So it is all over! I stayed safe and I didn't die, but now that I'm home my confused little brain is having a pretty tough time adjusting to "normal" everyday life. I am so very confused! Aside from the jet lag (which, only being 3 hours I thought wouldn't be an issue), I am completely unable to make any decisions, have forgotten how to put an outfit together, and distressed because I now dislike my previous first love, Dairy Milk chocolate, and have to keep fighting the instinct to speak to people in Russian. It's a pretty hilarious experiential state of affairs, and I imagine, even more hilarious, or maybe just really annoying to witness. After a far too brief stop at home-home, which was spent mainly acquainting myself with the puppy - I am writing this on my way to London, where the rest of my life is, and thought I would finish everything off with a final blog about St Petersburg and my somewhat ridiculous journey back to Blighty.
My final and overnight train from Moscow to St Petersburg was a sleepless affair, and I arrived in what used to be Leningrad at 0530, in the freezing cold and 2ft of snow. After a quick breakfast pit-stop to orientate myself into this new city, I walked through whirlwinds of snow being blown across whited out sidewalks and rang the bell of the hostel furiously to wake up the night staff and get out of the cold. Inevitably that day turned into a regroup day, spent largely on a big leather sofa in the hostel watching a polish music channel when The Brothers Karamazov got a little bit too much. That night I did go out for a delicious italian meal, with good wine, bread and tiramisu, and I then ducked out of a pub crawl after the first stop, two vodkas and being hit by a wall of tiredness.
Glamorous is to Moscow as Charming is to St Petersburg
Having now been to both, I can see why there would be such rivalry between Moscow and St Petersburg. Having already designated myself a person of little discernment, I don't feel the need to decide between them and I really do just love them both. While Moscow is edgy and contentious, St Petersburg is it's aristocratic and bohemian cousin. Everything in St Petersburg is ornate, classical and grandiose. To walk down the Nevsky Prospect (which is the most famous street in Russia) is to be a little overwhelmed by just how many of the buildings (practically all of them) are huge and intricately and exuberantly decorated. Of all the grand and spectacular buildings that abound in St Petersburg, the most breathtaking and utterly and completely overwhelming is The State Hermitage. After my lazy day on the sofa, I wrapped up in two pairs of leggings underneath my trekking pants, two shirts underneath two jumpers and my coat, and the hat, gloves, scarf etc... it had dropped to -12. I headed out with my new friend Michael, (who, it transpires, used to live approximately 5 minutes away from my flat in Muswell Hill) to this 22km giant of a museum. We reached the square in Dvortsovaya Pl and I was completely awestruck (for the first, of many times that day). It was vast, and beautiful and completely covered in snow with black silhouetted people moving around on an all white chess board. Where the snow had been cleared there were 7ft high mounds of snow dotted about the place, which were fantastic fun to run up, slide down and jump up and down on top of. When it got too cold, despite the many layers, to be playing in the snow, we went into the Winter Palace of the Hermitage through a snow covered courtyard, which looked as though it was in the middle of a snowfall due to the men on the roofs of the buildings, sweeping the snow off of the edge. This is a job in Russia,
I cannot describe to you just how massive, resplendent and grand the Hermitage is, and just how much art there actually is on display let alone the amount that is allegedly in storage. It is fabulous, and everything from the decorative floor tiles, to the marble columns, the gold on the walls and ceilings, and the art adorning the walls is utterly priceless. The further I walked and the more rooms I saw the more my brain just couldn't wrap itself around and ascertain so much spender. I know there is a lot of hyperbole in this paragraph, but none of it is exaggerated; this palace is the most awesome thing I've ever seen in real life and I guarantee you cannot imagine just how incredible it is. Go there! I never feel like this about stately homes or art galleries, and rarely even art, but it was sensational and my spine felt electric the entire day. I really want to go back there again, and again, and again, and this one spectacular museum might just be enough to swing it for Moscow in the seat abroad contest!
I feel as though I may actually be becoming a little bit educated in Art, and learning to appreciate the masterpiece that's inches away from my eyes. That is, after countless galleries of countless genres in my most recent countries. I've always enjoyed art, have been art-interested and will happily spend a number of hours in galleries, but my appreciation has been very limited. Visiting an art gallery has become a more interesting and stimulating experience for me lately - the height of which was the work of the impressionists on the second floor. Always a fan of the contentious and the feminist, I recommend you google the work of "Gerome" and take a look at his paintings depicting the suppression and exploitation of women in a very delicate yet uncomfortable way. My favourite is the painting entitled "Auction of a Slave Girl". Other high points for me were the Picasso and Matisse (except the still life which I abhor) and finally, finally seeing the Ballet Dancer Studies by Degas, which I have adored since I was a little ballet dancer myself.
Following on with the ballet theme, that evening I fulfilled one of my long-term little ballet dancer dreams and went to see a ballet at the Mariinsky Theatre! Dressed up in my opera outfit and nice boots, we caught the metro to the station nearest to the theatre and hailed a taxi to take us the rest of the way (it was cold and we were running late). Now, in Russia, unlike in Vietnam and China, every car is a taxi subject to a negotiated price. As I am sure you can imagine, I wasn't exactly overjoyed on learning this, given that little Hanoi passport mishap, so I only actually got a taxi when I was not alone. A young, slightly hapless looking guy responded to my hail and we agreed the fair fare of £3. Somewhat disconcertingly, as he drove off he typed the theatre destination into his satnav (worth more than his car) and started turning corners. Michaels crap guidebook told us that the theatre was a building with an unattractive exterior which was compensated by an ornate interior. Our amateur cabby pulled up outside a beautiful building which we concluded, because of the crap guide book, must be the Mariinsky Palace and not the Theatre. We explained this, using crap guidebook and the guy drove off and around for a little while before stopping, bang on 7pm when the performance was due to begin and said that actually he didn't know. Brilliant. We got out (passive-aggressively and without paying) and walked/slipped/slid back to the metro station and we had already driven past twice, and hailed a marked taxi. This guy charged us an outrageous £10 and took up to the building to which we had originally be driven by Mr. £3 - that not ugly building. Double and triple checking this actually was the right place, disbelief was postponed until we checked out coats and ran up the stairs to out cheap seats (which were actually better to disregard and stand) at the top and in the back! Fortunately the balled was spectacular and and instant distraction away from our expensive and ill-timed communication breakdown, which was further soothed by champagne and chocolate at the interval. Thank you, Michael! - and a toast to all things Russia. I've seen a fair bit of ballet but this was just outstanding, and a very emotional and memorable experience. The last act was the single most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my whole life - and of the last 4 months, those 40 minutes were the pinnacle, the climax and the highlight of it all!
The next morning, still reeling from the night before, I toured the houses of Dostoyevsky and Pushkin and indulged in literary Russia. As you might expect, the Dostoyevsky household was a more humble affair than that of the blue-eyed poet, but both museums were well presented and tell a fantastic story of the writers lives in St Petersburg. One fantastic little anecdote about Dostoyevsky which I enjoy and think resonates quite well with the humour in his writing is the following: Fyodor liked his tea very strong and firmly believed that only he was capable of making it as he liked it. He would refuse to drink any other, except that which was made by his wife, whom he adored, but in so drinking he would declare "oh how miserable I am!" I love this. Probably because I really appreciate good tea, and Dostoyevsky.
After a successful navigation day following in great writers' footsteps, I made a second attempt at the Mariinsky the following evening, this time to see a beasty 4 hour 'proper' opera. I think I've either run out of navigatory luck of the gods of the compass and/or Mariinsky were having a little joke with me, because it went wrong, yet again! This time I left myself an extra 20 minutes to get there, and decided not to gamble on a taxi (I would be needing the passport very soon) and would walk to the theatre. I checked the route on my map and basically had to walk up one road until I came to the river and then I had to turn right. Simple, yes? One turn and a journey that I had already done by car a few times. I exited the metro station and walked up the street in the direction that the taxi drivers had done, for about 30 minutes, in -12. There was no river. Anywhere. I asked for directions and discovered that I had been walking on the correct road but in the wrong direction. I am much better equipped to deal with my navigatory ineptness when it is warm and sunny and I am on a motorbike. This time it was freezing cold, I couldn't walk properly on al the ice and my face was so numb I couldn't even slide around swearing to myself to ease the frustration. Oh and my nose was running which was the most annoying thing of all and actually drove me crazy. I eventually made it, late again, and aside from a very sore backside I very much enjoyed this epic experience, enhanced I think by having read the original - which wasn't credited to him, but I'm pretty sure was an adapted version of Sophocles.
I spent my last day looking at more art in this city of culture and class, in the Russian Museum. I can only recommend this to you on a cloudy day, because otherwise your experience might also be compromised by the glare of the sunlight off every single painting - so I spent that day side-stepping from one end of the painting to the other, just to see it properly - and probably looking like a right idiot the whole time. The Russian Museum did mark the last thing on the list of the things I wanted to do in St Petersburg and I returned to the cosy warm hostel feeling satisfied that I was done, and I was very, very ready to go home - but it wasn't quite that simple!
I arrived at the international terminal of Pulcova airport the following morning about one hour before check-in would open, intending to have a coffee and a cake and a very relaxed day. On my arrival however, I couldn't find my flight on the departures board, and after being bounced around 3 different offices, was told directly by stupid Polish Airlines that actually there wasn't a flight to Warsaw today (connecting to London). I replied, softly, that there was and that I was booked onto it. His solution to a problem he found most amusing, was that I could fly tomorrow and should just pay the fine for overstaying my visa. Now, for the duration of my trip I have retained composure, except for the passport incident. This has surprised me, because I've never been a very patient person, but I'd become cool, somehow. At this point however, I lost it, I actually lost it and the poor polish man was on the receiving end of my forked tongue of wrath in a flurry of English which I am sure was to fast for him to understand. A million phone calls back and forth later (and a little time to calm down) I bought a whole new flight which would take me to London via Stockholm later that evening. After waiting around in the airport for many chilly hours, I was all checked in and sat outside the gate waiting to board my flight when the big red "CANCELLED" sign flashed up and we were recalled. At this point I gave up any notions of getting to London that evening and shifted my ambitions to just getting across the border and not having to deal with the Russian Visa Police. After queuing for ages and being ferried back through passport control, I was assigned and checked into a flight leaving for Helsinki, which was then, almost as soon as we were checked in, cancelled because of the snow. Having explained my need to cross the border to the man whose job it was to sort all this out (and I did not envy him his 200 problem passengers) he told me to "stand there" and he ran away. I stood where I was told, for about 20 minutes, wondering whether he'd been hijacked by a more pushy customer (I had regained my cool by this point) or died of a heart attack from all the stress. I then spotted him running back through the terminal and thrust a sheet of paper into my hands telling me to check in at Desk 3 NOW! I did, was handed a boarding pass and told to go to Gate 1 NOW! I did, and as soon as I got there I was rushed through security and put on a plane... to Vienna! I had a few questions for the cabin crew in the aircraft, from whom I discovered where it was I was going, what time zone I would be in and that there were 2 flights to London from Vienna that evening and that I was 'probably' on one of those. What. A. Farce! Vienna went pretty smoothly with my magic sheet of paper which said something clearly very important and got me onto a flight to London Heathrow, very quickly. I had just enough time to find a Travelex and change all the random currency I had on my for Euros and make a call from a pay-phone to my dad telling him that actually, I was in Vienna, and where/when I would be arriving! When I did finally get to Heathrow, which I did not think I was going to happen that evening, my baggage, although chronically delayed, actually made it to the same airport as me! Hurrah!
So that is it - she bloggeth no more. Many thanks for all your comments and for continuing to read and I really hope that you've enjoyed the ride!
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