky Monastery graveyard; Dostoevsky, Tchaikovsky and Nikolay Andreevich Rimsky-Korsakov (composer of The Flight of the Bumble-Bee - kind of a classical one-hit-wonder though surely? I doubt 2 Unlimited will recieve such a lavish burial). This was followed by a brief visit to another church - Dad I wish I could have donated my eyes to you for these as the churches were finally perhaps beginning to wear a bit thin. Too much of a good thing I guess...
"I'm all churched out! If you show me one more church, I'm liable to break". Just to test me she did, I just about held it together.
The next day we met and visited a book market, where I bought blank CD's emblazoned with old soviet banners (hope to be sending the photos back to you on these, Chruz. Mostly when I stop being frightened of the Russian post offices, the protocol of which is befuddling). Scene of the birth of Revolution, Palace Square for a military march (unplanned - always nice when this happens), I imagined it was a display just for me and took photos, clapped and realised how young the soldiers looked before recalling that most were forced into service by the 2 year manditory draft.
Hmmm. Ok, ok, I'll hold my tongue. For now.
Church of Resurrection - Savior on Spilled Blood - great from the outside, but don't waste roubles on the interior unless you're really bored. A glance at time running out and a rush to the Mariinsky to witness a soaring performance of Madame Butterfly. Sung in Italian and subtitled in Cyrillic I couldn't have been more confused regarding the plotline, though the fat guy spouting off about some heartache was pretty good I guess, no Thom Yorke though.
I made my way back to Egors (my 2nd SPB host) and prepared to leave for my third host, Olga. Olga is an ambassador on the couchsurfing project, an independent woman who knew how to have a good time. She picked up Bogdana - a cool indie-looking chick with a gorgeous smile - on the way. They chatted in Russian for a while before Olga declared,
"I will drive to the supermarket and you will buy us champagne"
My heart and wallet skipped a beat, before I realised she meant the cheap stuff and we settled into her gorgeous flat for a night of music, laughing, stories and preparations for Olga's impending birthday party the following night,
"You will come to my party and stay and extra night" she ordered. I was, of course, happy to comply and after bedding down at 4am, we arose at 10 with Miika, Bogdana's boyfriend to set out to the frankly beautiful gardens of Petergof and spotting Russia's most enormous beard and mullet combination.
Monday, 19 May 2008
Friday, 16 May 2008
St Petersburg 1
My train from Petrozavodsk jolted into Ladogskaya train station, St Petersburg at 7:07am on 25th April. My phone alarm had been vibrating and bleeping on and off for half an hour before it woke me and I looked around to see everyone else in the compartment up and packed. Possibly this was due to my alarm. But such is the beauty of the language barrier (or concrete wall with blast-proof iron panelling in this case) I couldn't ask or apologise and to be honest had more pressing matters to mind.
Several texts from my first St Petersburg host, Inna, directed me to catch line 4 to Ligovsky before changing to line 1 to Avtovo. "Ostorozhno, dveri zakrivayutsa" the tannoyed voice announced as the doors hissed shut behind me and the Metro rolled into action. I now enjoy silently lipsinking to this phrase every time I depart a station, usually to the amusement/withered look of my companions.
The stations here are so deep that many passengers are buried in books during the long elevator ride into to depths of underground St Petersburg. The metro itself is usually a hot, crowded affair which involves clinging to the nearest greasy pole for support as the varied jolt-starts and hard-brakes do their best to throw you off balance and into your neighbour, requiring a swift "Izvinitye".
Finding my way to Avtovo I again used my newly bought Russian B-line (2 roubles a text - bargain) sim to summon Inna and guide me to her flat 5 minutes walk from the station. Inna and flat mate Nastia were great hosts and wouldn't allow me to cook a thing. Making me fresh coffee and introducing me to the best cat ever, Schnapps (stalked and attacked my foot without warning before scurrying away, repeat to fade), the girls left me with keys and to my own divices. Sleep beckoned but St P beckoned louder. I hastily stuffed my waypoint with the day's requirements and set foot back on the Metro to central St P.
It was hot, and my hazy mind decided once more upon my favourite idea for every new city: No map, no plan, get lost. I wandered round gardens, statues, ornate buildings, along canals and found myself on the bustling metropolis of Nevsky Prospekt, the city's jugular and maybe that day, my nemesis. I found my lack of basic Russian debilitating and purchased the Lonely Planet's excellent phrasebook for a slightly inflated 350 rubles before hopping back onto the metro.
On the second day I ate a fried rice and vegetable breakfast before being toured round the city by Inna and Nastia. The plan was to catch the bus to the southwest corner of the city centre and walk from there. On the bus I sat next to a teenager and distinguished strains of Slipknot blasting from his earphones as I strained to see anything through the sticky plastic advertisments that rise above window level on the buses here.
We walked though town towards the Mariinsky Theatre where a bolcony seat for Tuesday's Madame Butterfly was purchased from the predictably miserable ogre behind the tiny plastic screen of the ticket booth. Still, 1000 rubles is a bargain.
Several texts from my first St Petersburg host, Inna, directed me to catch line 4 to Ligovsky before changing to line 1 to Avtovo. "Ostorozhno, dveri zakrivayutsa" the tannoyed voice announced as the doors hissed shut behind me and the Metro rolled into action. I now enjoy silently lipsinking to this phrase every time I depart a station, usually to the amusement/withered look of my companions.
The stations here are so deep that many passengers are buried in books during the long elevator ride into to depths of underground St Petersburg. The metro itself is usually a hot, crowded affair which involves clinging to the nearest greasy pole for support as the varied jolt-starts and hard-brakes do their best to throw you off balance and into your neighbour, requiring a swift "Izvinitye".
Finding my way to Avtovo I again used my newly bought Russian B-line (2 roubles a text - bargain) sim to summon Inna and guide me to her flat 5 minutes walk from the station. Inna and flat mate Nastia were great hosts and wouldn't allow me to cook a thing. Making me fresh coffee and introducing me to the best cat ever, Schnapps (stalked and attacked my foot without warning before scurrying away, repeat to fade), the girls left me with keys and to my own divices. Sleep beckoned but St P beckoned louder. I hastily stuffed my waypoint with the day's requirements and set foot back on the Metro to central St P.
It was hot, and my hazy mind decided once more upon my favourite idea for every new city: No map, no plan, get lost. I wandered round gardens, statues, ornate buildings, along canals and found myself on the bustling metropolis of Nevsky Prospekt, the city's jugular and maybe that day, my nemesis. I found my lack of basic Russian debilitating and purchased the Lonely Planet's excellent phrasebook for a slightly inflated 350 rubles before hopping back onto the metro.
On the second day I ate a fried rice and vegetable breakfast before being toured round the city by Inna and Nastia. The plan was to catch the bus to the southwest corner of the city centre and walk from there. On the bus I sat next to a teenager and distinguished strains of Slipknot blasting from his earphones as I strained to see anything through the sticky plastic advertisments that rise above window level on the buses here.
We walked though town towards the Mariinsky Theatre where a bolcony seat for Tuesday's Madame Butterfly was purchased from the predictably miserable ogre behind the tiny plastic screen of the ticket booth. Still, 1000 rubles is a bargain.
Slack blogging apologies
Good, cheap internet is rarer than a day without wind here. And so the gap shall now be filled.
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