One Day I Will Leave This City

You know the rainy days they ain't so bad when you're the king

Stumbling, trundling reluctantly back into the arms of the waiting Leningrad on our local train service with seats as wooden as the expressions of the locals that rode them. Besieged by tired, flyaway thoughts and memories collapsing into dreams. Did that just happen? The train seller hops from the platform of an unnamed station and into our carriage.

The mobile train seller.

He has been waiting on the platform with his merchandise, which in his case is a selection of large books. These must be cumbersome for his skinny adolescent frame. Unlike the majority of sellers, this one has a spark. He is untroubled by the nature of his load. He enjoys banter with a group of elderly men and gets enquiries. His sale falters only when they scoff at the price. He laughs, and heads down the carriage.

Here is the seller's routine:

1) Mount carriage

2) Recite memorised spiel attempting to convince apathetic passengers of the need for their product

3) Price comes last, before the long walk down to the next carriage, now and again exchanging roubles for product. Return to step 1. Repeat to fade (or end of train).

In between steps 2 and 3 I excitedly ask my Russian companion for a translation. The sellers, like their loads, come in all shapes and sizes; plasters, torches, ice cream, timetables, magnifying glasses. There were some strange ones which I can't quite recollect - strange additions welcome Russian friends.

Aphex Twin's Xtal on chewed cassette - the sound of being 15.

Back in the city we visited more friends on the outskirts of St P and toasted the arrival of a certain team in Red to the Champions League Final... Moscow looked suddenly shinier. We heard loud crackles and bangs and in the distance observed profligate fireworks to welcome the new president Medvedev to the locality. We pretended they were for us. Yes, that was a moment.

and that special St Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out of town in the summer

But morning brings chore, and I was worried - I could take no photo's of my experiences and was shortly to head to the most expensive city in the world where I would have to purchase a new camera. I've since met people who travel without cameras and are verbal proponents of this. Myself, I just can't imagine it.

Moving to new host Lyubomir I spent days sorting a new recorder of images and other such necessary travel admin that had gone unhindered due to my spontaneous foray into the forests. Lyubomir, full of life, energy and the adoration of activity, helped me no end and his endless wisdom and information was an inspiration as I prepared to leave the haven of St Petersburg. Providing me with audio books on my Russia, China and England. Yes, England - for I have learnt more about the history of my birth country from foreign sources than I ever did during the corn laws and cholera-infected curriculum of 1996.

"Miss, Miss, what about the Empire?"

Days and days. One such day I again wearily trod around the addictive streets until the next coffee den lured me to my rest. I was not yet ready to move on, until one day I was.

but he walked, as his habit was, without noticing his way, muttering and even speaking aloud to himself, to the astonishment of the passers-by

The day came.

My re-booked train set for depart after a quick trip to St Petersburg's Museum of Horror with some of the friends made there. In fact Couchsurfing had really been an integral part of my experience in this gorgeous city. Moscow awaited.

Leningrad is a city of canals, a northern Venice of such beauty that there is no absurdity in the comparison

*Quotes from The Big Red Train Ride, Crime and Punishment, Kings of Leon, and my funky li-awl mind.