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.
Monday, 28 April 2008
Petrozavodsk
I stepped onto the 24-hour overnight train from Murmansk to Petrozavodsk on Saturday 19th April with my Plaskartny (3rd class) ticket in hand. To board, I had to show my ticket and passport to the guard at my carriage door. On board, it was great to get a taste of the Russian trains I had read so much about. The bunks were 2 deep on 3 sides (like this: П) of each sectioned apartment, with a walkway separating the 2 horizontal from the 4 vertical.
As the train pulled away from the platform, I sat silently reading with my three (soon to increase) cabin companions sitting staring into space. This was an inactivity the majority of passengers participated in. I wondered why they didn't read. One lady decently tried to strike up conversation, but this soon dried up as I jabbed my chest and uttered "Vy Anglichanin" (later found out this means "you're English" hahaha. She wasn't. She continued to assertively mother me with throughout the journey with varied hand gestures. 'Help yourself to tea' was possibly my favourite.
A boiler at the end of each carriage offered hot water for said tea which I kept myself refreshed with. The heat grew more intense as fresh bodies joined our transit at every stop. The night wore on and I suffered a poor night's shut-eye on the slim bunk. The following morning I awoke early to the sight of 2 new passengers in our section. An elderly lady - who mumbled a consistant commentary of incoherent Russian for the remainder of the journey - and her daughter.
As the train pulled away from the platform, I sat silently reading with my three (soon to increase) cabin companions sitting staring into space. This was an inactivity the majority of passengers participated in. I wondered why they didn't read. One lady decently tried to strike up conversation, but this soon dried up as I jabbed my chest and uttered "Vy Anglichanin" (later found out this means "you're English" hahaha. She wasn't. She continued to assertively mother me with throughout the journey with varied hand gestures. 'Help yourself to tea' was possibly my favourite.
A boiler at the end of each carriage offered hot water for said tea which I kept myself refreshed with. The heat grew more intense as fresh bodies joined our transit at every stop. The night wore on and I suffered a poor night's shut-eye on the slim bunk. The following morning I awoke early to the sight of 2 new passengers in our section. An elderly lady - who mumbled a consistant commentary of incoherent Russian for the remainder of the journey - and her daughter.
Waking up in a Plaskart is a more difficult job than going to sleep in one. There was barely room to manouvre my 6 ft frame out of the bunk. I was twice close to round-housing one of my more delicate co-passengers. The fun continues as each traveller attempts to carry out their unique morning ritual in the kind of personal space a factory-farmed chicken would shudder at.
Arriving in Petrosovadsk 30 minutes late, I was glad to be free of my lumbering sauna and was met off the train by my hosts for this town, Anton and Elena, a newly married couple with a one and a half year old lad who was staying at grandparents during the week. I was to occupy his room, complete with play pen and map of New Zealand. The town was instantly more easy on the eye than my previous Northern abode, and I felt slightly more at ease in the newfound knowledge that Russia could be beautiful after all. "We get up at 6:30am and have to all be out by 7:30am". Fine by me I thought, but the following morning I felt the full effects of bad and little sleep. I wandered down to the shores of lake Onega to catch additional Z's under the morning sun.
The brisk wind had other ideas and instead I was content to listen to the lake water straining every few minutes to break the thinning remains of ice. The state of the ice was also to quash my efforts to get to the island of Kizhi, too thin to cross and too thick to sail - two weeks earlier I would have been OK. The only option was now helicopter which was beyond my wallet.
Instead I took a stroll along the bank through waste grounds to the wooden carcasses of derelict buildings with which I have developed a fascination. Exploring, I came face to face with a wild cat. We gazed at one another for a minute, stock still. I sucked air through my teeth and rubbed my fingers in the way that people do when attempting to attract feline attention... has this ever worked? I got bored and strolled away from the desolation and into town.
Petrozavodsk had much to offer and over the course of the next few days I became fond of the town. Walking around solo I picked up a map and a ticket to an upcoming gig from the local bookstore. Not quite yet tourist season, I felt eyes yet again wandering across my foreign garments and smiles flickering across faces as I attempted to order my daily requirements in Russian.
Losing the company of my hosts to work every day I logged on to couchsurfing once more to search for some like-minded souls with which to canter round my latest territory. I met the two Annas post-gig. They took me to a local pizza parlour for a meal before taking a midnight wander around the deserted streets of Petrozavodsk. Along the extended shore the girls detailed the many statuette gifts delivered by different countries every year (it has now become tradition, the most brochured being the 2 fishermen donated by the US of chestbumps, show-offs).
To friend's flat with Anton for beer Liverpool v Chelsea Champions league. Walk round 'Dacha' village with Elena, deathly silent apart from the odd dog employed to protect the immense and often oddly designed structures that have taken lifetimes and life savings to build. Anton's volleyball match, one player's pre-match ritual was to drink himself silly - there's much of that here. Buying my ticket in written Cyrillic Russian. 50 Ruble meals in the Uni canteen. Books. Coffee. Eternal flame. Walking down Prospekt Карла listening to Pantera's Mouth For War. Ahhh Petrozavodsk.
Arriving in Petrosovadsk 30 minutes late, I was glad to be free of my lumbering sauna and was met off the train by my hosts for this town, Anton and Elena, a newly married couple with a one and a half year old lad who was staying at grandparents during the week. I was to occupy his room, complete with play pen and map of New Zealand. The town was instantly more easy on the eye than my previous Northern abode, and I felt slightly more at ease in the newfound knowledge that Russia could be beautiful after all. "We get up at 6:30am and have to all be out by 7:30am". Fine by me I thought, but the following morning I felt the full effects of bad and little sleep. I wandered down to the shores of lake Onega to catch additional Z's under the morning sun.
The brisk wind had other ideas and instead I was content to listen to the lake water straining every few minutes to break the thinning remains of ice. The state of the ice was also to quash my efforts to get to the island of Kizhi, too thin to cross and too thick to sail - two weeks earlier I would have been OK. The only option was now helicopter which was beyond my wallet.
Instead I took a stroll along the bank through waste grounds to the wooden carcasses of derelict buildings with which I have developed a fascination. Exploring, I came face to face with a wild cat. We gazed at one another for a minute, stock still. I sucked air through my teeth and rubbed my fingers in the way that people do when attempting to attract feline attention... has this ever worked? I got bored and strolled away from the desolation and into town.
Petrozavodsk had much to offer and over the course of the next few days I became fond of the town. Walking around solo I picked up a map and a ticket to an upcoming gig from the local bookstore. Not quite yet tourist season, I felt eyes yet again wandering across my foreign garments and smiles flickering across faces as I attempted to order my daily requirements in Russian.
Losing the company of my hosts to work every day I logged on to couchsurfing once more to search for some like-minded souls with which to canter round my latest territory. I met the two Annas post-gig. They took me to a local pizza parlour for a meal before taking a midnight wander around the deserted streets of Petrozavodsk. Along the extended shore the girls detailed the many statuette gifts delivered by different countries every year (it has now become tradition, the most brochured being the 2 fishermen donated by the US of chestbumps, show-offs).
To friend's flat with Anton for beer Liverpool v Chelsea Champions league. Walk round 'Dacha' village with Elena, deathly silent apart from the odd dog employed to protect the immense and often oddly designed structures that have taken lifetimes and life savings to build. Anton's volleyball match, one player's pre-match ritual was to drink himself silly - there's much of that here. Buying my ticket in written Cyrillic Russian. 50 Ruble meals in the Uni canteen. Books. Coffee. Eternal flame. Walking down Prospekt Карла listening to Pantera's Mouth For War. Ahhh Petrozavodsk.
Saturday, 26 April 2008
Murmansk and beyond
(Cntd from below)
On the back of booking my coach ticket to Murmansk and a slightly rushed couch-booking with my 2nd host Nastia, what to do, what to do...
With Kirkenes my salty oyster, I had options. I could have gone to chortle and pose with the sculptured bear mounting a lamppost outside the Russian Embassy, or I could have sauntered up the hill to the monument dedicated to the Red Army troops who liberated the town in 1944. But instead I strolled into tourist information, asked directions to the best coffee in town (bar Amundsen) and sat myself down to a soothing latte before heading to my carriage into Russia.
I could barely wait or comprehend it, after the glamour of Norway I was entering, for me and many others, a land of great awe and mystery. Even better, the northern territory which few endevoured to travel. "Where are you traveling?" people would casually ask, as though their eyes had - Terminator (the 1st) style - begun to list the expected reposte; "Thailand", "India".
"Russia"
"Russia?! Why Russia? You'd better be careful there", with a look that suggested the cold war was still in full swing. A small part of me warmed every time this happened.
I was to take a route previously unavailable to westerners during the soviet regime Kirkenes - Murmansk. Indeed, the Norwegian and Russian border control at Kirkenes had faced off at several points during the cold war, though things are a little more peaceful these days.
My 'coach' shuddered to a stop outside the Rica Arctic Hotel where I waited with 3 bawdy smokers and a suited & booted stern but pretty Russian lady clutching a brace of expensive looking shopping bags. It wasn't a coach at all, but a red minibus. Murmansk? I stuttered to the sniffling driver. I took his grunt as confirmation and hopped aboard with a sigh of contentment as I tucked myself into the corner with smultringer, water and literature to soak up the 5 hour journey.
My 4 other co-riders were all Russian. This is hardcore travelling, I thought to myself. I was getting a real kick out of such a unique route into Russia, not least the fact I was entering at a point different to that specified in my application, "I'm coming into St Petersburg via Helsinki Comrad". No you're not Michael. This served to add a little gamble to my proposed entry, but as I have learnt on this trip, what you think will happen probably won't.
So it was that I passed through Russian border in a jiffy, until I realised it was the Norwegian border and I still had the Russian one to come. At the desk, the Russian guard looked up at me with vague suspicion and then back down at my passport several times up and down, up and down. I started to feel uneasy: Nuts, should have gone through Finland. Gonna be stranded in Kirkenes. I hate Kirkenes.
"Popsodsjahjsdhghski?"
Blank look.
"You speak any Russian?"
"Nyet."
"..." "...Raaahahahahhaahahhaah! 'Nyet'. Hahahhaha! Wery good."
And with that I was through and back on the minibus, with the headline reading 'Dry English wit undermines Russian fear of the foreigner'.
The driver was a maniac. Even my Russian brethren were looking a little shaken up by the first leg of the journey as we pulled into an old army barracks now converted into a cute row of rentable cabins in the middle of nowhereski. Maniac approached, and I was attempting to drag out kick block number one from the recesses of my brief kickboxing experience when he opened his chops,
"You pay me now"
"No, I've already paid"
"No, you pay me for journey"
"Nyet way. I've already paid and showed you my ticket which you accepted at the start of this rather uncomfortable ride"
Luckily, bawdy smoker no. 2 came to a translating rescue and a few phone calls later, Maniac was safe in the knowlege the office would pay him on his return. The roads are awful here, but that didn't stop this guy from careering round numerous potholes, dints and overtaking in places where the few roadsigns that existed clearly advised aganst it. I scrambled for my seatbelt after being jolted from my seat twice in quick succession - Maniac had begun to drive through the potholes at the expense of his suspension, stern shopper's sleep and my behind.
Russians don't do seatbelts. To wear a seatbelt is a sign of fear, and what can you fear when you are with Russians? Nothing; we are together, so we are not afraid.
We rolled up to the hotel one hour early. I was to meet my hosts at 10pm. Maniac had shaved this time off using an abundance of rallying skills. I was met by Nastia and her two friends Katia and Djima. A quick stop to change and drop my load before heading on to a quiet drink at their friend's place nearer the city centre.
In the hero city of Murmansk from Wednesday to Saturday, I spent most of this time with trance-promoting couple Djima and Katia. We visited the eternal flame, in front of huge statue Alyosha which is a tribute to Russian soldiers who fought in WW2. Introduced to new foods: Salo (bacon fat), black bread (deeeeelicious). Toured the city's main road (took all of 20 minutes). Murmansk is still very Soviet, in architecture and in aura. To some it may be an ugly city but the people I met there made it cosy and hard to leave.
But leave I did...
On the back of booking my coach ticket to Murmansk and a slightly rushed couch-booking with my 2nd host Nastia, what to do, what to do...
With Kirkenes my salty oyster, I had options. I could have gone to chortle and pose with the sculptured bear mounting a lamppost outside the Russian Embassy, or I could have sauntered up the hill to the monument dedicated to the Red Army troops who liberated the town in 1944. But instead I strolled into tourist information, asked directions to the best coffee in town (bar Amundsen) and sat myself down to a soothing latte before heading to my carriage into Russia.
I could barely wait or comprehend it, after the glamour of Norway I was entering, for me and many others, a land of great awe and mystery. Even better, the northern territory which few endevoured to travel. "Where are you traveling?" people would casually ask, as though their eyes had - Terminator (the 1st) style - begun to list the expected reposte; "Thailand", "India".
"Russia"
"Russia?! Why Russia? You'd better be careful there", with a look that suggested the cold war was still in full swing. A small part of me warmed every time this happened.
I was to take a route previously unavailable to westerners during the soviet regime Kirkenes - Murmansk. Indeed, the Norwegian and Russian border control at Kirkenes had faced off at several points during the cold war, though things are a little more peaceful these days.
My 'coach' shuddered to a stop outside the Rica Arctic Hotel where I waited with 3 bawdy smokers and a suited & booted stern but pretty Russian lady clutching a brace of expensive looking shopping bags. It wasn't a coach at all, but a red minibus. Murmansk? I stuttered to the sniffling driver. I took his grunt as confirmation and hopped aboard with a sigh of contentment as I tucked myself into the corner with smultringer, water and literature to soak up the 5 hour journey.
My 4 other co-riders were all Russian. This is hardcore travelling, I thought to myself. I was getting a real kick out of such a unique route into Russia, not least the fact I was entering at a point different to that specified in my application, "I'm coming into St Petersburg via Helsinki Comrad". No you're not Michael. This served to add a little gamble to my proposed entry, but as I have learnt on this trip, what you think will happen probably won't.
So it was that I passed through Russian border in a jiffy, until I realised it was the Norwegian border and I still had the Russian one to come. At the desk, the Russian guard looked up at me with vague suspicion and then back down at my passport several times up and down, up and down. I started to feel uneasy: Nuts, should have gone through Finland. Gonna be stranded in Kirkenes. I hate Kirkenes.
"Popsodsjahjsdhghski?"
Blank look.
"You speak any Russian?"
"Nyet."
"..." "...Raaahahahahhaahahhaah! 'Nyet'. Hahahhaha! Wery good."
And with that I was through and back on the minibus, with the headline reading 'Dry English wit undermines Russian fear of the foreigner'.
The driver was a maniac. Even my Russian brethren were looking a little shaken up by the first leg of the journey as we pulled into an old army barracks now converted into a cute row of rentable cabins in the middle of nowhereski. Maniac approached, and I was attempting to drag out kick block number one from the recesses of my brief kickboxing experience when he opened his chops,
"You pay me now"
"No, I've already paid"
"No, you pay me for journey"
"Nyet way. I've already paid and showed you my ticket which you accepted at the start of this rather uncomfortable ride"
Luckily, bawdy smoker no. 2 came to a translating rescue and a few phone calls later, Maniac was safe in the knowlege the office would pay him on his return. The roads are awful here, but that didn't stop this guy from careering round numerous potholes, dints and overtaking in places where the few roadsigns that existed clearly advised aganst it. I scrambled for my seatbelt after being jolted from my seat twice in quick succession - Maniac had begun to drive through the potholes at the expense of his suspension, stern shopper's sleep and my behind.
Russians don't do seatbelts. To wear a seatbelt is a sign of fear, and what can you fear when you are with Russians? Nothing; we are together, so we are not afraid.
We rolled up to the hotel one hour early. I was to meet my hosts at 10pm. Maniac had shaved this time off using an abundance of rallying skills. I was met by Nastia and her two friends Katia and Djima. A quick stop to change and drop my load before heading on to a quiet drink at their friend's place nearer the city centre.
In the hero city of Murmansk from Wednesday to Saturday, I spent most of this time with trance-promoting couple Djima and Katia. We visited the eternal flame, in front of huge statue Alyosha which is a tribute to Russian soldiers who fought in WW2. Introduced to new foods: Salo (bacon fat), black bread (deeeeelicious). Toured the city's main road (took all of 20 minutes). Murmansk is still very Soviet, in architecture and in aura. To some it may be an ugly city but the people I met there made it cosy and hard to leave.
But leave I did...
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