Travels

City Bar

2007-02-12T16:16:00.000+03:00

From an intensely clear, azure blue sky the sun baths Petersburg in a bright pale light, reflected from snow covered rooftops and grubby glass windows and scattered by shattered fragments of ice lying everywhere. The Neva, usually a carpet of ruffled wavelets stirred by the wind, is paralyzed, trapped by the cold and frozen from bank to bank on the coldest days. From above the roofline, above the dull structures of cranes and bridges and the vague outline of huge classical-styled buildings, appear several golden domes, capped in snow, and exposed to the most severe whim of the weather. One of these days I must subject myself to that experience in the interest of getting some good photographs over the city, but for now I’m content to peruse the goings on from street-level.
So far I have managed to achieve the stability of lifestyle that I lacked last term, and have been working since my arrival, and as usual with several different companies. The challenge of teaching to a spectrum of students is as prescient as ever. It is almost as satisfying as the remuneration, but possibly not quite. Diving back into the friendly, varied and cosmopolitan Petersburg life I went for the first time to City Bar, opposite the American Embassy. I had seen it before, lurking below street level, with the modest illuminated sign hanging over the covered entrance way. It was so subtle in fact, that I missed it the first time around, and had to retrace my steps back up the street a little way. The place, at that time, was predominantly occupied by foreigners- English, Irish, American, Australian, New Zealand- and someone had scrawled a notice on a sheet of paper to the effect that Russian language was banned. Somebody then introduced me to the owner/manager as a writer, which was interesting, as I was then accosted by a real writer, an Irishman of considerably greater experience than me, and left to fend for myself. I would not describe myself as a writer (ambition and reality cannot be said to coincide at this moment), but would say that I write. It was really insightful to speak with him, and he had, as one would expect, some very interesting and incisive ideas on culture and people. That really does inspire me. I think writers (of that caliber) have a kind of mystical status for me- some sort of transient beings who are gifted with the ability to see life for what it is, not what it seems to be.
My adventure prospects are even more enhanced this year. Of course the opportunity factor is greater, having some money, but also necessity plays a role now. In one week I will set off for Tallinn, in the interests of obtaining another visa. Having seen Riga I am curious to see all the Baltic States, particularly the capitals. Apparently it is smaller than Riga, so it won’t take long to get acquainted. Hopefully it will also be cheap!
I have even managed to play a piano or two recently- something I miss the regular benefit of. There are a few bars around which have pianos for performing, and occasionally I allow myself a dabble. Russian pianos have a common characteristic; they are all very bad. I see them more often than not in someone’s house, and even just two days ago I was filled with glee at the sight of a dark carcass of a piano in a corner of a friend’s apartment. When I played a few notes however, a rather unusual sound rattled out, strained, dissonant, tortuous. And the loud-pedal was stuck which meant when you wanted the sound to stop (preferably as soon as possible), it didn’t. If it was human, it would be on life support.
Petersburg is an undecided city. It can be great, it can be challenging. It can be adverse, accommodating, friendly, dangerous, cold, hot. It surely has its own mood. It is typically referred to by some of the great classical Russian writers as supernatural city; built on a marsh against the odds at great human cost, and being neither Russia nor Europe, enveiled in fog, snow, stifling heat and dust….. It is certainly unique, and offers its own take on life. And it’s a fascinating take.

All about Latvia

2007-01-27T18:43:00.000+03:00

Riga turned out to be unlike any other city I have ever seen, let alone a capital city. From outside the (only) airport there is a modest car park and a large bill-board. Very few buildings were around and a few vaguely lost-looking tourists hung around outside the terminal. Following the signs to the bus stop I was forcibly introduced to numerous pedestrian crossings. Not being sure quite what the mindset of Latvian drivers was (I later read that it is that of a teenager with attention deficit disorder) I was cautious about crossing. Was the casual approach of the drivers simply to lull me into a false sense of security or a genuine consideration? I am still not sure, but I survived (subsequent incidents didn’t help the conclusion). The next problem was the fare for the bus. I had just taken about 20 pounds worth of money in one note from the atm at the airport, and had no idea how much a bus fare would cost. It turned out to be about 20 pence, and the facial expressions of the stern-looking ticket lady showed her clear disapproval; I seemed to present one of the most difficult problems of her career. After rustling around her own and various other passengers’ purses she eventually returned with change, and with a final throwing-up of her hands she bustled off to the other end of the bus. She made sure to instruct me clearly when it was time to jump off.
I alighted just over a bridge near a more concentrated area of town. This turned out to be the beginning of the old town, characterized by older buildings and cobbled streets, and blocked from the main roadways of Riga by electronically controlled barriers. There are a whole lot of little streets in a little over one square kilometer around the old town of Riga. They are quite intriguing and somehow enticing- where to go first? I wandered around for some time, enjoying the feeling of being able to go anywhere and it would all be new. I took some photos and found a little café with bread rolls in the window and some little wooden tables inside. I ordered three little croissants with bacon in the middle, and some juice. Afterwards I went to find a hostel for the night, pretty much wandering towards the busier part of town. In about five minutes I came across two in one street, and went into the first. It was on four floors and my dorm was at the top. Riga Hostel, as it is called, was friendly, with people from all parts of the world staying. There were a couple of characters as well, to put it diplomatically: an Icelandic guy who had a facial expression unnervingly similar to what I last saw on the face of a large monk fish in a shop in Edinburgh, and who had the social mannerisms of a hippopotamus; and a Latvian guy who seemed to be staying in the hostel for no other reason than to take advantage of the greater freedom it offered as compared with home. He had the kind of squint that means you never quite know which eye is watching you, and you are never sure if he is actually talking to you or the person in the other corner of the room. He seemed broadly unconcerned with anyone else in the hostel with the exception of a couple of Latvian girls, one of whom was apparently his girlfriend. One morning I lay in for a couple of hours after a late night, and was woken by their chatter in the morning. I just lay there dozing, too lazy to move, but was vaguely aware of their talking. After a while I noticed that the talking had stopped, but from the sound of it they were involved in intercourse of a more physical nature. I hid under the covers wondering what would be more amusing- strolling to the bathroom with a cheery ‘good morning’, or dumping all the spare laundry on top of them, or some such surprise.
Over the next couple of days I explored the town more. The old town is indeed nearly all cobbled streets which wind between the old castle (now serving in some administrative capacity), the old servants’ quarters, several old churches and some other suitably old buildings. Many of the streets are curved, so you never know what is around the corner, adding to the mystery and sense of adventure. There has been a lot of redevelopment as well, and many very smart shops await eager tourists with wallets full of plastic. There are also many restaurants and pubs, and a few cafes thrown in, and clearly much of it has been built in the expectation that there will be visitors. At some point recently it is clear that a huge amount of money has fallen into the hands of the Riga government. More money in fact than they know how to spend wisely. The redevelopment outside the old town is less uniform, but quite apparent. Towering over a typical old Soviet-style block (literally) of apartments you can see a new glass edifice, curved, sculpted and styled in that kind of Norman Foster alternative way. Another of these appears right behind a really grand old church. The planning authorities (if such a thing exists) were at least a little lax about that. It is just a bit unconsidered.
It is also clear that many proprietors couldn’t wait for the profit of their new businesses. There is a remarkably large number of expensive cars on the streets of the capital, and there is little explanation of this. Development funding and business grants seem to have been used for personal gain, judging by the Porsches, BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, Chevrolets and even a Ford Mustang. Often under the wheels of the cars run the tram lines, along which rumble the old Soviet carriages crammed full of local people going about their business. The parallel vision of the two entirely different status symbols is so patent, so obvious, and so incongruous. As in Petersburg you will probably see at some point, outside a gleaming shop window, a beggar in a long heavy tattered overcoat, and a scruffy cloth cap. Some people stand leaning against a wall, expressions of despair and anxiety written on their faces, holding little placards with the words ‘help me- medicine or money’ scrawled in black marker pen. These are the people who are forgotten in the economic acceleration of a developing country into capitalism. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer. If systems exist for helping such people they often depend on word of mouth, and many are unaware of possible aid.
I had a baffling encounter with a girl outside a pizza shop. While perusing the menu (not for pizza, give me some credit) she approached me asking for some money. Two things surprised me about this; one, that she asked for a specific sum (about 5 GBPs), and two, that she was seemingly quite well dressed. I asked her what she wanted the money for, and she replied that it was for college, for books. I asked her what she was learning and she said ‘it’s school- I study everything.’ I pointed out that she was quite well dressed, in new clothes, and didn’t seem in great need of money. The response to this was that she had luckily been given the clothes. Entirely not convinced I asked her what she wanted to do after school. ‘To become a chef’ was the reply. I was very far from convinced, but thought the effort was at least worth something. She had the audacity to try to convince me and it was just possible that she was sincere. Five pounds wasn’t going to ruin me, so I gave it to her. I then felt a sudden urge to try to find out more. Before she disappeared I began to follow her, and saw her across a street watching some skaters on a temporary ice-rink. She had been joined by a woman, possibly her mother, who was carrying a shopping bag with something in it. It occurred to me that if they had really needed money for food they probably would have begged for it before buying it. The plot thickened. They then proceeded to walk around the centre and double back in the opposite direction, through the central shopping area, stopping occasionally to ask for money. I eventually had to leave them, as I had to eat before I caught the train to Petersburg, but I am no more content that the money went to a legitimate cause.

On Friday I eventually received my visa invitation from the Russian company. I set off to find the Consulate and hand in my papers. It was not far from the town centre, in an unassuming street opposite a long narrow park. I went to the main door marked ‘Consulate General of the Russian Federation’, but was told upon my enquiry through the entry phone that I should use the other door for visa applications. I went around the side of the building to the other door, where a small gathering of people was quietly murmuring about having to sort out a problem with a crashed car of a cousin, or some other gossip. I stated my reason, but was surprised to hear that I would have to go to ‘the other door’. Humoring the man I abidingly returned to the first door, and rang the bell again. A different voice answered the buzzer this time. ‘You have to go to the other door’ was the advice this time. Losing faith in their directions I went around the building in search of some other entrance. No other doors would open, and no-one knew of another entrance. I finally asked a policeman outside if he knew of any other door, and was told to go across the street to another building, on the third floor of which, above a bank, was apparently the visa office. The door was completely unmarked, but sure enough, on the third floor above the bank was a little part of the Russian Consulate, with the usual slightly disorganized group of people filling in forms and making enquiries. It then turned out that I couldn’t have my application processed in one day, so I resigned myself to waiting until Monday afternoon.
I had seen much of the city, at least what was worth seeing of it, so I thought I would try to go to Lithuania for a couple of days. I set off with all my luggage to the bus station, and began buying a ticket to Vilnius. I decided to check half way through buying it whether it was necessary to have my passport. Being within the Schengen area I thought any photographic ID would suffice, but apparently not. No border hopping- I was doomed to stay in Latvia. I browsed over a large map of Latvia on a wall and selected a south-eastern town called Dougavpils to visit instead. This seemed large enough to justify a day or two, and there were plenty of bus trips to it. I booked a ticket for half an hour’s time. Five hours later, after a slow journey through nearly featureless landscape, on a bus full of people who seemed less than thrilled to be going there, we arrived in Dougavpils. My spirits were sustained on the journey only by the sound of Pink Floyd on the radio. One More Brick in the Wall is one of the tunes that you hear short snatches of all over the world, and is a pleasant reminder of home and civilization.
The town looked uninspiring at first glance, and nothing I saw changed my mind about it. Firstly, unlike Riga, many shops were closed. I realized I had already begun to take for granted the fact that many shops, even banks, in Petersburg and Riga were open until about 8 or 9 in the evening, and seven days per week. Not here. Consequently there was no tourist information, and not knowing anything about the town I had little idea where to stay. After several enquiries I set off rather skeptically for the hotel- possibly the only hotel- in Dougavpils to seek advice. It turned out to be a good decision, and twenty minutes later I was heading for the only hostel in the town, and armed with a photocopied map. It was a little complicated finding the hostel, and after asking a couple of people I eventually found the right corner, but still no hostel was apparent. There was a building on the corner, and behind it a football pitch and sports club. Where on earth could the hostel be? I eventually discovered it, after asking some more locals, on the fourth floor of the building that seemed to be the sports club. Signs seem not to be a predilection of the Latvians. Inside the hostel was rather simple. I disturbed a brusque Russian-looking woman of substantial proportions, and finished in the mandatory appallingly garish make-up, and an unusual track suit that seemed to exaggerate her entirely un-sporty appearance. She stated directly that there were rooms, but that they were ‘without comforts.’ This was ominous. I poked my head around one door to have a look, and it was indeed without comforts. Two single beds with solid mattresses, a narrow wardrobe and a small table filled the modest space in the room. Wooden paneling covered the walls and a small window overlooked a nondescript car park. Plus the woman wanted seven pounds for one night, while I had been paying five for a much better hostel in Riga. Still, on the grounds that I wouldn’t find anywhere cheaper, and I didn’t want to spend money staying in an uninspiring town, I stayed for one night. That evening I looked for anywhere interesting to drink and eat, and found very little. The most entertaining place was a small café in a wooden cabin, which served some passable food and local beer. It was also karaoke night. Among three ‘performers’ was a very round man who was clearly drunk, and despite energetically roaring at the tv, could not read the text fast enough. The bar lady actually stopped the track at one point and told him choose a more appropriate tune. He spent most of his time enthusiastically drumming on the table, with a curious little flourish that suggested he was much happier with his contribution than most other people in the place. He was eventually packed off by a group of young guys who suggested that he was annoying them.
In the morning I booked a ticket out for as soon as possible, which was in forty minutes. In that time I had a late breakfast in a café with a rabbit hutch in it (leading me to wonder absent-mindedly what was on the menu) and looked for some postcards of the town. There were not many of these, presumably because there was so little to see there. I did find two, and wrote on them on a bench in the bus station which I shared with some drunken tramps. The driver of the bus on the return journey had less admirable taste in music and listened to Russian folk tunes.
Back in Riga I ate a little, drank a little, and picked up my visa. On Monday evening I boarded the overnight sleeper train to Petersburg. Time to move on.

Back to the North

2007-01-27T18:26:00.000+03:00

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.

End Game

2007-01-26T00:17:00.000+03:00

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.

Held up

2006-12-06T15:33:00.000+03:00

I had to sit down right away and write another installment of the Petersburg news. This episode comes to you on the downward slope after a pleasant evening in a café with a few friends. My house is located slightly to the east of Nevsky Prospect and the particular café I was in. It was a 24 hour café, simple in décor and with a common warm cabinet with various appetizing foods behind a glass panel. I stuck to the old Klassicheskoye pivo (beer) which was absolutely fine. We chatted about Christmas, and other stuff as well, which possibly because of recent circumstances has rather diminished in my mind.
We left around 2 in the morning, and went our separate ways, with one friend even hailing a ‘private’ cab, basically a standard car and driver combo which can be procured for a slightly lesser price than a standard taxi.
I struck out on my own, as per so many times in the city. I’ve been around the city a lot in the early hours, and never felt threatened. This occasion was no exception. I strolled back along a canal from Nevsky- Fontanka, as I believe- and was probably wondering at the time whether I could grow to like the city. A group of young guys was ahead of me in the street, five as far as I remember, and they walked towards me in a quite inoffensive manner. I was initially interested by the way they seemed to be coordinating their behavior while walking separately, in two clusters. Not wishing to be paranoid I remained on the same side of the street, although being cautious to watch them closely- a rule when in the city at night. It was something new to see that the first three guys to pass me stopped, and turned to face me. One of the next two guys enquired in the usual way as to the possibility of a cigarette, but I was not forthcoming. Not wanting to give away my foreign status I gave a very brisk ‘nyet’ and continued determinedly on my way. These guys seemed disinclined to take no for an answer, and apparently cigarettes was not the only item on the agenda. As rapidly became clear from their questions, a mobile phone and wallet were also high on the list of trophies. There was something about their manner that betrayed their lack of preparation- either because of amateurish coordination or lack of commitment to the plan. They didn’t seem to know what they wanted to do, and thus I was not overly worried by their demands for a phone and money. They asked where I was from, and I replied, as so often, in German. This is a hobby of mine with late night prowlers, and usually confuses and wrong foots the questioner. It has worked consistently in the past and this occasion was no different. I fed them the line ‘I just spent all my money in the pub’, and they didn’t seem to pushy about the wallet. I repeated that if I had no mobile phone there was nothing they could use. One guy then began patting my coat to locate any potential materials in pockets. Not willing to sacrifice my wallet ( and one remaining bank card) I deflected his arm before it reached my pocket. Another guy then tried the same approach, from my right. The first youth then grabbed my arm and seemed half serious about holding onto it. I was, however, entirely serious that he would not. When I disengaged his arm as well they stepped back. Upon some unintelligible remark from one of the guys (which in retrospect may have been ‘pistolet’) one of the group nearest me reached with an exaggerated flourish into his trouser waistband and not particularly smoothly withdrew a pistol. I glimpsed the weapon in the shadows in the second it was visible, and I am almost certain it was a gas gun, packing at most 5 foot pounds of energy. It could have been even more harmless than that, because the time between it being withdrawn from the trousers and being stuck in my neck was quite short. This being a new experience for me I was in some way enthralled. I was sure the group were not really serious, so I didn’t panic. I stepped back as a reflex reaction to relieve the pressure on my throat, and gained a little space from the main group. I did until just a few moments ago remember more clearly what I said in these short moments. The gist of it was certainly that I had nothing that they could take, and I very clearly remember saying ‘calm down’ in the calmest and yet most assertive voice I could muster. I also pointed out that they would get nothing from me as I had nothing- an obvious but useful phrase. A few seconds later, after a clear inspection of the street, they put away their gun and stepped back. It occurred to me that this would be an expedient moment to depart. I set off in my original direction, towards home. They seemed up for following me, and made some ludicrous threats about the mafia, but I insisted that it was not necessary to follow me as I retreated backwards across the street. There were a couple of cars approaching which I knew would put them off any further aggression without good cause, and I was careful not to give them a cause. I made sure of their direction before continuing in my own direction, more surprised than shocked, and at least a little bit pleased.
There is a chance that I was very lucky. It was not a bad area, and the traffic along the road would have been a potential safety line. It was certainly quite an experience, and one I will not rapidly forget. A pistol pressed into your throat is a very unique sensation. You never know ‘til it happens. Mind over matter. Life is getting a bit extreme here. I must chill out a bit……..

My recent blogs have taken on a surreal character. I would like to stress that I do not exaggerate or fabricate. Everything you read is real.

Russian Drinkers

2006-11-26T21:42:00.000+03:00

My housemates and I went out the other night to visit friend and in turn his Russian friends, in a local bar called Cynic. We arrived and drank some beer and had a good go at chatting in Russian. It is also preferable to sitting in lessons for ours on end, but I stress it is not an alternative. Anyway, a couple of hours in we went off to join some Russians sitting at another table around a corner. This was the most random decision I have ever heard of, but was nevertheless an interesting one. We chatted away with several Russians who didn’t speak any English- which was actually a relief. Often Russians speak, or think they can speak, good English. It pleasantly justifies our study to meet people who for a change don’t know our language. Many good things happen in bars.
Another intensive Russian language experience was last Sunday in one of our local cinemas. We went to see the new film Casino Royal, all in Russian. The dubbing, so often reason enough not to watch anything in Russian, was reasonably good, even sounding something like the real actors. The film was good, although the language was difficult- in Russian, of course. Great stuff though!

Friday night was party night. Two friends’ birthdays coincided and we had cake and champagne at our pad, and then dropped into the old Cynic bar for some more. The brother and sister of one friend were visiting from England, and several more bottles of champagne appeared, much to our pleasure, at our table. The table, however, was not easy to acquire. When we arrived all the tables were taken, and all our efforts to take the next free table as the guests departed were met with stubborn insistence from other parties that the table was already booked by someone else. No amount of negotiating was going to swing things in our favour. I decided to try a Russian tact- outright bribery. Attracting the attention of the waitress I suggested that we pay for the use of a table, perhaps even organizing a “pre-booking” right at that moment. To no avail. Law and order prevailed this time. Perhaps there’s hope for Russia.
While I was waiting around near the bar I was greeted by a character who I recognized from a previous night in Datcha. Ted, as we think he is called, is an enigmatic man to say the least. His apparent skill at speaking with numerous different accents led to us imaginatively calling him Ted the accent. He could be Russian, as he appears, but this is likely to be largely the power of suggestion. He could equally be from any of the Baltic states, Ireland, the UK, or possibly Australia. On this occasion his crown was adorned with a very fez-like hat, completely compounding the confusion over his true character.
Later that night we went on to a club in town. Gribayedov, as it is called, is a techno club built in a soviet military bunker. On the understanding that the others were inside, I approached the doorman to find out the cost of entry. I was absolutely surprised and annoyed to find that 600 roubles was the going rate that night, and therefore well beyond my will and budget. I decided on a different approach. Having observed a quiet and shadowy corner between some trees along one side of the surrounding seven foot high metal-spiked fence, I walked around to investigate more closely. There were security guards at various points around the compound, some distracted with mobile phones, and some smoking. The potential entry-point was ten feet from the office of the security personnel, and some other staff. I went to check out this room from the safety of a gloomy doorway, and worked out that from inside there was no direct view of the first obstacle- the fence. From the shadows I waited a few minutes for a clear street (witnesses complicate things) and then briskly crossed the street and scaled the fence. Rapidly, while ensuring against getting caught up in the spikes, I scanned the area for guards and to check the next stage. I could see the open door of the office and the cigarette smoke floating in the air, and just below the fence was a low mound of earth. Dropping lightly from the fence I ducked down behind the earth and listened for movement or exclamations. Nothing ensuing, I scuttled, crouching, along a shallow bank towards the corner of the building, and towards the area I knew would be in view of the office. Choosing my moment, I sprang up the bank and over to the wall of the main building, now just a few yards from safety. Casually I swung my coat over my shoulder and sauntered down the garden and made my way into the club, unchallenged and unscathed. A doorman, apparently not questioning why I should appear from the direction of the club without having left my coat at the cloakroom before, instructed me to do so now. I willingly complied, with a wry smile to myself.
The club itself, which was intriguing, was on two levels. The lower level was very much the bunker, and was separated into three main rooms connected with narrow tunnels. The music was great, the atmosphere addictive, and the people friendly. Sadly my friends had not wished to pay the entrance fee either, and had not gone in, but it was fun so I stayed for a drink. Grabbing a pint of Nevskoye beer I went through a tunnel to discover another dance-room, with a couple of professional djs doing a great job on the decks. On the dance floor a couple of guys were apparently involved in a dance-off, mixing up break dancing with some unfamiliar moves, but in a highly entertaining way. A ring formed around these guys and the expressions of awe, respect and pleasure on the enthralled audience’s faces told the story. The club also seemed to full of photographers with professional cameras taking snaps of everything. The unlikely appearance of a Brit in cufflinks may cause a few doormen to search their memories, but I doubt they will lose sleep over it.
My dancing done and my pint finished, I made to leave. Collecting my coat from where I had deposited it I retraced my steps back through the small garden to the fence. I noticed that the door of the office of the security staff now stood open, and a small group of men were grouped around it smoking and chatting. I thought it would be better to keep the advantage of surprise, so I quickly hopped onto the base of a brick wall that ran up the fence surrounding the club. Running carefully along, not wanting to wait around, I jumped straight over, hit the ground running and continued straight down the street before doubling back and taking a different route in case they tried to follow me. It was a more interesting night than usual.

Post script: much of the plan was directly inspired by my recent viewing of the latest Bond film. Well you have to start somewhere….

Russian Tales

2006-11-15T14:13:00.000+03:00

And such is life in Petersburg. On another occasion several weeks ago I was walking with a friend along Nevsky Prospect when a group of five lads breezed past. Mike almost instantly recognized them as the most prolific criminal gang operating on the metro. There is a rich diversity of life on the streets of Petersburg, not all of which is pleasant.
One of the more remarkable phenomena in the city is the appearance of a couple of apparently gypsy girls. They are easily distinguishable among the thinning crowds in the twilight, being about five feet up on the air. They ride around, not on bikes, but on two huge horses which snort clouds of steam into the chilly night air. They clip-clop around the streets and seem not to surprise the passers by much. Sometimes children sit up on their backs while proud mothers take photographs- while I hope that they turn the flash off and don’t scare the horse into charging down the street through the traffic with the child clinging desperately to the saddle. It’s Russia, and the only expedient policy in my opinion is to fear the worst. It’s safe.

I mentioned that I have moved house. I now live on Moskovsky Prospect, ten or fifteen minutes walk from the centre of town, and it is no longer necessary to run for the metro, which gives me much more freedom in evening activities. Were it not for a slight shortage of money it would be a wonderful place around which to drink every night of the week. Only yesterday evening I was in an English bar called the Red Lion just opposite the Bronze Horseman. It is a large cellar-style bar with a vaulted ceiling and a long bar along one wall. There are three main rooms, curiously with the cloakroom at the far end from the entrance. The bar itself is typically inefficient, and ordering drinks should not be undertaken in a hurry. The guests vie with the staff for access to the bar, as the waitresses serve both direct orders from the guests and table orders served by waiters. I was standing at the bar in the early hours when, with a pop and a fizz, all the lights went out. Only in Russia…. Several large men appeared with torches and a few raucous minutes later the lighting was restored.
The previous night I had been in another well-known establishment in the Petersburg night scene. Datcha, as it is called, is a unique club. It is cozy, to say the least, to the point that people seek pint-lifting-space on the street outside. It also has a policy of charging deposits on beer glasses. The reason for this becomes apparent before too long. Datcha is not a sophisticated place, and many of the guests could also be described thus. After a night of drinking anyone will be a little unstable, and combined with what can often only be described as wild dancing, beer glasses tend to get smashed on a wholly uneconomical scale. Take into account the inevitable violence and there is a very good reason to charge for glasses. The décor of the place is suitable, being simple, and the furniture is easily replaceable. Actually nothing seems to have been replaced for about ten years, and there are numerous holes in walls that look suspiciously like they have been used as stashes for substances of dubious legality. The place is fun though, and many hours can be spent happily in its extraordinary atmosphere. While I was there with some friends a large fellow with a skin-head was going around proudly using what few words of English he could muster. His preferred method of socializing was to barge his way around the bar chugging from anyone’s beer he pleased. Not being too keen to lose my beer to some drunken fat man, I provided him audaciously with an empty glass which he gladly took, lifted to his lips and tipped up, up, and even a little higher still. Seemingly a little suspicious, he lowered the glass and scowled disapprovingly before stalking off to find more rewarding prizes. He returned later to talk about Iron Maiden, and at a friend’s instigation let out a great roar. Not to be out-done we roared back enthusiastically, much to his surprise. Strange things happen in Russia.

I was out shopping the other day for some food in a local market. The building is a huge dutch- barn style, with a wide convex roof. Inside all sorts of traders stack their wares high on trestle tables and stand up on raised platforms looming over the passing shoppers, and at the slightest glance in their direction they call out for you to go and try the ‘best, cheapest, tastiest’ product. It actually is quite oppressive, and if anything can teach you the Russian disinterest or focus, it is that experience. Give them an inch and they take a mile. Unlike Western Europe markets and kiosks are usually more expensive than supermarkets. This is not a rule, and depends on the product, but certainly for meat, cheese, vegetables and other fresh produce supermarkets are often a little more expensive. More expensive does not mean expensive. You can buy a good bottle of vodka here for six pounds, and that’s for a 1.5 liter bottle. A 5kg bag of potatoes will cost about 50 pence, and the same money will buy a 1.5l bottle of tomato juice. There seems to be a good supply of fresh fruit and vegetables, contrary to some stories I have heard. The great novelty is Russian champagne, which you can pick up for about 1.50 GBPs, and is not that bad. In fact you can buy a glass of champagne in a bar for the same price as a pint of local beer. Now where else in the world can you do that?

The First Snows

2006-11-09T13:59:00.000+03:00

Goodness, is that the time? I must have been longer than I thought. Let me fill you in on a few more details of this curious lifestyle I have adopted.
I have moved house. This has been a great enhancement of my lifestyle as I now live just fifteen minutes walk from the city centre, with all that it offers. The culmination of several factors precipitated the decision to move, with two other friends, into our own place. Firstly, I previously lived 25 minutes' metro ride out of town, in a shoddy suburb. This may not sound too bad, but the last metro home leaves at 12.30am, and on numerous occasion s I have run along Nevsky Prospect in a rush to catch the last train. One day I didn't make it and the ensuing three hour walk in cold (but cool by Russian standards- about 0 centigrade) was not much fun. Secondly, the rent was quite high for the space and service we recieved. Although the old babushkas were not too bad, and could more or less cook, they were a little oppressive, and fuss too much. After an incident involving a rather late night, beer, a film, and a kantankerous old bat, me and my neighbour decided to look for another residence. With another friend roped in and the grand total brought to three, we could easily split the rent for a reasonable appartment and pay less than before. And so it was. After a week of hunting, with the help of a few agencies, we saw a number of very different appartments and settled for a modern style place very near a metro station which was great for all of us. It is also walking distance from our language school, so even more money is saved on transport. It is much more fun. The jaccuzzi bath is also enough to provoke jealousy from various friends....... So I am now resident on Moskovsky Prospect. I moved all my belongings out over one weekend, and on the Saturday afternoon when I left the building the first flakes of snow were whirling through the trees in the wind. Russia just got a bit more Russian.
The other great development was the offer of a permenant job at one of the schools I teach at, in Pushkin. It would allow me to teach from January 'til June next year, after my return from teaching in Finland over the Christmas holiday, which was another great opportunity that I have taken. Hopefully I will be able to persuade my university to accept the proposal to change course, and I will be able to take the job in Pushkin. Fingers crossed! Apart from that I'm working in several schools a few days a week, teaching a managing director a couple of (early) mornings, and a girl from the university at the weekends. The latter is strictly professional- I need the money. I may look for a little more work for extra beer money. Russian study seems to be something of a sideline, but I naturally speak plenty in everyday situations, which is more practical than lessons, and I can learn slang. Everything is going well.
Last weekend two friends from Moscow came over for the weekend. Coming home early one morning from a club (enjoying this new possibility) we were confronted by a tall Russian guy dressed in balck jeans and a black 'puffa' jacket. He heard us speaking in English and came up to chat a bit. I was very uninterested and just fired German words at him, and consequently recieved little attention. One friend, however, was less cautious. After the Russian asked whether anyone knew any judo, my friend said yes- quite honestly- and was then 'invited' to practice some moves. A few seconds later, and a few loose comments later, he apparently lost interest and walked away, leaving us somewhat surprised. It didn't take my friend long to realise that his 'phone had disappreared, and we rapidly engaged the guy who we figured had stolen it. We grabbed his arm as a car pulled up and he attempted to get in. Not being exactly sure what had happened we were a little cautious until he really just sat firmly down in the car and looked very guilty and eager to leave. The car set off briskly down the street, but I wasn't giving up so easily. Holding the door of the car open with one hand, and the roof with the other, I ran beside the car for some distance, shouting at the driver and trying to remember what few Russian expletives I know. eventually, as the car gained pace, I had to let go, but to no avail. They weren't going to stop. With a last shout I spun around to see where my friends had got to, and saw a police car pull out from where it must have been casually observing the goings on, and roar off up the street in pursuit of the thieves. By the time I had run to the end of the street the two cars had disappeared, possibly to settle their differences in a less conspicuous place. The police here are quite corrupt, and will take cuts of theives' profits. Mobile phones are apparently very popular among the tea leaves of the streets these days. Speaking for myself, I'm ringing off...

A Word about the Russians

2006-10-19T15:40:00.000+04:00

This morning I walked, as usual, from my large and apparently crumbling monolith of a building, across the twin carriageway with the tram lines in the middle, and through a bustling area outside the Ozerki metro station. This space is usually full of shoppers, commuters and traders, and several permanent kiosks are grouped in no particular order on the tarmac. They sell flowers, newspapers, magazines, fast food, frozen food, fruit, shoes, beer, phone cards, and numerous other goods. This morning was no exception, but added to the general mele (with accute accent...) were a couple of musicians, who, on closer inspection through my now rather out of date spectacles, bore more than a close similarity to each other. Indeed I am almost convinced they are twins. They were playing the saxaphone and accustic guitar between them, and in the fractionally higher- than- zero temperature were playing very well. One of the twins was, as far as I could discern, completely blind, but he strummed away unhindered on the guitar and really produced a very pleasing noise.
This phenomenon is not unusual here. Physical disabilities are possibly the result of lax safety regulation (I teach a managing director who wanted to translate 'the faster you work the more you get payed'), difficult working environments (made worse by the weather) and a general Russian disregard for consequences. Equally possible is that they are the result of unscrupulous consumption of lethal 'Neva' water which contains lead and mercury, and possibly more that they didn't mention. Given the amount of nuclear waste entering Russia it is not beyond the realms of possibility that they tip it into the river. Thus far I have seen no illuminous fish with multiple limbs gasping for air in the murky water, but I will keep my eyes open.
All kinds of social problems exist here. There is some State care system, but it seems to have some problems. Begging is rife, with beggars even giving a cut of their takings to the rather corrupt police- as I have heard. Old women kneel on the ground at pedestrian crossings and cross themselves eternally, apparently in the hope that God will come to their aid through somebody's pocket. It is rather pitiful. Several times I have seen a woman and her young son sitting on the pavement very near my house. They wrap themselves up in shawls and cardigans and plead to passers-by for change. They were some of the notorious gypsies who prey on peoples' guilt, and sometimes 'appeal' by force, attacking vulnerable targets. The two I saw were peaceful enough; only the young boy, of about 6 years, would run along beside pedestrians and cry out for some change. I made a donation on one occasion, but refuse to be a permenant source of income. They did not stay for too long, and when it became colder they moved away to under a new tree in the urban jungle of the city. Their shadows are everywhere, pleading for some change. Some things will never change.
Some people are not so lucky. One day my next door neighbour's landlady peered out of the window to survey the scene in the grassy park area below our flats, and saw a body lying on the ground outside a small kiosk selling some fruit and tea and coffee. Apparently, the man had been buying something when he took a turn for the worse. I don't know the full details, but he collapsed, and despite the emergency services being called he died within a few minutes. When the ambulance finally arrives, they made a cursory examination of the body, then lay a white cloth over it before driving away, leaving the body sprawled out on the ground in front of the little kiosk. One could imagine better advertisements for one's products than a corpse outside your shop, but this vendor was stuck with the problem until the coroner appeared much later in the evening to remove the body. I should emphasize that it is not normal, even here, to see corpses lying on the ground in parks, but it does occasionally happen. Russia is a harsh country.
Several days later I nearly tripped over another body in a stair-well, under slightly different circumstances, but I will save that story for a few minutes.
Another interesting character is a guy who stands , as do many others, outside a metro (underground) station in another part of town. He is always dressed in the same clothes, with a light blue and white synthetic rain coat, and carrying a white stick. He loiters at the bottom of the steps up (ironically for an underground) to the station, and proffers a battered cap or just a pale weathered hand, and often seems to have a newspaper in the other. He is an unfortunate looking character, and the oddest thing about him is his expression. If you put out of your mind the lack of attention to his hair and general attire, and look at his face, he has the most disconcerting grin. His lips just twist slightly and it gives him a sly and disingenuous appearance. It is, I think, the result of either accute embarrassment, or shame. Either is equally likely.
I have already mentioned the bolder types who ride the metro vociferously appealing for donations. They are not as common as 'sales-people' on the metro, but are less easy to ignore. No doublt this is what they hope, but I haven't seen any outright beggars on the metro for a while. What I have seen is a number of people busking on the metro, ranging from a late middle-aged woman who sang (almost inaudibly once the train got up to speed and the clatter and rumble of the ageing carriages drowned out her quite but deermined voice) between two stations. This was, given her appearance and lack of collection, more out of mental instability than a desire to make money, but was nevertheless quite interesting. Other performers include a young boy, of southern Russian origin and about seven years, who played distractedly on a child's squeezebox while staring blankly around the carriage. I got the impression people had seen it all before. Another time there was a guy playing the penny whistle, and carrying a guitar on his back. He introduced himself as the amazing musician and proceeded to play a rather unusual rendition of Greensleeves. It was uninspiring. Couldn't fault his confidence though!
He stamped his way off down the carriage to repeat the jolly performance again for the incredulous pasengers at the far end. He got off at the next station not very much richer.
And so the desperate and illustrious people go about their daily work. They thrive, apparently, on the challenge of doing something new and succeeding, but never doing anything particularly well. With some exceptions most are pitiful and destitute, and have little to offer. They all have something in common- determination and resolve, and what that means in the face of such adversity is very important. In this respect they are simply human, and then Russian.

Notes From the Misty Streets

2006-10-13T15:38:00.000+04:00

Another day in Petersburg and this morning has a distinctly post-drinking feel to it. This is, despite potential accusations, not altogether common. The likely reason in this case is a newly discovered pint, as I euphemistically call it, which is actually one litre. A perfectly logical exploitation of the metric system, it is a much more satisfying volume. There may be potential conflict with laws pertaining to alcohol and it's consumption (theoretically strict but practically sketchy) but for a night of drinking it is far superior to the British pint.
I am now fully in a routine of teaching, and putting into practice the methodology endorsed by my language school realating to TEFAL teaching. I have a variety of classes, ranging from pre-intermediate to upper-intermediate, but class's real ability is not necessarily reflected by the level of course they are studying. The most impressive location I teach at is a provincial mansion built by a certain Count Kuchubey in about 1913. The language school itself is located in a modest but modern wing, and occupies several floors. The students are mostly local, between 18 and 22. They are at least reasonably committed to learning English as they arrive after a normal day of studying, and then from 6.30 'til 9.15 they have a fairly intensive (but usually fun) lesson of English language. It is pleasant to meet people who are pro-active about learning, rather than the usual glum resignation to class drilling in tenses or some such horror.
The mansion is in a small-ish town called Pushkin, previously Tsarskoye Selo (Village of the Tsar), and is surrounded by palaces and wonderful architecture. The Winter Palace is on the edge of the town and is surrounded by large parks with little rivers and lakes, and statues and pavilions, and guilded archways and decorated facades. It is quite splendid. What was not so splendid was the demand of 70 roubles for admission, but after wandering around the back of the park and discovering a less closely monitored entrance I got in for 70 roubles less than the asking price. Apparently this is the Russian way, so I must be benefitting from the immersion in their culture.
My perception of Russian life has been refined and deepened over the last three weeks, particularly after meeting and teaching numerous Russian students. There seems to me to be a significant difference between the generations- no doubt as in any country- but it seems different, at least, to England. I will save further comment on this for a later occasion, but it is something I will be paying particular attention to. Russian driving continues to cause me to grasp the edge of my seat on the marshrutka rather firmly. Apparently it is offensive to use a seatbelt, but I rarely see them anyway. Certainly not on marshrutkas. Overtaking happens more or less irrespective of on-coming traffic, and there is similar lack of regard for parking, as often occurs, on pavements. As this happens on Petersburg's equivalent to Oxford street, it is at least remarkable.
Life is reasonably straightforward at the moment, but is is cooling down now and I feel a more definite step towards Winter. For me at least, there is a sense of foreboding mixed with anticipation, and various other feelings thrown in. It will be interesting. The grey mists are closing in on the city, and the eery, supernatural reputation of Petersburg is beginning to make itself apparent.

Petersburg Time

2006-10-01T15:28:00.000+04:00

Hello, thank you for joining me.
I have been rather preoccupied these last two weeks with a teacher training course, specifically an iTEFAL course. The theory part is now over, and the teaching practice awaits. There have been disturbing rumours about my specific school being disaffiliated from the international group of Benedict schools, but what with bureaucracy here I'm not too worried. And then there are private, or to use a phrase with a nice ring to it, 'corporate' classes. I have been lucky to meet a very useful contact in the teaching profession, and have been given several opportunities to take private and better paid classes, and am currently beginning organising some of them.
The sunny weather has rather worn off here, and a grey haze of mist, pollution and cloud hangs over the city, in the streets and over the Straights of Finland. The temperature seems to be experimenting, occasionally dipping briefly towards low single figures, and then rising to just about comfortable levels again. It is more reminiscent of England, but the difference will surely be in the extremes here- the temperature will probably reach minus twenty before Christmas.
I have managed to not entirely deprive myself of alcohol over the last couple of weeks, and have met a few more friends around the city- although not large numbers of Russians. Most bars here stay open 'til about 6 in the morning, which makes late risings very tempting. Discipline Firmin, discipline!
I have also visited a few more landmarks, including the Peter and Paul Fortress, several cathedrals, and Peterhoff. This invariably meant exploring more parts of the city in the process, so the general education is always active and usually interesting. There are also several stories running in the news at the moment, relating to Russian foreign affairs- esp. Georgia and Belaruss, and partly Ukraine (as usual). These are tempting to use for some coursework I have to do, and the political angle is always interesting. More later.
Have to wrap this up here, but will endeavor to fill you in on the finer details soon.
Ciao.

Shangri la

2006-09-13T19:37:00.000+04:00

Good news- I have found a much lessMacDonaldsy internet cafe, although it is not without it's curious Russian-ness. Named Shangri la (but as one word, which may yet be proved correct) it sits above Nevsky Prospect above an inconspicuous entrance way. Inside a stairway leads upwards and from the first landing you can step through a doorway into a slightly gloomy room filled with little computer terminals and a desk, behind which sits a man of varying desriptions, depending on the day of the week, who scarcely reacts to the polite requests of the young customers. The walls are a dark pink colour and the desks are blue, and there are three chilled drinks cabinets near the doorway. The walls are hung with erotic scetches of women, and the smell of perfume and sweat hangs in the air. It is indeed a curious place. I have taken a bit of a liking to it, and I expect to spend a few hours here over the next few weeks.
Now, let me divert your attention to the broader picture of Russian life. Since I left you last time I have been robbed. In broad daylight, outside a busy shopping centre. Under the noses of a security guard no less, not to mention several passers by. My bank card was simply snatched from me, while I was carrying out a very normal operation. Pursuit was, in this case, entirely unnecessary, as the perpetrator of the crime didn't run. In fact he didn't react at all. I have never seen thief so utterly unphased by such an outrageous breach of the law. But come now, let me elucidate. I was in the middle of trying to take money from an atm, and it simply took my card and switched off. Can you believe it. 'Occasionally doesn't work' it announces indifferently, much to my dismay. Well, actually it wasn't the great catastrophe it could have been, as I had a stash at home, and my travel card on the metro lasted for twice as long as I had thought. Still, it has meant careful spending, but in a couple of days I should once again be a little better off.
I have been exploring Petersburg a little, in some of my free time. I am looking into buying a fur-lined jacket for the colder months, and wandered through a market near Sennaya Ploschad after receiving a tip-off that such a thing existed. It is a curious little place. Little is not strictly accurate, as it is in fact quite large, but at any one time you can't see much of it because it's all up and down alleys and bad roads, in shadey corners and under awnings of larger buildings. The stalls are about four feet square, and absolutely covered in all types of fare, from leather jackets to tights to wallets to scarfs, and probably lots more that I didn't see. If you look even vaguely interested in buying something you will be actively encouraged (read manhandled) into the 'shop' and persuaded that this product is the best and cheapest on the market (or maybe in the market....) and it becomes a bit tricky to extricate yourself from the place without parting with money. There was, I recall, a scene in the Fast Show; 'Suit You Sir', which is something like close to a true parallel of this experience, but everything is less refined here. And somehow the people seem more desperate. At least that was my impression. Maybe it was the effect of such close proximity to each other- they all tried to 'have the edge', to clinch the deal by really going for it. Most people didn't seem too badly off, in comparison with many I have seen who clearly are; the people who stand outside churches with a humble cloth cap in their hand, dressed in threadbare clothes and often with a broken or missing limb.
If you wander away from the (few) affluent areas you very quickly see poverty manifested in many different ways. Tumble-down buildings, women (and the occasional man) standing on the side of the street with a bunch of herbs in their hands, or a pair of trainers, or, as I have seen quite a few times, loops and loops of necklaces wrpaped around their wrists. I was on the metro this morning and a man got on just in front of me, dressed in fairly simple clothes, with cropped short hair and only one shoe. This was less extraordinary than it sounds, as he had only one leg, and seems not too uncommon. He proceeded, however, to announce to everyone in the carriage, something about poor people with children, and apparently rebuking the passengers for their lack of help. I didn't get all of what he said, but the typically poker-faced and gloomy passengers didn't seem very affected by his words. I think the Russians, based on much broader experience, foster the opinion that you should look after number one. This is natural for everyone of course, but they really ruthlessly enact it, as far as I can see.
Today I met another friend from Sheffield, by chance, on a staircase in the Benedict School. He doesn't have a phone either, so is in a similar position to me in terms of communication. Somehow he had heard of my predicament concerning the card- clearly already there is a grape vine.....
And so life goes on. I previously had an ambition to open a jazz cafe here in the city, and have been assessing the pros and cons. It looks good so far, barring the obvious mafia problem which may well be exaggerated. Of course it's still quite hypothetical, but lets see where it goes..... I have to get on one of these boat trips around the city soon. Maybe Peterhof at the weekend. See how it goes.

In a Russian all.

2006-09-08T18:51:00.000+04:00

Hello World! I speak to you now from a cyber cafe in Petersburg, where there are a few problems with the computer. At least there are computers; they are quite few and far between, but that's actually like home, where everyone has their own in their house. I walked down Nevsky Prospect looking for one of several cafes, and after tripping over all sorts of stalls selling hats decorated with military style badges, table clothes, boat trips and all sorts of other fare, I finally discovered this rather MacDonalds-style place where I bought a coke and an hour on this (probably) wind-up computer. I just hope it lasts 'till I can save this short note.
Firstly, a big 'hello' to my family, who may be a little concerned at my lack of communication so far. This is only because there has, until now, been no opportunity. And this opportunity is curtailed by a pressing urge to use a rest-room( as they would have said back in the States) and a serious shortage of money. I will have to omit various details and amusing anecdotes until tomorrow, but be assured that everything is great. I arrived easily, met the reps from the school at the airport, got to my accommodation and settled in fine (oh, probably another Americanism) and have not been poisoned by the infamous Neva water. Petersburg is amazing, and not really what I expected. In some ways it is exactly what I would expect, mostly the drinking and taxi drivers. And the lights at the pedestrian crossing give a count-down, presumably so you know when you will be hit by a speeding drunken motorist in a Volga........ From what I've seen it is possible that any persuing 'militsia' will be equally intoxicated, but I wouldn't suggest it.......
So it's all very interesting, and conversation isn't too tough. Tend to shout alot and wave my hat and things happen. Nevsky Prospect is quite extraordinary, and full of good buildings.
I'm living quite a few miles out of town, in a suburb. It is about 25 mins on the metro, which is worryingly fast. There are lots of little 'marshrutkas'- speedy gonzales buses which stop (with the rightwave of the hat) on demand, and cost pennies. Everything here is cheap, unless you really want to spend, and I saw some hotels this afternoon that look like they were built for that sort of person. Absolutely amazing. There are lots of loan words here as well, more than I new about before; eg 'bizness lanchy, caffay haoze....... More amusing in Russian! Crazy Russians.
Well, what else can I tell you. The Benedict School is a rather typical Russian affair; that being a bit run-down, a bit rustic and very rusty. As are some of the locals. It is, however, quite effective at what it does, which is teach. In Russian. This should get my Russian up to speed pretty smart-ish, and of course I have every opportunity to speak it all the time. People are friendly, and usually happy to give you directions and that kind of thing. There is, as per stereotype, a very large number of very attractive women- everywhere- but as there is simply a very large number of women this is probably to be expected. You do the math. Shops are often full of cigaretts, magazines and alcohol, and sometimes water, but rarely anything nutritious. There are lots of very cheap snack bars around the town selling blinis, pasties, pizza, chicken, sweets, and all sorts of curious food that I haven't yet identified. What I have tried has been good, and I intend to try alot more. It is light here 'til about 9.30, and time goes so fast it is easy just to wander around the city, along the cannals (more than Vennice) and along prospects and boulevards, and around huge elaborate classical buildings, many of which seem to be churches.
If I was to try to summarise my first impression of Petersburg, I would say it lacks potency. It is huge, in many respects, but you kind of have to look for things. Maybe it's just that I'm not used to living in the city, but that's how it seems. Maybe that's a good thing, as it's not too intense. Nevsky Prospect, on the other hand, is quite intense, and is about three times the size of Oxford Street (London, in case you were wondering). It's very pleasant, with the Hermitage at one end and something (I'm still on my way there) at the other, butI expect it will be big and have a gold roof.
Right, time to try to save this stuff. Hope it works. Will send updates soon, but not entirely sure when. Manyana, know what I mean!
'Til next time,
Da svidanya.

Setting Sail 13/08/06

2006-08-24T01:44:00.000+04:00

My final full day in DC began at a pleasantly leisurely pace. I sat around the house and chatted with 'Mrs G' while Gareth and his dad went off to church. Towards two in the afternoon G and I left to drive over to Annapolis, a prestigious town north of Washington DC, on the Severn River. Annapolis is also home to the oldest university in the States, built in around 1628. On the way we stopped off at the next best place to a steak-house; Quazno's is a compromise between a sandwich deli and a steak-house, offering sandwiches with various tasty fillings of meat, chicken and cheese. I spent probably at least three minutes in serious thought as to which delicacy to choose, eventually opting for a medium sized honey-roast brisket steak filling with cheese on top. I was, I admit, a little sceptical that American fast food could be as good as the man on the street would have you believe, but this was really very tasty. Of course if I ate that kind of stuff every day of the week I would be in dire need of a severe detox diet, followed by a rigorous work-out routine. It is, I am sure, not very healthy, but that was not my aim at this point. Purely hedonistic debautery was the purpose of this adventure. Would you pass the mayonnaise please?Moving swiftly on before cholesterol could settle and blood clots could develop, we drove off down the freeway towards Annapolis, and the office where we would collect our tickets for this trip. This trip was a cruise on the Woodwind, a twin-mast schooner that sails around Chesapeake Bay, and a truly wonderful gesture by G's parents.We embarked from a quay that was almost swaying under the weight of tourists, diners and crew from various boats, and around us were moored the most extravagant motor-cruisers you could imagine, with heli-pads and plush bars, tinted windows and expansive deck areas. Little motor boats forged their way through the water in the wakes of powerful ships, and one little open topped speed boat rumbled past with three 250 hp outboard engines hooked on the stern.The schooner was a much more refined vessel. We cruised under engine to the edge of the marina and then several volunteers lent their weight to the sails which soon filled out in the breeze. The pleasure of sailing is that with apparently minimum disturbance you can travel quite fast, and so calmly it is amazing. The only noise is the lapping of the ocean around the bow as the hull cuts through the water. The occasional flap of a sail warns that some minor adjustment is needed, and with a few pulls on a rope or spins of the wheel the ship is gaining knots and speeding gracefully along its course. It is hard to imagine if you have not tried it, but it really is a pleasure to experience.We sped between smaller yachts, motorboats and cruisers, and the occasional jet-ski, and every so often changed tack to keep the wind in the sails while maintaining course. A heavier breath of wind would set the boat on list, catching the unwary tourist off-guard, and sending unsecured bags sliding over the planks to the lower side of the deck. Anticipating the movements of the boat and standing without hand-holds is a satisfying challenge, although standing too near the rails can be risky. Our crew were experienced guides and between them kept up an interesting talk on the geographical nature of the surroundings- a natural basin which had filled with water after the last glaciers had melted, with an average depth of only 17 feet in the middle- and a little about the shipping- including the white granite used to build the Washington Monument, and how generally ships travelling east had a shallower draught because they had unloaded upstream- and when we arrived back towards the marina after sailing around a large loop in the bay they described the US Naval Academy and the torpedo, wooden mast and crow's nest displayed on the quayside of the Academy, and the tall radio masts standing on the opposite bank of the Severn River in the US Naval Warfare Centre.
After we disembarked we wandered at a brisk pace back to the car before the threat of wheel clamping was carried out. I paused to photograph a cobalt blue Corvette Stingray purring its way up the street, much to my pleasure. I also tried to photograph a taxi driver who was dozing against the window of his car. He looked just the way I imagine an average Cuban taxi driver to look, with a garish flowery shirt favoured by loud tourists, and a straw hat over his dark-skinned face and arms. He was leaning against the side of his car with the hat tipped down onto his nose, but as I was about to take the shot he peered out from under his hat as if I had called his name. Sadly the photo remains purely hypothetical.
After eventually navigating our way out of the town of Annapolis onto route 42 south, and continuing for a couple of dozen miles on a variety of roads, we arrived at a modest bar-like building in a rural area somewhere outside DC. Built apparently from wood, there were few external clues as to its role. Inside more dark wood, some heavy bar stools, and a few foreign beers on the drinks list. Further scrutiny of the menu will yield the true nature of this restaurant, with bratfurst, nockfurst, wiener schnitsell and other such German food, and just the sight of the menu is mouth-watering. One should never rush decisions about food, and I rarely contradict this policy, so at least one large tankard of good beer was drunk in contemplation of which dish would provide most satisfaction. I eventually decided to go for a combination of nockfurst and bratfurst, with garlic-mashed potato and German quantities of mustard. This was a thoroughly satisfying dish and provided a great opportunity for some very relaxed conversation and an evaluation of all I had experienced in the last few days. I seem to remember several more tankards of beer being consumed, and a waiter recounting a story about how he was lent an apartment in Monaco by one of the Carnegie family, and then talking of a plan to establish a jazz club in New Zealand with a particular German friend, Jens, who may be surprised to hear this, I’m really not sure how much he knows….. It was a really great evening, curiously multi-cultural, as so often is the case- and provided a fantastic back-drop to my departure for the Caribbean. The following morning at about seven o’clock I was in the check-in queue at Dulles airport waiting for my flight to Puerta Rico, and subsequently on to St. Kitts and Nevis, so it is time to conclude the chapter on DC.
My brief but highly rewarding stay in DC was really amazing, compounding or dispelling expectations and stereotypes, and served as a brilliant introduction to American life and culture. I will never be able to thank my hosts enough for their kindness and generosity, which made my sejour possible. For the record, to Blake, Dian and Gareth, a huge ‘thank you’. I hope some-day I will have the opportunity to return the gesture.

Foggy Bottom 12/08/06

2006-08-24T00:10:00.000+04:00

It was a hot day, even by American standards, probably about 26 centigrade and humid. The air seemed to hang like a duvet, almost stifling. It had been decided to play tennis today, and we drove back over to Maryland University to use their courts as there would certainly be at least one free. Interestingly the only two racquets we had were of a rather antique vintage, made of wood and most probably cat-gut strings. They were in good condition though, and after a few minutes of adjusting to the smaller size it was possible to play a competitive game. It was tough playing in that heat, and after nearly two hours we sloped off the courts in need of some serious refreshment.
Fortunately America's fast food culture extends to light but very refreshing snacks of all different kinds. We visited a smoothie joint, which was almost one big advertising wall. It was also suprisingly health conscious, and very much geared to sports drinks. All sorts of energy drinks, cleansing drinks, toning drinks, refreshing drinks, and vitamin-boosting drinks were on offer, and after much consideration I ordered a blueberry dream. It would be true to say that it surpassed my expectation and was, after half an hour of sucking it though two straws, very refreshing. About half the drink was ice, crushed and smashed in a blender, so I guess it was also kind of hydrating. It certainly tasted goooood.
I spent a good few hours after this chilling out with a few beers. I can say, after a good deal of experience, that beer never tastes better than after a bit of serious exertion. Bud light was no less so.
Later that afternoon we went back into DC to meet up with some friends from my home University. We had all met during one particular year in Sheffield and stayed in touch to some degree. We met this time in a tappas restaurant just a few blocks across from the Hotel Washington and we ate quite a range of different dishes, from shark to cheese on toast, and squid cooked in its ink to spanish sausages and garlic mashed potato. With a few pints of beer it was very pleasant, and a good opportunity to catch up on people's situations.
Afterwards we walked down across the mall just in front of the Whitehouse, towards Foggy Bottom, although nobody was really sure of the way. We zig-zagged between the Corcoran Gallery and the Executive Office building and back down towards George Washington University and 23rd Street. Foggy Bottom is around the Georgetown area of DC, and is quite a rich area. Many financiers and bankers and similar people go to drink here amongst their own crowd of people- which is a little exclusive. Although in pleasant company it was not really my scene and being a little tired from the short week's events I bid farewell to my friends and made for a metro station.
Later that evening we dropped into a bar just along from Bently's Bar over by Maryland University. The whole area was very much geared up to Friday night, and bouncers stood around outside the bars checking I.D.s and taking entrance fees. It was different to many English bars in that some people just sat around and drank, but there was an area at the end of the bar for dancing and more lively entertainment, helped by a dj mixing on his decks in the middle of the room. At the bar a guy standing next to me was somewhat plastered, and fired venemous complaints at the bar staff about not being served immediately. He was, after a brief attempt to reason with him, ejected unceremoniously by a bouncer who clearly had the advantage over him by virtue of his incredibly large girth. Although I missed the precise incident I imagined the bouncer simply pinched the guys collar between his finger and thumb and tossed him out onto the street. Job done. No messing about. Next orders please.

Cheverly 11/08/06

2006-08-21T19:41:00.000+04:00

Cheverly MD is a leafy suburb of Washington DC, and is something of a pool of tranquility away from the freeway and hubub of the busier areas. It is an area of gently rolling hills which gives it a slightly quaint feel- maybe because it breaks up the usual huge expanses of tarmac and building that characterise alot of DC. There are a couple of churches, a playing field with nets for baseball and soccer, and a little barbeque area in amongst some trees. The houses are similar, but there is plenty of variety. A typical house is built partly of red brick and wooden weatherboards, which gives it a fairly un-English feel. It is also common for houses to have a broad porch area around their front doors with a plant or two to add colour and interest. Letter boxes line the streets and some of them have little American flags that pop up when the mail is delivered. A few houses have a larger flagpole with a scaled-up version of this symbol of patriotism.
The yard behind Gareth's house encompassed a couple of trees: one evergreen spruce with delicate thin green needles which sway gently in the breeze; and another with purple flowers which had grown a little beyond its intended size but was now to big to move. Both trees gave shelter and shade to numerous little birds which darted out from the cover to peck at one of several bird feeders around the garden, before a larger rock dove or pigeon swooped in to satisfy its own appetite. The squirrels were the most ambitious and acrobatic of all the creatures. Although the feeders had been designed to stop them getting at the food they could usually find a way around. Sometimes they would cling to the thin twine and descend precariously from a brance high above, and at other times they would leap from the trunk of a tree and try to land on the top of the feeder which would swing wildly with the force of the impact. Having reached the mesh-covered container they would hang by their back legs from the top and dangle languidly as they picked out any peanuts that were within reach. Having either eaten their fill or tired from the exertion they then just dropped off the feeder, and after landing nimbly on the lawn they scampered off into some other part of the garden.
I wanted to see some of the local area today, as I had seen some of the centre but little of everything else, so we drove around to see Maryland University, and all that entailed. It was a large campus, and all the buildings were very similar in being new, and made of red brick with white collumns outside the entrance halls. There was plenty of shade thanks to many large pine trees which also contrasted pleasantly with the white and red of the buildings.
The most impressive buildings were the gym and sports hall, which was simply huge (and apparently very popular) and the music department which, having clearly been purpose-built, was very impressive. The building itself was large and contained many practice rooms and rehearsal studios, and in the centre was a large concert hall with a ceiling designed to preserve a high level of accustic quality. It really was amazing, and no-doubt contributed to the high quality of the department.
There was also a full-size football stadium with a capacity of about fourty thousand. It dwarfed the pitch and clearly showed the significance and prestige of American football in the Varsity league. The stadium was apparently on a par with many smaller club stadia back in England, in terms of capacity, and much better in terms of the pitch.
Most of the rest of the day was spent buying food and drink for a bbq, and my long awaited opportunity to sample the great American hot-dog. The ritual, as I think it is fair to describe the preparation of such a bbq, is strict. Everything from the specific brand of 'dog' to the specific mustard, chilli, sauce, ketchup, and so on, is carefully monitored, and individual tastes are fiercely defended. This being my first time for a 'real' hot-dog, I was recommended two different types of sausage. Much pleased by the legitimate excuse to indulge myself I tucked in to platefulls of salad, honey-marinaded beans, potatoes, pasta salad, devilled eggs, and of course some all-American 'dogs'. Now, the presentation of an American hot-dog is by no means simple. Of course you take your roll and sausage, but then you add several spoonfulls of chilli, any number of different sauces, mayonnaise, ketchup, and mustard. The combined effect of all this can only be described as superb. It is very tasty indeed, believe you me. I am fully prepared to admit that they surpassed my expectations, which were not low in the first place. It may be the reason for so much obesity in the USA, because so much of the food available is very, very tasty, and really not neccessarily expensive. At least there are many healthier alternatives to McDonalds.....
Later that evening we drove over to a water-side suburb of DC to visit G's girlfriend Lauren and friend of hers, Anthony who just finished an internship with a business in DC. The area was a popular and expensive one, with many good restaurants and bars, and also lots of shops open late and glistening with shiney jewelry and little window lights. A few groups of bikers with gleaming silver and black leather bikes were parked up outide several bars, and there were occasional shouts as a rider warned off a car reversing too close for comfort.
There were also several little boutiques and ice cream parlours, much to the pleasure of many tourists in need of cooling refreshments after hours of striding around the back streets and parks of DC. I found the lemon sorbet most gratifying.
There was, however, a downside to this relaxed, friendly, and otherwise inviting little place. Apparently extending throughout the States, there is a policy of checking I.D. before any sale of alcohol is made in a bar or restaurant. Although I think it is safe to say I appear at least a little older that an average 21 year-old American guy, I was nevertheless called upon to produce some form of Government issued I.D. Much to my horror the bar girl was quite intransigent, and despite my most imploring appeal to her better judgement I was flatly refused a drink. The word is that anyone who appears less than about thirty years old will be automatically I.D'd. Freedom and responsibility. Forget passport to the sun; passport to a pint was far more to the point.
Abandoning the bars in that area (as many surrounding bars had seen us leave and no-doubt operated the same policy) we strolled around to the quayside to be met by a small number of people gathered around a character perched on a little stool and playing lively music on a guitar and a little drum. Around him were several pavement artists sketching characatures and charcoal images of beaming volunteers and boats and the moon over the water. From behind us a tall lean man in jeans and wearing braided hair cautiously introduced himself as Charles, and earnestly explained that he was collecting for impoverished children in Africa. He proceeded to perform a rap about people not taking the problem of poverty seriously, and how everyone should spare some change that they no-doubt posessed, and all embellished with his imagination. It was half convincing, and he was rewarded with some coins from amongst us. Interestingly, I would soon meet a second doubtful individual with another half-convincing story about helping poor children, but more on that later.
After wandering idly for a while in a park, and narrowly avoiding several sprinklers that appeared out of the lawn, we set course for Laurens place and a bottle of beer on the decking in her garden. It was a distinct contrast with the hustle and bustle and ambience of the cosmopolitan street life that we had recently left, but was nevertheless pleasant.
On the route back to Cheverly we passed the Pentagon which seemed large even in the American sense. In my rather drowsy state I missed the short opportunity for a photograph, but the highway was not the best vantage point anyway. One excuse to return........
The top of the Washington Monument was also clearly picked out in bright lights against the darkness that enveloped the city, but the shutter speed was down to about two seconds and we had passed rather alot in that time. I have no idea how the photo will look. Soon enough I will find out, but before that there are two more days to write up.

A Brief Tour of DC 10/08/06

2006-08-18T23:14:00.000+04:00

Good morning, thank you for listening. I would like to begin with this concise account of my first visit to the capital, the Capitol and various other landmarks around DC.
The Orange line of the Metro extends through the city from east to west, and outside of rush-hours is a good and cheap way to travel. Twenty minutes was enough to take us from Cheverly to the Archives stop on the line, just a block down from the Supreme Court. The rows of escalators were almost empty of passengers, and even the street above was almost eerily quiet. I should point out that this was the day on the morning of which, back in England, the attempted attack on ten US-bound airlines had been foiled, and security around the centre of DC was tighter than usual. Nevertheless we were able to see around the Court, although access to the main chamber was denied to all. White marble and simple but decorative lighting created a pleasant if not glamorous feeling inside the building.
Next on the list, the Library of Congress. Visitors had previously been allowed to enter the main library area, but alas no longer. Access was granted only to members, and on payment of the associated fee. The library apparently houses all publications in or out of print in the US. The ceiling was decorated with Roman- style frescos, and depictions of angels and gods. Flashes of cameras were reflected off shiney marble pillars and floors. Having seen all I wanted, we left via the security point where my small rucksack was searched. Nothing extraordinary was found.......
The Capitol building was visible over the road, although partially obscured by a six foot fence. The regeneration of the grounds of this building were still in a messy stage, and it was far from photogenic. In fact, all of the first three buildings I saw were in some stage of repair or development, which made the task of taking pleasing photos a little harder.
We walked around to the other side of the Capitol to see the curving stone staircases and beds of bright flowers. On the steps stood armed guards, clearly reinforcing the message of the signs that read simply 'No Entry'. This was reminiscent of a sign I had seen on a road before, which served apparently as a 'No Entry' sign, although this one read 'Wrong Way'. There is great view from the Capitol down the mall to the Jefferson Memorial, but there was something more immediate that cought my attention. Behind the Reflecting Pool, which is designed to reflect the image of the Capitol to people standing on the far side, there is a street that runs across the park from one side to the other. This street had been marked out with small orange cones, and between these cones, down the whole length of the street, were riding about fifteen policemen on Harley Davidson bikes. The sound was extraordinary, not to mention the view. Nobody I spoke to had heard or seen of anything like this. It was in fact drizling a little, and with an uncomfortable screech one rider tipped his bike too far and pivoted the front wheel off the road, leading to his rapid and rather undignified dismount. It was, on the whole, an amazing display of the riders' ability, and they drove briskly through the course at a pace most people would struggle with on a pedal bike. The inevitable competitive streak made for quite an entertaining show as they shouted and rebuked each other for hitting cones or going too slowly. One particularly large rider presented an even more incongruous sight, making his steed look more like something from the toy department of Woolworths.
The Washington Monument was next in line to see, and was worth seeing close up just for the impression of size which I had not appreciated from pictures of it. The base of the monument measured about about ten yards across, and was built, as the rest of it, from white granite shipped in from further north and down through Chesapeake Bay. At least, that was the word from the sailor on the boat, but that comes later.
The ubiquity of the American flag becomes clear as one walks around the central area of DC, or indeed anywhere near DC...... Presumably it is to cater for the lost and confused tourist who has ceased to comprehend exactly which country they are in, and must be constantly reminded of their location by flying millions of flags over the city. It seems the Americans, or at least a significant number of them, are ostentatiously adoring of their home-land.
The Lincoln and the JFK Memorials skirt the far edge of the central mall, on the other side of the tidal basin. In late Spring this basin is a wonderful sight, surrounded with flowering cherry trees in white and pink blossom. I was treated to a more conservative scene, but a not unattractive one. The novelty of the location had apparently long since been lost on the park rangers who, positioned around the more popular areas, were often chatting wearily on their cell phones or engrossed in conversation with some locals- either much further away in mind than in body. In a moment of abstract thought it occured to me that it would be far from difficult to pinch one of the pedalos from the basin, just around the corner from the hire-office, where the road curves in closer to the water and nobody is focussed on anything much further than the brim of their hat. Much as wild animals slow down in the heat, it seems humans behave similarly, caring and noticing less about their surroundings. This was, however, idle speculation. Once again, 'nothing to declare'.
The next noteworthy point was a brief stop at the Whitehouse. As the road past is closed to traffic pedestrians can congregate around the area at the bottom of the garden and peruse the rather anticlimactic view that meets the eye. Nowhere near as dramatic when it is in context- ie. not filling the whole of your TV screen with an excited journalist earnestly explaining something of exaggerated importance in the foreground- it had for me more the impression of a rather impressive garden shed. The lower bay windows were covered with sheets, and little activity was visible through windows that weren't covered. It is broadly considered that the house extends well beyind the visible boundaries, either back towards Lafayette Square, or down into the ground below. Nothing seemed to be happening at that moment to justify its existence. Further more, there was alot of activity that seemed a little extraordinary, not least the snipers in the roof who stroll around and occasionally peer through their scopes at the small crowd of enthralled visitors below. Later I photographed these guys reclining in sun-lounger type chairs while I sipped a grand margherita on the balcony of the Hotel Washington, much to my amusement. When I have the pictures developed I will send them to the Whitehouse with some amusing caption....... These pictures, along with the others I have collected, will be browsable here in a short while.
I then went on to see the Post Office building, which is just around the corner, or block, from the Whitehouse. Its basement houses numerous small fast-food counters which right at that moment were a very welcome service. There is a whole range of food on offer, from Greek to Indian to Chinese and American. At the end is a little souvenir shop selling pictures of G. W. shaking hands with a jubilant nobody. A curious stall at the other end of the hall is the home of a range of shady operators, all of who greet visitors with the hail 'want a free demo?', while swiftly re-aligning a camera so that the image of the unsuspecting tourist is displayed on a TV screen. With a few deft flourishes the operator has conjoured up an image of the gaumless tourist greeting G. W., or on the fairway with G. W., or some other equally preposterous situation. I avoided it altogether. Sadly I couldn't avoid seeing a little window display of a small plastic-looking model of G. W. between two similar models of Popes John Paul II and Benedict XVI. I tried to sequester this image from my mind as I tucked into a very tasty gyros with fries and ketchup. Well, maybe America isn't all bad.
After seeing a few other more mundane but photogenic sights G and I re-boarded the metro and headed back out to Cheverly, MD, and later downed a few more pints at the splendid Bentleys Bar. I have a feeling nachos and salsa were the side order of choice this time, and they were as good as they were described- if not better. I crashed a little early as exertion and time differences caught up with me, and thus the tale will take an intermission at this point. Do join me again after the break............

The American Experience 9/08/06

2006-08-18T17:58:00.000+04:00

I have turned red. Or at least parts of me have. I was a little remiss yesterday on the beach outside the Double Deuce and the sun took its usual course. It may have been the Double Deuce Stinger that impaired my judgement, but I guess it was at least partly my inexperience with subtropical sunshine factors.
But let me fill you in a little on my recent travels.
I left London Heathrow the morning before the fortunate uncovering of the vicious plot to deprive yet more innocent civilians of their lives. I have to tell you, it was a very different feeling, knowing that YOU could have been one of the affected. It is, I think, something akin to the feeling of powerlessness. But I don't want to philosophise too much. I continued on my route to Washington DC, upgraded to Business class because of over-booking of the flight. Consequently my seat took up about three times the usual space, and everything was fully adjustable at the touch of a button. One could, if one wished, convert the whole thing into a bed.... Between numerous re-fills of wine, orange juice, snacks, a three course dinner, more drinks, and a film and afternoon tea, I chatted with my immediate neighbour- a lecturer in Business and Economics at George Washington University, Washington DC, and a previous head of the World Bank in Nepal. A truly interesting man, he had met heads of State and Premiers, Prime Ministers and Business-men all over the world, and had a great insight into their motivation for and commitment to change, especially in developing countries. It was a most interesting episode.
The flight being otherwise unremarkable, we arrived in DC at 13.30 local time. It was hot, but not particularly, only 26 centigrade- I had apparently missed a much hotter period. It was, nevertheless, something like walking into a sauna after the dreary weather in England. The big difference was that I had absolutely no control over the temperature.
My good friend Gareth picked me up at the airport and we took a semi-tourist route through the western and central periphery of the centre of DC before arriving at Franklins Bar, in an apparently Spanish area of the city. Being curious about American bars, and less curious about their beer, I began with a pint of IPA, or Pale Ale as they know it. The concept of a pint was not completely alien to them. The bar brewed its own beer as well, and I sampled a home brew for seconds, which turned out to be more hoppy and a heavier drink altogether, and not in the slightest bit warm. I was pleased to find that the better aspects of local brewing had filtered through to this part of the world.
The next stop was a bar more local to Gareth's area, or hood if you will, named Bentley's Bar. My appreciation grew and grew as the pump marked Pale Ale loomed into view. Bar snacks are apparently a much more serious industry over here, and the menu listed such delicacies as Mozarella sticks with sauce, Nachos with salsa, onion rings with some accompanying dipping sauce, and many other very welcome refreshments. The Mozarella sticks turned out to be as tasty as they were described- possibly more so. The decor was largely of automotive nature, the walls being adorned with tens of dozens of number plates of vehicles from all over the States. A couple of TVs showed football (purely American) and Formula One racing. There was a covered, semi-open area along the length of the building which opened onto the street, for those who were more inclined to watch the passers-by. My panama hat illicited several inquiries as to my origin, but I got the impression that England had about the same meaning to my inquirers as America had had for me before this; that is to say little. Then again, afternoon drinking does induce a similar feeling of relaxed nonchalance.
We left several pints happier and drove on to G's house in Cheverly, passing numerous references to Chevy Chase along the way, along with fast food stops, pizza shops and a realtor. It was at around this time that the thought occured to me that American drivers are, on the whole and with exceptions, fairly blaze (with accute accent) about driving. Any reasonably large car or truck (which description fits the majority of US vehicles) will potentially veer across the road at the peril of anyone in its path. Alternatively, it may decide to simply sit at an intersection awaiting a break in the traffic large enough to accommodate a couple of buses. They also have a habit of signalling manoevers as affirmation of what has already been done, and thus anticipation of traffic behavior is somewhat difficult. On a smaller scale, t-junctions and crossroads without lights are interesting as the law demands that everyone stops, and the decision as to who pulls away first is pretty much down to the boldest driver. This invariably leads to numerous cautious stop-starts as each driver edges his or her way towards the other side of the junction, trying to guess how long the opposing driver's determination will hold. Somehow it works........
Dinner was a pleasant affair of bbq'd chicken wings and rice with vegetables. My day of eighteen or so hours, after a night of drinking copious amounts of cider, began to take its toll, and I gave up in favour of sleep at about 2300 US time. Fans and light sheets were very much appreciated in easing the heat and humidity, although a couple of mosquitos somehow evaded every attempt to prevent their entry, and subsequently had a profitable night devouring my feet. I could scarcely imagine how this would become something of a routine in the near future......

travels1

2006-08-07T20:22:00.000+04:00

Just for the sake of viewing this thing.......... Will change the font as well. How about that? Better, ok.