I recently spent a week in Thailand with Emi. It was a impulsive holiday, planned just a few weeks before. Unluckily, I got asked to do a big music project by a big-shot record producer here just a few days before leaving. I really shouldn't have taken the job but I was worried I may never get the chance to show my skills again, so I took it and spent every day-time hour working on it, right until the flight. I confirmed it's completion to the guy on the phone while the plane was taxiing for take-off to Thailand. Seriously.
Well, I say Thailand, but I really mean Taiwan. You see, it wasn't a direct flight. In fact, we had three flights in one day: Tokyo to Taiwan, Taiwan to Bangkok and Bangkok to Phuket Island. I told Emi that I would take care of planning the trip (not knowing that the music project would sap every last minute) so it turned into an impromptu backpacking expedition from Phuket to Bangkok via boats, trains, buses, taxis, tuk-tuks and walking.
We flew with China airlines (why is it only with flying that we use "with"? I mean, we never say "oh, I rode with Virgin" for trains, or "I rode with East London transport" for buses) which was unfortunate because the planes looked like collectable items. They were still using the occasional big red-green-blue fuzzy projectors rather than individual entertainment panels. IAs we sat waiting for take-off, I expected the captain to announce that the main propeller elastic band needed replacing.
The scheming scamming Thais hit us immediately as we landed in Phuket and searched for a bus to go... well, anywhere. I stupidly asked at the official TOURIST INFORMATION DESK for help-
"Excuse me. We want to take a boat to the Similian islands. Where does the boat go from Phuket?"
"No bow go. No bow go. You wa bow, you go Pooket tao."
"OK, so the boats leave from Phuket town?"
And then a man darted over to us and chatted in fast Thai to the woman I was speaking to. Suddenly she said:
"Bow no go from Pooket tao, only froa Phang-nga, only fro Phang-nga."
"Um, OK, but you just said that the boat does leave from Phuket Town."
"No no no, bow no leave fro Pooket tao, you go Phang-nga."
And of course they were lying. The man had obviously told her that he had connections to boats to the Similian islands but his company only went from Phang-nga. Immediately my Asian distrust mechanism kicked in, dusty and unused in Japan, but born during my month travels in China. But I was ready for it. China had taught we well - it's much worse there.
We found the real bus into town (everyone was telling us that there was no such bus and that we needed to pay five times as much for their taxi) for about 50p and looked for a place to stay when we got off. It was getting late and we were tired so almost anywhere with air-conditioning would have done, but such a place turned out to be harder than I thought. We eventually found a cheap hotel that had air-conditioned rooms (it was sweltering) and paid the £5 for the room up front. Only once we paid did we realise it had no hot water.
I scrapped the idea of going to the Similian islands since I simply couldn't find the truth from anyone so we went to the Phi-Phi islands. I had expected our boat there to be a small white yacht or something but instead I was met with a three-story tourist-gobbling machine. It must have sat around four-hundred people and was hot and horrible for the whole two hour journey. Things didn't improve much once we got off; hoards of Thai men shouting "you wa hotel, you wa hotel" and trying to get us to stay at their place. It was a genuine tourist trap. This island was purely for tourists and although it was nice walking around in the evening when things quietened down, and the food was great (real Tom Yung Kun!), I wouldn't recommend it. Our hotel though was beautiful. We had an individual bungalow set on wooden walkways over marshy-tropical flowers and reeds. We walked across one of the main beaches as the sun set and just wandered across the island as far as we could. On the way we found a fire-dancer. He had what looked like two huge fire nunchakus and was dancing over and around theme. He could 't have been more than eight years old.
The next morning we took the boat back to Phuket and then a bus to Phang-nga bay, which was to be our centre-piece of the trip. The plan was to boat to a vast bay of uninhabited islands and to go canoeing through some of the ones which contained caves. Well, we arrived in Phang-nga in a storm so the place just look grey and Englandish. We had no idea how to get to the bay area. We just sat under some tarpaulin, next to some fat woman cooking food for all the locals, peering at us occasionally, and waited for the storm to pass. She came over to us and said "you wa taxi?" and yes indeed, for once we did. I got out a photo of the bay area and said "go here" so we got in a complete stranger's car (it was certainly not a taxi) and rode to the bay area. The man tried to ask us which hotel we were staying in. After eventually figuring out what he wanted, I replied "we don't know" so he just pulled-up at the largest hotel in the entire area (and in fact the only one, as it turned-out) so we stayed there. It was an eerie place. Very "The Shining". We appeared to be the only people staying in a three-hundred room or so hotel. I kept thinking "we must have gotten the wrong area".
Since the plan was to boat around, we needed a man with a boat. So we walked to the isolated tourist information center where a woman answered my questions mostly with "he can help you" as she pointed to skinny scrubby local guy who was hanging around like a vulture. Well, he had a boat - he would meet us at 8am the next day and drive us wherever we wanted for the whole day. He'd do.
After a walk around the sparse neighbourhood during which the locals stared at us and successfully tried to sell me a fake Puma cap, Emi got really depressed and lonely. She grew increasingly tired of everyone thinking she was Thai (everyone was speaking to her in Thai at first) but I think she does look kinda Thai. And what's so bad about that anyway?! The grey raining weather continued into the night, matching our grey mood. Dinner in the hotel restaurant didn't do much to take away the "The Shining"ness of the place: we were the only people dining (save an odd mother/son couple on the other side) and the waitress had a "in training" badge on. Upon closer inspection of the entire hotel staff, I couldn't find anyone without an "in training" badge. Perhaps the entire previous staff had been murdered.
The morning was a god-send: bright gleaming sun and clear blue skies. Our spirits instantly soared as we walked to meet our very own scrubby local at 8am. Would he even be there? Yes he was! He asked for the money first which was something I hadn't planned for. I considered doing a "half now, half later" like in the movies, but then realised he had nowhere to run to with the money so I gave him the 1500 Baht and off we went in this noisy long-tailed boat into pristine blue waters and huge limestone-based islands towering over us. We spent most of the day hopping on and off onto uninhabited islands, just as planned, just as I really wanted. One island had loads of coconut and mango trees. We found a freshly dropped mango (they were all too high to get) and ate it. Another island contained bat caves and ancient paintings. Another was the set for Scaramonga's island in James Bond: The man with the golden gun. The highlight by far was getting into a three-man canoe and silently paddling through limestone caves, going under very low entrances (we had to duck) and occasionally taking a dip in the extremely warm swamp-like pools. I'll never forget the boggy muddy bottom my feet sunk into - I imagined thousands of swamp-dwelling insects crawling over them, Indiana Jones style.
After a slightly dodgy meal of luke-warm lemon squid at the only small area of restaurants on the water, we got on the boat and Mr Scrubby Local Man let me drive most of the way back. We were on a pretty tight schedule since our next plan was to go back to the bus station, get a bus into Surat-Thani, a major city, and take an over-night train into Bangkok. We checked out, got a taxi back to the bus station and were please to find that we'd be able to get a bus that would arrive in Surat-Thani in time for the 8.30pm overnight train. There were other trains running that night but the internet site I had researched said this was the quickest and most comfortable one. I started feeling a bit sick on the coach and couldn't stop thinking about the lukewarm lemon quid. We found the train station and were told that all tickets had been sold out apart from, would you believe it, the most expensive private room sleepers.
"Really?" I said, "but this isn't a busy season."
"All tickets sold. Only private room. You wan priva room or no?"
And so we paid the ridiculous price of 1200 Baht each (unheard of in Thailand and another example of the institutionalised corruption that goes on across Asia and ignorant naive tourists don't even see) and waited an hour for our train since the 8.30pm was also apparently "full". My sickness grew worse and I just wanted to cry: we had one more full day left which was dedicated to exploring Bangkok but now I seemed to have full-blown food-poisoning. Poor Emi ended-up nursing me for the rest of the evening as I threw up heavily twice (don't you hate it when you are sick but you know that's not the last of it) and could hardly walk. The private room ended up being the best-case scenario. I recovered much quicker than I ever have after food-poisoning and slept for most of the 12 hour journey but Emi, bless her, hardly slept a wink as she lay freezing in the top bunk, unable to turn off the air-conditioner that was right above her, even after asking the conductor to help her twice (who obviously didn't understand her). The bottom bunk was warmer and in my state I wasn't too fussy about being cold. Poor Emi - all she had to do was turn the knobs on the black sphere-like direction controllers and it wold have turned the air off.
The train journey was nowhere near as comfortable as we had both imagined (especially considering we were paying the highest possible price) because the train was just so noisy and so slow. We were an hour late, so we quickly found a travel agent at Bangkok station and booked a hotel for that night. Now we needed to hire a taxi to take us there. This was ridiculously difficult. Taxis and Tuk-tuks were streaming through a single pick-up point but everyone was just leaping out in front of the vehicles and jumping in so unless you were prepared to seriously risk your life, you had to wait ages for a lucky moment as we did. And then our driver didn't even know our hotel. So I showed him a map - he still didn't know. So we got out of the much-prized taxi and repeated the whole damn process. We eventually settled on a Tuk-tuk driver and experienced our first dash through the city. If crashing into another vehicle wasn't going to kill us, the smoke and fumes soon would so it was just as well that the journey wasn't so long.
The hotel looked promising but after climbing six sets of stairs to our room, I had to come back down and politely demand a room on the ground floor explaining that we were both sick and simply couldn't do this hotel without an elevator. Once the new room was secured we tried to find a taxi boat on the river to the Grand Palace. We were met with a tattoo-covered guy who aggressively assured us that the next taxi boat was at least ninety-minutes away. And would you believe it - he owned a private taxi-boat service! This constant dishonestly from the locals to make a quick buck really pissed me off and was too reminiscent of China for my liking. So we went back to the hotel and found a better spot to board the taxi boat which cost almost nothing to ride compared to the one-month-salary price of Mr Tattoo fuck-you-over man. When we got off, I asked a friendly-looking guy if he knew where the Grand Palace was, and after ten minutes or so of chatting in the blistering sun-light (I kept thinking of saying "could we just walk a few steps into the shade please?") he made our entire itinerary of the day, marking the hot spots on our big "I'M A TOURIST" map for us and even going so far as negotiating a super-cheap Tuk-tuk who would run us around for the entire day for a mere 40 Baht. I'm guessing we were the only tourists to ride at that price. This guy seemed a bit obsessed with telling us about how cheap precious stones were in Thailand and how we should buy one (not from him) and sell it in Japan for a huge profit (since we could buy one as a "gift" - i.e. from me to Emi, thus avoiding the huge export taxes).
Our first stop was a local temple in which a local showed us how to do the ritual of lighting the incense and rubbing a gold leaf onto the Buddha statue. This guy also spoke about the great system of buying local stones and selling them abroad - why was everyone so obsessed with having me buy these stones? And so, sure enough, our next stop was the previous stones shop in which we were met with the most aggressive salesman you will have ever met: his main tactic seemed to be making you feel like scum for even considering not purchasing anything. We got out of there alive and diamondless where our personal Tuk-tuk driver was waiting to take us to the giant gold reclining Buddha at Wat Pho, which was great. The area was a huge mass of Thai temples and heavily ornamented buildings. We both took a massage there. We had been planning to take one but it seemed hard to find a place that didn't promise more than was on the price-list. But here was an open-plan legitimate place. Still, I was kinda looking forward to being massaged by some Thai goddess with slippery hands but instead was met with a skinny young guy... and Emi got an old frumpy woman. Still, it was great although Emi seemed to be more tense than relaxed since she couldn't stop laughing every time Mrs Frumpy touched her. My guy was just fabulous!
We paid off the Tuk-tuk driver and caught the "Sky Train" (Bangkok's monorail-style metro system) to the main shopping center where I bought a shirt but nothing else - the prices were just not much cheaper than Japan or the UK. Then me and Emi had a argument based on "why did we come here again?" which resulted in Emi storming off. Now, storming off is something you do in the same house, or even perhaps the same building, possibly something you do in the same town back home when you could just phone each other and meet somewhere, but it's certainly not something you should do in Bangkok, when only one person has the plane tickets, passports, money and address of the hotel. So I walked around looking for Emi, very conscious that this was our last night in Thailand and each minute walking around in circles was a waste. After thirty worrying minutes, I amazingly found Emi in some shopping mall. I was furious but contained it as much as I could until we both felt better and arrived at the night market. This was last on our itinerary for Bangkok and it was a lot of fun - endless inside-markets of food, jewelry, clothes, souvenirs, shoes, DVDs, everything really, and there was a great live band playing covers in a huge stadium with endless tables in front of it for drinking and eating. We were looking for an elephant, having been told that there was often one there, since Emi was desperate to ride one, but it wasn't there that night. Emi bought a truck-load of souvenirs for friends and colleagues back in Japan in the form of dried fruit and coconut toffee. Japanese people tend to go overboard on gifts for people back home. Emi is no exception.
The funniest and most heart-stopping moment of the trip came on our way back to the hotel from the night-market. We got the "Sky Train" back to the river and needed to get a river-taxi back to the hotel. But they had stopped running some time ago, although there were some very exclusive-looking posh lighted boats which were just for the super-high-end hotels such as the world-famous and incredibly luxurious "Oriental" (noted as one of the world's greatest hotels, see http://www.mandarinoriental.com/bangkok) . So I suggested to Emi that we should just jump on one of those and pretend we were guests at the Oriental since our hotel was right next to it. I figured that since all the piers were public, we could just hop off and go to our hotel instead. So we got on and I immediately started to doubt the strength of my previously solid plan. It was only us and another couple, who were surprisingly well-dressed on this big lavish boat. I kept hoping that no-one would ask for any evidence that we were indeed staying at the Oriental. Things seemed to be going OK as the boat started pulling in to dock and I noticed that we were to dock directly into the private gardens of the Oriental. Oh no no no, shit shit shit. I told Emi to just act relaxed, like we stayed at top-notch hotels like this all the time. But as we got off the boat, a posh-looking security guard with a walkie-talkie approached me and said it:
"Excuse me sir. Could I ask if you are staying at this hotel?"
I babbled. I blundered. I stuttered and murmured-
"Er....yeeeeah. Yes. Sure. Of course. Why?"
"Well it's just that you're wearing ... (a swallow of repulsion) shorts, sir. You know we don't allow shorts here in the evening."
I improvised -
"Oh yes yes. Of course, of course. How stupid of me. Naturally I have a pair of trousers in my bag" which was true, I really did have a pair of trousers in my bag since I had read that I couldn't enter certain temples in shorts.
"Oh very good sir. I'm so sorry to trouble you. If you'd just step this way into the an area where you can change. Sir. Madam" and he led us through the beautiful hotel into a glamourous bathroom where I quickly changed into my trousers and went back out into a posh corridor with a confused Emi, and no security guard.
"He's gone" Emi said. And so we were in the Oriental Hotel. On no account could anyone just walk into the hotel without a reservation, but we had. I started pushing my luck -
"wanna get a drink here Emi?" I asked with an air of satisfaction and mock poshness.
"No!" she replied, "let's get out of here" which was much easier said than done. After ten minutes of winding corridors, lavish lobbies and the gentle tickling of expensive crystal glasses, we finally found the main entrance and ran the hell out, seeking refuge in our meeker hotel, much more suited to the likes of us commoners. But oh, just briefly, we were one of the elite class.
The next morning was just a cab-ride to the airport for our flights home. I bargained a four-hundred Baht journey and at the end gave him a five-hundred Baht notice saying "you have a hundred change yes?" to which he said no, which was bollocks because he I saw he had it. So I snatched the note back and found the correct change. Honestly. Everyone. Everywhere. Just like China.
The flight home was fine apart from a nasty huge black guy who we were met with as we went to sit down, sitting with his thick arms over one of our seats. The tiny fragile Chinese cabin crew member clearly saw the situation and naturally said nothing to help us out. So Emi sat with just half a seat, having swapped with her to the black guy announcing "now that seems to help the situation", pointing out that Emi was smaller than me. Nasty piece of work.
So me and Emi had a good time. The few arguments we had were predictable and not so bad but once we got back, I found that it was as if nothing has changed - we argued about the same old shit, and after a week of this, I put it to Emi that we needed to split-up.
And that was about a month and a bit ago. I've been single since. It's sad to have to end an eighteen-month relationship but one of us had to do it since we had been arguing since November and Thailand was really an "emergency" holiday. Sadness.
Thanks for reading. Sorry for the somewhat sober ending. The next email will be happier I hope.
Trev
Sunday, 24 May 2009
Saturday, 12 May 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: England: London - home
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.
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.
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.
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