C Major

After the final I awoke in another couchsurfer's home in the city centre - she had kindly put me and Bastian up for the night as the last train back towards Djim's direction departed before the final began. With a new phone and my visa registration in the bag I finally got round to exploring some of the capital with Djim and his girlfriend Kristina. The tour was mainly an exploration of The Arbat, "Moscow's most charming and lively pedestrian street" and a St Petersburg-style flourish of cultural pomp mixed with a compelling display of the arts, which included a surprise display of heavy metal from a band next to the underground station. Stalls and buskers filled the air with heady noise and my favourite part of Moscow was firmly established.

Djim had earlier in the week suggested I stay as honoured guest for his Mother's birthday celebration on the Sunday (25th May). What I expected to be a small family affair turned into a feast of epic proportions. All kinds of meats, dishes and drinks littered the table and I was once again overwhelmed by the hospitality bestowed on me. More and more family arrived and more toasts were made until finally it was my turn. Blood rushed to my head as I took to my feet and a few vodka-induced slurs interrupted what went something along the lines of "I'm thankful to be a guest here and hope I'm representing my country well during this meal which signifies the union of our respective motherlands". Djim thankfully translated and the speech went down a storm, whereupon I was plied with yet more booze before us young scallywags departed to take a walk through the woods to the local bar (now another firm favourite) for the most exsquisite garlic black bread with beer.

Djim's fantasic cousin joined us and we played pool and cracked language barrier-breaking gaffs into the small hours. Returning home I got the sudden urge to watch Lord Of The Rings, the only copy of which was in Russian and we fell asleep to the sound of Gandalf shouting "you shall not pass!!" in the mother tongue. I couldn't get enough of life in the country, and stayed two more days at Djim's. But alas, it was time to go - the city centre awaited me and a new host. I would miss the experience which Djim, his wonderful family (especailly little Nastia) and lush Ducha had given me. Thanks Djim, you're a legend.

Champions and Thieves

In my mind it was to be the consummate battle between good and evil; those that had built glory and those that had bought it.

I met up with Bastian (a German - but as it wasn't international the footballing rivalry subsided) in front of the statue of Marshall Zhukov astride a horse, which in turn stands in front of the State history Museum, which in turn stands in front of Red Square. The Museum, which I never had the pleasure of entering is indeed very Red and square, more so than the thing with the same name that lies behind it. The statue itself is one of those which attracts tourists who run and jump in front of it whilst their picture is being taken, in a hopeful effort to liven up yet another "this is me in front of..." photo. Some slide-show viewers would really be in for the long haul when these guys got home.

"No, wait I'm jumping, see? Not standing! Jumping!"

Invariably the photographers' finger is off-cue and a re-jump is necessary. By the third or fourth take the jumper has lost more heart than an actor under the direction of Francis Ford Coppola... but it was amusing to watch until Bastian turned up.

On to the football; It had been a long day in Moscow getting things sorted but the atmosphere was fantastic. It reminded me of how travel-savvy I had become to watch quasi-boozed, overweight fans attempting to pronounce - and listen for - the names of their wanted destinations.

"Sportinaya [sic], thas the one" pointed one rather large cockney Chelsea fan, after scrutinizing the metro map for a good 5 minutes. "We're close so lets hop off here for a few beers".

I got chatting to some and glowed as they wowed at my travel plans. It was a brief comfort to hear English surrounding me again. Seeing a thousand other people in the same situation as me, trying in unison to navigate the un-navigable. But while we shared nationality and the love of beer and football, and as much as I missed my family and friends, it reminded me that I was still for all intents and purposes in Europe, and I yearned for the long road ahead.

Thoughts of obtaining a ticket were dashed by the news of a complete sellout and tout tickets going for as much as $4000US. The police presence was astounding, they were everywhere but had little to worry about - the rivalry between the two teams not half as intense as that of what could have been (Liverpool v Utd). Jovial banter was as manifest as the Old Bill - especially in the awesome Red Square as we wandered around the mini football arena that had been erected there.

Suddenly, through the crowd I caught the flash of a familar face. Approaching him I saw more and more until they clocked me in equal astonishment, it was Foreman, a friend from back home accompanied by a group of lads including Dollar - all friends from back in Blighty. They had tried getting in touch but of course the Russian SIM had displaced the old one from home. It was sheer luck to have met them and a great boost to the day and perfect timing. We headed for one of the many bustling pubs near to Red Square. Afterwards realised they only had 1 pump and 2 very sweaty and agitated barmen who had severely misjudged the drinking capacity of two sets of English football fans. However we queued and queued and finally got our jug before settling down to some of the finest pre-match banter i've ever witnessed.

The pub was predominently Red, with a smattering of Chelsea fans and pre-match build-up blaring on the big screen. The songs soon drowned that out and went to and fro as we epitomised the definition of merriment. The lads headed off with their tickets in hand. Bastian and I waited for Yulya - one of the girls who had helped me with my visa stamp - and her friend and headed for a different bar to knuckle down for the match. More friends joined and we sat at the end of a long table under which we all placed our bags and coats. During the match I left to meet various Russians who were extremely ineterested at my presence at the bar (being the only Englishman).

I was interviewed for television and radio, only after making it clear to both that they should ask before rolling tape, which neither had done. It's just manners. I'll never know whether I made it onto prime-time but both had assured me I would. They asked questions in regard to why I was in a pub and not at the match and I took great pleasure in filling them in on my travel plans which did not allow for such luxuries. It was indeed a surreal experience. One that turned a little sour when I returned to the table and checked my bag for my phone, which had dissappeared along with my MP3 player. Neither were expensive but my numbers, birthdays and music had gone, and I would be lying if I said it didn't put a dampner on the whole affair.

The fact was that I had most likely shaken hands with the thief when meeting people around the table. I am a paranoid traveller and had left the bag at the foot of friends for less than 5 minutes, but on the road, even that is not ample. It was a lesson, but a hard one to swallow. It may sound precious but your possessions become almost like little friends on the road, especially my music which I treasure. I had also agreed to meet up with the lads in Red Square afterwards and was now was unable to without my phone.

When John Terry slipped and mishit the penalty which allowed United to win the European Cup for the third time in their history it was a definate consolation, but the theft was fresh and played on my mind. For the first time since leaving - and on the back of the visa debacle and my camera breaking - I wallowed and had thoughts of coming home, if not a little magnified by a belly full of beer.

Still, every problem brings a challenge. Plus United won, which no-one can steal from me.

Visa Vie

Everything revolved around the match, and although Djim didn't enjoy football, being the legend he is he attempted to put an excited face on for my sake. But there were days to kill before then, and after a listless couple spent in Djim's luxury Ducha he was back to work and that meant I had to finally tackle Moscow. On Tuesday I was awoken early with what was to become a running joke (not that I find anything funny at that time in the morning), the soft rap of knuckles against the door and the heavily Russified "Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike... Wek up!". I dutifully obeyed and was within the hour queuing at one of two tiny windows of the packed Kruskovo ticket booth, "Moskva Pashalsta".

Unfortunately I had timed it badly and boarded a packed train, destined to stand the remainder of the 50 minute journey. Still, making good work of it with my MP3 I stepped off and found the underground, which at first glance was a squalid affair compared to the grandiose structures in St Petersburg. Dirty faces lined the walls, some squatting on their haunches - a now reassuringly familiar sight in Russia. Switching my bag to my front and going into paranoid traveller mode I found the line I wanted and got on it, only to get lost a couple of times before reaching my destination. the underground was a world away from that of SPB. A humid, crammed, stuffy and confusing affair that sapped a day's energy away in a matter of minutes and once off I located a park bench and dozed for an hour.

Yes it's fair to say Moscow confused me that first day, and I didn't see the best of it mainly due to the 'travel admin' I had accumulated. As previously mentioned on the blog I had failed to register my visa correctly in St Petersburg. I had tried, but to a solo, non-Russian speaking traveller the task was one of the most frustrating I have ever attempted, and once the blank faces had taken me past my 3-day limit (explained below) I had stubbornly (in true Russian style) refused to try again. One Russian host described the whole affair:

"The registration paperwork impossible to keep in order, for a citizen or a tourist. I live in Moscow but not strictly legally as I am not registered here. I cannot register here because I am registered in a different town and hence should not technically be living here. I would say that roughly 80% of Russians living in any major city are living here without the proper paperwork for this or that. It is kept this way so that if for any reason they need to have something on you, they do."

So here's the thing: Russian visa regulations (as far as I could understand them) stipulated that a traveller must register their presence with the local authority within 3 working days of arrival in any town or city. I was determined to get at least 2 registration stamps, which is what some travel sites were recommending as the very least for your visa to look legitimate. However, now that I had screwed up my SPB registration I was potentially looking at a $500 fine and possible detainment no matter how many registrations I accumulated, and the debacle was far from over.

I trudged to several different offices all over the city in search of the precious stamp. In all it took me 3 solid days of metro, walking, wild goose chase after wild goose chase until I found myself downstairs, waiting in a queue with my passport finally accepted. Upon getting to the front of it the lady realised what I was actually asking for and with apologetic laughter told me they were a driving school and thought I wanted a license. I slumped down, 3 wasted days in a major city that I just wanted to explore had taken its toll.

Seeing that I was approaching wits end and speaking some basic English she sat me down with tea and cake and picked up the phone. A few calls later and she had found me an address. After triple checking the directions I set off thanking the girls profusely and found the place, handing in my passport in good time to keep my arrangement to meet Bastian in Red Square for the champions league final.

I've never known such an unnecessary and complete WASTE of time for traveller and those who have to administrate this completely baseless rule. Supposedly brought in to combat terrorism by keeping tabs on the whereabouts of foreigners I would question the difference it has made. It indeed seems as foolish as the random stop and check passport control that the police employed so regularly to anyone with slightly dark skin and dark hair (potential terrorist) or any male under 24 (potential draft-dodger). A friend with dark skin and hair was stopped 4 times in a week and fined on each occasion totalling $400. He had not completed proper registration due to various meetings attempting to ensure clean drinking water for children in Nizhny Novgorod.

Not Moscow (Zelenograd)

I departed St Petersburg from Moskovsky Vokzal, in typical local style with a gifted bottle of Vodka in hand. I was looking forward to being waved away by Djimka, Katia and little Nastia... but had text messaged them to Moskovskaja tube station instead of Majaskovskaja. You can understand the mix-up. If they would just name the latter 'The Big One' or 'Station of the fetid Sasquatch' it would prevent a thousand furrowed brows of a thousand lost tourists, but Russia does what it wants.

Walking through the Neo-Renaissance frontage (thanks Wiki), and leaving my Couchsurfing clan behind after an afternoon in St Pete's Chambers of Horrors which was entertaining despite the whole thing being in Russian. Very Madame Tussauds. Perhaps they had run out of material when they presented the murder in Dostoevsky's Crime & Punishment as real.

I waited in the buzzing departure hall. Neon-fronted shops selling the usual fare (mobile phones/accessories, cigarettes, newspapers) rallied on either side of the seated waiting area, assaulting the masses with painfully low-grade dance music. I watched my rucksack and the departure board with equal hawk-like regard. My train flicked up and at 22:00 on May 17th I found and boarded Carriage C of the 22:20 departure to Moscow. The train was spacious and comfortable, with a standard of vast reclining seats that made beds unnecessary. I took my seat, sorted my snacks, coffee, book (hadn't yet managed to demolish Dostoevsky) and Music and was just settled when a Russian lad approached me and started mumbling something.

I got my obstinacy on: "Nyet mate this is my seat" and showed him my ticket. He continued to try and make his indiscernible point and I began to simmer. Then I realised he just wanted to swap seats to sit next to his mate. I obliged and duly took his seat in a four-seat berth with table. Fine by me - more leg room. The train departed and I read a little Fyodor before drifting into strange sleep which left me possibly even more tired when I awoke pulling into Moscow's Leningradskiy Vokzal Station at roughly 6am. My Couchsurfing host Dmitry was waiting patiently - despite the hour - on the platform.

I had posted up a message on the 'Moscow last minute couch request' in my disorganisation following the gladed festival. 2 Russians: Dmitry and Andrei (my second host) had responded, and here I was.

Zelenograd. A place I had believed to be a suburb of el capital. I was pleasantly wrong.

The station was as close as I was to get to Moscow that day. We caught the next train to Krukovo train station, about 50 minutes by railroad from Moscow. I guess we were both pretty tired, but soon began to wake up when we hopped into his car and drove through Zelenograd (Dmitri's home town) further and further out into the wilds.

He must have been up early to meet me I thought, a signal of Djimka's unique personality - generous, thoughtful, easy-going guy who just enjoyed good company. Now Djim had emailed me saying we would be staying at the family 'holiday house' but I hadn't realised this meant a Ducha.

The Ducha
I had seen and read of 'Duchas' (Russian country houses for weekend/holiday escape from the city flat) but hadn't put two and two together. In Petrozavodsk I had toured a vast village of Duchas, varying in design, shape and size (Pauly/Dad you would have found them especially intruiging). There are the old, quaint Duchas cobbled together with mainly wooden experiors surrounded by smaller outbuildings for different purposes (toilet, separate kitchen etc) and also the new. The modern Duchas take every architectural influence imaginable into their design, here is one example. Crazy.

We arrived at Djim's similarly plush but slightly more understated (compared to above) Ducha. It was incredible. The bustle of the city faded from my ears and was replaced by softened wind chimes and the peace of the countryside. Moscow aould have to wait. I was given the grand tour: shower with 4 different settings, a radio and steam option; the garden shelter with hammock. Like on the Hurtigruten, I was introduced to unexpected luxury. My room was the piece de la resistance, with 3 computers, a large TV, a King-sized bed and lounge chairs. I was almost beginning to feel guilty, but Djim is such a down-to-earth guy it was hard to. After a fine cooked breakfast with coffee prepared in a turca we discussed plans for the days ahead before I retired to catch up on much-needed kip in my massive bed.

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.