Back to the North

My return journey to Russian began in much the same way as it had in the first place- in a rush. The combination of organizing clothing, books (always a challenge), visa invitation (does help), internet banking (guarantee a bank to make a mistake when you are in a hurry), plus various tidying-up errands pertaining to the legal holding of firearms, funding for courses and travel expenses, and other less important but nevertheless necessary stuff…… My natural tendency to deny the fact that these things have to be organized soon leads me to continually find myself in the same state of desperation every time I am about to leave on a significant journey. Somehow it always works out.
My journey this time began in earnest from Stanstead airport. When I say in earnest, I am omitting various comedic acts of driving perpetrated by my brother, who at his most amusing moment approached a crossroads too fast from down a hill in a rather well-loaded car and couldn’t stop in time, and then proceeded to drive around the crossroads as if it were a roundabout, much to the bemusement of a driver waiting to cross. After fish and chips (you’ve no idea how you can miss them) in Greenwich I jumped on the DLR to Victoria railway station. Also on the train was a group of lads fully prepared for their night out, but showing off in a different style. This involved challenging each other to do as many pirouettes as possible in the moving train, which quivered and bounced along the rails. Nobody managed more than three, which was not bad, and I noticed more than one other passenger glancing with an amused grin on their faces. When I later arrived at Victoria coach station I witnessed the spectacle of a woman apparently late for her bus standing in front of that bus blocking it’s exit, tearfully berating the somewhat perturbed staff clustering around her for allowing such a travesty to occur. A shoddy, rather insincere man stood beside her giving half-hearted support and agreement. It occurred to me that he was more worried about the consequences of his friend’s reaction for him than of the problem of her missing the bus. He certainly was not convincing. It seemed odd that if they had any serious intention of not bringing a mass of legal proceedings on their head they should stand around under the security cameras drinking beer….
While waiting to board the bus I spent some time in the aptly named ‘Travelers’ Arms’ with several pints of Young’s. The last thing I saw on leaving the bar was the announcement on the BBC of the forthcoming program, ‘How to Kill a Russian Spy’ (a reference to Litvinenko). I wondered again what sort of country I was returning to.
My flight this time took me to Riga in Latvia, the theory being that I could procure a visa invitation more cheaply and as I had bought the first part of the ticket for just 17 GBP I could hardly envisage spending much on the total cost of the trip.
I began to think more about Riga.
The flight path of the plane took us over the Gulf of Latvia (it does exist, I checked on a map), then over some plantations of trees and building plots with a few scattered houses of turquoise and yellow. The thought crossed my mind that the Latvians have little taste in colour. We landed, after a stomach-turning descent of small but rapid dips, in a large field. Or so it seemed. When the plane turned I glimpsed through the window the main airport buildings and the apron for parked planes and a few fuel bowsers and security vehicles. We disembarked through two doors at the front and back of the plane onto portable steps reminiscent of inter-war era air travel. The terminal was more impressive though. It was new and built largely of glass, and was very efficient. Inside were several duty-free shops, apparently for incoming and outgoing passengers, and a very Russian-looking row of glass booths which functioned as passport control. It was much less interrogatory than the Russian system though, and twenty seconds later I was free in Latvia. If my luggage makes it I’m all set, I thought. It did.