Russia

Travel Lesson #356 (and yes, we should have known this!): allow at least twice as much time as you think you could need to travel and check in to unfamiliar airport terminals. We had allowed about two and half hours to get from the center of Petersburg to the airport and to check in for our domestic flight. Unfortunately, our taxi was almost a half hour late, and the “fifteen minute” journey to the airport turned out to be more like an hour. When we finally arrived at the airport, it was about thirty minutes prior to scheduled departure, and our hearts just sank when we saw the long lines to even get into the terminal.

Hey, we’re all for good security, but the Russians have made it a little bit too much of a gauntlet, especially when you’re running late! We arrive at Pulkovo 1 – the domestic terminal – and you can’t actually drive up to the second level where departures are. We lug our bags 100 meters (the closest the cab could get after driving like a mouse in a maze through the parking lot) to the entrance on the arrivals level, and find a line out the door – they have x-ray and metal detectors to get into the airport!

Then – once inside, you have to walk upstairs to departures, only to get into one of 6 or 7 lines to go – again – through the same security setup (x-ray bags, metal detector, pat-down) only feet away! Luckily, as we were pressed for time, I left Jacquie in line, did a quick recon and found an entrance upstairs with no line! Typical Russian fashion – they could have easily let people know there was an alternative but did not – the staff just sat and read and looked official doing nothing until we showed up. In any case, I ran downstairs again (nearly sprawling face forward down the smooth stairs twice and learning another lesson- always wear lace up shoes when checking in at a new airport esp. when running late!) and grabbed Jacquie and the bags to head upstairs to the shortcut I’d found.

Once through that entrance, we walk 3 meters to the next metal detector line (a line of 10 -15 people) and join the shortest line we can find, which is being manned by a Russian blonde, with no interpersonal skills and who was more concerned with her nails than with checking in passengers. With only a few minutes before the line closed, we cut in front of a group of Asian tourists boarding our flight . As her ticket printer was broken, she simply gave us the “too bad” frown and pointed us back to ‘blondinka’ who finally checked us in, but only after her printer had been repaired by 3 – count ‘em 3 – IT personnel. That’s right – one to open the printer, one to change the ribbon, and one to supervise. In true Russian fashion.

Once we checked in, we walked toward the gate and were surprised to find that there were just three gates at this domestic terminal! Given the chaos to get in, and the fact that half of Moscow and two thirds of Tokyo seems to be fighting to get in, we expected something at least the size of Heathrow Terminal 3! Anyway, a prize was in store for Jacquie with the discovery of REAL IRN BRU, which she enjoyed just as the loudspeaker crackled that our flight was now closed for check-in. We had only just made it.

In any normal circumstance, missing a flight would not have been too bad, but this was a connection to our Tran-Siberian train (TSR) departure, for which we had date specific tickets, non-refundable at $1800 for the two of us. We counted our lucky stars! All three of them . . . .

Our Aeroflot flight (in a TU154M!) passes without incident and Lloyd scores the bargain of the trip with transportation across the city to our train for a little over $2 each. First, we catch bus 851 across Moscow, which delivers us to the metro where, about one hour and one change later, we arrive at Yaroslavsky Station with more than an hour to spare!

By far the least enjoyable experience of the trip so far was being propositioned in Yaroslavsky station by a greasy Russian who offered me (this is Jacquie talking now) $100 for – well – thank heavens I can’t understand Russian. It’s quite funny really, given how scantily and provocatively clad so many young Russian ladies are. And there I am in my travel trousers, fleece and baseball cap! Lloyd would have killed him, but he had left me sitting close to a couple of Russian women as he went off to try sort out some additional train tickets. The most distressing part of the experience was the lack of assistance from these two female observers who were sitting no more than one and a half metre directly opposite me, and witnessed the entire exchange.

Happily, our excitement on finally boarding the TSR (indeed, on even making it to the station in time!), was building and the unpleasantness was quickly forgotten. We found what seemed as precious as the secret of the universe on platform 1 at Yaroslavsky. A whole, freshly roasted chicken! To carry out, it was wrapped in very large tortilla-type thing. We were so excited that we practically tore it open and ripped at it with our fingers until – after about five minutes – we realized we were gorging ourselves on the chicken, from the ass-end up! Damn it was good . . . !

Jacquie unknowingly starting from the bottom . . .

Finally – we boarded the TSR, finding carriage number 7, which was about a third of the way from the front of the train, and a convenient two carriages from the restaurant car. We checked out our cabin, and met our provodnista (carriage attendant) who looked amused at her first-class back-packers. With about twenty minutes before departure, we walked up to the front of the train to check out the engine (a little disappointing!), and to admire ‘Rossiya’ (which means ‘Russia’): all decked out in blue and red – everything proudly customized with her name (curtains, sheets, plates etc).

As she pulled out of the station, majestic music played from the loudspeakers, and we felt quite grand as the train picked up speed, our heads sticking out from Rossiya’s windows and waving Queen-style at passers-by.

From Cape Town, we flew through London (ok, well, arrived and then spent more than 2 hours in lines for a security screening and re-screening . . .) to St Petersburg. Our actual (non-line-standing) time in London Heathrow was too short to force down all the Brit treats I wanted to, and there wasn’t a decent English Brekkie on offer (I’ve been getting kind of used to them in the former African colonies!). But we got to St Petersburg on time, and checked into the Nevsky Inn, selected on the basis of its excellent location near to the Hermitage (and not its proximity to McDonald’s, no matter what Lloyd tells you!). The Nevsky’s manager, Elena, had been tremendously helpful with our Russian invitations (for the visas) and with the Trans Siberian tickets, so it was great to meet her in person.

When we first pulled up to the Nevsky Inn, we were a little concerned to be dropped off outside a dilapidated building that looked like it should be a candidate for destruction. But, happily, after a climb up three damp and dingy flights of stairs which incited fears of armed bandits at every corner, we found the Nevsky Inn to be clean and bright, and most importantly secure behind a heavy door that the Bank of England would be proud of. The only disappointment was that the advertised wireless internet was not available: indeed, it hadn’t worked “since last year”. However, we were allowed to camp out in the Inn’s tiny office (which also doubled as the laundry) and use the office computer to check email.

The weather co-operated for our short visit, and we enjoyed a full day and a half hitting most of the key tourist sites. The Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood (where Alexander II was fatally wounded in 1881) was an unexpected highlight, with more than 7,000 square meters of stunning mosaic, and onion domes worthy (if not more impressive) of St Basil’s in Moscow. The Hermitage was a staggering disappointment, however. We were in line for over an hour to view the largest art collection in the world. As non-Russians, we were – inevitably – charged more to enter, and yet there was practically no information provided to us in the English language. No guide. No map. No nothing. Now, we probably should have done our research and been better prepared for our visit, or maybe hired a private guide, but instead we wandered around for almost an hour on a fruitless search for something that would help us find our bearings.

Paint by numbers? Monet? Hmmmmm . . . . .

So, we randomly strolled around, finding nothing particularly compelling (though to be honest, I was so frustrated that it may have coloured my impression somewhat). Overall, it felt as if quantity was more important than quality of presentation, or than educating museum attendees, and I was happy to escape. Not before we took our ‘Russian’ style photograph, however. We noticed that Russians adopt one of two poses for photographs: (i) highly provocative (usually reserved for scantily clad pre-teens, teens and twenty-somethings) and (ii) serious statuesque. Not qualifying for the first genre (Lloyd’s thong was lost in the laundry . . . thank goodness. Oh AND we’re too old!), we attempted the latter in the Hermitage’s grand stairway, as the photos below show.

St Petersburg is known as the ‘Venice of the North’, and on this front the city did not disappoint. We enjoyed an evening boat ride (it was still light as we departed at 10PM!) through many of the city’s waterways, revealing some less well known buildings not on the traditional tourist route. Unfortunately, a two-hour long search for the only English-speaking boat ride in town proved unsuccessful, so Lloyd was left trying to interpret a Russian guide who spoke about 500 words a minute at high volume and didn’t pause for breath during the entire one hour tour. By the end of the tour, her lips were so blue we thought she’d need CPR, but it just turned out to be the colour of her 80’s style lipstick. Matched her pink hair and Elton John sunglasses quite nicely.

And actually, we were surprised by the lack of non-Russian tourists at what must be the height of the tourist season. 90% of those in line with us at the Hermitage were Russians, and the lack of services geared to non-Russians highlighted the trend. Elena aside, we found most to be quite unfriendly. Whoever claimed that a smile will get you far in any language has obviously not been to Russia. To be fair, the rudeness is not solely directed at non-Russians. We witnessed Russians being disgustingly rude to each other, too. They just don’t have any concept of customer service and – as a result – Russia seems in general a pretty unhappy place to travel around.

It goes without saying that the Russian food we experienced in St Pete was appalling. I’m not quite sure how British good gets such a bad rap when there’s practically an entire continent of Russian food out here. We did eat the first night at the local “Tolsity Friar”, but I confess that one look at Lloyd’s dinner was enough to send me scrambling to the Golden Arches (Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!). With my promise to be a little more adventurous on the food front on this trip, Lloyd and I had a bit of a bet going as to who would crumble first. Officially it was me as I took us there. But in practice, Lloyd actually ate more than half of ‘my’ Big Mac, so I think it’s a draw. Weird note: the ketchup was considerably sweeter in McD’s Russia. And the Coke was smaller. But everything else was exactly the same. Expect for the customer service of course, “ Tek yer Beeg Myek ‘n gyet owt-uv-moy-vey!”

The next morning, we strolled around St. Isaac’s golden domes and found a lighter lunch at a local bakery that we wished we’d found before surrendering to the Golden Arches. Here, we DID enjoy some local cuisine: meat pasties (pirog) and sweet fruit pastries more than hit the spot before our mid-afternoon journey to Moscow to catch the Trans-Siberian (TSR), which is where Lloyd will pick up the story….