End Game

The last two weeks of term were eventful. Between a mulled wine party, a champagne/kebab party, a Mexican meal, numerous club nights and a civilised party at home for some selected friends I also managed to secure several new jobs, and attend numerous more interviews. It was intense. So much so that often teaching began before proper recuperation from alcoholic intake had ceased, which made things, well, you can imagine. Surprising what one can get away with- quite without detriment to anyone.
The events of the mulled wine party were particularly remarkable. A group of German friends appeared, lacking much in the way of contribution, and after consuming a disproportionate quantity of our communal mulled wine they then sought other entertainment. This they found in the form of, well, to put it conservatively, making out. This would have been less astonishing if it had been constrained to any one room, but no. One couple, after tiring with the living room retired, without any loss of passion, to the bathroom, and another couple, presumably feeling pushed for space, plumped for the rather small (and one would imagine, awkward) space on a window ledge behind a full-length curtain in the hall. The only real resentment about this was that nobody, for a good half an hour, could use the bathroom. There was quite a queue of disgruntled guests, each making their own contribution to the rebuking of the rather engrossed Germans in the shower. Somehow the door was opened and more urgent encouragement was supplied- to either just leave, or at least hurry up and then leave. Various screeches of surprise and protest were heared as the shower curtain was flicked to reveal, well, they're German- use your imagination. My only grievance was that they then went to sleep on my bed.
The second to last week was also my last with the school at which I taught for the teacher training course. School 488, as it was uninspiringly called (from Soviet times), was in a pretty run-down part of town. It was further than the end of the metro line, and if it's location was chosen on the basis of architectural merit, you could understand why. The kids were various, and clearly enjoyed having a much more easy-going teacher than our Russian equivalents. This was particularly apparent a couple of times when a Russian teacher would briefly intrude on one of my lessons to scold the students who were verbosely engaging in normal classroom activities. What can you say. In fact in one of a friend's observed training lessons the Russian teacher (who had somehow inviegled her way into the class) kept offering translations of words which, much to our amusement were, shall we say, a little wide of the mark. In front of two fellow students and three assessors my friend had to keep a straight face and somehow entice the old bag to shut up and let her students do the work. It was pleasantly reassuring to recieve a bottle of champagne from the head teacher at the end of the course in thanks for our efforts.
The general lack of predictability of general affairs scarcely improved, even on the final day. At 0300 that morning a friend rang to say that our flight to London was cancelled. This was a little worrying, as we had no plan 'b'. I was also in the position of needing to leave the country the same day as my visa expired. We rang a friend's mum back in Wales, UK, and set her on the case of the questionable flight. It seemed everything was set to go; even the food was ordered for the flight- supposedly the ultimate assurance of the intention to fly. So, back to sleep. At 10 am that morning the welfare officer of the Benedict School rang to say the flight was definitely cancelled. This threw what was already a hectic day into real desperation. Come Hell or high water I was going to leave Russia today. I phoned one of the numbers given to me by a helpful clerk at the BA office, and managed to change my flight to a Czech Airways service to Paris via Prague. Ten minutes later, while on the phone to a friend of mine who was trying to do the same, the clerk asked if, per chance, my friend knew a Mr. Shepherd..... As they had no knowledge of the caller this was quite a guess, but it payed off. I picked up the phone, only to be told that the Czech airline would not accept the seat transfer to their service. This was even more exasperating. I implored them to find a flight to pretty much anywhere in Europe, and eventually found myself on a plane bound for Paris, but this time via Milan. In the end this worked out well, and nine hours later I was at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris booking a ticket on the TGV to Lille.

Nowhere has ever seemed so civilised as France, arriving there after nearly four months in Russia. The airport was clean, professional, there were no rusty holes in the gangway to the plane, and everything seemed comfortingly smooth. What really struck me was how integrated the transport system was. There was a decent rail station right under the airport, numerous bus connections, taxis, and information points for those who just couldn't decide which to choose. And then there's the traffic. I was actually astonished to see that drivers would slow down if they saw you anywhere near a pedestrian crossing. And these are French drivers- hardly renound for good behaviour.

Unfortunatey Lille was as far as I could go that night, so after drinking in a few late opening pubs, wracking my brains for the somewhat rusty French I had since become less proficient in, and eating a dubious kebab, I went in search of somewhere to spend the night. It seemed a waste of money to stay in a hotel for six hours, so I explored some other options. First up, the park bench. This was in a triangle of grass in a little park, and seemed out of the way and peaceful. Unfortunately the circulation of cold air under the bench meant it very quickly became unfeasible. Lugging my rucksacks with me I sloped off to look elsewhere. A subterranean entrance to a metro station looked appealing- out of the wind and perhaps quiet as well. I dumped my rucksack and lay back. I could hear some scuffling around from inside the station, through the grille security gate that blocks the entrance at night. Occasionally a dishevelled looking character would shuffle around inside, muttering in obscure French. I also noticed a couple of slightly less inconspicuous guys patrolling around- again inside, and became a little wary. I therefore noticed, from my lying position, when they came up to 'my' closed mash gate and ficked the switch to open it. I prefered to recieve them at my natural height- which possibly has an element of impression, being a little greater than most- and arose from the ground while trying to look nonchalant. As I had expected, they had a demand.....a train ticket, much to my surprise. I pointed out, in somewhat influent French, that the station had already closed by the time I arrived, and that I had not been able to buy a ticket. Whether it was the horrendous confusion over my attempt at the past perfective tense, or their sheer disgust at my accent, they took themselves off to some other murkey corner. This now left me against a closed gate at the bottom of some steps, which seemed tactically weak in any defense situation. Rucksack on, move out. Next stop, the station. This was all closed up however, and short of a group of Algerian looking guys asleep in the middle of a paved area near the bus stop there was no apparent resting place. The steps up to the main station might have been better, but while en route a couple of very suspicious characters, who at one point I seriously thought were going to jump me (to complete the hat trick) caused me to re-think. Outside the station was another area where, by this time, people were gathering for the early train. Finding another bench I arranged myself as best I could and tried to sleep a little, although cold and still apprehensive. About an hour passed and then the doors to the station opened, and inside, although as cold as out, there were several patio heaters. Gathering around with the other travellers I warmed myself as best I could, and then slogged back to town to find an early opening cafe. There was only one near the central station, and this was quite reasonable. Hot chocolate and croissants were a satisfying improvement to my situation and I set out again to buy the last train ticket to Calais. From there I walked from the rail terminal, after a very comfortable ride on a very smooth SNCF train (I slept start to finish) and boarded the next ferry to Dover. On the service bus between the terminal and the ferry a straggly family of tourists (you can really see them) battled with cases that were unwieldly and too heavy, trying to get themselves on the bus as well. Being English they gestured for me to go past while they struggled with their kit. I passed them again in Dover, struggling in reverse to unload all their baggage. I wouldn't be surprised if they actually had packed the kitchen sink. It's the sort of thing that makes you happy to be a traveller- and not a tourist.
Somehow or other on the ferry I got talking to a French family. They were visiting Dover for the day, which, despite all the trips the English make to France, surprised me. They were going shopping in the markets for food and clothing, which apparently was cheaper in England. It was slightly embarassing when a couple of people asked for directions, and not only did the French people know where such and such was, but they knew the best way to get there. I just kept quiet and hoped they would think I wasn't English. Actually with my Russian winter coat this is not difficult to achieve as it does look entirely foreign. When I was on the TGV to Lille I had spoken a bit to a French girl, who mentioned being baffled by my attire. To my absolute astonishment it turned out that she had lived for five years in Moscow, and spoke good Russian......
The last stage of this rather lengthy journey was by train from Dover, several stops up the line to the small country station where so many journeys begin. The demographic of Dover is not prestigious. With understanding and sympathy, it is unfortunate that it should be the first point of contact for so many visitors. It is a great place to go to learn contemporary slang, a grim selection of expletives, and the current mode of sports wear. I settled myself in a seat on teh train and for the most part gazed blankly out of the window. Several teenagers had gathered around a couple of table seats just in front of me, and were chatting away. I discerned that one young lad had joined up recently, and had just finished his basic training. A few minutes later I heard his retort to a comment from a friend: he had apparently sent a text to this girl about two months ago describing how another friend was engaged or something. His response to this was "Fuckin hell, you remember that far back?; I don't even remember what I done last night!" This had to be England.