110908 – Russia, St Petersberg

After the late sleep-in, the group as a whole packed and prepared to leave. Our train was leaving late tonight and we would not be able to leave our luggage at the hostel past midday. Most of the group lugged our gear to the regional terminal, near where we had dinner last night, and checked our bags into storage.

About 4 or 5 of us started heading up Nevsky Prospect, getting lunch at a Pancake franchise. Pancakes seem to be a staple here, the boiled ham, cheese and mushrooms is definitely worth a taste. Two of the guys ordered beer, which was not unusual, receiving pints that they described as being almost like a “breakfast juice”.

In Russia, beer is literally considered as a form of soft-drink. You can order a pint at vendors located in stalls and on street corners, it is not really considered “alcoholic” and it is perfectly acceptable to wander around the streets with a can or a bottle. The only distinction between a frosty pilsner and coca-cola, is that you wouldn't wander through a church or museum with a pilsner.

Joining the line into the hermitage, my student card issued a free ticket. All of us bought camera tickets, for photos, and we walked in.

There are no words than can describe the Russian Winter Palace.

It is exceptional.
It is poetic.
It is epic.

This museum is a work of art in itself, disregarding the artefacts that it contains. Wandering through the halls, in wonder of the place and it's history, we found ourselves wishing that there was more information on the nature and purpose of the place when it was in use by the Romonovs.

Words can not encompass, or even pay homage to, the elegance, decadence and opulence of the old Russian empire. There were minor staterooms with golden walls and ceilings, mechanical clocks that operated peacocks and owls. Giant expanses that were rooms for receptions, throne rooms the size of soccer pitches and grand ball rooms. Works of art that were priceless and irreplaceable.

This place is awesome. There is no other like it.

The Russian government is continuing to take extraordinary steps to restore the Hermitage, the facade facing the great courtyard was covered with scaffolding and canvasses for restoration work. The internal courtyards were artfully concealed and under repair after decades of neglect. While the vast majority of the complex is open to tourists, there are massive sections that are closed for repair and ongoing work. The few glimpses of these sections revealed ancient, derelict rooms that had suffered neglect that could almost have been pro-active.

After several hours of hobbling around (Denesh had injured his knee last night and I was suffering) we met up with Shaneka and Presh, leaving the hermitage and looking for lunch or other sites. The original plan was to go to the Fortress of Peter and Paul, but Denesh was really suffering and it looked like an awfully long walk. Settling for Plan B, we sacrificed the fortress and took off to the Cathedral.

Making our way to St Issacs cathedral, we had no success in finding some cheap eats. This part of town boasted 5-star hotels and suitably pricey restaurants. The others took off for lunch and we planned to meet at Church of Spilt Blood in about an hour. Having been told that it was the highest point in the city, I braved the 200 steps to the colonnade.

The view from the top of St Issac's cathedral offers a panorama of the entire city. The Hermitage, Admiralty, Church of Spilt Blood, various residential districts with dozens of high-rises and the associated business districts and even what appeared to be a nuclear power station, can all be seen between the surrounding columns and nearby powerlines. Almost everywhere, the construction and shipping cranes reach through the buildings and skylines, towards the sky. Almost like prehistoric insects, stalking through the city for their prey, the spidery steel structures were ubiquitous to the metropolis.

After the descent through a second circular stairwell, it was back to the pancake shop for a lunch of borsh and a sausage pancake.
Borsh is a hot soup made of beetroot, onion and typically beef. The vegetables are typically cut into thin splinters and the meat is diced quite small. When describing “beetroot soup” to other travellers, most people have the same response that I first had.
“Beetroot? Like on salad? An entire soup of the stuff? ~blegh~”
Seriously, this is not the stuff you'd put with cold-meat and sliced carrots. It lacks the sour and tart bite of canned beetroot, in fact the soup only really presents an “idea” of what Australians are used to with this vegetable. To say that borsh is like salad beetroot is like saying all Australians are a clone of John Howard.
It is an extremely hearty dish, when served piping hot, that isn't too spicy. If you are unfortunate enough to get a luke-warm or cold bowl, it definitely lacks that extra oomph. Though often an option that you must purchase, it is best served with a cold scoop of mild sour-cream in the middle off it. The cold tartness of a little of the cream with a big spoonful of the hot, chunky liquid offers a contrast of flavours that are unforgettable and unique, beckoning for the next. While you eat it like a soup, it kept reminding me of a stew. Most locals I saw seemed to eat it as their meal alone, I always doubled up with something more solid. I'm sure it could be sufficient sustenance by itself, I didn't want to risk it considering how cold and damp it was.
Though it may not always be served “well”, there is nothing like a hot bowl of borsh when it is cold and raining out side, it is certainly popular amongst the locals.

After a prolonged lunch, I set off to the Church of Spilled Blood. I would be too late to meet up with the others, but wanted to see the building and was content with exploring by myself. Making my way across the city, over the canals and along the thoroughfares, I once again passed the amazing facades and historical towers. The curved pillars of the Greek Orthadox cathedral was as impressive in daylight as it had been under artificial lighting the night before. The little park in front of it was comfortably crowded with young couples often carrying flowers and toddlers with at least one parent, playing on the walkways.

Walking along the canal that lead to the onion-topped church, the streets were crowded with cars and pedestrians. The Church of Spilled Blood appeared to be dedicated to the Russians who had fallen in the various wars. Following the advice of several other travellers, I took photos of the exterior but didn't pay to see the museum inside. Living expenses were a little sharper here than I'd anticipated and I'd been told it wasn't really worth the investment for a foreigner.

Having missed the others, and starting to flake out from all the walking, I started to wander back down Nevsky Prospect towards the train station. After investigating a bookshop that boasted a large English section, I picked out some postcards at a fraction of most of the gift shops. I still couldn't find any of the Winter Palace that entirely satisfied me, but these would suffice for now. Walking further, up a little paved pedestrian street, I ventured into the warmth of a cafe that was part of the same franchise chain as my first cup of coffee in Russia. Having boasted WiFi, I was a little disappointed when told it wasn't true. This didn't stop me enjoying a Banana milkshake, writing post-cards and typing my blog for a couple of relaxed hours.

Having settled the ache in the side of my right leg and exhausted my laptop battery, cards were written and I still had several hours to go before the prearranged meeting time at the train station. Acting on a whim, I took off back up Nevsky and along the canal to the Church of Spilled Blood. Cutting through the nearby souvenir market and over a bridge, I walked through a large and very open park towards one of the major bridges. Following the little blue blip on my phone, I crossed one of the two major bridges that flanked the Winter Palace, over what I believed to be the widest part of the river. As the sun slowly started its slide towards night-time, the light gradually began to fail. The fortress would be seen during the hours of dusk that I'd come to expect of this historical corner of the work, the light glowing an ancient reflection of a history that was still remembered.

The Fortress of Peter and Paul is an island in and of itself. Connected to a significant piece of land (that I also believe is an island) by two bridges, the outer wall is star shaped with sheer sloped brickwork guarding over the low beach on the side facing the water. Featuring interior and exterior walls, multi-doored portals acting as air-locks between the layers of defence, the Fortress is a formidable landmark. Constructed by a Scottish commander while developing St Petersburg and fending off the Swedes, he is one of the few Generals that has been buried in the Cathedral grounds that mark somewhere close to the heart of this military establishment. The cathedral tower features an impressive bell arrangement that was kind enough to perform upon my appearance, in front of this dominant building was what I assumed was the parade ground, all landmarks of suitable proportions.

With the glowing dusk retreating behind the low clouds, I didn't dedicate the time to seek out the Romanov's graves. Having entered across the longer bridge to this little island and through 2 series of doors. Across courtyards and through the little pedestrian portal mounted inside the greater door marking the inner wall, I was forced to make a compromise of the little tour considering the long walk to get here and how little of the day remained. Passing by most of the major buildings and “just having a little look”, I left through another great wall and across the second bridge. Retreating from the ancient fortress, I saw the nearest building on the mainland (still several hundred metres away) was surrounded with a steel fence and dark vehicles mounted with dishes and angular racks. This modern fortress masked behind its historical predecessor.

The walk back towards the winter palace led me along the shore, affording me new views and preventing me retracing my steps. Passing other tourists, there was a great masted ship that had been locked in place behind concrete columns that in turn were hidden behind a cane and log facade which was bristling with canons. I was more than a little confudes and surprised when I found that the lower floors, from just above the water-line, housed a gym while the upper floors were a restaurant. I passed by the eccentric facility and onto the bridge that marked the beginning of Nevsky Prospect, towards the train station.

Halfway across the bridge, I stopped for photographs of the nearby landmarks. Forming the one of the major feeders to the canal network, this bridge was equipped with the various guard-buildings, pulleys and various other structures necessary for it to split open. While almost as large as the first bridge I'd crossed, this great motorway was capable of retreating upwards to offer passage to ocean-going vessels.

The trip back to the Hermitage passed monuments dedicated to the ocean, soldiers and various local buildings. The gardens of vibrant flowers were startlingly bright in the failing light, I only hope that my camera managed to do them justice. Making my way past the Old Hermitage and the rest of the Winter Palace, skipping the square and progressing along the main street, I gave up on walking about a quarter of the way through my journey. Hopping on a Trolley-Bus and paying the 16 Rubles, I rode in style towards the train station. Lacking the confidence and reluctant to walk, I missed my stop for what it was and had to double-back a little way.

Having met with the others at the little refugee camp they had constructed for their wait in the station, beneath the great dark statue, I got the updated plans and decided dinner would be preferential to the hour long wait. Turning my most recent little walk into a victory, I retraced my steps along my double-back and got a giant smashed and stuffed potato and a bowl of borsh for dinner. Sadly lacking sour-cream, but delightfully hot, the soup was most welcome considering the cold, driven drizzle outside. The various stuffings in the potato ranged from delicious to bizarre, but made a well needed meal. The potato itself was massive.
I mean, seriously, nuclear-powered MASSIVE.
This thing would have had the volume of both my fists, possibly about a quarter of my head. IT WAS HUGE.
It was not just a spud, it was SPUD-E-NORMOUS

Having barely been able to stuff in all of my dinner, I thanked the young girl who had used her very best few words in broken english to serve me, and bolted back to the station. Worried that I was late, it was a dash down the stairs to collect my pack and then a rapid hobble back to the refugee camp.

By the time I got there, almost everyone had arrived. There was still a bit of a wait, everyone taking turns to watch the gear while others went to buy water or snacks. Finally our train was called and we wandered out to the platform for another short wait before boarding.
At least it wasn't stinking hot.
At least there wasn't a 2 hour wait for a late train. Mercifully, it was completely unlike my final train trip in Egypt.

Walking down the platform, trains arriving and departing, amongst the crowds of people we finally found our train. Walking past an angular, serious faced locomotive that introduced itself with a bright red star below its single lamp, it made me think it would be more appropriate towing a nuclear missile than carriages of civilians. We walked past middle-aged carriages of simple design that had obviously seem a great deal of service, people beginning to congregate to board at whatever rate the conductor would allow. This struck later struck me as the transport of the masses, more affordable than flying and comfortable enough to allow you to sleep. This was the first “industrial” moment that I'd had in Russia, fitting more with the stereotype I'd left home with than the adventures of the last two days.

On the train, after the inspector compared ticket numbers to passports, we found our allocated sleeper bunks. The train car itself was compartmentalised into cells that offered seating and a small table but no door, each cell had the main thorough-fare pass through it. On one side of the walkway, there was a single seats on either side of a small table that would later collapse to form the lower bunk, just above head-height was the second bunk collapsed against the wall. The other side of the corridor featured double seating on benches either side of another small table. This table did not collapse, neither did the bunk above the seat.

Arriving in the first influx to the train, I'd made it halfway along the carriage before realising I was in the first cell. I'd not noticed the seat number Anne had written in english before the conductor had taken that half of the ticket. Looking for a pattern in the top half that I had, someone realised the third line was designated for the seat. Dodging passengers, I made my way back. Andy and I stuffed our packs in the compartment beneath the benches that would be our beds. We would be sleeping on the lids to the little storage bays, so our bags would be safe. We helped the Russian lady opposite push her single case beneath our table until her bed was made and she slid it under the collapsed table section.

We were shortly joined by three Russian guys. Two of them would be on the bunks above us and the third would be in the next cell. Two of them spoke some english, one of them was on crutches, another limped badly and I found out the third had a knee replacement. As it ends out, they were friends from treatment and various groups for Haemophilia. While the disorder was not common in Russia, they had met each other and remained friends. On their way to an IT conference in Moscow on Search Engine Ranking, they had formed their own business while continuing to study at uni.
The guy with the knee replacement had asked us in very passable english if one of us could swap with his friend on crutches, I was still lacking the confidence to clamber about the upper bunks with a dodgy knee on a rocking train. It was arranged for one of the intrepid guys in the next cell to swap. It was later revealed that he had swapped faculties at university several times, recently pulling out of medicine. It was here that my cover was blown and Andy found out I was a med-student.

The young russian who had the bad limp had studied english in high-school and spoke quite fluently, translating for most of the group. He was studying psychology at university.

The guy on crutches spoke no english and was a theology student. He was also turning 26 at midnight on the train. The three of them were quitting alcohol, so there was a copious amount of Zero Beer (alcohol free). Two of them were also quitting smoking at the end of the journey.

Chatting for a good many hours, all three of them were fascinated to find out about world opinion on Russia. What was happening in Georgia, the past in Chechnia (sp?), world view of Putin.. pretty much everything. World politics and cultural differences kept us going till past 1am. One thing that I very briefly and lightly brought up was the history of Russia. Tackfully dodged, conversation shifted back to topics of the locals choosing.

“You are.. 26? You must have seen a lot of changes in Russia?”
...
“What you think about George Bush. We think he a joke..”
~point taken~

Midnight past, Happy Birthday was sung, cans of alcohol free beer were consumed after a suitable “Cheers”. The three Russians had finished snacking on their dried fish and got out some home-fried chicken and pita, which they insist we try. A suitable level of insisting and urging, the chicken was very tasty but I pleaded the recent dinner for not eating a lot of it.

As weariness set in we all once again wished the young gent in crutches a Happy Birthday and everyone said their goodnights. Andy and I had made our beds while the two Ruskis had been off on a smoke-break, so it was only a brief pause to lock our gear before searching for sleep.