Trans Siberian Part 11 From Russia with Love (and Finland)

Moscow

Awoke in a sweat.  Some difficulty finding the shower.  I found Petra on the well worn sofa outside our room, beneath poorly hung posters and sagging maps.  She was struggling with the bureaucracy involved in crossing the Baltic states back to Czech.  The Baltic route, through Latvia and Lithuania did not require the expensive visas passing directly through Belarus did, but it did require an overnight stay in Vilnius to avoid passing through a few miles of Belarus at its North Western point.  So here she was debating on whether or not to fly to Warsaw or carry on to St. Petersburg with me.  So it was, as her card didn't work, that our first task in Moscow was to find a Baltic air office.  So off we went.

"Moscow very clear and cold this morning.  At the major intersection where Baltic Air was supposed to be, we found nothing, nor anything new enough to suggest it had been here within the last 10 to 15 years.  So we asked around."

Our searching ground

 "Petra is very good at this, asking for the world with all the grace she possesses.  In a phone shop nearby the girl at the counter dutifully headed in back to find an English speaker - an Indian man who, after a few moments looking at Google maps on his phone, dissapeared back behind where he'd come from, quickly reappeared wearing a jacket, then led us out into the air on a somewhat brief but fruitless search.

Still, what a gent.  The Petra effect in action."

Across the road from where we stood was a narrow band of parkland which seemed to bound this particular district of the city.  Within marched some sort of socialist protest, red flags with Lenin and Trotsky fluttered in the icy breeze.  Petra didn't take too well to this, and as we crossed the road and the park beyond I tried to ease her worries with bouts of historical chatter.  Not that I was too clear on what was really going on.  I had my ideas.  I found the sight of Trotsky quite reassuring.

Russia Politics

We were crossing to breakfast, somewhat shamefacedly, in McDonalds.  Russian cuisine being what it was, we needed a break.  However, as seems to be the case throughout Russia, the Chips were terrible.  Still, there we sat, in this greasy jewel in capitalism's crown, on a chilly Moscow morning watching Lenin bob by on scarlet.

 Greasy sustenance taken, it was back underground,  we were planning on now actually seeing Lenin before he closed up shop for the day.  Petra had given up on flights for the time being, so we were off to Red Square. 

"We arrived some distance from Red Square, right next to the Bolshoi Theatre, massive and grand; the ancient walls of the Kremlin stark across the way - we wandered in, it wasn't exactly how I imagined it.  All was Christmassy, an ice rink set up in the square by 'Sochi 2014' - the Russian Winter Olympics initiative; it was pumping out gay tunes while a massive glittering Christmas tree near masked the ridiculous gingerbread extravaganza of St. Basils "

Red Square and Lenins Tomb

It was freezing on the square,  we briefly flirted with the idea of going ice skating, but it was too cold for me.  Covering the distance to St. Basils was uncomfortable enough.  We bought tickets and headed in.  Again, St. Basils was not at all what I was expecting.

St. Basils

As an orthodox cathedral it wasn't one big communal space, but a fairly pokey place, a cluster of ornate chapels each reaching to its own onion capped dome.  All was illuminated, painted, patterned, Jesus and the Virgin, John the Baptist, The last Supper, Ivan the Terrible, Jonah and the Whale and everything else, painted across panels, these and geometric patterns ran across every curve and along every corridor.  A wonderful maze of a place.

 In the largest chapel a choir was striking up as we entered, the acoustics along with their Russian stoicism infused the chamber with an atmosphere of almost tearful piety.  A Filmic moment.  Once they'd finished one did not know if one should clap, being in a church and all.

The view back across the square from the Cathedral.  Gingerbread.

Outside, the air still froze, so we hurried over to GUM, the famous department store that runs along the opposite edge of the square from the Kremlin.   A huge gleaming rich man's department store no less, sheer opulence.  Except for the toilets of course.  They were in line with the others I'd seen in Moscow.  Cramped and pretty crappy.

GUM

We sat and had expensive coffee, overlooking one of the arched marble aisles.  For hours we sat.  Me, writing in my journal, Petra worrying over her route across Europe.  We were tired out, removed from the womb of the Trans Siberian to wander foolish through a strange frozen city.  Hungover from 6 days sitting.

As I finished my entry, Petra announced she would fly home.  So suddenly, this became our last day.

We went to the Kremlin and found the ticket office around the other side.  Inside, the price list was indecipherable; as was the ticket clerk herself; people sat around the place on benches, waiting for who knows what.  Because of this the place felt kind of like an application centre for driving licenses in some third rate town, not the ticket office for the biggest tourist attraction in the biggest country on earth.

Outside the Kremlin

So, we purchased one of the many varieties of tickets and headed in.  Petra batted her eyelids and got past the security checkpoint with nary a glance -  I, meanwhile, had to remove my jacket, bag, hat, boots, then force all this through a 5cm wide gap next to the metal detector, onto a tiny flimsy table that was more like a bar stool, large enough to accommodate perhaps the smallest goldfish bowl -  all of this while outside in the freezing Russian winter.  Luckily, before I was done unlacing my boots I made wry eye contact with the waiting Petra, seeing this, the security guard, not wanting to keep Petra waiting, immediately stopped his airport security routine.

So into the Kremlin we went, across the red brick bridge, through a tunnel of a gate and beyond the walls.  The centre of Russian government, and one of the more prominent stages upon which the history of the world has played out.  Founded as early as the 11th century by the Slavs, Napoleon tried to blow the thing up during his withdrawal back in 1812, Stalin spent a great deal of time here, Hell, Lenin still lay in state just around the corner (we couldn't visit him though, his jacket was at the tailors, so he was all closed up)  History radiated from the place.  But it was a bit dull really.  We didn't have time to visit the armory which is, I've heard, the highlight.  It was a cluster of parliamentary buildings; the primary one, the palace, a fairly garish 1970s structure. 

We meandered about in the bitter bitter cold, visiting a couple of the chapels, all beautifully illuminated.  One held the bodies of 20 or 30 tsars, all in metal coffins packed into the church as though it were some sort of vast coffin moving van.  Another was filled with undoubtedly priceless works of art, painted onto wood and plaster.  A big Jesus face painted directly onto the wall above the door as one came in.

The Tsar Cannon

All very interesting.  Back outside, like thousands before us, we posed for photos with the 'Tsar Cannon' with its cannonballs too big for its breach.  Also, the Tsar Bell, cracked and never rung.  Sitting on the concrete like some great bronze TeePee.  But it was extremely cold up upon that hill, exposed.

The Kremlin once again

The Sun sets over Moscow

 We arrived back in the station where Petra, in another admirable display of determination obtained a refund for her St Petersburg ticket.  We headed back to the cafe where 24 hours earlier we had bid farewell to the Wolf. 

"We ate (She had a terrible sandwich and pancakes with sour cream, - Russians!, I had a strange Cheesy eggy pasta - it was alright but I fear the after taste shall be with me until Christmas) checked the Internet, she booked tickets to Warsaw for the following Tuesday, I booked a train from Hamburg to Paris for Thursday night - more night trains - more expense!

Having Petra leave made me seriously consider simply flying home.  I teetered around the edge for a few hours until finally holding somewhat firm.

The luck of having such great companions is mocked by how hard it is suddenly to have noone again.  Moscow seems very very strange again.

Dosvidanyas

We exchanged photos and talked.  Then headed over to get our bags out of left luggage - once we got to the station she exclaimed that she had thrown out her luggage claim ticket either earlier today, or at the restaurant.  We got back to the restaurant where she triumphantly retrieved a card - triumphant that is until I pointed out it was merely a Metro card.   So, it was definitely gone.  We set off back across the road again to somehow convince the Left Luggage guy to give her her stuff (we were 2 hours late also)  I insisted she check her wallet "Its not there" she said, but of course, it was, and it all dissolved into laughter.

As we were 2 hours late we owed R120 each - Petra dilligently pretended not to understand til the very end, but eventually caved to reason.

We got our stuff back, hugged, walked outside, hugged again, took a final photo, and said our Dosvidanyas.  Then she walked away.  I watched her til she turned a corner.  She never looked back.  I laughed like a kid.  At myself and at the situation.  She was very very beautiful.  Like a model.  One of the most beautiful women I've ever seen.. so that was that.

Now I sit here in a waiting room.  Looking at a screen full of numbers I don't understand waiting to sleep on a train again. "

The view as I wrote

 I was ready to go home as I sat writing in that far away corner of Leningradsky Voksal.  I felt a bit out of my element.  And tired.  I was almost 13 days into this thing, and a whole lot had happened.  A whole lot.  So no wonder I was somewhat fatigued.  But I didn't have time for that.  At 22:10 I was leaving for Saint Petersburg.

I would be traveling Plaskartny class - that is, everyone sleeping in an open carriage, together.  Basically the same layout as the Trans Siberian's familiar carriages but with the passageway facing wall taken out and with more bed squeezed in where the passageway windows would be.  To accommodate any sort of corridor, the beds were slightly shorter, so my feet jutted from the end once I was tucked in amongst the exclusively elderly Russians traveling North that night.  I didn't say much of anything as noone understood me.  A kindly old man smiled over at me whenever our eyes met, two old women gossiped to my left and a young businessy looking man with good shoes was asleep before we'd even left the station. 

Regardless, I slept like a log til lights up at 5:20 or so.  The train seemed to stop for a bit just outside Saint Petersburg, possibly to allow its passengers some measure of wakeful dignity before disembarking.

So it was 6am when we arrived.

Saint Petersburg

Petersburg Station

 I checked my bag into left luggage and went in search of tickets to Helsinki.

"The main concourse was identical in design to the one in Moscow, albeit not under construction, and so without the air of shattered dreams that I'd found so charming - it was quite a contrast actually, quite merry with its Christmas tree and big Stalinist map of connections clashing quite nicely.  However I soon discovered I needed to get to a different station to buy tickets onward to Finland.  So I got the underground - almost as elaborate as Moscows but with one crucial difference - it is simple to understand - maps of the system are everywhere, unlike in Moscow, so navigation is a breeze. Thank God for that."

At Finyandsky Voksal ( The station from where Finnish bound trains left) I found that everything was closed.  I settled in to wait for the international ticket booth to open, or at least what I assumed to be the international ticket booth.  I feasted on bits of chocolate and cake that I managed to get out of various vending machines scattered about the station,  and I sat, and I read,  making progress on Cloud Atlas.  Outside, the sun still had not appeared. 

I had some difficulty with getting my bag into left luggage and indeed finding the international ticket office (I say office as it was located outside the station itself, round the back and down snowy darkened streets).  Left Luggage was that usual struggle against the cyrillic signs and unhelpful customer service staff, but, some hours later, at about 9am or so, I was off towards the famous Nevsky  Prospect. Still dark.  Though well lit by Christmas.

Nevsky Prospect

I headed North West, past the magnificent Kazan Cathedral, over the frozen canals of the Neva, and eventually reached a coffee shop where I had some breakfast, wrote in my journal and waited for some natural light to make its way back into the world.

Kazan Cathedral

"Day 13, Sunday the 16th of December 2012. St. Petersburg Russia 10:40 (GMT+4)

Sitting in a colourful coffee house named "Coffee House" its even got its own 'sting' to go with the jaunty little tunes being pumped into the air in here: "Tinkle of bells, children going "Yaay!" man in a deep accented voice: "Coffee House!""
Across the road outside is the Hermitage, one of the worlds finest museums - I have 10 hours or so.

The road in question is Nevsky Prospect.  So many familiar names and sights, the Revolution! I'm leaving tonight from the Finnish station - the very station Lenin arrived back into from his exile in 1917 - all power to the Bolsheviks! 

Already I vastly prefer this city to Moscow. It seems far more negotiable.  And gorgeous.  But it is a meticulously designed city."

 The last of course was a reference to Peter the Great and his desire to have a Venice of the Baltic,  a great many serfs died to see his dream come into fruition here in what used to be a great marsh.   An impossible city.  One designed to wow Europe into accepting Russia as an equal.  But it feels a lot realler then Venice, itself a sort of fairground nowadays. 

The Winter Palace and The Hermitage

Dawn slowly seeded the sky as I crossed towards the Winter Palace.  It was about 11:00.  To turn a corner and to see that building in front of you, just waiting there.  For whatever reason, for me its always held a semi-mythic quality, a thrill ran through me, banishing the cold for the briefest of moments, once again the phrase "All power to the Bolsheviks!!" rattled through my head, but this time it found expression, a whisper on my lips.

An amazing museum.  Already busy with local tourists.  Free baggage storage, a boon, although I did lose one of the plastic tags entrusted to me before I'd even passed through the security checkpoint and in to marvel at the Jordan staircase.  This is where I realised.  Arching back my whole body to take in the full regal splendor of the thing, a staircase for the Tsar and Tsarina to walk down on Palm Sunday.  Pure Opulence, Gold filigree, and white, Palatial being the only suitable word to describe such a palace - so its lucky we have it.

The Jordan staircase, paltry looking through the lens

As I said, I realised then that my baggage chit was gone, so frantic back along my path I went, scanning the floor, the stairs, the x-ray machine til at last I realised I'd have to leave - lest someone took my things as their own.

The cloakroom complex, for it was a complex of its own, was run exclusively, it seemed, by kindly old ladies.

The one I had initially dealt with seemed pretty bemused, eventually she led me to her colleague, sitting in her green apron on a small desk, smiling demurely.

I haltingly explained my embarrassing situation, deeply aware that they could not understand me - eventually she led me by the hand back to the coat racks, to where I knew my coat was, she let me dig amongst the wintery clothes, and soon I found it, grabbed my passport from its pockety home - proof!! - the little old lady smiled with a little sigh and produced the missing chit from her apron, she'd had it all along "administration" she explained enigmatically, then returned to her perch on her desk.

In I went.

The Hermitage is too huge, too exhausting, and too insane to explain.  Its huge, 3 floors of art, crafts, and archaeology, floor upon floor, room upon room, gallery upon gallery.  Paintings, weapons, pots, ikons, the possessions of Tsars, saints and scholars, all stored in rooms flowing with opulence, massive, interjoining, pannelled, painted, and bejeweled, lavish, and rich and endless endless endless.

The Throne Room

 A golden peacock right out of myth, mechanised, Da Vinci's Madonna and child, sweet and unpretentious, Rembrandt's masterpiece 'the Prodigal son' huge and bleary with emotion.  One room held a wall covered with more then a hundred portraits of generals and other military men, another, simply held the throne.  Made tiny by the rooms gravity.

The frozen Neva

Portrait hall

Outside, the bay of the Neva was frozen over, a masterpiece in itself, it too carved by man to match an aesthetic ideal.  Beneath, in the lower levels, crate upon crate upon crate of archaeological debris, so much of it, I could hardly see.

Hanging Gardens, Medieval studies, Clocks, Clothes, glass pyramids, books and bibles, swords and armour, all within the house of a couple executed for their unjust accident of birth.  An accident that gave them all this, the treasures of the world, too much for any mind to contemplate let alone appreciate.

It was too much.  I ate it all up for the first few hours, but by the end it had stuffed up my brain.  I staggered blearily through the wonder of it all.  Tired in the head.  Tired but ever astonished. 

Luckily at the end I happened upon the impressionist wing.  Oh the soothing milk of the impressionists. 

Van Gogh

"But it was my soul mates in art The Impressionists that saved me.  The whole movement of late 19th early 20th century art proved a balm to my weary overly saturated mind - and they had quite a selection - some wonderful Van Goghs I'd never heard of, one, a portrait of a woman with such a look of cartoon ferocity in her artist's pinioning eye, that one wonders if she'd actually consented to a sitting.  Another, a house at night with a silhouetted women in the foreground and a typically Vincent man was also grand.

To think, though he barely made anything from it in his life time, his art, here, alongside Da Vinci, Van Icke, and all the treasures of mankind, in a Palace! A Palace! its enough to make one emote."

In the adjoining rooms, Cezanne, Monet, Manet, Degas,  their work lets me drift into a safe place, a Balm for the soul.  Each artist I recognise instantly - art like an old friend,  and no matter how long its been, we're able to slide right back into each others confidences,  we conspire and smile at the world like sad weary hopeful Philosophers.  Oh Art.  I always spend too long away from art.

So.   Waxing lyrical there a bit.

Freezing by the Canals

I left soon after and walked back towards Nevsky Prospect, circling around by the frozen canals, over to the back of the Church of the Spilled Blood, marvelous in the setting sun.  Down by the canals under workers clearing snow from overloaded roofs. 

Church of the Spilt Blood

With frozen feet I stopped into another of those Coffee places to eat, letting the ice slowly melt from my boots.  I rested up, then spent the dying hours of the day moving in and out of Russia's oldest department store (quite small) looking at the various articles of overpriced kitcsh, Russian dolls, that sort of thing.  Nothing at all Soviet related, only a single tiny star.

The Sun sets on my time in Russia

 Then it was off to the station for more waiting around before boarding the super futuristic train to Finland.  It had a creche, an area for pets, free electricity, free water, fantastic chairs, massive fold down tables.  I felt like I'd stepped out of the 80s and into the near future, albeit a far better organised version of that future then I, in Britain, have any right to hope for.

It felt like an exhale, sitting on that train, tension relieved.  I suddenly realised I'd been on edge for the last day or so.  Suddenly I was relaxed.

The Russian Customs official scrutinized my passport with a magnifying glass, got me to scrunch up my forehead slightly so it better matched the smaller me scowling back at her from the page.  But  I didn't mind.  Such bother was behind me.  Also, she was blond and beautiful.  So I sat back.  Sunk into my chair.  And hurtled through the night.  Helsinki, and friends, were waiting.