The train came to a stop at Waterloo station. I took my final picture there, of the station sign and walked through the passport control and into Waterloo underground station. Jesus, everything had shot up in price. I got a one day travel card for much more money than I can ever recall paying as announcements flooded over the PA system, notifying customers that the Waterloo and City line wasn’t running at all, there were severe disruptions to the Central and Piccadilly line, minor delays on the circle and District line and part suspension of the Victoria and Northern lines. I had to dart around several lines to the station where an overhead train would take me to my dad’s place. Just as it had taken me two hours to get from Brussels to London, it took me a further two hours to get home, even though my dad lived some 15 miles away from central London.
I got a strong sense of humility having arrived in England by myself, having left by myself for Japan some two years previous. I surely felt stronger, ready to tackle whatever would be thrown at me. Japan had certainly given me new tools to tackle hard situations and I had learnt to appreciate true friendships, the effort needed to find happiness and being content with myself, as I am. This journey home was a struggle, as much of living in Japan was. But I couldn’t help thinking what was the point of such a struggle only to come home and forget it all? Perhaps I’d return one day. But for now I thought, let’s give England a chance.
Saturday 12 May 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Belgium: Brussels
I had only twelve hours in Brussels as I had arrived at 6am and was due to get the Eurostar into London that evening at the same time. I locked up my bag and walked into the vague direction of the city centre, stopping at a bakery for fresh pastries. I found myself in an area of small streets with nothing but private art galleries for rich people. I also stopped in a pleasant looking café to try an authentic Belgium waffle which was indeed very nice and surprisingly stodgy but the service was nonexistent. I had to approach the waiter to order and pay and he seemed pissed-off that I didn’t tip him.
After another thirty minutes of aimless walking, I came across a nice view of the city and noticed a huge silver modern-art type structure in the distance which was instantly familiar. I decided to make it my day’s goal to walk there. So I set off which only a small compass to guide me which one of the Tokyo Comedy store members had given me at my leaving part. The weather was on the cusp of being sunny so while I’m sure everything could have looked more beautiful than it did, it wasn’t as nice as I had expected.
I saw signs for the European parliament and followed them to find large dramatic modern steel buildings, covered in logos and lined with many flags. I wandered into the absurdly tiny and dull visitor’s centre only to find myself wandering back out minutes later. I wandered past some older building, with that characteristic sandy colour. I’m sure I would have been much more excited about them had I known the significance of them. I kept walking, using the compass as the vaguest of guides and found myself wandering out of the city centre. Surely I hadn’t already walked through the entire city centre? It seemed I had. I could spot the modern art metal thing anymore and finally decided to look it up at an internet café, most of which are strangely hidden in metro stations. I found it as a part of an international convention website, an Expo, and was surprised to see that it was a lengthy metro ride away, well outside of the tiny city centre.
I got a metro, and sure enough there it was on the station guide above the seats, marking as the “Atonium”. I got off in what looked like the middle of nowhere and passed a cinema and a few vague buildings to get the giant metal structure. It certainly looked impressive, both from afar and up-close. It was surprisingly busy, filled with people wanting to pass through the giant metal atom centre points to get to the top. I was happy just to take a few pictures. After all, this was probably the last thing worth seeing before I’d be home. Wow. Home. I had been holding out for some kind of dramatic welcome party, Waterloo station lined with people celebrating, ticker tape falling from the sky, champagne bottles bursting and general joy and elation. I had emailed friends, asking vaguely if they’d like to meet me in London as I arrived but the plans came to nothing as I realised I wanted everything or nothing. I found myself being drawn home by the thought of a familiar bed, familiar food, friends and a life more complex than just the three priorities of next place to sleep, next meal and next train ticket.
I dwindled through the main shopping strip and added yet another country onto my list of “countries I’ve eaten McDonalds in”. I found myself in the central business district, surely the most boring part of any city, but in Brussels it didn’t seem so different from the rest. I took each new corner, each new road hoping that I’d finally see something to get worked up about but had to resign myself to the fact that Brussels was a big disappointment.
I thought about my family back home and suddenly realised that I hadn’t got them any gifts. Well, here I was in Brussels, so Belgium chocolates all around. But as far as I searched up and down the streets, I couldn’t find a chocolate shop. This was the first capital city I’d been in where you’d struggle to see how the country’s stereotypes had come about. In the end, I popped into a small supermarket and bought boxed chocolates there, which were absurdly cheap but would have to make do.
I returned to the station well in time for the train, collected by bad from the electric locker and passed through passport control. It felt strange having to show my passport just to board a train. This was it. My last journey. I found my seat and sat down next to a middle aged woman who had been speaking posh London English on her phone. There was something for an aircraft feel to the Eurostar carriages. I half expected to be shown where the emergency exits were. I took a magazine from the netting in front of the woman’s seat and flicked through it.
“Ah! Isn’t that typical!” I said, “a train that runs between France and England and all the magazines are in French.”
She seemed to hesitate just slightly before answering, “well, they are my magazines.” The embarrassment rose inside of me and I apologised. She was fine about it, and it served to break the ice as we proceeded to chat about the English, the French and all the business she had been doing. I remarked that this was my last train from Shanghai and was pleased to get a big reaction from her. At least I’d be arriving in London with someone who appreciated the enormity of this journey.
I was looking forward to the novelty of the tunnel and coming out to England, what with having heard about the building of the tunnel throughout my childhood. But how exciting can a tunnel be? Not very much at all as I came to realised within seconds of entering the tunnel. The lack of visual stimulation outside stirred up feelings inside about my life waiting for me in England. Would things work out with Maki in a new place? Would I feel euphoric on arrival and how long could I make that feeling last? Would my plan to teach in a high school work out? Would it be fun? What would happen with Aki? Would I ever see her again? Would I ever see Japan again? And the train sped out of the tunnel and into the English countryside at sun-set. England looked much more pretty than I had remembered. Much less functional and more old-fashioned than Japan, with its little houses between hills and animals grazing.
After another thirty minutes of aimless walking, I came across a nice view of the city and noticed a huge silver modern-art type structure in the distance which was instantly familiar. I decided to make it my day’s goal to walk there. So I set off which only a small compass to guide me which one of the Tokyo Comedy store members had given me at my leaving part. The weather was on the cusp of being sunny so while I’m sure everything could have looked more beautiful than it did, it wasn’t as nice as I had expected.
I saw signs for the European parliament and followed them to find large dramatic modern steel buildings, covered in logos and lined with many flags. I wandered into the absurdly tiny and dull visitor’s centre only to find myself wandering back out minutes later. I wandered past some older building, with that characteristic sandy colour. I’m sure I would have been much more excited about them had I known the significance of them. I kept walking, using the compass as the vaguest of guides and found myself wandering out of the city centre. Surely I hadn’t already walked through the entire city centre? It seemed I had. I could spot the modern art metal thing anymore and finally decided to look it up at an internet café, most of which are strangely hidden in metro stations. I found it as a part of an international convention website, an Expo, and was surprised to see that it was a lengthy metro ride away, well outside of the tiny city centre.
I got a metro, and sure enough there it was on the station guide above the seats, marking as the “Atonium”. I got off in what looked like the middle of nowhere and passed a cinema and a few vague buildings to get the giant metal structure. It certainly looked impressive, both from afar and up-close. It was surprisingly busy, filled with people wanting to pass through the giant metal atom centre points to get to the top. I was happy just to take a few pictures. After all, this was probably the last thing worth seeing before I’d be home. Wow. Home. I had been holding out for some kind of dramatic welcome party, Waterloo station lined with people celebrating, ticker tape falling from the sky, champagne bottles bursting and general joy and elation. I had emailed friends, asking vaguely if they’d like to meet me in London as I arrived but the plans came to nothing as I realised I wanted everything or nothing. I found myself being drawn home by the thought of a familiar bed, familiar food, friends and a life more complex than just the three priorities of next place to sleep, next meal and next train ticket.
I dwindled through the main shopping strip and added yet another country onto my list of “countries I’ve eaten McDonalds in”. I found myself in the central business district, surely the most boring part of any city, but in Brussels it didn’t seem so different from the rest. I took each new corner, each new road hoping that I’d finally see something to get worked up about but had to resign myself to the fact that Brussels was a big disappointment.
I thought about my family back home and suddenly realised that I hadn’t got them any gifts. Well, here I was in Brussels, so Belgium chocolates all around. But as far as I searched up and down the streets, I couldn’t find a chocolate shop. This was the first capital city I’d been in where you’d struggle to see how the country’s stereotypes had come about. In the end, I popped into a small supermarket and bought boxed chocolates there, which were absurdly cheap but would have to make do.
I returned to the station well in time for the train, collected by bad from the electric locker and passed through passport control. It felt strange having to show my passport just to board a train. This was it. My last journey. I found my seat and sat down next to a middle aged woman who had been speaking posh London English on her phone. There was something for an aircraft feel to the Eurostar carriages. I half expected to be shown where the emergency exits were. I took a magazine from the netting in front of the woman’s seat and flicked through it.
“Ah! Isn’t that typical!” I said, “a train that runs between France and England and all the magazines are in French.”
She seemed to hesitate just slightly before answering, “well, they are my magazines.” The embarrassment rose inside of me and I apologised. She was fine about it, and it served to break the ice as we proceeded to chat about the English, the French and all the business she had been doing. I remarked that this was my last train from Shanghai and was pleased to get a big reaction from her. At least I’d be arriving in London with someone who appreciated the enormity of this journey.
I was looking forward to the novelty of the tunnel and coming out to England, what with having heard about the building of the tunnel throughout my childhood. But how exciting can a tunnel be? Not very much at all as I came to realised within seconds of entering the tunnel. The lack of visual stimulation outside stirred up feelings inside about my life waiting for me in England. Would things work out with Maki in a new place? Would I feel euphoric on arrival and how long could I make that feeling last? Would my plan to teach in a high school work out? Would it be fun? What would happen with Aki? Would I ever see her again? Would I ever see Japan again? And the train sped out of the tunnel and into the English countryside at sun-set. England looked much more pretty than I had remembered. Much less functional and more old-fashioned than Japan, with its little houses between hills and animals grazing.
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Germany: Berlin
I got off at a surprisingly small station. I’d been expecting a Waterloo style station but instead found myself in a six platform station which just a few small shops and cafes. I went immediately to a big are with “DB” on the front, assuming this was some kind of reservation office. I found the international desk and told the fluent English speaking lady what I wanted. Now, I had a price of about £80 in mind for the two journeys together, as I’d seen this price on the internet. Instead, she said the Berlin to Brussels train would be €115 and the two hour Eurostar from Brussels to London would be €225. That’s €340 altogether, over £200! I said there must be a cheaper way, especially the Eurostar fare. She assured me there wasn’t. Just then a younger with carefully designed facial hair and a wry semi-smile took over. So I explained everything to his again and he gave me the same prices.
“But I know the Eurostar price is cheaper on the internet” I said, pleading with his static face.
“That’s the cheapest” he insisted. “OK, take me as far as Brussels. I’ll work it out myself from there” I replied.
“OK, as you wish” he said, with the manner of someone who had just listened to a friend state that he wanted a few days stint in Las Vegas to repay all his debts.
I suddenly remembered there was a youth discount and the Berlin to Brussels price was reduced to €74. Within thirty minutes I had checked in to a local hostel, been online and booked a train in two days time from Brussels to London for £40, a third of the price he assured me was the cheapest, even though my having to ask for the youth discount clearly contradicted this.
Berlin looked good in the low early evening sun as I wandered around looking for a restaurant. I got speaking to a Korean girl who was studying piano in Dresden. She walked me to a cheap Italian place which turned out to be very nice. In my random wanderings, I had picked up a free booklet in a Dunkin’ Donuts which at first glance looked like some advertisement supplement but was in fact a great little guide of the city, featuring maps, restaurant and bar reviews and details of where and when you could meet in order to get a free 4 hour walking tour of the city. I notice a nice review of a jazz bar so I took the metro and spent the evening there, drinking excellent blonde beer and chatting to an old man from Leipzig who worked for Amnesty International and had worked with many leaders of the world. He had even dealt personally with Nelson Mandela. We became beer-fuelled best friends and he made me promise to write to him.
That night as I went to bed in the hostel, I noticed one guy across the ten-bed room who was vaguely looking at me. It was late and I wanted to turn the light out after some reading. As I started reading, I noticed he went to do the same.
When I woke up, I peered over and saw the he was just waking up. I got out my book and started reading again in an attempt to quickly warm up my brain and sure enough, he started reading too. Isn’t doppelganger a German word?
I went for a shower in a strange large room with a timer button for the water and transparent doors. Five minutes later he came in to have a shower. Was this guy trying to talk to me or something? I quickly forget about it as I went for an overly sweet breakfast of apple pie, coconut macaroon and coffee at a local bakery. I checked out and put my big bag away before going to Dunkin’ Donuts for 12.30pm, the meet up time for the free tour. It was simply great. For hours me were shown around Berlin’s most famous spots with all the interesting stories entertainingly told. I met new people, learnt important new things and my love of Berlin quickly blossomed.
The most interesting thing I learnt was how the fall of the Berlin wall came to be. Summarised, an important member of the German government was a famous alcoholic and had forgotten to attend an important meeting to discuss ways in which the government could appear to be helping the people to once again be able to cross the wall. At this time the government had no such intention but as protests were escalating, they just wanted to offer a phoney carrot. In bold print, some people could cross the wall but the small print would show that actually nothing had changed. So one day, this important government guy was giving a speech when he noticed a memorandum about the missed meeting, entitled “meeting about the new freedom to cross the wall.” So he included his into his speech which suddenly caused the bored journalists and officials to listen. He simply announced that people could free cross the wall, based on the wording of the memorandum. One journalist jumped on this, asking when this new freedom came into effect. The question was repeated as the government guy hastily improvised and famous said “as of now” and that was it. The crowds formed at the wall, all demanding to be let across and they were, albeit with water canons feebly trying to deter them.
During the tour I had bumped into an Italian girl on two occasions and it was a little awkward. She was clearly shy and we had already done the “goodbye and have a good life” thing at the end of our first meeting. But at the end of out second meeting, I fumbled and said “well, see you… again” and kept cursing myself for sounding like a stalker. As it happened, we met a third time as I was walking through the city centre in the evening. We went for dinner and she really opened up. But then she started talking about letting God into my life and I didn’t quite know how to respond.
My over night sleeper to Brussels was in fact just a seat. It seemed that the DB facial hair guy didn’t like me after all and had booked me a seat, even though I clearly asked for a sleeper. And who followed me into the six-seat compartment three minutes later? Yes. Mr creepy copy-everything-I-do man. Having never spoken a word to each other, I opened with “so, we seem to be following each other all the time” to which he agreed, which to me confirmed one of two things. Either he had also noticed we’d been doing a lot of the same things or he really had been actually following me for some unknown reason. But actually he was a nice guy and he had a good chat although I moaned a lot about not having a bed .When I approached the conductor and told her that I had the wrong kind of ticket, she looked at it and said “no, this is right, it’s a seat ticket.”
“No, I’m supposed to have a bed.”
“Oh no no no. This is a seat ticket. It’s a ticket for a seat and you’re in the right place so it’s OK.” Fortunately I had three seats to myself and the arm-rest reclined so I laid down and slept surprisingly well. As I woke up we were just pulling into Brussels.
“But I know the Eurostar price is cheaper on the internet” I said, pleading with his static face.
“That’s the cheapest” he insisted. “OK, take me as far as Brussels. I’ll work it out myself from there” I replied.
“OK, as you wish” he said, with the manner of someone who had just listened to a friend state that he wanted a few days stint in Las Vegas to repay all his debts.
I suddenly remembered there was a youth discount and the Berlin to Brussels price was reduced to €74. Within thirty minutes I had checked in to a local hostel, been online and booked a train in two days time from Brussels to London for £40, a third of the price he assured me was the cheapest, even though my having to ask for the youth discount clearly contradicted this.
Berlin looked good in the low early evening sun as I wandered around looking for a restaurant. I got speaking to a Korean girl who was studying piano in Dresden. She walked me to a cheap Italian place which turned out to be very nice. In my random wanderings, I had picked up a free booklet in a Dunkin’ Donuts which at first glance looked like some advertisement supplement but was in fact a great little guide of the city, featuring maps, restaurant and bar reviews and details of where and when you could meet in order to get a free 4 hour walking tour of the city. I notice a nice review of a jazz bar so I took the metro and spent the evening there, drinking excellent blonde beer and chatting to an old man from Leipzig who worked for Amnesty International and had worked with many leaders of the world. He had even dealt personally with Nelson Mandela. We became beer-fuelled best friends and he made me promise to write to him.
That night as I went to bed in the hostel, I noticed one guy across the ten-bed room who was vaguely looking at me. It was late and I wanted to turn the light out after some reading. As I started reading, I noticed he went to do the same.
When I woke up, I peered over and saw the he was just waking up. I got out my book and started reading again in an attempt to quickly warm up my brain and sure enough, he started reading too. Isn’t doppelganger a German word?
I went for a shower in a strange large room with a timer button for the water and transparent doors. Five minutes later he came in to have a shower. Was this guy trying to talk to me or something? I quickly forget about it as I went for an overly sweet breakfast of apple pie, coconut macaroon and coffee at a local bakery. I checked out and put my big bag away before going to Dunkin’ Donuts for 12.30pm, the meet up time for the free tour. It was simply great. For hours me were shown around Berlin’s most famous spots with all the interesting stories entertainingly told. I met new people, learnt important new things and my love of Berlin quickly blossomed.
The most interesting thing I learnt was how the fall of the Berlin wall came to be. Summarised, an important member of the German government was a famous alcoholic and had forgotten to attend an important meeting to discuss ways in which the government could appear to be helping the people to once again be able to cross the wall. At this time the government had no such intention but as protests were escalating, they just wanted to offer a phoney carrot. In bold print, some people could cross the wall but the small print would show that actually nothing had changed. So one day, this important government guy was giving a speech when he noticed a memorandum about the missed meeting, entitled “meeting about the new freedom to cross the wall.” So he included his into his speech which suddenly caused the bored journalists and officials to listen. He simply announced that people could free cross the wall, based on the wording of the memorandum. One journalist jumped on this, asking when this new freedom came into effect. The question was repeated as the government guy hastily improvised and famous said “as of now” and that was it. The crowds formed at the wall, all demanding to be let across and they were, albeit with water canons feebly trying to deter them.
During the tour I had bumped into an Italian girl on two occasions and it was a little awkward. She was clearly shy and we had already done the “goodbye and have a good life” thing at the end of our first meeting. But at the end of out second meeting, I fumbled and said “well, see you… again” and kept cursing myself for sounding like a stalker. As it happened, we met a third time as I was walking through the city centre in the evening. We went for dinner and she really opened up. But then she started talking about letting God into my life and I didn’t quite know how to respond.
My over night sleeper to Brussels was in fact just a seat. It seemed that the DB facial hair guy didn’t like me after all and had booked me a seat, even though I clearly asked for a sleeper. And who followed me into the six-seat compartment three minutes later? Yes. Mr creepy copy-everything-I-do man. Having never spoken a word to each other, I opened with “so, we seem to be following each other all the time” to which he agreed, which to me confirmed one of two things. Either he had also noticed we’d been doing a lot of the same things or he really had been actually following me for some unknown reason. But actually he was a nice guy and he had a good chat although I moaned a lot about not having a bed .When I approached the conductor and told her that I had the wrong kind of ticket, she looked at it and said “no, this is right, it’s a seat ticket.”
“No, I’m supposed to have a bed.”
“Oh no no no. This is a seat ticket. It’s a ticket for a seat and you’re in the right place so it’s OK.” Fortunately I had three seats to myself and the arm-rest reclined so I laid down and slept surprisingly well. As I woke up we were just pulling into Brussels.
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Poland: Warsaw
I got off the train to a grey dreary Warsaw and half expected to see another “Trevor” sign. But alas, I didn’t see it. In fact I didn’t see anyone very much, let alone any “very tall” people. After 45 minutes of yet more waiting (not forgetting the previous evening’s wait for Chris) I went to an internet café to see if he’d emailed me and to get his phone number so I could call him. A young Polish guy noticed me struggling with the attendant as I tried to explain that I wanted to use the internet (what the hell else did he think I was going to do in an internet café?!) and said I could use his phone to call Machiek.
Machiek had gone to the wrong station which was a fair mistake as I had told him the station since my ticket displayed the wrong arrival station. Anyway, he was a great guy. Relaxed, laid-back, ambitious (he had cut-off his studies to focus on making films) and very friendly. We immediately got on well, talking mostly about movies, then girlfriends, then beer, then cities amongst other things. He advised me to stop off in Berlin if I could as it was a very interesting and beautiful city. Warsaw is generally an ugly city but has some nice spots, much of which was rebuilt as 95% of the city’s buildings were destroyed in the second world war. He treated me to a kebab (again! Not much fibre in my diet in those days) and a beer in a jazz café in the ‘old town’ which is remarkably similar to the ‘new town’. The apartment I had to myself for the night was beautiful and was extremely central, being across the road from the grand neo-classical city hall. He made tea as I watched his first short film which wasn’t bad but was clearly somebody’s first film.
I couldn’t sleep well because I kept worrying about waking up in time to catch my train to Berlin as I had no alarm so I was fairly early, well, so I thought I’d be, for my first sit-down train ride during the day since Shanghai to Nanjing which just seemed worlds away. As I approached the station I realised I was going to need to eat something so I bought a “megaburger” from a take-out kiosk in the station. It was horrible. The burger was still frozen in the middle. When I complained she just reheated the remaining burger and handed it back. It was then I realised how much I was missing the love, care and attention that Japanese people put into everything they make or do.
As I walked up to my seat in the train, I noticec a young german girl in my seat. I showed her my ticket.
“Umm, this is my seat I’m afraid.” She looked around her before replying,
“Well this is my seat so sorry.” I waited a beat, just looking at her.
“My ticket says seat 42. You’re in seat 42.” She shouted over to some older guy who was in charge of the huge group of kids she seemed to be a part of. He shook his shoulders in a manner that suggested I was clearly nuts. She repeated, “well, this is my seat. This is the right seat, I’m sorry.”
I waited for someone else to realise their mistake, which the dumb German guy eventually did, some five seconds later.
The ride was the smoothest yet, like a Japanese bullet train, although this Polish train wasn’t so fast. I was really playing things by ear now. I had no accommodation booked in Berlin and no idea if I could get a reasonably priced ticket for two more trains to London via Brussels. The train passed mostly quaint green landscape, no heavy industry and no big towns. It was very nice although I kept wishing I had saved some money for a coffee and a Mars Bar on the train. The guy must have past eight or nine times.
Machiek had gone to the wrong station which was a fair mistake as I had told him the station since my ticket displayed the wrong arrival station. Anyway, he was a great guy. Relaxed, laid-back, ambitious (he had cut-off his studies to focus on making films) and very friendly. We immediately got on well, talking mostly about movies, then girlfriends, then beer, then cities amongst other things. He advised me to stop off in Berlin if I could as it was a very interesting and beautiful city. Warsaw is generally an ugly city but has some nice spots, much of which was rebuilt as 95% of the city’s buildings were destroyed in the second world war. He treated me to a kebab (again! Not much fibre in my diet in those days) and a beer in a jazz café in the ‘old town’ which is remarkably similar to the ‘new town’. The apartment I had to myself for the night was beautiful and was extremely central, being across the road from the grand neo-classical city hall. He made tea as I watched his first short film which wasn’t bad but was clearly somebody’s first film.
I couldn’t sleep well because I kept worrying about waking up in time to catch my train to Berlin as I had no alarm so I was fairly early, well, so I thought I’d be, for my first sit-down train ride during the day since Shanghai to Nanjing which just seemed worlds away. As I approached the station I realised I was going to need to eat something so I bought a “megaburger” from a take-out kiosk in the station. It was horrible. The burger was still frozen in the middle. When I complained she just reheated the remaining burger and handed it back. It was then I realised how much I was missing the love, care and attention that Japanese people put into everything they make or do.
As I walked up to my seat in the train, I noticec a young german girl in my seat. I showed her my ticket.
“Umm, this is my seat I’m afraid.” She looked around her before replying,
“Well this is my seat so sorry.” I waited a beat, just looking at her.
“My ticket says seat 42. You’re in seat 42.” She shouted over to some older guy who was in charge of the huge group of kids she seemed to be a part of. He shook his shoulders in a manner that suggested I was clearly nuts. She repeated, “well, this is my seat. This is the right seat, I’m sorry.”
I waited for someone else to realise their mistake, which the dumb German guy eventually did, some five seconds later.
The ride was the smoothest yet, like a Japanese bullet train, although this Polish train wasn’t so fast. I was really playing things by ear now. I had no accommodation booked in Berlin and no idea if I could get a reasonably priced ticket for two more trains to London via Brussels. The train passed mostly quaint green landscape, no heavy industry and no big towns. It was very nice although I kept wishing I had saved some money for a coffee and a Mars Bar on the train. The guy must have past eight or nine times.
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Crossing Belarus
As soon as I saw the train I felt it was going to be a good journey. My room mates were an Asian-looking Russian guy whose name I always forgot and a fairly young Russian woman who was called Xena. He spoke some English and she seemed to understand most of what we said. It was a strange compartment, having only three beds and a big area close to the roof which I initially thought was my bed as all the beds hadn’t yet been unfolded. This really tickled the Russian guy and it broke the ice as he explained where I’d be sleeping. Soon into the journey they got out the Vodka and I drunk extremely strong Vodka and cokes with them with seemed to roughly followed a 1:1 ratio. A space physics university professor from the next compartment also invited me for Vodka with his room mates who were folk musicians, and gave me a special tape entitled “For Friends”. The pressure applied by the guitarist to drink more and more Vodka was a little worrying. Maybe only my falling over unconscious, or better still dead, would satisfy him.
I put my watch back two hours as Warsaw, and indeed the rest of Europe until I arrived in England, was two hours behind.
I woke up with a sharp hangover, even though I had followed the advice of the university professor the night before and had continually eaten during the drinking of Vodka. Very few Russians drink Vodka without food. Whereas back home such advice would be to potentially lessen a hangover, I couldn’t help but wonder if such advice in Russia is to simply stop you from dying from the stuff. Perhaps it is the constant eating while drinking that makes Russians such big burley people. Either way, I once again felt like a complete lightweight. Maybe it was the beer just before going to bed that did it for me. Either way I felt lousy. It was then about 7am. My body was still on Moscow time. You’d think that train travel across the world wouldn’t allow for any jet-lag but there must be such a thing as train-lag because I had it.
Suddenly the guitarist came into my compartment with a glass of beer for me, which he insisted I drink. I bypassed my initially shock and disgust and forced myself to drink it to please him. Jesus I though, how far do I have to go for this guy?! It tasted awful, it being first thing in the morning, as the warm lager went down but almost immediately it took the edge of my hangover. I felt tired for the rest of the journey but was unable to sleep. The time passed uneventfully apart from the drunk guitarist whose drinking knew no boundaries. A few days previous I had arranged for a globalfreeloader to meet me at Warsaw station so I could stay at his place for the night. I had no information about him other than the fact that his name was Machiek and he was extremely tall, therefore easy to spot.
I put my watch back two hours as Warsaw, and indeed the rest of Europe until I arrived in England, was two hours behind.
I woke up with a sharp hangover, even though I had followed the advice of the university professor the night before and had continually eaten during the drinking of Vodka. Very few Russians drink Vodka without food. Whereas back home such advice would be to potentially lessen a hangover, I couldn’t help but wonder if such advice in Russia is to simply stop you from dying from the stuff. Perhaps it is the constant eating while drinking that makes Russians such big burley people. Either way, I once again felt like a complete lightweight. Maybe it was the beer just before going to bed that did it for me. Either way I felt lousy. It was then about 7am. My body was still on Moscow time. You’d think that train travel across the world wouldn’t allow for any jet-lag but there must be such a thing as train-lag because I had it.
Suddenly the guitarist came into my compartment with a glass of beer for me, which he insisted I drink. I bypassed my initially shock and disgust and forced myself to drink it to please him. Jesus I though, how far do I have to go for this guy?! It tasted awful, it being first thing in the morning, as the warm lager went down but almost immediately it took the edge of my hangover. I felt tired for the rest of the journey but was unable to sleep. The time passed uneventfully apart from the drunk guitarist whose drinking knew no boundaries. A few days previous I had arranged for a globalfreeloader to meet me at Warsaw station so I could stay at his place for the night. I had no information about him other than the fact that his name was Machiek and he was extremely tall, therefore easy to spot.
Thursday 10 May 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: More Moscow
I was left to tackle Moscow by myself the next day which I did by walking around the Red Square area, aimlessly, but that wasn’t until I spent the morning trying to get my next train ticket: Moscow to Warsaw, Poland’s capital. First I went to the train station where it took thirty minutes to find the correct ticket office only to be told I needed a Belarus visa, as the train would cross Belarus, a vague new post USSR country I knew nothing about except the capital is Minsk. She handed me the address of the Belarus Embassy which I found an hour later, arriving at 11.55am only to be told that visa applications were accepted from 10 to 12 and I was too late, regardless of the fact that it was actually before 12. I was insane with frustration and started to seriously consider how I could get to England around Belarus. There was nothing I could do until the next morning.
That evening I met Maria and her sister for a tour of Moscow’s pretty area during sunset including the main university, which we wouldn’t enter due to obscene security. It seems Russia is as paranoid as America. We settled in a semi-bohemian café having eaten cheap street-vendor pies and chatted about travel horror stories. I told them about Fabio getting attacked and Maria responded with a “I can do better than that!” style gusto as she launched into a story of how she was mugged at knife point and nearly raped within the same day. I was a little perplexed at the glee with which she told the story, almost like she was proud of it and happy for it to happen again. Her naivety was worrying. If these events didn’t make her stop and think, how easily will she allow such things to happen again?
And so the next morning I arrived at the embassy just before 11am to a queue of about twelve people. I waited for just under an hour until it was 11.55am and again I was thoroughly pissed-off with the prospect of having to come back yet again. I went up to the counter, put on my best “little boy lost” look and struck lucky. This seemingly hard Russian woman was an English speaking and middle-aged who mothered me a little: my photo was too big for a visa but that’s ok, I hadn’t made a copy of my passport, that’s ok, she’ll do it. I needed to pay exactly $45 in US dollars with bank notes that were no older than three years. Crazy. Luckily, a guy next to me offered to exchange some of my roubles for dollars but I had no idea how much money I had. He gave me a $50 note and I just about had enough roubles, according to him. She gave me change even though there was a notice on the counter window saying that no change could be given. She chatted to me about my journey.
“So you’re a traveller?”
“Yeah, from Shanghai to London by train”.
“And you don’t speak any Russian?”
“No, none… yeah, I guess it is kind of difficult.”
She laughed, “well, good luck. Are you writing a book about it?”
“Actually, I’m trying to.”
“Good luck. Be careful with your money and your passport.” When all else fails, use the “little boy lost” look.
I had to return at 4pm to pick up my new Belarus-friendly passport which now allowed me a narrow two day window to pass through Belarus, so I had to get a ticket on thee days. So I went to the railway station, queued for thirty minutes to be told I was in the wrong queue, queued for a further twenty minutes and managed to get a Moscow to Warsaw ticket to leave three days later. Then I met Vania and we walked through a nice lively studenty street with lots of street musicians, stalls and pickpockets. One guy started to walk by me while firing questions to me, edging closer and closer. After a meal at a cheap school-canteen style restaurant we went back to Vania’s place, a tatty apartment on the edge of the Metro system.
The next day I spent two hours in Moscow’s main museum, the Pushkin gallery which was surprisingly bad. It cost 300 roubles for foreigners (100 for Russians) and an extra 250 roubles for an audio guide which was pretty much essential as none of the exhibits featured any English. This was Moscow, a capital city, and there was no English.
Most exhibits featured ancient Greek copies of plaster casts, which are incredibly boring even with an English guide. The highlight was a twentieth century room with some famous Monets, Gauguins and Van Goghs, although I didn’t recognise them myself. Chris was to arrive in Moscow that evening, having spent a week in Mongolia and four days on the train. By coincidence, he was due to stay at Vania’s, having contacted him some days before. I went to meet him at a rather strange train station where the platforms were across the street from the main ticket office and waiting hall. It was a novelty to see him and to take him to a park, where we were due to meet Vania later where we caught-up with each other.
I spent most of the next day on the internet in Vania’s home, emailing friends and starting to apply for teaching jobs in London. The plan was to live with Maki and another person in London, renting a place. Maki would continue her degree at the London College of Fashion that she interrupted to work back in Japan to save money for her return to London. And I’d get a job as a high school music teacher. May was the peak month of teaching vacancies so I was trying to get ready, get started early, although the most I could do was ask for application forms to be sent to my home, ready to fill on my arrival. Not the nest things to do upon arriving home after such a change in life.
I met Maria and some of her friends in the evening. Chris was supposed to show up but never did so we left to buy a few bottles of a local speciality: honey beer. It was sweet and strong and gave me chronic heartburn, but of course the Russians had no problem. We sat by a huge fountain, lined with huge gold statues of women, each one depicting one of the new states created by the demise of the USSR, although of course, they all looked the same to me. The surrounding area was peaceful. People were roller-skating or drinking. The area was once a large soviet exhibition, which supposedly showed the USSR’s great achievements. At one end there still remained a couple of small passenger Aeroflot planes and a small space rocket which looked old and faded. We walked around and bought kebabs which reminded me that I really was getting closer to home, and then we went home with the sun going down at around 10pm.
Again I did pretty much nothing the next day before leaving to meet Chris which was to be our last few hours together on this journey. The plan was to meet at a station at 6pm. I was hoping to take a walk around red square so I could get some photos of St. Bail’s cathedral just before dusk but again Chris showed. I waited until 7pm until I walked away thoroughly pissed off. I need to return Vania’s keys to Chris so Vania could get them (Chris was going to stay for a few more nights) so I had to go all the way back to Vania’s place to throw them under the door and back again, which was pretty much my last few hours in Russia. I did however get some nice pictures of St. Basil’s at dusk, which was surprisingly important to me. A song in Japan called “Kremlin Dusk” had meant a lot to me as it was playing when me and Aki first dated, more specifically when I first stayed over at her place and felt really happy. And I always pictures the scene of Kremlin under a nice sunset and here I was, actually in Moscow, staring at the Kremlin under a cloudless pink sky.
That evening I met Maria and her sister for a tour of Moscow’s pretty area during sunset including the main university, which we wouldn’t enter due to obscene security. It seems Russia is as paranoid as America. We settled in a semi-bohemian café having eaten cheap street-vendor pies and chatted about travel horror stories. I told them about Fabio getting attacked and Maria responded with a “I can do better than that!” style gusto as she launched into a story of how she was mugged at knife point and nearly raped within the same day. I was a little perplexed at the glee with which she told the story, almost like she was proud of it and happy for it to happen again. Her naivety was worrying. If these events didn’t make her stop and think, how easily will she allow such things to happen again?
And so the next morning I arrived at the embassy just before 11am to a queue of about twelve people. I waited for just under an hour until it was 11.55am and again I was thoroughly pissed-off with the prospect of having to come back yet again. I went up to the counter, put on my best “little boy lost” look and struck lucky. This seemingly hard Russian woman was an English speaking and middle-aged who mothered me a little: my photo was too big for a visa but that’s ok, I hadn’t made a copy of my passport, that’s ok, she’ll do it. I needed to pay exactly $45 in US dollars with bank notes that were no older than three years. Crazy. Luckily, a guy next to me offered to exchange some of my roubles for dollars but I had no idea how much money I had. He gave me a $50 note and I just about had enough roubles, according to him. She gave me change even though there was a notice on the counter window saying that no change could be given. She chatted to me about my journey.
“So you’re a traveller?”
“Yeah, from Shanghai to London by train”.
“And you don’t speak any Russian?”
“No, none… yeah, I guess it is kind of difficult.”
She laughed, “well, good luck. Are you writing a book about it?”
“Actually, I’m trying to.”
“Good luck. Be careful with your money and your passport.” When all else fails, use the “little boy lost” look.
I had to return at 4pm to pick up my new Belarus-friendly passport which now allowed me a narrow two day window to pass through Belarus, so I had to get a ticket on thee days. So I went to the railway station, queued for thirty minutes to be told I was in the wrong queue, queued for a further twenty minutes and managed to get a Moscow to Warsaw ticket to leave three days later. Then I met Vania and we walked through a nice lively studenty street with lots of street musicians, stalls and pickpockets. One guy started to walk by me while firing questions to me, edging closer and closer. After a meal at a cheap school-canteen style restaurant we went back to Vania’s place, a tatty apartment on the edge of the Metro system.
The next day I spent two hours in Moscow’s main museum, the Pushkin gallery which was surprisingly bad. It cost 300 roubles for foreigners (100 for Russians) and an extra 250 roubles for an audio guide which was pretty much essential as none of the exhibits featured any English. This was Moscow, a capital city, and there was no English.
Most exhibits featured ancient Greek copies of plaster casts, which are incredibly boring even with an English guide. The highlight was a twentieth century room with some famous Monets, Gauguins and Van Goghs, although I didn’t recognise them myself. Chris was to arrive in Moscow that evening, having spent a week in Mongolia and four days on the train. By coincidence, he was due to stay at Vania’s, having contacted him some days before. I went to meet him at a rather strange train station where the platforms were across the street from the main ticket office and waiting hall. It was a novelty to see him and to take him to a park, where we were due to meet Vania later where we caught-up with each other.
I spent most of the next day on the internet in Vania’s home, emailing friends and starting to apply for teaching jobs in London. The plan was to live with Maki and another person in London, renting a place. Maki would continue her degree at the London College of Fashion that she interrupted to work back in Japan to save money for her return to London. And I’d get a job as a high school music teacher. May was the peak month of teaching vacancies so I was trying to get ready, get started early, although the most I could do was ask for application forms to be sent to my home, ready to fill on my arrival. Not the nest things to do upon arriving home after such a change in life.
I met Maria and some of her friends in the evening. Chris was supposed to show up but never did so we left to buy a few bottles of a local speciality: honey beer. It was sweet and strong and gave me chronic heartburn, but of course the Russians had no problem. We sat by a huge fountain, lined with huge gold statues of women, each one depicting one of the new states created by the demise of the USSR, although of course, they all looked the same to me. The surrounding area was peaceful. People were roller-skating or drinking. The area was once a large soviet exhibition, which supposedly showed the USSR’s great achievements. At one end there still remained a couple of small passenger Aeroflot planes and a small space rocket which looked old and faded. We walked around and bought kebabs which reminded me that I really was getting closer to home, and then we went home with the sun going down at around 10pm.
Again I did pretty much nothing the next day before leaving to meet Chris which was to be our last few hours together on this journey. The plan was to meet at a station at 6pm. I was hoping to take a walk around red square so I could get some photos of St. Bail’s cathedral just before dusk but again Chris showed. I waited until 7pm until I walked away thoroughly pissed off. I need to return Vania’s keys to Chris so Vania could get them (Chris was going to stay for a few more nights) so I had to go all the way back to Vania’s place to throw them under the door and back again, which was pretty much my last few hours in Russia. I did however get some nice pictures of St. Basil’s at dusk, which was surprisingly important to me. A song in Japan called “Kremlin Dusk” had meant a lot to me as it was playing when me and Aki first dated, more specifically when I first stayed over at her place and felt really happy. And I always pictures the scene of Kremlin under a nice sunset and here I was, actually in Moscow, staring at the Kremlin under a cloudless pink sky.
Monday 7 May 2007
The Wedding
I had a wedding yesterday, in a tiny place in the middle of nowhere, near Wolverhampton. Last week I booked my train tickets. It would take three and a half hours to get there and two and a half to get back on a direct train. The wedding was on a Sunday and I figured that since I had work the next day, I’d need to get there and come back in the same day, but of course, we have a bank-holiday the next day (what does the ‘bank’ part mean?!) which meant I could have stayed over and enjoyed the party in the evening.
I knew the bride from University, Grace, a girl my age who I’ve seen once in five years so I was a little surprised to be invited. She asked me to play piano before the meal. It was one of those weddings where I knew very few people there so there was a lot of awkward standing about, and walking with intent to other areas of the courtyard as if I knew everybody there, when in reality I was seeking out the 3 people I knew in the whole congregation.
As weddings usually go, it started awkwardly and quickly warmed-up with the aid of that great social lubricant, alcohol. We asked each other the same questions and as I’d describe my job, the phrase “bloody nightmare” and “can’t wait to quit” would soon follow.
So I got picked up from Wolverhampton after a long train ride and a horribly early morning for a day off and after a 5 mile drive from Grace’s brother who picked me up form the station, found myself at the church. That’s not too far I thought, I’ll be able to get a cab back to the station easily enough. But after the ceremony, we all got in cars and drove a further 15 miles to the reception venue. How on earth would I get back to Wolverhampton station?! It would cost a bomb.
I can never forget about “Four Weddings and a Funeral” when attending the meal at weddings. But I was placed at a table full of couples, apart from one brightly dressed attractive girl who seemed way too sensible to want to talk to me. You have to make quite an effort not to get drunk at weddings, what with the free champagne and wine. I played piano, finished, sat down again, and looked at my watch: 6:30pm. My train would leave at 8.30pm. That meant I had about an hour here before I’d need to leave and we hadn’t even started main course yet.
I put off having to organise anything, hoping for a magical solution, which never materialised. So I thought, oh forget it, I’ll just stay, knock myself out with booze and make sure I collapse somewhere inside, ideally with a carpet, or better still, with that sensible pink-dress girl. But suddenly, I met a friend at 7.45pm who said he was getting a cab to go back to a station which would be on the way to Wolverhampton so I got in the cab with him and after the 5 minute drive to his station, asked the cab driver if he could get to Wolverhampton station by 8.30pm. It was 8pm now, so he sped most of the way.
Twenty-eight minutes and a horrendous cab fair later, I got out at Wolverhampton station at 8.28pm. I rushed straight to the first platform where I saw a big Virgin train waiting. Ahh! Just like in the movies! Made it at the last second. It was as if everyone on the train was happy to see me and glad I had just made it in time! I thought I’d confirm with the train guard “this is to London yes?” and he said “London? No, that’s across the bridge on platform 4, you’d better hurry.” And so followed a panicked dash across the biggest railway bridge I’ve ever seen with an unnecessary amount of stairs, and the obligatory slap on the train door, from the outside, seconds after it closed on me. I’d missed it. I turned to the station attendant who said “stay here. There’s another at 9.30pm. We’ll try to get you on that one.”
So I sat for an hour. I’d forgotten to pack my book so I felt the hour going by slowly as I played snake on my ancient phone, lost interested, realised there was nothing else to do in Wolverhampton on a Sunday night, played snake again, got bored etc. 9.30pm came, as did the train. The station attendant told me to speak to the train guard and explain that I’d missed the train before. I immediately know this train guard was an utter bastard. For a start he was from London.
“No sir, you needed to be on the train before.”
“Yes but the wedding overran, I missed the train by seconds. Can I not just get on this one? It doesn’t look busy at all,”
“No sir, you read the terms and conditions of the train ticket yes?”
“Er… what?”
“Yes? And you would have read that you can’t ride on any other train than the one you missed.”
“But this is the last train to London.”
“Do you have £80 sir? The ticket will cost you £80.”
“Oh come on. I’ve already paid… I…”
“It’s £80. Goodbye sir.”
And the train went. That was it. 9.30pm in Wolverhampton, 140 miles from home. On a Sunday night. Having missed the last train to London. I was stunned that such bastards existed. Well, no, I’d met them before. They’d knocked me off my bicycle and they worked at my school.
So I exited the station trying to engage my brain. Maybe I could get a coach? I walked through Wolverhampton and found a coach station.
“Are there any coaches to London left tonight?” I asked. It was now 10pm.
“Er… yes, a 2am to London.”
That was it. I really didn’t want to be on a coach all through the night.
“But if you get a local bus to Birmingham, you’ll be able to get an earlier coach since they leave every hour there, on the hour.”
Great. So I took this local bus into Birmingham, which took an hour and a half with the last half hour spend standing by the driver so he could tell me where to get off.
So at 11.30pm I found myself in the middle of Birmingham. After asking three people, I found the coach station and went into the dingy lonely waiting room. Ah! There it is! The 12am coach to London… oh… no, from London. I was looking at the arrivals board. So where was the departures list? So, it turns out there is no 12am coach to London, and no 1am coach, and not even a 2am coach. The first coach to London was at 3am. How is it that every thing is wrong?!
After a few minutes of throwing my fists around as if having some kind of psychotic boxing match with an invisible person, I started wandering around drizzly Birmingham, now desperately tired, looking for a place to just wait and lie down.
I had just over 3 hours to kill. God I hate killing time, so much. But I had no choice. So there I was, still in wedding attire, looking for a dark spot to settle down for three hours. I found a set of empty market stalls, under a roof. I didn’t want to lie on the filthy ground so I needed something to lie on. I figured a bin-bag would do it. So I took one of the stuffed bin backs from the back of a pub and went to a large bin to empty it. I was lucky as the bag contained old pub curtains. So I took one of these and wandered back to the stalls. I put down a curtain and lied down, like some high-class tramp in my suit. But people kept walking by, and some guy pissed on the ground just a few yards away from me. So I needed a new spot. I wandered around for about an hour looking for a suitably dark spot, so tired by now. I settled for a shabby lorry park behind some lorries so I couldn’t be pissed on by any drunken clubbers walking home. Of course I couldn’t sleep. I don’t know if it was the fear of being found by some nutter, or having one of the lorries suddenly reverse over my face, or the stink of the smoke on the curtains. But eventually 2.30am came so I got up, freezing and stiff, and walked to the lonely coach station.
The ticket machines weren’t working properly. Of course. Why should they?! That would have been way too much to ask. Only on the six attempt did the machine randomly accept my debit card and spit out a paper ticket for the 3am trip home. As I was in the remarkably busy line to the coach, I was told my the driver that he couldn’t accept my ticket because the booking reference number was wrong.
“I don’t know what that means” I said, “I bought a ticket for the 3am coach.”
“No no” said some dickhead manager who came over when he heard my voice rising, I was starting to loose it “you see, the ticket machine has issued you with the wrong journey. So we can only let you on this coach if it’s not full.”
A 3am coach to London on a Sunday night is packed. How do you explain that?
I was losing it now.
“Look, what the hell?! I’ve just paid for this ticket, it has today’s date, the right route and the right time, now if you know the journey I’ve had so far…”
“Look sir, the computer has issued you with a ticket for tomorrow’s journey. The sysem’s not working properly”
“WELL THAT’S NOT MY FAULT IS IT?! THAT’S YOUR FAULT!””No sir. It’s the computer. The computer’s all wrong so…”
“SO THAT’S YOUR FAULT!”
“Well no sir, not my fault.”
“OF COURSE IT IS, YOUR COMPANY’S FAULT.”
“Well you could write a letter of complaint to …”
“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE. WE BOTH KNOW THAT FUCK-ALL WILL HAPPEN IF I WRITE A FUCKING LETTER OF COMPLAINT. NOW WILL YOU LET ME ON THIS FUCKING COACH.”
And by chance, just by chance, some polish guy wasn’t allowed on the coach so there was a spare seat for me. I got in at London Victoria station at 6.30am and into my house at 7.30am, some 8 hours later than I had planned.
I knew the bride from University, Grace, a girl my age who I’ve seen once in five years so I was a little surprised to be invited. She asked me to play piano before the meal. It was one of those weddings where I knew very few people there so there was a lot of awkward standing about, and walking with intent to other areas of the courtyard as if I knew everybody there, when in reality I was seeking out the 3 people I knew in the whole congregation.
As weddings usually go, it started awkwardly and quickly warmed-up with the aid of that great social lubricant, alcohol. We asked each other the same questions and as I’d describe my job, the phrase “bloody nightmare” and “can’t wait to quit” would soon follow.
So I got picked up from Wolverhampton after a long train ride and a horribly early morning for a day off and after a 5 mile drive from Grace’s brother who picked me up form the station, found myself at the church. That’s not too far I thought, I’ll be able to get a cab back to the station easily enough. But after the ceremony, we all got in cars and drove a further 15 miles to the reception venue. How on earth would I get back to Wolverhampton station?! It would cost a bomb.
I can never forget about “Four Weddings and a Funeral” when attending the meal at weddings. But I was placed at a table full of couples, apart from one brightly dressed attractive girl who seemed way too sensible to want to talk to me. You have to make quite an effort not to get drunk at weddings, what with the free champagne and wine. I played piano, finished, sat down again, and looked at my watch: 6:30pm. My train would leave at 8.30pm. That meant I had about an hour here before I’d need to leave and we hadn’t even started main course yet.
I put off having to organise anything, hoping for a magical solution, which never materialised. So I thought, oh forget it, I’ll just stay, knock myself out with booze and make sure I collapse somewhere inside, ideally with a carpet, or better still, with that sensible pink-dress girl. But suddenly, I met a friend at 7.45pm who said he was getting a cab to go back to a station which would be on the way to Wolverhampton so I got in the cab with him and after the 5 minute drive to his station, asked the cab driver if he could get to Wolverhampton station by 8.30pm. It was 8pm now, so he sped most of the way.
Twenty-eight minutes and a horrendous cab fair later, I got out at Wolverhampton station at 8.28pm. I rushed straight to the first platform where I saw a big Virgin train waiting. Ahh! Just like in the movies! Made it at the last second. It was as if everyone on the train was happy to see me and glad I had just made it in time! I thought I’d confirm with the train guard “this is to London yes?” and he said “London? No, that’s across the bridge on platform 4, you’d better hurry.” And so followed a panicked dash across the biggest railway bridge I’ve ever seen with an unnecessary amount of stairs, and the obligatory slap on the train door, from the outside, seconds after it closed on me. I’d missed it. I turned to the station attendant who said “stay here. There’s another at 9.30pm. We’ll try to get you on that one.”
So I sat for an hour. I’d forgotten to pack my book so I felt the hour going by slowly as I played snake on my ancient phone, lost interested, realised there was nothing else to do in Wolverhampton on a Sunday night, played snake again, got bored etc. 9.30pm came, as did the train. The station attendant told me to speak to the train guard and explain that I’d missed the train before. I immediately know this train guard was an utter bastard. For a start he was from London.
“No sir, you needed to be on the train before.”
“Yes but the wedding overran, I missed the train by seconds. Can I not just get on this one? It doesn’t look busy at all,”
“No sir, you read the terms and conditions of the train ticket yes?”
“Er… what?”
“Yes? And you would have read that you can’t ride on any other train than the one you missed.”
“But this is the last train to London.”
“Do you have £80 sir? The ticket will cost you £80.”
“Oh come on. I’ve already paid… I…”
“It’s £80. Goodbye sir.”
And the train went. That was it. 9.30pm in Wolverhampton, 140 miles from home. On a Sunday night. Having missed the last train to London. I was stunned that such bastards existed. Well, no, I’d met them before. They’d knocked me off my bicycle and they worked at my school.
So I exited the station trying to engage my brain. Maybe I could get a coach? I walked through Wolverhampton and found a coach station.
“Are there any coaches to London left tonight?” I asked. It was now 10pm.
“Er… yes, a 2am to London.”
That was it. I really didn’t want to be on a coach all through the night.
“But if you get a local bus to Birmingham, you’ll be able to get an earlier coach since they leave every hour there, on the hour.”
Great. So I took this local bus into Birmingham, which took an hour and a half with the last half hour spend standing by the driver so he could tell me where to get off.
So at 11.30pm I found myself in the middle of Birmingham. After asking three people, I found the coach station and went into the dingy lonely waiting room. Ah! There it is! The 12am coach to London… oh… no, from London. I was looking at the arrivals board. So where was the departures list? So, it turns out there is no 12am coach to London, and no 1am coach, and not even a 2am coach. The first coach to London was at 3am. How is it that every thing is wrong?!
After a few minutes of throwing my fists around as if having some kind of psychotic boxing match with an invisible person, I started wandering around drizzly Birmingham, now desperately tired, looking for a place to just wait and lie down.
I had just over 3 hours to kill. God I hate killing time, so much. But I had no choice. So there I was, still in wedding attire, looking for a dark spot to settle down for three hours. I found a set of empty market stalls, under a roof. I didn’t want to lie on the filthy ground so I needed something to lie on. I figured a bin-bag would do it. So I took one of the stuffed bin backs from the back of a pub and went to a large bin to empty it. I was lucky as the bag contained old pub curtains. So I took one of these and wandered back to the stalls. I put down a curtain and lied down, like some high-class tramp in my suit. But people kept walking by, and some guy pissed on the ground just a few yards away from me. So I needed a new spot. I wandered around for about an hour looking for a suitably dark spot, so tired by now. I settled for a shabby lorry park behind some lorries so I couldn’t be pissed on by any drunken clubbers walking home. Of course I couldn’t sleep. I don’t know if it was the fear of being found by some nutter, or having one of the lorries suddenly reverse over my face, or the stink of the smoke on the curtains. But eventually 2.30am came so I got up, freezing and stiff, and walked to the lonely coach station.
The ticket machines weren’t working properly. Of course. Why should they?! That would have been way too much to ask. Only on the six attempt did the machine randomly accept my debit card and spit out a paper ticket for the 3am trip home. As I was in the remarkably busy line to the coach, I was told my the driver that he couldn’t accept my ticket because the booking reference number was wrong.
“I don’t know what that means” I said, “I bought a ticket for the 3am coach.”
“No no” said some dickhead manager who came over when he heard my voice rising, I was starting to loose it “you see, the ticket machine has issued you with the wrong journey. So we can only let you on this coach if it’s not full.”
A 3am coach to London on a Sunday night is packed. How do you explain that?
I was losing it now.
“Look, what the hell?! I’ve just paid for this ticket, it has today’s date, the right route and the right time, now if you know the journey I’ve had so far…”
“Look sir, the computer has issued you with a ticket for tomorrow’s journey. The sysem’s not working properly”
“WELL THAT’S NOT MY FAULT IS IT?! THAT’S YOUR FAULT!””No sir. It’s the computer. The computer’s all wrong so…”
“SO THAT’S YOUR FAULT!”
“Well no sir, not my fault.”
“OF COURSE IT IS, YOUR COMPANY’S FAULT.”
“Well you could write a letter of complaint to …”
“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE. WE BOTH KNOW THAT FUCK-ALL WILL HAPPEN IF I WRITE A FUCKING LETTER OF COMPLAINT. NOW WILL YOU LET ME ON THIS FUCKING COACH.”
And by chance, just by chance, some polish guy wasn’t allowed on the coach so there was a spare seat for me. I got in at London Victoria station at 6.30am and into my house at 7.30am, some 8 hours later than I had planned.
Wednesday 18 April 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: First Day in Moscow
In the morning Roman gave me sausage and bread and offered me oranges, cake, tea and rolls. I was starting to worry about what I’d have to do upon reaching Moscow: I had no certain replies from the many globalfreeloader people who said I could stay at their place because I had moved it a day earlier and sent an email explaining this at the last minute. I figured I’d call one of the people who gave me their phone number and ask to stay, although I didn’t want to surprise anyone. As out arrival drew closer, I became more and more certain that I’d have to call someone or just find a hostel for the night. I’d only told two of the potential hosts when my train would arrive and neither had replied when I checked just before leaving for Moscow.
I got off the train, said bye and thanks to Roman and the conductor and slowly walked down the long platform, whispering “fuck fuck fuck” to myself with each new step that resulted in nobody approaching me. At one point during the journey I’d even imagined, during a moment of seemingly irrational hope, that I’d see my name in large letters on a board and that both of the hosts had turned up and were fighting over who would get me. Well, life is funny, because ten steps later that’s exactly what happened. There was my name in thick black hand-written letters being held up high by a young girl, standing next to a young guy. Both were indeed the two hosts I had contacted. She was Maria, twenty, and he was Vania, nineteen, who I had assumed wrongly was a woman. I was ecstatic and relieved these strangers were here only to help me. What a nice feeling that was.
She was ridiculously talkative and geeky, overjoyed I had come to visit her city and got us immediately on a metro to go to a park, chat and drink beer. It was 5pm. He was much more laid back and slower in general although his interest in me seemed a little less superficial than hers. He had bum-fluff on his chin, long hair with natural tight curls and a dopy demeanour. These guys were barely out of high school! It felt a little strange to be older. I don’t know why but I’d expected them to be in their late twenties with families and regular lives. Maria was a part-time student who worked as a website editor and Vania was a full time Theatre Arts Criticism student. There was a clear edge of competition between them as they asked me questions and told me what they did as if they were fighting to see who would be the greater host. Moscow looked nice immediately, which was a first on this journey, and as we sat drinking in the park, surrounded by hippies and Goths, I realised Moscow was a real city with all walks of life and I only had to look around to tell how close to Europe I was now.
Vania left to get back to his studies, having said he’d host me after Maria, who then took me to the Red Square, clearly Moscow’s most touristy area. As we walked I looked around for the Kremlin and saw a few Kremliny-looking churches, one of which was actually a part of the Kremlin. When I asked Maria, “is this church the Kremlin?” she replied that the whole square was the Kremlin and this church, St. Basil’s was just a part of it. I thought, these are the kinds of things you learn when you travel and delve beyond popular knowledge. That or I’m just a bit thick.
St. Basil’s was so colourful, much more so than in any pictures, and so pristine and obviously impeccably maintained, just like all of Russia’s churches from what I had seen. Maria’s family was very religious. Her mum was an Icon painter, she made those orthodox pictures of Christ you always see in big traditional churches, or any church in Russia.
After a fairly long bus ride to her estate (she lived in a huge block of flats, one of about ten in that area), I was treated to a traditional Russian meal, featuring lots of fish, salad and potatoes, with a side of too much church red wine. Maria drunk it like water while I struggled with my small glassful. She had been calling people on her Nokia all the time since I met her but no one wanted to go out as it was Easter weekend and everyone was at home with their families.
Maria’s geeky constant-use-of-progressive-tense English was already starting to get annoying and at first I didn’t know why, after all, here was someone who was only helping me. But later I realised it was because she never actually listened to anything I said and only asked questions to set up a story or topic she wanted to talk about. And this was all with a flat intonation except at the end of every sentence that would incur a rise in pitch, making everything sound like a questions or more dramatic than the actually words or point justified. None the less, she was nice and after a visit to the one friend of hers who’d have us round (even though all we did was watch him play a computer game; he was another geek), I went to sleep with the aid of cranberry wine which we had started drinking a few hours before. The Russians drink more than any other nation I’d known about. To them I was a laughable lightweight.
I got off the train, said bye and thanks to Roman and the conductor and slowly walked down the long platform, whispering “fuck fuck fuck” to myself with each new step that resulted in nobody approaching me. At one point during the journey I’d even imagined, during a moment of seemingly irrational hope, that I’d see my name in large letters on a board and that both of the hosts had turned up and were fighting over who would get me. Well, life is funny, because ten steps later that’s exactly what happened. There was my name in thick black hand-written letters being held up high by a young girl, standing next to a young guy. Both were indeed the two hosts I had contacted. She was Maria, twenty, and he was Vania, nineteen, who I had assumed wrongly was a woman. I was ecstatic and relieved these strangers were here only to help me. What a nice feeling that was.
She was ridiculously talkative and geeky, overjoyed I had come to visit her city and got us immediately on a metro to go to a park, chat and drink beer. It was 5pm. He was much more laid back and slower in general although his interest in me seemed a little less superficial than hers. He had bum-fluff on his chin, long hair with natural tight curls and a dopy demeanour. These guys were barely out of high school! It felt a little strange to be older. I don’t know why but I’d expected them to be in their late twenties with families and regular lives. Maria was a part-time student who worked as a website editor and Vania was a full time Theatre Arts Criticism student. There was a clear edge of competition between them as they asked me questions and told me what they did as if they were fighting to see who would be the greater host. Moscow looked nice immediately, which was a first on this journey, and as we sat drinking in the park, surrounded by hippies and Goths, I realised Moscow was a real city with all walks of life and I only had to look around to tell how close to Europe I was now.
Vania left to get back to his studies, having said he’d host me after Maria, who then took me to the Red Square, clearly Moscow’s most touristy area. As we walked I looked around for the Kremlin and saw a few Kremliny-looking churches, one of which was actually a part of the Kremlin. When I asked Maria, “is this church the Kremlin?” she replied that the whole square was the Kremlin and this church, St. Basil’s was just a part of it. I thought, these are the kinds of things you learn when you travel and delve beyond popular knowledge. That or I’m just a bit thick.
St. Basil’s was so colourful, much more so than in any pictures, and so pristine and obviously impeccably maintained, just like all of Russia’s churches from what I had seen. Maria’s family was very religious. Her mum was an Icon painter, she made those orthodox pictures of Christ you always see in big traditional churches, or any church in Russia.
After a fairly long bus ride to her estate (she lived in a huge block of flats, one of about ten in that area), I was treated to a traditional Russian meal, featuring lots of fish, salad and potatoes, with a side of too much church red wine. Maria drunk it like water while I struggled with my small glassful. She had been calling people on her Nokia all the time since I met her but no one wanted to go out as it was Easter weekend and everyone was at home with their families.
Maria’s geeky constant-use-of-progressive-tense English was already starting to get annoying and at first I didn’t know why, after all, here was someone who was only helping me. But later I realised it was because she never actually listened to anything I said and only asked questions to set up a story or topic she wanted to talk about. And this was all with a flat intonation except at the end of every sentence that would incur a rise in pitch, making everything sound like a questions or more dramatic than the actually words or point justified. None the less, she was nice and after a visit to the one friend of hers who’d have us round (even though all we did was watch him play a computer game; he was another geek), I went to sleep with the aid of cranberry wine which we had started drinking a few hours before. The Russians drink more than any other nation I’d known about. To them I was a laughable lightweight.
Thursday 15 February 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: Yekaterinburg
Again we had no accommodation set up in Yekaterinburg and I had decided to get to Moscow a day earlier than planned so the first thing we did was book our onward tickets. Fabio to St. Petersburg and me to Moscow. Next we asked some people how to get into town and they told us to take tram number seven but we went in the wrong direction and ended up in the suburbs. Two trams and a helpful guy later, we got to where we wanted to go, only to find, surprise surprise, that the Lonely Planet was well out of date and there was no accommodation agency or internet café, as marked in the thoroughly useless Lonely Planet. So we just walked into the nearest large hotel and stayed there. We paid a reasonable rate for our rooms and as we walked through the corridor to our room, we observed the plush doors and thought how lucky we were to get such good value for money. Then the corridor darkened, the doors became less frequent and the décor took a turn for the worse. Yes, this was the budget corner. We had to pay extra to have a shower. In fact, this is a common theme in Russia, where you have to pay extra for something you would expect to get with your original payment. For example, when you buy a sleeper ticket on a train you have to pay 52 roubles extra to have sheets on your bed. And you aren’t allowed to not have sheets on your bed. And you can’t use your own sheets. It’s like buying a car but having to pay extra for the engine.
Yekaterinburg was much nicer than Novosibirsk. It seemed the further west we travelled across Russia the more pleasant the landscape, the weather, the towns and the people. Yekaterinburg featured parks, European style streets and well presented shops and restaurants. On the flip side, just like the previous Russian cities I’d seen, there were large derelict areas, crumbling buildings and many people wandering around with a bottle in hand, especially after 6pm and at the weekend.
That evening was to be mine and Fabio’s last night together and by chance we found an amazing restaurant with a nice English speaking manager. We could help ourselves as many times as we wanted from a large selection of salads, fish, meat dishes, breads, vegetables, fruit, cakes and other desserts. Having spent over three hours sampling everything, Fabio wanted us to go to a nightclub, but the frustration in Irkustk was enough for me. I accompanied him anyway and we found an area with two clubs and followed some people to see which club was the more popular. They happened to be a nice group of four nineteen year-olds, three of whom could speak pretty good English. One of that three was a really beautiful girl called Vera who immediately took Fabio’s interest. I could see where this was heading so after chatting to them on the street for an hour, I headed back to the hotel by myself. Fabio was 35, which made him almost double her age and sure enough, as he reported happily the next morning, he made-out with her in the club. Fabio was a nice guy but there were times when I was reminded of what a player he was, and his constant Italian-style lust for new women could get grating from time to time.
The morning was grey and cold but slowly the sun poked through clearing cloud as me and Fabio wandered around Yekaterinburg, in and out of shops, amused at the securitisation from the beefy security guards in every shop. It seemed in Russia that everyone was guilty until proven innocent, and the constant holes being burnt into me were unsettling. Fabio met Vera at 3pm which I attended for the first few minutes before saying goodbye to Fabio for good. I headed back to the hotel to pick-up my bag and got the surprisingly roomy and gothic-looking metro to the main railway station. My last impression of Yekaterinburg was being met with a shrug of the shoulders as I showed the metro ticket woman where I wanted to go. Perhaps she forgot it was her job to give tickets to people or she couldn’t make the link between a tourist with a backpack holding a note with the name of a metro station written on it (in Russian) and the fact that I might want a ticket in order to get there. A shrug of the shoulders?! I was truly sick of this attitude, having encountered it for so long now. The conductor on the platform looked nice, which was a good start. Maybe this last epic train ride across Russia would be great, and it was. One of the passengers, a guy called Roman, took me under his wing, actually having asked that I be moved into his room, having discovered I was stuck with some old grumpy farts. He paid for my bed sheets without even telling me and proceeded to pay for snacks and beer for the rest of the evening. At one point he unpacked a huge hack of smoked salmon, longer than my head and about six centimetres thick, and cut it up for us. He explained he was in military school but was working right now for the army in administration in Moscow. The other guy in our compartment was also in military school who couldn’t speak English but after a few beers, spoke fluently to me in Russian anyway. I quickly got drunk on the strong beer and had a great time. Even the carriage conductor got friendly with us, providing us with tea and occasionally sitting with us, chatting and laughing. And the train was by far the best I’d been on. Polished wooden panelling, spotless rails and handles and shiny metal fixtures made it look brand new. I felt just great as I chatted to Roman between bouts of listening to feel-good dance music on his mp3 player and drinking the beer. His kindness was so natural as if he did this kind of thing every day.
Yekaterinburg was much nicer than Novosibirsk. It seemed the further west we travelled across Russia the more pleasant the landscape, the weather, the towns and the people. Yekaterinburg featured parks, European style streets and well presented shops and restaurants. On the flip side, just like the previous Russian cities I’d seen, there were large derelict areas, crumbling buildings and many people wandering around with a bottle in hand, especially after 6pm and at the weekend.
That evening was to be mine and Fabio’s last night together and by chance we found an amazing restaurant with a nice English speaking manager. We could help ourselves as many times as we wanted from a large selection of salads, fish, meat dishes, breads, vegetables, fruit, cakes and other desserts. Having spent over three hours sampling everything, Fabio wanted us to go to a nightclub, but the frustration in Irkustk was enough for me. I accompanied him anyway and we found an area with two clubs and followed some people to see which club was the more popular. They happened to be a nice group of four nineteen year-olds, three of whom could speak pretty good English. One of that three was a really beautiful girl called Vera who immediately took Fabio’s interest. I could see where this was heading so after chatting to them on the street for an hour, I headed back to the hotel by myself. Fabio was 35, which made him almost double her age and sure enough, as he reported happily the next morning, he made-out with her in the club. Fabio was a nice guy but there were times when I was reminded of what a player he was, and his constant Italian-style lust for new women could get grating from time to time.
The morning was grey and cold but slowly the sun poked through clearing cloud as me and Fabio wandered around Yekaterinburg, in and out of shops, amused at the securitisation from the beefy security guards in every shop. It seemed in Russia that everyone was guilty until proven innocent, and the constant holes being burnt into me were unsettling. Fabio met Vera at 3pm which I attended for the first few minutes before saying goodbye to Fabio for good. I headed back to the hotel to pick-up my bag and got the surprisingly roomy and gothic-looking metro to the main railway station. My last impression of Yekaterinburg was being met with a shrug of the shoulders as I showed the metro ticket woman where I wanted to go. Perhaps she forgot it was her job to give tickets to people or she couldn’t make the link between a tourist with a backpack holding a note with the name of a metro station written on it (in Russian) and the fact that I might want a ticket in order to get there. A shrug of the shoulders?! I was truly sick of this attitude, having encountered it for so long now. The conductor on the platform looked nice, which was a good start. Maybe this last epic train ride across Russia would be great, and it was. One of the passengers, a guy called Roman, took me under his wing, actually having asked that I be moved into his room, having discovered I was stuck with some old grumpy farts. He paid for my bed sheets without even telling me and proceeded to pay for snacks and beer for the rest of the evening. At one point he unpacked a huge hack of smoked salmon, longer than my head and about six centimetres thick, and cut it up for us. He explained he was in military school but was working right now for the army in administration in Moscow. The other guy in our compartment was also in military school who couldn’t speak English but after a few beers, spoke fluently to me in Russian anyway. I quickly got drunk on the strong beer and had a great time. Even the carriage conductor got friendly with us, providing us with tea and occasionally sitting with us, chatting and laughing. And the train was by far the best I’d been on. Polished wooden panelling, spotless rails and handles and shiny metal fixtures made it look brand new. I felt just great as I chatted to Roman between bouts of listening to feel-good dance music on his mp3 player and drinking the beer. His kindness was so natural as if he did this kind of thing every day.
Wednesday 31 January 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: Novosibirsk
As soon as we got off the train we booked out next train, to leave at 7pm the next day, giving us around thirty hours in a very grey dreary-looking Novosibirsk. The ground was covered in a layer of mud and melting snow, which made for pretty slow progress. We had no accommodation lined up so we found the accommodation agency and in the station and eventually settled on a room near the station. Fabio’s Lonely Planet said many people spoke English at the station but in fact nobody spoke a word, not so much as a single “hello”.
Our room was in a nearby apartment ran by a sweet old lady who showed us where everything was, from the shower to the spoons. I had no plan other than to call Maki as today was her birthday but I never thought it would take a total of four hours to be able to make the call. As I bounced from railway station to kiosk to post office to phone exchange, I got more and more frustrated. It seemed impossible to make an international phone call. I was constantly given wrong information and when I eventually got the right 100 roubles card, it gave me a measly eight minutes to call Tokyo. Novosibirsk was a little better than Irkustk although once again everybody still seemed to be walking around with a bottle. After a good meal in a good restaurant, I called Maki and chatted for ninety minutes since she called me back.
The next day brought a different landlady who, like most Russians I saw, couldn’t smile and would only complain. She made noises that suggested we should have checked out by 10am, even though every other place I had ever stayed at was 12pm. When I picked up my bags, having asked her if it was OK to leave them, she told me I was terrible (I recognised the Russian, which sounds something like “blockka”) and asked for a hundred roubles I fled to the station to meet Fabio there, not particularly bothered that my name in Novosibirsk was now forever muddied, just like the streets. Fabio and I developed a mantra to express our understanding of Russia so far:
“In Russia the land is hard, the weather is hard so the people are hard” and it really was true. From day one in Russia we didn’t come across any real warmth in people, just cold moody faces, bitter indifference (if there is such a thing) and icy reluctance to do anything to help us. In terms of providing any kind of service, Russia is similar to China: things will only get done if you beg people to do them, regardless of the fact that you may have paid a lot of money for them to provide the service in the first place. And so my soul sank further as I was met on the platform by an icy pissed-off middle aged woman who seemed to immediately despise me for no apparent reason.
But lo and behold we struck lucky. In our compartment was a beautiful cute English talking young woman who was warm and friendly with a keen sense of humour. She made the journey go much quicker and reassured me that there are some nice people in the ice-hell that is Siberia. Like Japan, Russia is a nation where the men seem to be very different from the women.
Our room was in a nearby apartment ran by a sweet old lady who showed us where everything was, from the shower to the spoons. I had no plan other than to call Maki as today was her birthday but I never thought it would take a total of four hours to be able to make the call. As I bounced from railway station to kiosk to post office to phone exchange, I got more and more frustrated. It seemed impossible to make an international phone call. I was constantly given wrong information and when I eventually got the right 100 roubles card, it gave me a measly eight minutes to call Tokyo. Novosibirsk was a little better than Irkustk although once again everybody still seemed to be walking around with a bottle. After a good meal in a good restaurant, I called Maki and chatted for ninety minutes since she called me back.
The next day brought a different landlady who, like most Russians I saw, couldn’t smile and would only complain. She made noises that suggested we should have checked out by 10am, even though every other place I had ever stayed at was 12pm. When I picked up my bags, having asked her if it was OK to leave them, she told me I was terrible (I recognised the Russian, which sounds something like “blockka”) and asked for a hundred roubles I fled to the station to meet Fabio there, not particularly bothered that my name in Novosibirsk was now forever muddied, just like the streets. Fabio and I developed a mantra to express our understanding of Russia so far:
“In Russia the land is hard, the weather is hard so the people are hard” and it really was true. From day one in Russia we didn’t come across any real warmth in people, just cold moody faces, bitter indifference (if there is such a thing) and icy reluctance to do anything to help us. In terms of providing any kind of service, Russia is similar to China: things will only get done if you beg people to do them, regardless of the fact that you may have paid a lot of money for them to provide the service in the first place. And so my soul sank further as I was met on the platform by an icy pissed-off middle aged woman who seemed to immediately despise me for no apparent reason.
But lo and behold we struck lucky. In our compartment was a beautiful cute English talking young woman who was warm and friendly with a keen sense of humour. She made the journey go much quicker and reassured me that there are some nice people in the ice-hell that is Siberia. Like Japan, Russia is a nation where the men seem to be very different from the women.
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: On the train
We got a cab to the station as Fabio was understandably concerned we’d get set-upon. We were in separate carriages: 1 and 17, so we said goodnight and boarded. My bed was in a four-bed compartment with one other young lady who didn’t speak any English at all. Russians are unsmiling and serious upon first meeting and she was no exception. Since it was late I just wanted to sleep but these scary skin headed young tattooed guys kept coming in to chat to her while drinking beer, slamming doors and allowing their mobile phones to ring. At 3am I eventually worked up the courage to point at the main light just above me (I was in a top bunk) and asked that she use her reading light instead. I didn’t understand her response and when I turned the main light off she blew-up and turned it back on again. What a bitch. There was simply no reason to keep this light on other than to stop me from sleeping. As she was sat on the bottom bunk, speaking to a person opposite her, it made no sense to have the main light on for her. Truly scared that some soldier might stab me or similar, I stayed quiet until 4.30am when she decided she didn’t need the main light but continued animated chatter with these rough guys until around 6am where she slept for three hours. I know this because I laid awake counting the passing hours, occasionally muttering “what a bitch”.
That day was spent entirely on the train and things got better and better as the day progressed. In the morning I walked to Fabio’s carriage which took about fifteen minutes and involved fighting through the sweaty smelly third class, jumping between carriages and ducking under the hard stares of the female carriage conductors for whom we have to be entirely submissive too. Later that morning, two big Russian men settled in my compartment which I was pleased about as they would prevent the super-bitch from doing another light-on/chatting all-nighter. In the afternoon I met Fabio for lunch in the restaurant carriage and decided to opt for the ‘can’t beat them join them’ mentality and got chatting with the soldiers. Well, I say chatting but it was just guessing mixed with animated gestures. They were interested in me but only in a novelty kind of way, like I was a freak show. One guy kept pestering me to see my mp3 player and I let him handle it. Then I think he said words to the effect of ‘I’ll borrow this until you get off the train ok?’ and off he went.
The two big Russian men, stubbly and gruff, about fifty years old, were strange in their response to me: every time they’d see me, one of them would explode into real fits of hearty laughter and the other would chuckle in that kind of ‘I’m only laughing because you are’ way. Perhaps he was a tad retarded. Mid-evening they got off and two beautiful thirty-something women took their place. One of them was keen to talk and although she only knew a tiny amount of English (and French), we communicated pretty well. I discovered they were both single mothers who worked in the same business together and were going home to Novosibirsk, my destination. We had a good laugh together and I felt wonderfully reassured when I told them about super-bitch woman and the more talkative one responded with “I’m big boss” with super-woman style gestures. I could feel the passing soldier’s eyes on me and could guess their conversation:
“how does a weird foreigner like that get to talk to women like that?”. Indeed, super-bitch woman made a brief appearance and seemed a little intimidated as she took some of her stuff and retreated, probably to a soldier’s compartment. These pretty ladies, Ann and Katarina, completely changed the mood of the journey for me and Ann in particular was so helpful. She even found the soldier with my mp3 player and demanded he gave it back to me now as I hadn’t known he wanted to borrow it.
That day was spent entirely on the train and things got better and better as the day progressed. In the morning I walked to Fabio’s carriage which took about fifteen minutes and involved fighting through the sweaty smelly third class, jumping between carriages and ducking under the hard stares of the female carriage conductors for whom we have to be entirely submissive too. Later that morning, two big Russian men settled in my compartment which I was pleased about as they would prevent the super-bitch from doing another light-on/chatting all-nighter. In the afternoon I met Fabio for lunch in the restaurant carriage and decided to opt for the ‘can’t beat them join them’ mentality and got chatting with the soldiers. Well, I say chatting but it was just guessing mixed with animated gestures. They were interested in me but only in a novelty kind of way, like I was a freak show. One guy kept pestering me to see my mp3 player and I let him handle it. Then I think he said words to the effect of ‘I’ll borrow this until you get off the train ok?’ and off he went.
The two big Russian men, stubbly and gruff, about fifty years old, were strange in their response to me: every time they’d see me, one of them would explode into real fits of hearty laughter and the other would chuckle in that kind of ‘I’m only laughing because you are’ way. Perhaps he was a tad retarded. Mid-evening they got off and two beautiful thirty-something women took their place. One of them was keen to talk and although she only knew a tiny amount of English (and French), we communicated pretty well. I discovered they were both single mothers who worked in the same business together and were going home to Novosibirsk, my destination. We had a good laugh together and I felt wonderfully reassured when I told them about super-bitch woman and the more talkative one responded with “I’m big boss” with super-woman style gestures. I could feel the passing soldier’s eyes on me and could guess their conversation:
“how does a weird foreigner like that get to talk to women like that?”. Indeed, super-bitch woman made a brief appearance and seemed a little intimidated as she took some of her stuff and retreated, probably to a soldier’s compartment. These pretty ladies, Ann and Katarina, completely changed the mood of the journey for me and Ann in particular was so helpful. She even found the soldier with my mp3 player and demanded he gave it back to me now as I hadn’t known he wanted to borrow it.
Tuesday 30 January 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: Thinking of Aki and Maki
We got the 10.30am bus back to Irkustk main town and just lazed around until our train that evening which would leave at 1.20am. I posed a letter I’d written to Maki. Aki was ending me emails that just made me feel bad, sad, guilty but also a little angry. It was clear she wanted to make me feel bad and that had been a continuing theme for the last half of our relationship. I remember how she would express that I always wanted to be with friends, female friends, and never had time for her, and never gave her enough attention. Aki wanted to visit me in July, which seemed strange to me. It was always known that when I leave we’ll always be in touch but we couldn’t continue romantically. We both knew it but Aki wouldn’t accept it and hated my acceptance of it. Regardless of the time bomb nature of our relationship, we never fitted right. We survived mostly of a need not to be lonely. Her loneliness came from being single with no marriage prospects aged twenty-eight and a father who died in a car crash when she was nineteen, an age at which she was just starting to get to know her father. My loneliness came from being in a completely foreign country and not being entirely happy about it. I had no true close friends when I met Aki and I lived in a small apartment with two other guys with whom I had nothing in common. There was Jon, a twenty-two year old Canadian who had just graduated and spent all his time on his laptop, chatting to his Canadian friends on MSN, downloading Canadian basketball games and watching movies. He hardly went out and his tap-tap-tapping from his room next to me drove me crazy and would only cease at around 3 or 4am. The other guy was Kelly, a twenty-six year old Aussie who had moved into our place having already been in Japan for a year. He had a small squeaky Japanese girlfriend who would come round two or three evenings a week and generally get in the way. The place wasn’t big enough for three, let alone four people. It was in these conditions I met Aki and I was absolutely determined to make it work with her. In that determination I turned a blind eye to our suitability to each other and just fed off the non-lonely buzz the relationship gave me; gave us. Her single apartment was a sanctuary from my cluttered flat but it all happened to quickly. After our first night in the same bed a panic hit me and wouldn’t go away for three or four weeks. I still can’t quite explain it but I think it was a snowball effect: the first sign of my panic made me think “oh no! I’m going to ruin this relationship. She’s going to leave me because I’m just a ball of stress” which made me panic more. My base fear was that she’d leave me and I’d be on my own again and would have to return to England as the guy who couldn’t deal with being in Japan. Simple put, as soon as we got together, I fell quickly in love and became terrified that she might leave me. She never did. Over time, things became inverted: I was more confident and more integrated into Japan, and ironically Aki helped that to happen. Aki became scared that I’d leave her and increasingly jealous of all my other friends, especially my female friends.
I met Aki at Nova, the private English conversation school I worked at. She was a student and it was a big no-no to even socialise with the ‘clients’, let alone date them. So that added to my fear: would someone find out? If she left me would and thought I was a bastard would she tell Nova? Would I get sacked? It was a secret I desperately wanted to tell everyone but I simply couldn’t, it drove me nuts and certainly added to my loneliness.
I met Maki about a year into the relationship. She was one of the reception staff at my branch of Nova and the immediate intensity of our genuine friendship was a feeling I hadn’t had for a long time. We saw each other lots but nothing happened. She actually lived with me for the last five months of my time in Japan along with Scott, a fellow teacher who needed a place to stay. Jon and Kelly had long since moved out, as had Anthony and Sam, their replacements with whom I did have a lot in common and life in my apartment was great.
Everyone at Nova thought me and Maki were a couple but we were both confused as to the true nature of our friendship. As my departure date grew nearer, I grew nearer to Maki and further from Aki, but not in that order. In the last few weeks before I left, me and Maki couldn’t see enough of each other. She had lived in London for two years as a student in the London College of Fashion and was planning to return in the summer to continue her studies, having taken a few years work in Japan to save up some money. We made a plan to live together in London. I would return to the UK in early May, find a flat, find a job and have things ready for her return. My letter to Maki confirmed how much I wanted to do this and above all, to be with her.
Aki is classically beautiful, slender, with a slightly wide face with gives her a very cute look, as well as beautiful. Her wavy shoulder-length dark brown hair compliments her face perfectly. She smiles easily and I was immediately attracted to the ease at which she spoke to people, whether it was in her first language or not. On out first date she described herself as a moody person and a faithful person. She lived up to her self-analysis but was also incredibly in need of affection, unlike anyone else I’d met. Many times I was reminded of how fiercely ‘Japanese’ she was: unable to express deep-rooted emotions, practical, organised, unable to just let go, and very domesticated.
Maki is eight years younger, shorter, less concerned about her weight, cute, with a round face and sexy over-one-eye thick black hair, long at the front and shorter around her head. She allowed her time in the UK to compliment her characteristics and embraced the chance to break out of her Japanese culture. Her ability to look at Japan from an outsider’s point of view allows her to understand my view of Japan. Aki and Maki are both incredibly kind, as many Japanese people are.
I met Aki at Nova, the private English conversation school I worked at. She was a student and it was a big no-no to even socialise with the ‘clients’, let alone date them. So that added to my fear: would someone find out? If she left me would and thought I was a bastard would she tell Nova? Would I get sacked? It was a secret I desperately wanted to tell everyone but I simply couldn’t, it drove me nuts and certainly added to my loneliness.
I met Maki about a year into the relationship. She was one of the reception staff at my branch of Nova and the immediate intensity of our genuine friendship was a feeling I hadn’t had for a long time. We saw each other lots but nothing happened. She actually lived with me for the last five months of my time in Japan along with Scott, a fellow teacher who needed a place to stay. Jon and Kelly had long since moved out, as had Anthony and Sam, their replacements with whom I did have a lot in common and life in my apartment was great.
Everyone at Nova thought me and Maki were a couple but we were both confused as to the true nature of our friendship. As my departure date grew nearer, I grew nearer to Maki and further from Aki, but not in that order. In the last few weeks before I left, me and Maki couldn’t see enough of each other. She had lived in London for two years as a student in the London College of Fashion and was planning to return in the summer to continue her studies, having taken a few years work in Japan to save up some money. We made a plan to live together in London. I would return to the UK in early May, find a flat, find a job and have things ready for her return. My letter to Maki confirmed how much I wanted to do this and above all, to be with her.
Aki is classically beautiful, slender, with a slightly wide face with gives her a very cute look, as well as beautiful. Her wavy shoulder-length dark brown hair compliments her face perfectly. She smiles easily and I was immediately attracted to the ease at which she spoke to people, whether it was in her first language or not. On out first date she described herself as a moody person and a faithful person. She lived up to her self-analysis but was also incredibly in need of affection, unlike anyone else I’d met. Many times I was reminded of how fiercely ‘Japanese’ she was: unable to express deep-rooted emotions, practical, organised, unable to just let go, and very domesticated.
Maki is eight years younger, shorter, less concerned about her weight, cute, with a round face and sexy over-one-eye thick black hair, long at the front and shorter around her head. She allowed her time in the UK to compliment her characteristics and embraced the chance to break out of her Japanese culture. Her ability to look at Japan from an outsider’s point of view allows her to understand my view of Japan. Aki and Maki are both incredibly kind, as many Japanese people are.
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: Lake Baikal
I woke at 11.30am and me and Fabio got our stuff ready to go into town to catch a bus for Lake Baikal, a huger frozen late which took the train thirty minutes to pass the previous morning.
In town we shopped in a supermarket in which we had to put our bags in a locker before entering and collect on the way out. Fabio was asked to empty his pockets. I was slowly coming to the conclusion that I look a little Russian, having received no strange looks since entering Russia.
The bus arrived in a small village which seemed to be a tourist spot for the locals. Families had packed and were drinking beer and eating incredibly fresh smoked fish by the lake. I tried some myself. It was the lightest flakiest fish I had ever had, probably no more than four hours fresh and it was delicious. I just ate everything, leaving a cartoon-style head and bones which I’d never actually seen in real life.
We walked onto the lake, an amazing sensation, and I immediately fell over. It was covered with a few inches of snow but when I brushed it aside and looked into the ice I couldn’t help but think how thin it looked. A puddle formed in the area where I was standing. In fact there were many puddles of melting ice on the lake which discouraged me from venturing far.
We went back to our incredibly simple hostel which was by the lake to relax before dinner. Our room was panelled entirely in chipboard and had a large and extremely out of place light fixing on the roof which upon closer inspection had a small pile of dead flies in each of the three lamp-shades.
The sun was still well up when we headed out for dinner at around 8pm. We passed a group of young guys drinking on the street who may or may not have called out to us, I couldn’t tell. Once inside I looked at the Russian menu and the two unimpressed old women by the counter and asked Fabio if he’d go back to get his Italian Lonely Planet to help us with the menu items. Our hostel was barely a few minute’s walk away but Fabio had been gone for ten minutes. Our table was by the window and as I looked around, an ugly feeling grew inside me. Men were wandering around, drinking, not smiling, aimless. I started to worry for Fabio. It seems the bloody Lonely Planet had got me in trouble again. He thirty-five I reminded myself. He’s not stupid. But then I saw some people gather near a car. One swung a punch at another, full in the face, who in turn punched back and they started kicking each other. A man got between and separated them but seconds later they were doing it again. My stomach leapt: was one of these people Fabio? I looked carefully from where I sat, wanting to press myself against the window to get a good view but not wanting to draw to much attention to myself. He wasn’t there. So where the hell was he? He’d been gone thirty minutes now. The fighting continued down the street and I noticed small groups of people, some young girls, watching with no intention of stopping the brutality that was going on. It hit me: this is Siberia. The land here is hard. The weather is hard. The people are hard. I was very nervous as I finally struck up the courage to leave the restaurant and rushed back to the hostel, hoping Fabio had just fallen asleep or something. A very nervous Fabio was sat on the bed looking like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Fabio, are you OK? What happened?” He looked stunned.
“Oh is terrible! When I walk back, I walk past some girls, I say hello and suddenly this man runs up to me. He says something in Russian but when I reply he punch me in the face. There were two of them. And one of them try to break my nose with his head. Then he try to force my head down on his legs, like a wrestler. Is crazy. Like animals. And their eyes. Their cold blue eyes. Oh. Is terrible.” He’d been set upon by drunken young guys, obviously bored and looking for a fight. I tried to calm him down. What a hell-hole this village was. Suddenly we felt so alone. No police. Nobody who cares about us. He told me how he ran to the hostel and was shouting for help. When he got to the hostel, the owner just looked at him and laughed.
“I think this is not the first time it happen” he said. So we stayed in our chipboard room, prisoners in our hostel, very afraid to go out.
In town we shopped in a supermarket in which we had to put our bags in a locker before entering and collect on the way out. Fabio was asked to empty his pockets. I was slowly coming to the conclusion that I look a little Russian, having received no strange looks since entering Russia.
The bus arrived in a small village which seemed to be a tourist spot for the locals. Families had packed and were drinking beer and eating incredibly fresh smoked fish by the lake. I tried some myself. It was the lightest flakiest fish I had ever had, probably no more than four hours fresh and it was delicious. I just ate everything, leaving a cartoon-style head and bones which I’d never actually seen in real life.
We walked onto the lake, an amazing sensation, and I immediately fell over. It was covered with a few inches of snow but when I brushed it aside and looked into the ice I couldn’t help but think how thin it looked. A puddle formed in the area where I was standing. In fact there were many puddles of melting ice on the lake which discouraged me from venturing far.
We went back to our incredibly simple hostel which was by the lake to relax before dinner. Our room was panelled entirely in chipboard and had a large and extremely out of place light fixing on the roof which upon closer inspection had a small pile of dead flies in each of the three lamp-shades.
The sun was still well up when we headed out for dinner at around 8pm. We passed a group of young guys drinking on the street who may or may not have called out to us, I couldn’t tell. Once inside I looked at the Russian menu and the two unimpressed old women by the counter and asked Fabio if he’d go back to get his Italian Lonely Planet to help us with the menu items. Our hostel was barely a few minute’s walk away but Fabio had been gone for ten minutes. Our table was by the window and as I looked around, an ugly feeling grew inside me. Men were wandering around, drinking, not smiling, aimless. I started to worry for Fabio. It seems the bloody Lonely Planet had got me in trouble again. He thirty-five I reminded myself. He’s not stupid. But then I saw some people gather near a car. One swung a punch at another, full in the face, who in turn punched back and they started kicking each other. A man got between and separated them but seconds later they were doing it again. My stomach leapt: was one of these people Fabio? I looked carefully from where I sat, wanting to press myself against the window to get a good view but not wanting to draw to much attention to myself. He wasn’t there. So where the hell was he? He’d been gone thirty minutes now. The fighting continued down the street and I noticed small groups of people, some young girls, watching with no intention of stopping the brutality that was going on. It hit me: this is Siberia. The land here is hard. The weather is hard. The people are hard. I was very nervous as I finally struck up the courage to leave the restaurant and rushed back to the hostel, hoping Fabio had just fallen asleep or something. A very nervous Fabio was sat on the bed looking like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Fabio, are you OK? What happened?” He looked stunned.
“Oh is terrible! When I walk back, I walk past some girls, I say hello and suddenly this man runs up to me. He says something in Russian but when I reply he punch me in the face. There were two of them. And one of them try to break my nose with his head. Then he try to force my head down on his legs, like a wrestler. Is crazy. Like animals. And their eyes. Their cold blue eyes. Oh. Is terrible.” He’d been set upon by drunken young guys, obviously bored and looking for a fight. I tried to calm him down. What a hell-hole this village was. Suddenly we felt so alone. No police. Nobody who cares about us. He told me how he ran to the hostel and was shouting for help. When he got to the hostel, the owner just looked at him and laughed.
“I think this is not the first time it happen” he said. So we stayed in our chipboard room, prisoners in our hostel, very afraid to go out.
Monday 29 January 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: Irkustk
After another good night’s sleep on a train, I woke up and realised I was by far the last to rise. Fabio told me how the shady Kazakhstan guy lived up to his first impression and had been snooping around our bags before getting off. The Mongolian guy confirmed, saying he had been poking around all of our bags. I wasn’t worried. I always sleep with my passport and money under my pillow.
We got off at 2.30pm and were met by a very Russian looking Russian whose hotel we had booked when we were in Mongolia. It was slightly euphoric to be in another new country again, now surrounded by Russians, and how Russian everybody looked: the noses pointing up at the ends, the deep-set ice-blue eyes and sturdy builds. He explained that his hostel was inspired by a time he stayed in the UB guesthouse in Ulan Bator, the hostel me and Fabio stayed at. He wanted to recreate such a place in Russia and sure enough he had done.
After a few hours, we set off to find a place to eat which was remarkably difficult. Fabio was determined to have local food, a sentiment I first shared during the first hour of searching but faded which faded away as the hours passed and my hunger increased. We stopped a group of young people for help, a few spoke a little English and helped, recommending a place that on arrival, had cheesy modernised folk music blaring and a group of five people dancing. We went away and came back an hour later when we couldn’t find anything better. A pretty young woman with unnecessarily thick eye liner guided us through the rustic-looking menu. It still amazed me how you can always find people speaking English in the most obscure places. Fabio pressed the issue in this Italian English.
“We want local food… good food… what is this?” as he pointed at the menu.
“This is soup” she replied. “Is it local soup? Good soup? I want good soup.” Slightly perplexed, she answered simply and slowly “yes.”
“OK” concluded Fabio with his thick rhythmic Italian accent, “I want this good soup.” She turned to me. I just pointed randomly and asked what it was.
“This is umm… salad… with meat… with chicken.” Fabio did the culture check for me: “is it local food?” to which she once again replied “yes”. We sat back and relaxed while we waited for our wholesome local cuisine. Fabio got tomato soup and I got a Cesar salad.
We ate as a group of six people partied to karaoke versions of Russian folk songs sung by two resident singers who didn’t ever smile. I couldn’t stop smirking as I watched these thirty and forty somethings get on down to what sounded like the demo of a cheap Casio keyboard.
Fabio had been going on about a nightclub that was recommended to him, called “Stratosphere” which was in our current town, Irkustk. Having killed a few hours in the restaurant (the club didn’t open until midnight), we went to the club, paid the huge 300 roubles entry fee and went in. Reassuringly, we had to walk through an airport-style metal detector. The signs read “no dogs, no alcohol from outside the club, no trainers, no guns, no explosives” and the bouncers wore authentic-looking combat attire. Well thank god I’m not a casually-dressed dog-loving alcoholic psychopath. And then I looked around me. I simply cannot describe the sight. If someone had taken man’s most sexy and seductive image of the perfect looking woman and created 400 variations on that theme, it would be equal to the inhabitants of this club. Their dress (mostly short skirts, high boots and outrageous tops), their attitude (icy-confident) and their bodies made for an extremely frustrating three hours. I couldn’t talk to anybody. We didn’t share a common language. And the men! These beautiful girls were with ugly old men or just-past-puberty lanky young guys. They just looked so confident and sexy. As I sat down, one again needed a breather, I’d watch girls walk past huge mirrors on the wall, dancing as they walked, pointing to themselves in a manner which spoke “you go girl!” I’d simply never seen so many beautiful girls all under one roof. Every hour or so, the lights would focus on a runway in the middle and nine models would show themselves off, the crowd would cheer and then everything would go back to how it was. An hour into the night I walked up to the bar and having no clue how to order any other drink, simply said “vodka”. I drunk it down in two big gulps and then danced for the rest of my time in the club. Unable to take it anymore, I walked home at 3.30am to light snow, still gawping at Russia’s best kept secret.
We got off at 2.30pm and were met by a very Russian looking Russian whose hotel we had booked when we were in Mongolia. It was slightly euphoric to be in another new country again, now surrounded by Russians, and how Russian everybody looked: the noses pointing up at the ends, the deep-set ice-blue eyes and sturdy builds. He explained that his hostel was inspired by a time he stayed in the UB guesthouse in Ulan Bator, the hostel me and Fabio stayed at. He wanted to recreate such a place in Russia and sure enough he had done.
After a few hours, we set off to find a place to eat which was remarkably difficult. Fabio was determined to have local food, a sentiment I first shared during the first hour of searching but faded which faded away as the hours passed and my hunger increased. We stopped a group of young people for help, a few spoke a little English and helped, recommending a place that on arrival, had cheesy modernised folk music blaring and a group of five people dancing. We went away and came back an hour later when we couldn’t find anything better. A pretty young woman with unnecessarily thick eye liner guided us through the rustic-looking menu. It still amazed me how you can always find people speaking English in the most obscure places. Fabio pressed the issue in this Italian English.
“We want local food… good food… what is this?” as he pointed at the menu.
“This is soup” she replied. “Is it local soup? Good soup? I want good soup.” Slightly perplexed, she answered simply and slowly “yes.”
“OK” concluded Fabio with his thick rhythmic Italian accent, “I want this good soup.” She turned to me. I just pointed randomly and asked what it was.
“This is umm… salad… with meat… with chicken.” Fabio did the culture check for me: “is it local food?” to which she once again replied “yes”. We sat back and relaxed while we waited for our wholesome local cuisine. Fabio got tomato soup and I got a Cesar salad.
We ate as a group of six people partied to karaoke versions of Russian folk songs sung by two resident singers who didn’t ever smile. I couldn’t stop smirking as I watched these thirty and forty somethings get on down to what sounded like the demo of a cheap Casio keyboard.
Fabio had been going on about a nightclub that was recommended to him, called “Stratosphere” which was in our current town, Irkustk. Having killed a few hours in the restaurant (the club didn’t open until midnight), we went to the club, paid the huge 300 roubles entry fee and went in. Reassuringly, we had to walk through an airport-style metal detector. The signs read “no dogs, no alcohol from outside the club, no trainers, no guns, no explosives” and the bouncers wore authentic-looking combat attire. Well thank god I’m not a casually-dressed dog-loving alcoholic psychopath. And then I looked around me. I simply cannot describe the sight. If someone had taken man’s most sexy and seductive image of the perfect looking woman and created 400 variations on that theme, it would be equal to the inhabitants of this club. Their dress (mostly short skirts, high boots and outrageous tops), their attitude (icy-confident) and their bodies made for an extremely frustrating three hours. I couldn’t talk to anybody. We didn’t share a common language. And the men! These beautiful girls were with ugly old men or just-past-puberty lanky young guys. They just looked so confident and sexy. As I sat down, one again needed a breather, I’d watch girls walk past huge mirrors on the wall, dancing as they walked, pointing to themselves in a manner which spoke “you go girl!” I’d simply never seen so many beautiful girls all under one roof. Every hour or so, the lights would focus on a runway in the middle and nine models would show themselves off, the crowd would cheer and then everything would go back to how it was. An hour into the night I walked up to the bar and having no clue how to order any other drink, simply said “vodka”. I drunk it down in two big gulps and then danced for the rest of my time in the club. Unable to take it anymore, I walked home at 3.30am to light snow, still gawping at Russia’s best kept secret.
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