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.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
100908 – Russia, St Petersburg
After a well deserved sleep-in, I packed and ventured out. I wasn't prepared to risk getting lost on the metro, so decided to walk. I'd used the WiFi at the hostel to update my iPhone maps and had plotted out how to get to the joining hostel. With a healthy amount of confidence, I set out. Looking like an over-burdened turtle, I attracted a few looks, but after a little work of mimicing the facial expressions of the locals, I seemed to pass mostly unnoticed.
Nevsky Prospect looked identical to my wanderings of the night before. This has always surprised me a bit, as it is the major night-spot in town. Walking through Northbridge back home is a VERY different experience at night as compared to the day, the glamorous clubs and lights are shown as gaudy, peeling facades with little attraction. Daylight here highlights the architecture and hides the little shops that had been so obvious the night before.
Glimpsing at the screen in my little pack, I followed the red pin and the blipping blue light to the intersection known locally as “Five Corners”. Sounding out the signs, I took what I figured was the correct street and tried to follow the direction of the Trip Notes. I think I found the right doorway, but it was a little non-specific.. there was a big sign with a stylised house on it, I figured that meant “hostel”...
Confidence on a dangerous slope, I retreated to the coffee shop on the corner... I was still a couple of hours too early for check-in and wanted some coffee anyway.. Successfully ordering in english, I sat and typed my blog for as long as the battery would last while enjoying a particularly good Black Forest Cappuccino.
Paying and double-checking the street name (I had been right :D ) I went back to the doorway.. I'd re-read the trip-notes, but it didn't help clarify much. Going on faith, I pushed the combination of buttons and said the magic word.
~bzzzzzz~
Phase one went smooooooothly.
Up the stairs, the doorway opened and indeed I'd been right. Welcome for a new night!
This new hostel also boasted free WiFi, but was much more spacious than the last. Several other Intrepid Travellers for my tour were already here. The two Asian ladies from last night appeared and introduced themselves, the guy from last night was here as well. I met the two other guys who were doing the “long haul” with me, Adam and Andy seem pretty chilled.
The next few hours consisted of meeting everyone, skyping home (It's Mum's birthday today. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUM!!!) and Jenny, talking to my new comrades and making plans. The day drew on and I ventured out for US dollars to pay the local payment.
*gah*
While most ATMs in St Petersburg will offer Rubles or US Dollars, I could not find one! I ended out resorting to withdrawing the money at an exchange bank using sign-language :p
Running back to the hostel, I made it to the trip meeting and the usual questions and paper-work began..
Adam, a professional photographer who works half the year in England and spends the rest of the time in Thailand. He is using the trip as a scenic way to get back to Thailand.
Andy, a New Zealander who has been working in the UK for the past few years. He's also using this trip as a long way to get back to NZ.
Liam, Network Admin for a company in Japan. He's originally from Sydney
Natalie, an Aussie who has lived in New Zealand long enough to pick up an accent. She's a vet-nurse.
Greg, an Aussie who works as a psych researcher. He's got a fairly good grounding in some basic medical sciences.
Alice, is Greg's girlfriend. She is a Journalist back home.
Shanika, works in finance in the UK
Presh, Shanika's boyfriend who works in IT in the UK for a telco.
Denesh, is a programmer in the UK and is travelling with Presh and Shanika.
Choo,
Lu-weng, Choo's sister.
ME! I introduced myself as a professional student who had spent this year as an engineer.
Anne is our tour leader, from Thailand, who has been working for Intrepid for 3 years. We don't get a Russian or Chinese leader, as they would have issues with getting visas.
Adam and Andy are the two other guys doing the long haul.
I used the cover of Engineer and Professional Student and left out studying medicine, considering the dramas of the last trip. I quietly informed Anne, in the event of an emergency. Greg seemed pretty well read and willing to be first-aider while Adam was a Master Diver and would have much better hands-on and crisis-management experience than me. I figured I'd fill in Adam and Andy at some point, seeing as we'd be travelling together for nearly 4 months. I was kind of looking forward to being invisible for as long as possible.
Once we had been suitably orientated and paid our local payment, it was off to dinner and the orientation walk. Liam, who had been running late for getting lost, caught up with us just as we started down the street.
Walking through St Petersburg, we got a fair idea of where we were staying, the train station we would be leaving from and the other major sites. While we went, the lights came on as the darkness grew. The city reminded me a great deal of Paris. The buildings standing tall, almost over us as we walked below. The side-walks were as busy as the streets, the density a mix between Madrid and Paris. If it had been as settles as Lille, it would have been bliss.
The girls in Russia can only be described as stunningly beautiful. Tall, slim, immaculately groomed and attired, they bear themselves in a manner that you would expect in most fashion magazines. Across the next week, several of us made the following observations.
Firstly, that almost without exception, the girls were very thin. Anne said that this came from a mix of the weather and quite a restrictive diet. Staying thin appeared to be an ingrained imperative amongst the girls here.
Secondly, their attire and personal possessions were impeccably fashionable. The proportion who were wearing “Perth summer” skirts and shoes, despite an average temperature of 6-10 degrees, was more than half. These girls were absolutely freezing for fashion. They really take it to a new level.
Third.. Though there were a great number of beautiful girls, the gradient of “smiles” to “hard-lipped” was extreme. The beauty of youth and care-free younger years disappear quickly here. Perhaps this is the reason behind the embrace of western fashion..
While we saw a lot of very beautiful girls that we would guess were 18-24 years old, none of us could spot someone we would have said were 25-28. They appeared to jump from 24 to 30. I hope that this is because that age-gap are typically in professional careers or families and hence not walking the city in daylight hours, rather then the suggestion that early-adulthood life is so tough and difficult that they simply loose those years of life. I would like to know, if anyone has an answer..
Dinner was at a restaurant that offered a buffet that you paid per item. This seems to be a trend in Russia. Checking out the entire range, I lashed out on an entire four courses. It was absolute BLISS. After the cuisine that Justine and Isabelle offered me, this was the very best food that I'd been offered. Hearty :D
After dinner (and cake) Anne took us on a walk down Nevsky Prospect. Half of the group took off back to the hostel just after passing the MacDonalds, which was absolutely kicking.. It seems that MacDonalds is the teenager hangout of choice here.. bizarre... Shanika, Presh, Denesh and myself continued on with the tour. Anne took us all the way up to the bridge at the end of Nevsky. Walking through the courtyard in front of the Winter Palace. The size and scope of the place is astounding under the artificial light. On the corner overlooking the water, the Peter and Paul Fortress in the distance, the grandiosity of this city is astounding.
This city is called the Venice of the North. If I'd been to Venice, I'm sure that I would agree.
Heading back to the hostel, Anne went on to give Liam the rest of the briefing that he'd missed. The four of us went to grab a drink nearby.
Slight problem, just about everywhere was shut. Except for one pub.
An Irish pub. Complete with already drunk Japanese businessman and sports channel.
So, before heading back for an EXCELLENT night sleep, one Australian and three Brits drank Vodka, in an Irish Pub, in Russia.
Awesome :D
Nevsky Prospect looked identical to my wanderings of the night before. This has always surprised me a bit, as it is the major night-spot in town. Walking through Northbridge back home is a VERY different experience at night as compared to the day, the glamorous clubs and lights are shown as gaudy, peeling facades with little attraction. Daylight here highlights the architecture and hides the little shops that had been so obvious the night before.
Glimpsing at the screen in my little pack, I followed the red pin and the blipping blue light to the intersection known locally as “Five Corners”. Sounding out the signs, I took what I figured was the correct street and tried to follow the direction of the Trip Notes. I think I found the right doorway, but it was a little non-specific.. there was a big sign with a stylised house on it, I figured that meant “hostel”...
Confidence on a dangerous slope, I retreated to the coffee shop on the corner... I was still a couple of hours too early for check-in and wanted some coffee anyway.. Successfully ordering in english, I sat and typed my blog for as long as the battery would last while enjoying a particularly good Black Forest Cappuccino.
Paying and double-checking the street name (I had been right :D ) I went back to the doorway.. I'd re-read the trip-notes, but it didn't help clarify much. Going on faith, I pushed the combination of buttons and said the magic word.
~bzzzzzz~
Phase one went smooooooothly.
Up the stairs, the doorway opened and indeed I'd been right. Welcome for a new night!
This new hostel also boasted free WiFi, but was much more spacious than the last. Several other Intrepid Travellers for my tour were already here. The two Asian ladies from last night appeared and introduced themselves, the guy from last night was here as well. I met the two other guys who were doing the “long haul” with me, Adam and Andy seem pretty chilled.
The next few hours consisted of meeting everyone, skyping home (It's Mum's birthday today. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUM!!!) and Jenny, talking to my new comrades and making plans. The day drew on and I ventured out for US dollars to pay the local payment.
*gah*
While most ATMs in St Petersburg will offer Rubles or US Dollars, I could not find one! I ended out resorting to withdrawing the money at an exchange bank using sign-language :p
Running back to the hostel, I made it to the trip meeting and the usual questions and paper-work began..
Adam, a professional photographer who works half the year in England and spends the rest of the time in Thailand. He is using the trip as a scenic way to get back to Thailand.
Andy, a New Zealander who has been working in the UK for the past few years. He's also using this trip as a long way to get back to NZ.
Liam, Network Admin for a company in Japan. He's originally from Sydney
Natalie, an Aussie who has lived in New Zealand long enough to pick up an accent. She's a vet-nurse.
Greg, an Aussie who works as a psych researcher. He's got a fairly good grounding in some basic medical sciences.
Alice, is Greg's girlfriend. She is a Journalist back home.
Shanika, works in finance in the UK
Presh, Shanika's boyfriend who works in IT in the UK for a telco.
Denesh, is a programmer in the UK and is travelling with Presh and Shanika.
Choo,
Lu-weng, Choo's sister.
ME! I introduced myself as a professional student who had spent this year as an engineer.
Anne is our tour leader, from Thailand, who has been working for Intrepid for 3 years. We don't get a Russian or Chinese leader, as they would have issues with getting visas.
Adam and Andy are the two other guys doing the long haul.
I used the cover of Engineer and Professional Student and left out studying medicine, considering the dramas of the last trip. I quietly informed Anne, in the event of an emergency. Greg seemed pretty well read and willing to be first-aider while Adam was a Master Diver and would have much better hands-on and crisis-management experience than me. I figured I'd fill in Adam and Andy at some point, seeing as we'd be travelling together for nearly 4 months. I was kind of looking forward to being invisible for as long as possible.
Once we had been suitably orientated and paid our local payment, it was off to dinner and the orientation walk. Liam, who had been running late for getting lost, caught up with us just as we started down the street.
Walking through St Petersburg, we got a fair idea of where we were staying, the train station we would be leaving from and the other major sites. While we went, the lights came on as the darkness grew. The city reminded me a great deal of Paris. The buildings standing tall, almost over us as we walked below. The side-walks were as busy as the streets, the density a mix between Madrid and Paris. If it had been as settles as Lille, it would have been bliss.
The girls in Russia can only be described as stunningly beautiful. Tall, slim, immaculately groomed and attired, they bear themselves in a manner that you would expect in most fashion magazines. Across the next week, several of us made the following observations.
Firstly, that almost without exception, the girls were very thin. Anne said that this came from a mix of the weather and quite a restrictive diet. Staying thin appeared to be an ingrained imperative amongst the girls here.
Secondly, their attire and personal possessions were impeccably fashionable. The proportion who were wearing “Perth summer” skirts and shoes, despite an average temperature of 6-10 degrees, was more than half. These girls were absolutely freezing for fashion. They really take it to a new level.
Third.. Though there were a great number of beautiful girls, the gradient of “smiles” to “hard-lipped” was extreme. The beauty of youth and care-free younger years disappear quickly here. Perhaps this is the reason behind the embrace of western fashion..
While we saw a lot of very beautiful girls that we would guess were 18-24 years old, none of us could spot someone we would have said were 25-28. They appeared to jump from 24 to 30. I hope that this is because that age-gap are typically in professional careers or families and hence not walking the city in daylight hours, rather then the suggestion that early-adulthood life is so tough and difficult that they simply loose those years of life. I would like to know, if anyone has an answer..
Dinner was at a restaurant that offered a buffet that you paid per item. This seems to be a trend in Russia. Checking out the entire range, I lashed out on an entire four courses. It was absolute BLISS. After the cuisine that Justine and Isabelle offered me, this was the very best food that I'd been offered. Hearty :D
After dinner (and cake) Anne took us on a walk down Nevsky Prospect. Half of the group took off back to the hostel just after passing the MacDonalds, which was absolutely kicking.. It seems that MacDonalds is the teenager hangout of choice here.. bizarre... Shanika, Presh, Denesh and myself continued on with the tour. Anne took us all the way up to the bridge at the end of Nevsky. Walking through the courtyard in front of the Winter Palace. The size and scope of the place is astounding under the artificial light. On the corner overlooking the water, the Peter and Paul Fortress in the distance, the grandiosity of this city is astounding.
This city is called the Venice of the North. If I'd been to Venice, I'm sure that I would agree.
Heading back to the hostel, Anne went on to give Liam the rest of the briefing that he'd missed. The four of us went to grab a drink nearby.
Slight problem, just about everywhere was shut. Except for one pub.
An Irish pub. Complete with already drunk Japanese businessman and sports channel.
So, before heading back for an EXCELLENT night sleep, one Australian and three Brits drank Vodka, in an Irish Pub, in Russia.
Awesome :D
090908 – Spain, Madrid – Italy, Rome – Russia, St Petersberg
0300HR on September 9th, I stumbled through the hostel in a zombie like daze. Leaving a nasty odour in the toilet as a parting gift, I dragged my gear to the door and check-out.
The ride through Madrid at 330am was an interesting experience. People were lining up to get into clubs, the streets were crowded, the night-life was PUMPING!!! I was chauffeured through the streets in a particularly nice, brand-new BMW mini-van. Cruising the streets and then motor-ways, I arrived at the airport in a respectable state. Giving the driver the 28 Euro fee (it would have been GLORIOUSLY cheaper if there had of been more passengers..) and the padlock I'd mistakenly taken from the room (he promised to return it), I lurched into the terminal. The driver was kind enough to wait, making sure I had no immediate problems.
Shrink-wrapping my bags and a long wait in line, I made a mad dash to the toilet after getting an emergency-isle seat. I had checked in at an appropriate time, but now there was a long wait for boarding. Nothing was open, so rehydrating had to be with what was on offer at vending machine prices.
I really really really hope that the “Nasty Butt” doesn't persist... I took some doses to that effect. Emma and Josh had been kind enough to let me raid their Gastro-Kit, so I had a reasonable level of stocks. I'm trying to avoid more antibiotics until I really have to.
Finally the time had passed and I boarded my plane just as the shops started to open. All of the Cafes were still asleep, so breakfast consisted of a pack of Oreo's from a duty-free store. The plane meal offered by Al Atalia was excellent on the menu, but rivalled Air Ethiopia in appearance.
Fitful sleep was followed by another long wait in Rome. More security checks and then slumping against the wall. I managed to doze a bit on the 5 hour to Russia.
Landing in Saint Petersburg, the panic reared it's head...
What if it was like everyone said?
What if I got arrested at the airport?
or not let through customs?
or got mugged or abducted, trying to get to my hostel?
what if it was so expensive, that I couldn't finish my trip?
Mentally back-handing myself and a curt “Man up!” later, I was wandering through the airport. Looking like any other airport that I been through, there were no shops open and I had some difficultly spotting a toilet. Finally getting to passport control, I got a short-tempered female officer, who used some very short tones to tell me I had to fill out an immigration card. Pen-work in cramped spaces later, panicking that it was not neat enough, I recieved the relevant stamps and was off to get my back-pack.
By the time I got to the baggage carousel, the conveyor had stopped and my pack was sitting to the side, they really don't muck around here! Customs consisted of walking through a green archway and out the door.
St Petersburg airport is quite small and spartan, the main area is about the size of a tennis court and was crammed with security checks for the people trying to enter, one wall was filled with various ATMs, there were some closed money exchanges, a staircase leading upstairs and a small, unattended, tourism kiosk. Digging a couple of maps out of the tourist desk, locking my packs and withdrawing some currency, I braced myself and walked out the door.
ooooh, it was somewhat coolish, drizzling and windy. I was glad that I'd kept most of my warm-stuff in my hand-luggage!
I stood around looking like a tool for about 10 minutes, trying to spot some kind of directions for the “mini-bus to the metro station” that had been mentioned in the joining instructions.. I'd noticed something on a sign inside the terminal, but hadn't paid enough attention and didn't want to brave security to go and check...
“uhh.. Metro”
“K-29, there”
“thankyou”
Following the pointing through the drizzle, I immediately saw an ancient and dilapidated mini-bus with a yellow sign stating “K-29” in firm black characters.
“Metro”
“Da, ~russian I couldn't follow~"
*urgent pointing at a sign stating 22 Rubles*
nodding, I pushed my pack into the front seat and jumped in next to it.
*urgent pointing at the sign and holding up two fingers*
ahhhh... I was taking up two seats, so I'll have to pay for them both.. whatever...
Coughing up about $2AUD in russian currency, I sat and waited to depart, hugging my day-pack.
Having paid my fair, the flood-gates opened. It was as though, now that the minibus had one customer, it was okay to use. The bus seats quickly filled and the driver took off. For the next 5-10 minutes, as we picked up more passengers, notes of rubles were passed forwards and back. Either the driver kept a running tally of who had paid, or everyone was simply trusted to pay.
20 minutes later, I started to see signs that resembled the name of the station that I was looking for.
Pulling over and the majority of the passengers getting out, I asked.
“Metro?”
*nod* ~russian I couldn't follow~
I started walking through the drizzle in the vague direction that the driver had nodded, passing other pedestrians. Women carrying umbrellas that were either bright red or muted dark colours. Young men carrying flowers as a single rose or small bunches. The number of people wearing what we would consider “not quite enough for the weather”, but the hight of fashion, was astonishing. The vast majority of the people appeared to be late twenties through to thirties. Without exception, the young women were dressed extremely stylishly, the boys their age were dressed identically to every other European city or Perth (jeans and jacket, nothing remarkable).
It appeared that being noticed was particularly important here..
Reaching the end of the street, I looked around and then asked an ice-cream vendor (in this weather!!!!) for directions.
“Metro?”
*nod*
*hand motions indicating back the way I came and ~down~*
“Thankyou”
Descending the stairs that I had passed on exiting the mini-bus, following the crowd, I took a series of escalators and hit some turn-styles. Looking around, I tried to brave the automated terminals, but they did not display english. I walked over and joined the line for the ticket stall and wrote down the number of the stop that I needed.
Nodding and saying numbers I couldn't follow, I pushed a note through the slot. Receiving the handful of notes and mass of coins, I looked for a ticket and noticed a coin that wasn't like the others..
ahh.. no paper tickets here...
Rearranging my finances and disposing of my token, I was on an escalator that took me down into the bowels of the city.
Hostel Apricot had been the Intrepid Travel hostel for some time, but had been changed just a few weeks ago. This had two major implications that complicated my day. First was that I would have to change hostels tomorrow, as I'd booked this extra day of accommodation independently. Second, the trip notes described how to get to the new hostel, I hadn't printed out the notes that contained the detailed instructions for this hostel. I was pretty much on my own for finding my way...
The metro system in St Petersburg is unremarkable similar to the metro system in Madrid.. or Paris.. a little cleaner than Cairo.. For the duration of the trip, I was juggling backpacks, day-packs, maps and seats. I knew that I had to change lines to get to the hostel. The metro halls are typically a wide corridor that is flanked on either side by a platform. The hall is often decorated and you get from the main thoroughfare to the platform by passing through high and deep archways. There is almost always a stairway or escalator at each end of the hall. Suspended at intervals, only in the main corridor, are signs with a list of stations further down the line, a coloured arrow and number characteristic of that line and direction. The platforms themselves often have no form of identification.
On the trains themselves, there are very useful automated announcements that tell you what line you are on and the next station, using russian phrases and pronunciation that I couldn't follow.. The cars are of an older design, but functional and in reasonable condition.
Getting off at the wrong stop, directions, back on, off at the right station, swap lines, back on the train, count the stops, off again... The great thing about the metro network in Russia is that one ticket, any ticket, will take you anywhere and everywhere on the network until you exit the station. Essentially you purchase to get into the first station and they then promptly forget about you. No zones, no pricing structure.
I arrived at my stop and followed the arrow to Nevsky Prospect, up some stairs, through another corridor and to the escalator.
Two new things struck me at this point. St Petersburg has the deepest metro system in the world.
Seriously..
Taking the escalator to the surface, I looked back down about half-way.. Waaaaaay down...
On these escalators, you wouldn't want to be afraid of heights. The tunnels themselves could easily be 50 or even 100m deep.
They are profoundly, impossibly, unfathomably, deep. Yet open, airy and very spacious..
The second point may assist in describing the first.
At increasingly strategic intervals, at characteristic pedestrian tunnel junctions, there are steel arcs installed into the marble. Tracing them, they follow to the wall of the corridor which juts out and is strangely squared off (considering the tunnels themselves are arched, like a Nissan Hut). Following the retreating edge of the shiny steel curve, it leads to the wall with what appears to be a metal facade.. A square façade, mounted about a metre out from the wall and lined on the edge with a thick seam of rubber..
So, the metal line in the marble floor is to handle the steel castor that help support this giant blast door.. On closing at strategic points, up to probably 100m below the surface, you have an extensive tunnel network capable of housing a sizeable fraction of the population in the event of a nuclear strike... Impressive..
I managed to spot another type of “door”, concealed in an archway and hidden behind thin sheet-metal that had been spot-welded in place. This type appearing to descend from the ceiling or slide directly out of the wall. The entire network was internally segregated, in the event that one of the external doors was compromised..
Suitably impressed and still on the way up the escalator (*MIND-BOGGLINGLY DEEP*), I watched the Russian blue and white colour people on their way home..
One thing you should know about people on the street in Russia, you often get conflicting directions if you have a specific address. Following the directions of another icecream vendor (WHAT IS WITH THESE PEOPLE!!! IT'S FREEZING HERE!!!), I ended out having a nice tour of St Petersberg before my iPhone got a GPS lock and saved the day. I'd had the overwhelming suspicion that he'd been a false-prophet, but I hadn't been able to find enough street-signs to prove it.
Doubling back and closing in, two ladies tried to help me with the building number and I ended out going down a little alley on blind luck (there was a wall painted the same colour as the hostel website... and I vaguely remembered the old intrepid instructions saying “doorway before the sex-shop”). SUCCESS!!
Performing the convoluted steps of pressing buttons and saying “OPEN!” the door buzzed. Unsure of how to operate a soviet era (possibly Lenin era) elevator, I took the stairs and fell into the warm doorway of Hostel Apricot.
Hostel Apricot is small, almost to the point of cramped, but clean and comfortable. There are computers and free WiFi and you are able to buy personal hygiene essentials at astonishingly cheap prices. Making use of the facilities and showering after locking my things into place on my bunk, I felt I'd summoned the strength to seek out dinner.
Having previously come across a KFC on my convoluted expedition up and down Nevsky Prospect, I ventured back and stuck with what was “safe”. I didn't know what russian food to eat, hadn't seen any “cheap-eats” and didn't want to risk a massive bill on my first night. A pitiful attempt at a Zinger burger and fries that made MacDonalds look “awesome” would have to suffice.
Still exhausted from my day of travels, I shed the last pains of my final plane connection by watching Russian over-dubbed Scrubs (they leave the english and just speak russian louder over the dialogue :p ) while chatting to a local who was a “New-York style punk-rock guitarist”.
I noticed a guy reading an english travel book, he was an american who had been travelling for the last few months. We compared notes and he gave me some pointers. Particularly, that most travellers I would encounter would be russian, fewer people spoke english than I expected (ie. negative numbers of the population...) and that things were fairly safe within backpackers. I just had to be a little careful on the street.
I noticed some asian ladies and another guy, but figured they were locals and left them be.
Packing up and locking my gear in my pack while it charged, I had an early night.
I was in Russia.
WOW... I'm in Russia!
The ride through Madrid at 330am was an interesting experience. People were lining up to get into clubs, the streets were crowded, the night-life was PUMPING!!! I was chauffeured through the streets in a particularly nice, brand-new BMW mini-van. Cruising the streets and then motor-ways, I arrived at the airport in a respectable state. Giving the driver the 28 Euro fee (it would have been GLORIOUSLY cheaper if there had of been more passengers..) and the padlock I'd mistakenly taken from the room (he promised to return it), I lurched into the terminal. The driver was kind enough to wait, making sure I had no immediate problems.
Shrink-wrapping my bags and a long wait in line, I made a mad dash to the toilet after getting an emergency-isle seat. I had checked in at an appropriate time, but now there was a long wait for boarding. Nothing was open, so rehydrating had to be with what was on offer at vending machine prices.
I really really really hope that the “Nasty Butt” doesn't persist... I took some doses to that effect. Emma and Josh had been kind enough to let me raid their Gastro-Kit, so I had a reasonable level of stocks. I'm trying to avoid more antibiotics until I really have to.
Finally the time had passed and I boarded my plane just as the shops started to open. All of the Cafes were still asleep, so breakfast consisted of a pack of Oreo's from a duty-free store. The plane meal offered by Al Atalia was excellent on the menu, but rivalled Air Ethiopia in appearance.
Fitful sleep was followed by another long wait in Rome. More security checks and then slumping against the wall. I managed to doze a bit on the 5 hour to Russia.
Landing in Saint Petersburg, the panic reared it's head...
What if it was like everyone said?
What if I got arrested at the airport?
or not let through customs?
or got mugged or abducted, trying to get to my hostel?
what if it was so expensive, that I couldn't finish my trip?
Mentally back-handing myself and a curt “Man up!” later, I was wandering through the airport. Looking like any other airport that I been through, there were no shops open and I had some difficultly spotting a toilet. Finally getting to passport control, I got a short-tempered female officer, who used some very short tones to tell me I had to fill out an immigration card. Pen-work in cramped spaces later, panicking that it was not neat enough, I recieved the relevant stamps and was off to get my back-pack.
By the time I got to the baggage carousel, the conveyor had stopped and my pack was sitting to the side, they really don't muck around here! Customs consisted of walking through a green archway and out the door.
St Petersburg airport is quite small and spartan, the main area is about the size of a tennis court and was crammed with security checks for the people trying to enter, one wall was filled with various ATMs, there were some closed money exchanges, a staircase leading upstairs and a small, unattended, tourism kiosk. Digging a couple of maps out of the tourist desk, locking my packs and withdrawing some currency, I braced myself and walked out the door.
ooooh, it was somewhat coolish, drizzling and windy. I was glad that I'd kept most of my warm-stuff in my hand-luggage!
I stood around looking like a tool for about 10 minutes, trying to spot some kind of directions for the “mini-bus to the metro station” that had been mentioned in the joining instructions.. I'd noticed something on a sign inside the terminal, but hadn't paid enough attention and didn't want to brave security to go and check...
“uhh.. Metro”
“K-29, there”
“thankyou”
Following the pointing through the drizzle, I immediately saw an ancient and dilapidated mini-bus with a yellow sign stating “K-29” in firm black characters.
“Metro”
“Da, ~russian I couldn't follow~"
*urgent pointing at a sign stating 22 Rubles*
nodding, I pushed my pack into the front seat and jumped in next to it.
*urgent pointing at the sign and holding up two fingers*
ahhhh... I was taking up two seats, so I'll have to pay for them both.. whatever...
Coughing up about $2AUD in russian currency, I sat and waited to depart, hugging my day-pack.
Having paid my fair, the flood-gates opened. It was as though, now that the minibus had one customer, it was okay to use. The bus seats quickly filled and the driver took off. For the next 5-10 minutes, as we picked up more passengers, notes of rubles were passed forwards and back. Either the driver kept a running tally of who had paid, or everyone was simply trusted to pay.
20 minutes later, I started to see signs that resembled the name of the station that I was looking for.
Pulling over and the majority of the passengers getting out, I asked.
“Metro?”
*nod* ~russian I couldn't follow~
I started walking through the drizzle in the vague direction that the driver had nodded, passing other pedestrians. Women carrying umbrellas that were either bright red or muted dark colours. Young men carrying flowers as a single rose or small bunches. The number of people wearing what we would consider “not quite enough for the weather”, but the hight of fashion, was astonishing. The vast majority of the people appeared to be late twenties through to thirties. Without exception, the young women were dressed extremely stylishly, the boys their age were dressed identically to every other European city or Perth (jeans and jacket, nothing remarkable).
It appeared that being noticed was particularly important here..
Reaching the end of the street, I looked around and then asked an ice-cream vendor (in this weather!!!!) for directions.
“Metro?”
*nod*
*hand motions indicating back the way I came and ~down~*
“Thankyou”
Descending the stairs that I had passed on exiting the mini-bus, following the crowd, I took a series of escalators and hit some turn-styles. Looking around, I tried to brave the automated terminals, but they did not display english. I walked over and joined the line for the ticket stall and wrote down the number of the stop that I needed.
Nodding and saying numbers I couldn't follow, I pushed a note through the slot. Receiving the handful of notes and mass of coins, I looked for a ticket and noticed a coin that wasn't like the others..
ahh.. no paper tickets here...
Rearranging my finances and disposing of my token, I was on an escalator that took me down into the bowels of the city.
Hostel Apricot had been the Intrepid Travel hostel for some time, but had been changed just a few weeks ago. This had two major implications that complicated my day. First was that I would have to change hostels tomorrow, as I'd booked this extra day of accommodation independently. Second, the trip notes described how to get to the new hostel, I hadn't printed out the notes that contained the detailed instructions for this hostel. I was pretty much on my own for finding my way...
The metro system in St Petersburg is unremarkable similar to the metro system in Madrid.. or Paris.. a little cleaner than Cairo.. For the duration of the trip, I was juggling backpacks, day-packs, maps and seats. I knew that I had to change lines to get to the hostel. The metro halls are typically a wide corridor that is flanked on either side by a platform. The hall is often decorated and you get from the main thoroughfare to the platform by passing through high and deep archways. There is almost always a stairway or escalator at each end of the hall. Suspended at intervals, only in the main corridor, are signs with a list of stations further down the line, a coloured arrow and number characteristic of that line and direction. The platforms themselves often have no form of identification.
On the trains themselves, there are very useful automated announcements that tell you what line you are on and the next station, using russian phrases and pronunciation that I couldn't follow.. The cars are of an older design, but functional and in reasonable condition.
Getting off at the wrong stop, directions, back on, off at the right station, swap lines, back on the train, count the stops, off again... The great thing about the metro network in Russia is that one ticket, any ticket, will take you anywhere and everywhere on the network until you exit the station. Essentially you purchase to get into the first station and they then promptly forget about you. No zones, no pricing structure.
I arrived at my stop and followed the arrow to Nevsky Prospect, up some stairs, through another corridor and to the escalator.
Two new things struck me at this point. St Petersburg has the deepest metro system in the world.
Seriously..
Taking the escalator to the surface, I looked back down about half-way.. Waaaaaay down...
On these escalators, you wouldn't want to be afraid of heights. The tunnels themselves could easily be 50 or even 100m deep.
They are profoundly, impossibly, unfathomably, deep. Yet open, airy and very spacious..
The second point may assist in describing the first.
At increasingly strategic intervals, at characteristic pedestrian tunnel junctions, there are steel arcs installed into the marble. Tracing them, they follow to the wall of the corridor which juts out and is strangely squared off (considering the tunnels themselves are arched, like a Nissan Hut). Following the retreating edge of the shiny steel curve, it leads to the wall with what appears to be a metal facade.. A square façade, mounted about a metre out from the wall and lined on the edge with a thick seam of rubber..
So, the metal line in the marble floor is to handle the steel castor that help support this giant blast door.. On closing at strategic points, up to probably 100m below the surface, you have an extensive tunnel network capable of housing a sizeable fraction of the population in the event of a nuclear strike... Impressive..
I managed to spot another type of “door”, concealed in an archway and hidden behind thin sheet-metal that had been spot-welded in place. This type appearing to descend from the ceiling or slide directly out of the wall. The entire network was internally segregated, in the event that one of the external doors was compromised..
Suitably impressed and still on the way up the escalator (*MIND-BOGGLINGLY DEEP*), I watched the Russian blue and white colour people on their way home..
One thing you should know about people on the street in Russia, you often get conflicting directions if you have a specific address. Following the directions of another icecream vendor (WHAT IS WITH THESE PEOPLE!!! IT'S FREEZING HERE!!!), I ended out having a nice tour of St Petersberg before my iPhone got a GPS lock and saved the day. I'd had the overwhelming suspicion that he'd been a false-prophet, but I hadn't been able to find enough street-signs to prove it.
Doubling back and closing in, two ladies tried to help me with the building number and I ended out going down a little alley on blind luck (there was a wall painted the same colour as the hostel website... and I vaguely remembered the old intrepid instructions saying “doorway before the sex-shop”). SUCCESS!!
Performing the convoluted steps of pressing buttons and saying “OPEN!” the door buzzed. Unsure of how to operate a soviet era (possibly Lenin era) elevator, I took the stairs and fell into the warm doorway of Hostel Apricot.
Hostel Apricot is small, almost to the point of cramped, but clean and comfortable. There are computers and free WiFi and you are able to buy personal hygiene essentials at astonishingly cheap prices. Making use of the facilities and showering after locking my things into place on my bunk, I felt I'd summoned the strength to seek out dinner.
Having previously come across a KFC on my convoluted expedition up and down Nevsky Prospect, I ventured back and stuck with what was “safe”. I didn't know what russian food to eat, hadn't seen any “cheap-eats” and didn't want to risk a massive bill on my first night. A pitiful attempt at a Zinger burger and fries that made MacDonalds look “awesome” would have to suffice.
Still exhausted from my day of travels, I shed the last pains of my final plane connection by watching Russian over-dubbed Scrubs (they leave the english and just speak russian louder over the dialogue :p ) while chatting to a local who was a “New-York style punk-rock guitarist”.
I noticed a guy reading an english travel book, he was an american who had been travelling for the last few months. We compared notes and he gave me some pointers. Particularly, that most travellers I would encounter would be russian, fewer people spoke english than I expected (ie. negative numbers of the population...) and that things were fairly safe within backpackers. I just had to be a little careful on the street.
I noticed some asian ladies and another guy, but figured they were locals and left them be.
Packing up and locking my gear in my pack while it charged, I had an early night.
I was in Russia.
WOW... I'm in Russia!
080908 – Spain, Madrid
The morning began, as usual, with a very late dash to breakfast. This morning, said dash had been a little too late. Gazing with disbelief, I sulked back to the others with the bad news. I settled myself with a consolation prize of another yoghurt drink and a suitably long, fragrant, sit on the toilet.
Emma had us out the door in record time, we made our way to designated meeting spot in the plaza at Sol.
New Europe walking tours are free... no, literally... free... The guides are not paid a salary and do not get any kick-backs or commissions. They don't try and sell any other tours or take you to “a friends shop”. The only recompense that they get is in the form of tips by the customers. The tour starts with the statement “If, at the end of this tour, you feel that it has not been a complete waste of time, you are welcome to give me a tip. Money, phone-numbers, drinks.. all are welcome!” with that, the tour started and the topic of money was not mentioned again until 3 hours later (with the same two lines and no haggling). Apparently this is an excellent business model, as the meeting corner in the Sol plaza was crowed, requiring the guides to spit everyone into two groups.
The tour through Madrid was quite long and covered the history of kings, plazas, monuments, hotels and theatres. Unfortunately there were a great number of construction-sites, which cut out a number of statues and fountains, but on the whole, it was an excellent tour. Talking about the various kings and their respective palaces and theatres, our guide was comical, up-beat and presumably accurate. He conveyed the details of many sad and distasteful topics in a manner that wasn't depressing. The mass murders of the Spanish Inquisition and their love of garrotting was one example. He tastefully and respectfully told us of the many foreigners, converts and intellectuals, whose blood deeply filled the Plaza de Mayor for years on end.
Carefully timing the tour, our guide brought us to a chain restaurant that serves small sandwiches just as his colleague, “The False Prophet” departed with the other half of the massive tour group. A large lunch at a small price later, we finished the second half of the tour.
The main sites included the main Palace, the Cathedral, the site of the 1900's bombing, the old palace and the various theatres. Many topics where covered, including bull-fighting, the tardiness of Spanish construction workers, the sites of poets and artists, and Franco.
Franco was reserved for the end of the tour, we sat in a small park opposite the senate and heard about the rise to power and succession of Franco. So violent and violating, over 400,000 people lie in unmarked graves, the torture chambers beneath the parliament still make many citizens shudder. Poets, artists, intellectuals and homosexuals where his victims of choice. Franco died of natural causes, attempting to leave behind a legacy regime. At first choosing a General to be the next dictator, a quick assassination resulted in Franco choosing the prince that he had taken on and groomed as a son.
Franco's heir had been sent to Italy for an education of specific tutours, teachers, people to associate with and what he would and would not do or see. On rising to power, this new king spent just a few months before deciding to leave his mark. Much to the amazement of Franco's associates, the new King had reversed many of the restrictions within the first 6 months in power. Decades later, King Carlos the Second has set his people to govern themselves. Watching for a short distance, he is their monarch but not their dictator. Having refused the position of dictator twice, there was an attempted coup by a general, he is the single most highly loved and cherished man in all of Spain. His only rival for the position is the playwright Savant (spelling?), and I believe that is a distance second. I have a great deal of respect for a leader who can inspire such loyalty and love in his subjects, the King of Spain has definitely joined the list also containing the King of Jordan.
Despite his regime of torture and death, Franco currently ranks in the high twenties as “most loved in Spain”, I guess he was a good thing for some people... Due to the pain and suffering under the reign of Franco, there was the “Act of Forgetting” which awarded amnesty to anyone involved. People guilty of atrocities walk the streets with their victims, it's simply that no-one wants to remember. Currently, there is the new “Act of Remembering” which is to exhume the mass-graves in order to offer proper funerals. Statues of significant victims, such as poets and intellectuals, are being erected. None of the victims can be identified, but they are being remembered for the losses.
Tipping was briefly mentioned for the second time that day, after the last monologue was finished. Emma, Josh and myself pooled some funds and handed him a 20 Euro note. Most tours would have cost us at least that each, but we could not afford much more.
As we left the rest of the group behind, we wandered back towards the hostel. It was now mid-afternoon and we had already been fed lunch plus a few drinks. Discussing the other requirements for our trip, I completed packing and organised my airport transport for early tomorrow morning.
Venturing again, we managed to print and fax the form stating that we were “overseas and might not be able to vote” to the WA electoral commission. We then proceeded to hunt for a Chinese restaurant.
Not the simplest quarry to capture, we followed the directions from the hostel past dozens of closed store-fronts. Throughout Spain, during the month of August, everybody shuts up shop and goes to a different part of Spain, they all simply rotate location... Finally cornering the only open chinese restaurant, we dined on incredibly western “white-boy” sweet and sour chicken, lemon chicken, Emma's beef dish and rice.
MSG dosages administered, we wandered back to the hostel for the last time. I finished packing and saying goodbyes to Emma, Josh and Charlotte (who had succeeded in finding an apartment!!!). Setting the alarm and a visit to the bathroom ~shudder~ I was off to bed.
Emma had us out the door in record time, we made our way to designated meeting spot in the plaza at Sol.
New Europe walking tours are free... no, literally... free... The guides are not paid a salary and do not get any kick-backs or commissions. They don't try and sell any other tours or take you to “a friends shop”. The only recompense that they get is in the form of tips by the customers. The tour starts with the statement “If, at the end of this tour, you feel that it has not been a complete waste of time, you are welcome to give me a tip. Money, phone-numbers, drinks.. all are welcome!” with that, the tour started and the topic of money was not mentioned again until 3 hours later (with the same two lines and no haggling). Apparently this is an excellent business model, as the meeting corner in the Sol plaza was crowed, requiring the guides to spit everyone into two groups.
The tour through Madrid was quite long and covered the history of kings, plazas, monuments, hotels and theatres. Unfortunately there were a great number of construction-sites, which cut out a number of statues and fountains, but on the whole, it was an excellent tour. Talking about the various kings and their respective palaces and theatres, our guide was comical, up-beat and presumably accurate. He conveyed the details of many sad and distasteful topics in a manner that wasn't depressing. The mass murders of the Spanish Inquisition and their love of garrotting was one example. He tastefully and respectfully told us of the many foreigners, converts and intellectuals, whose blood deeply filled the Plaza de Mayor for years on end.
Carefully timing the tour, our guide brought us to a chain restaurant that serves small sandwiches just as his colleague, “The False Prophet” departed with the other half of the massive tour group. A large lunch at a small price later, we finished the second half of the tour.
The main sites included the main Palace, the Cathedral, the site of the 1900's bombing, the old palace and the various theatres. Many topics where covered, including bull-fighting, the tardiness of Spanish construction workers, the sites of poets and artists, and Franco.
Franco was reserved for the end of the tour, we sat in a small park opposite the senate and heard about the rise to power and succession of Franco. So violent and violating, over 400,000 people lie in unmarked graves, the torture chambers beneath the parliament still make many citizens shudder. Poets, artists, intellectuals and homosexuals where his victims of choice. Franco died of natural causes, attempting to leave behind a legacy regime. At first choosing a General to be the next dictator, a quick assassination resulted in Franco choosing the prince that he had taken on and groomed as a son.
Franco's heir had been sent to Italy for an education of specific tutours, teachers, people to associate with and what he would and would not do or see. On rising to power, this new king spent just a few months before deciding to leave his mark. Much to the amazement of Franco's associates, the new King had reversed many of the restrictions within the first 6 months in power. Decades later, King Carlos the Second has set his people to govern themselves. Watching for a short distance, he is their monarch but not their dictator. Having refused the position of dictator twice, there was an attempted coup by a general, he is the single most highly loved and cherished man in all of Spain. His only rival for the position is the playwright Savant (spelling?), and I believe that is a distance second. I have a great deal of respect for a leader who can inspire such loyalty and love in his subjects, the King of Spain has definitely joined the list also containing the King of Jordan.
Despite his regime of torture and death, Franco currently ranks in the high twenties as “most loved in Spain”, I guess he was a good thing for some people... Due to the pain and suffering under the reign of Franco, there was the “Act of Forgetting” which awarded amnesty to anyone involved. People guilty of atrocities walk the streets with their victims, it's simply that no-one wants to remember. Currently, there is the new “Act of Remembering” which is to exhume the mass-graves in order to offer proper funerals. Statues of significant victims, such as poets and intellectuals, are being erected. None of the victims can be identified, but they are being remembered for the losses.
Tipping was briefly mentioned for the second time that day, after the last monologue was finished. Emma, Josh and myself pooled some funds and handed him a 20 Euro note. Most tours would have cost us at least that each, but we could not afford much more.
As we left the rest of the group behind, we wandered back towards the hostel. It was now mid-afternoon and we had already been fed lunch plus a few drinks. Discussing the other requirements for our trip, I completed packing and organised my airport transport for early tomorrow morning.
Venturing again, we managed to print and fax the form stating that we were “overseas and might not be able to vote” to the WA electoral commission. We then proceeded to hunt for a Chinese restaurant.
Not the simplest quarry to capture, we followed the directions from the hostel past dozens of closed store-fronts. Throughout Spain, during the month of August, everybody shuts up shop and goes to a different part of Spain, they all simply rotate location... Finally cornering the only open chinese restaurant, we dined on incredibly western “white-boy” sweet and sour chicken, lemon chicken, Emma's beef dish and rice.
MSG dosages administered, we wandered back to the hostel for the last time. I finished packing and saying goodbyes to Emma, Josh and Charlotte (who had succeeded in finding an apartment!!!). Setting the alarm and a visit to the bathroom ~shudder~ I was off to bed.
070908 – Spain, Madrid
At about 1030 in the morning, we all entered the shining, glorious day to a liquid stream of adverbs. As it turns out, Emma's phone had distinguished 1030 from 2230 and had diligently woken us the next morning.. so much for clubbing, but it appeared that we had all needed the sleep.
While shopping the night before, I'd found some yoghurt promising live-cultures. Consuming a number of the delicious little strawberry flavoured drinks, the results of which appeared to be World War 3 taking place along the course of my digestive tract... Emma's adverbs would not be the only liquid stream I would have to contend with for the day..
Having consoled ourselves with the fate of the night before, we set out for breakfast (I'd just gotten in for a bowl of cornflakes in the common-room, but was definitely desiring more). Heading down the street, Emma translated the food types, which resulted in our acquiring little pastries stuffed with chicken and beef.
The weather today was particularly spectacular (I had taken the precaution of wearing shorts that did not require a belt, leaving my mantle of power back at the hostel), we wandered through the park that appears to be the heart of Madrid. Today, there were a number of booksellers filling the streets feeding the green-space. Browsing the tittles, Emma purchased an ancient set of comics describing the lives of Livingston and other explorers.
Carefully watching the time, we made our way towards Sol train-station for the Tappas Tour. Stopping for ATMs and coffee (with maybe an extra pastry...), we arrived in good time and waited for our guide.
The three of us were the only people taking the Tappas Tour today. The next 3 hours consisted of us sipping drinks and sampling the variety of little snacks that accompanied. Opting for Sangria at 3 of the 4 bars, our 8 Euro were very well invested. Our guide, David, was from South America and filled us in on his opinion of the places as an outsider. Explaining some of the culture and history, he was well known at the places we tried and did not lead us astray. Taking care to provide us with meat-free tappas, we were well fed and feeling a little happy by the time the last beer had been drunk and the last plate was finished. It was an afternoon well invested and had been quite inexpensive.
Giving us a final nugget of leadership, David took us to the correct metro station for our Prada experience. Goodbyes said, we ventured into the underground network and were soon joining the queues to get into the historical art gallery. Uncertain about the length of the line, I circled the building in an attempt to find a quicker way in. Finding the others again, they were already at the front of the line. We entered through the security checkpoints and left our day-packs in the lockers. Emma had carefully chosen the day for our visit, as the Prada offer free entry on Sundays.
Having arrived at about 430-5pm, we wandered the famous halls till a little after 7pm. Gazing on the works of the famous artists, we saw multiple classics, including the nightmarish “Saturn devours his child”, the “Three Graces”, “Adam an Eve” and countless interpretations of the Civil War and history of Spain.
Our heads reeling in respectively different directions, we exited into the bright sunlight and began our return to the hostel. We planned on an early dinner, maybe a little blogging and email for a while, no naps and then clubbing or doing a pub-tour in the later hours.
Dinner consisted of a mince and tomato sauce on penne with grated cheese. Out of our element and surrounded by unfamiliar ingredients, Josh and I prepared the meal while Emma promised to do the dishes. Suitably satisfying, the two cooks still felt that the dish was lacking something essential. Regardless, the meal was finished and tummies were full. Yoghurt was added to the gastronomical hurricane that had been punctuating my day. For the most part, medication had been assisting my control of the situation, but had not decreased its nastiness.
Having completed our duties in the common-room, I blogged while the Luries watched some streaming videos. Though this had been planned to fill the intermission before our pub-crawl began, we unanimously agreed to skip the pub-crawl. “It would be filled with dodgies or bogans”.
As the hours grew late, we finally decided to simply call it an evening. Everyone was tired and I don't think that any of us were feeling particularly great.
While shopping the night before, I'd found some yoghurt promising live-cultures. Consuming a number of the delicious little strawberry flavoured drinks, the results of which appeared to be World War 3 taking place along the course of my digestive tract... Emma's adverbs would not be the only liquid stream I would have to contend with for the day..
Having consoled ourselves with the fate of the night before, we set out for breakfast (I'd just gotten in for a bowl of cornflakes in the common-room, but was definitely desiring more). Heading down the street, Emma translated the food types, which resulted in our acquiring little pastries stuffed with chicken and beef.
The weather today was particularly spectacular (I had taken the precaution of wearing shorts that did not require a belt, leaving my mantle of power back at the hostel), we wandered through the park that appears to be the heart of Madrid. Today, there were a number of booksellers filling the streets feeding the green-space. Browsing the tittles, Emma purchased an ancient set of comics describing the lives of Livingston and other explorers.
Carefully watching the time, we made our way towards Sol train-station for the Tappas Tour. Stopping for ATMs and coffee (with maybe an extra pastry...), we arrived in good time and waited for our guide.
The three of us were the only people taking the Tappas Tour today. The next 3 hours consisted of us sipping drinks and sampling the variety of little snacks that accompanied. Opting for Sangria at 3 of the 4 bars, our 8 Euro were very well invested. Our guide, David, was from South America and filled us in on his opinion of the places as an outsider. Explaining some of the culture and history, he was well known at the places we tried and did not lead us astray. Taking care to provide us with meat-free tappas, we were well fed and feeling a little happy by the time the last beer had been drunk and the last plate was finished. It was an afternoon well invested and had been quite inexpensive.
Giving us a final nugget of leadership, David took us to the correct metro station for our Prada experience. Goodbyes said, we ventured into the underground network and were soon joining the queues to get into the historical art gallery. Uncertain about the length of the line, I circled the building in an attempt to find a quicker way in. Finding the others again, they were already at the front of the line. We entered through the security checkpoints and left our day-packs in the lockers. Emma had carefully chosen the day for our visit, as the Prada offer free entry on Sundays.
Having arrived at about 430-5pm, we wandered the famous halls till a little after 7pm. Gazing on the works of the famous artists, we saw multiple classics, including the nightmarish “Saturn devours his child”, the “Three Graces”, “Adam an Eve” and countless interpretations of the Civil War and history of Spain.
Our heads reeling in respectively different directions, we exited into the bright sunlight and began our return to the hostel. We planned on an early dinner, maybe a little blogging and email for a while, no naps and then clubbing or doing a pub-tour in the later hours.
Dinner consisted of a mince and tomato sauce on penne with grated cheese. Out of our element and surrounded by unfamiliar ingredients, Josh and I prepared the meal while Emma promised to do the dishes. Suitably satisfying, the two cooks still felt that the dish was lacking something essential. Regardless, the meal was finished and tummies were full. Yoghurt was added to the gastronomical hurricane that had been punctuating my day. For the most part, medication had been assisting my control of the situation, but had not decreased its nastiness.
Having completed our duties in the common-room, I blogged while the Luries watched some streaming videos. Though this had been planned to fill the intermission before our pub-crawl began, we unanimously agreed to skip the pub-crawl. “It would be filled with dodgies or bogans”.
As the hours grew late, we finally decided to simply call it an evening. Everyone was tired and I don't think that any of us were feeling particularly great.
060908 – Spain, Madrid
Emma and Josh appeared around 3AM, climbing in through the window after having a few too many troubles with the door. Once settled, we all slept till after 10, no one heard Charlotte come in at 4.
After taking steps to become creatures resembling “Human”, the three of us ventured out for lunch. Wandering up to Plaza de Mayor, we ate at an over-priced yet sub-standard. The Paella was extra-ordinarily fishy, suggesting it had been frozen, and the Sangria was unremarkable. Whining aside, the meal was appreciated by all and had been just what we had been looking for. The rest of the morning was dedicated to wandering around and trying to make a good plan for the rest of our stay here. We still needed to sort out voting, washing had to be done and there was a remarkable abundance of alcohol in the city that we had to try and help with..
Most of the rest of today consisted of wandering around and chilling out at the hostel. Shortly after eating, we went back and I had a nap for most of the afternoon. Between snoozing, emails and dashes to the bathroom to placate my increasingly toxic-butt, the afternoon dissolved, was wiped up and flushed away.
As the shadows grew longer, we went out to find a super-market and stocked up on food-stuffs for the next few days. In an effort to save money, we bought a series of reheatable snacks (chicken nuggets, which were delicious. some kind of spanish rolled cheese and meat thingy, which was interesting..) and the makings for a spag-bog with penne. Sitting in the common room, we munched on our reheated meals and agreed to sleep till 1030, cook a real dinner and then go out.
Having finally washed and dried every article of clothing I owned throughout the course of the day, it looked like a good night might be waiting for us ahead. Settling in for the late nap, emma set her alarm for 1030 and we all dozed off.
After taking steps to become creatures resembling “Human”, the three of us ventured out for lunch. Wandering up to Plaza de Mayor, we ate at an over-priced yet sub-standard. The Paella was extra-ordinarily fishy, suggesting it had been frozen, and the Sangria was unremarkable. Whining aside, the meal was appreciated by all and had been just what we had been looking for. The rest of the morning was dedicated to wandering around and trying to make a good plan for the rest of our stay here. We still needed to sort out voting, washing had to be done and there was a remarkable abundance of alcohol in the city that we had to try and help with..
Most of the rest of today consisted of wandering around and chilling out at the hostel. Shortly after eating, we went back and I had a nap for most of the afternoon. Between snoozing, emails and dashes to the bathroom to placate my increasingly toxic-butt, the afternoon dissolved, was wiped up and flushed away.
As the shadows grew longer, we went out to find a super-market and stocked up on food-stuffs for the next few days. In an effort to save money, we bought a series of reheatable snacks (chicken nuggets, which were delicious. some kind of spanish rolled cheese and meat thingy, which was interesting..) and the makings for a spag-bog with penne. Sitting in the common room, we munched on our reheated meals and agreed to sleep till 1030, cook a real dinner and then go out.
Having finally washed and dried every article of clothing I owned throughout the course of the day, it looked like a good night might be waiting for us ahead. Settling in for the late nap, emma set her alarm for 1030 and we all dozed off.
050908 – Spain, Valencia to Madrid
Waking after a well needed sleep-in, I shortly said farewell to Konrad and started to make my way to the train-station. It looked like there were plenty of trains to Madrid and that it should only cost about 35-40 Euro. Throwing caution to the wind, I lashed out for some Hungry Jacks (well... Burger King..). it was horrible, but worth every bite... Dinner had not occurred last night, as sourcing a place to sleep was a little more pressing.
Back on the street, my mystical belt of weather control seemed satisfied with the culinary tribute. It was a nice walk to the train-station, about midday.
In fact, almost exactly midday...
Once I had lined up to get the train ticket, the british guys in front of my had gotten to their turn and were ordering.. Request done, they got money out.. the attendant looked straight past them, at the clock, and slammed the shutters down in front of him.
It was Siesta time... everyone else can go to hell...
Turning around in amazement, the three of us used detailed phrases to discuss the situation in the very finest Queen's English.
Indeed, I was back in a third-world country.
A passing guard pointed out that you can not buy tickets from an automatic machine in Spain. We were welcome to try the internet, but it was not always reliable, or go across the street and try the travel agent. Otherwise, the staff at the ticket stalls were away till 3pm.
A little more Queens English preceded the digging out of a british laptop. Reconsidering the reputation of Spanish IT, the growing group of us made the trek across the courtyard to the travel agent.
One by one, the english speakers baulked at the price and the travel times, choosing instead to wait for the ticket booth to open. Weighing up the price, and the hamburger in my stomach that appeared to be turning with the weather, I lashed out the 75 Euro for a first class ticket to Madrid. Now I just had to wait two hours.
Dumping my pack in storage, I wandered the inner part of the city. Stopping for an ice-cream and sitting in a park for a while, I did my best not to second-guess the actions this morning that might have prevented this. Eventually the first hour and a half was up and I started to meander back. Not sure if it was the hamburger or a return of the nasty-butt, I turned the meander into a dash..
One problem with Spanish rail tickets is the number system. Using an empirical numbering system for trains is great, whatever.. Making them look like departure times is just mean... Having sat down for a minute, with a supposed 45 minutes to go, I got a sudden sense of paranoia and set out to double check my train details..
Just as well! I was in my seat and the train left less than 15 minutes later. Spanish Rail, I declare you a FALSE PROPHET!!!
Travelling by rail in first-class is a little different to second class or tourist. Once I dislodged the man pretending that it was his seat, I discovered that there is a little more leg-room, a dodgy DVD was played, there was food that was several steps above the fair offered on Ethiopian Airlines and complimentary beverages.
Forcing myself to eat the meal (I'd paid an extra 40 Euro for this.. NOM NOM NOM), I felt a little too toxic to make use of the bar. It appears I was paying a very dear price for that hamburger, and the steaks were rising at every turn (get it? hamburger... STEAKS... yeah, it's lame. don't care. it's my blog so I'll write what I want :p )
Arriving in Madrid about 5 hours later, I'd failed at sleeping and resorted to staring out the window. I was sad that my memories of the Spanish country side were grander than they appeared this time. I'd travelled this exact train 8 years ago, but it had been much more... impressive? then. Following the masses off of the platform, I got instructions for getting to the hostel and called Emma and Josh.
The walk to the hostel was long and hard, I appeared to take a very convoluted route and was feeling dodgier at every side-street. Finally getting there, I checked in and dumped my gear in the spare bunk. I assumed the other two were Emma and Josh plus a miscellaneous. Immediate needs handled, I started to wonder where the others were.. They knew I would be here soon, in fact I was late. Giving up waiting in the room, I went to find the kitchen. Maybe they had been in town and would be here later?
Mad hostel is quite an impressive place to stay. There are several levels of accommodation, including a lift with a sign warning that it is only a little lift, and more noticeably a giant courtyard down the centre of the building. The courtyard can be covered with a perspex shield on the roof in bad weather, but is typically open. WiFi is free, along with the breakfast and there is a laundry. You have to use their linen, are recommended to keep everything in your locker and all major security points are controlled by an electronic bracelet. All in all quite cool.
Entering into the spacious common room, I saw an Emma that appeared to be in an unfit state to move. Leaning down to give her a hug, Josh appeared not long after. Announcing that they were currently in the middle of the city on a pub and tapas tour, they had no plans for the rest of the day.
Thus begun Madrid.
Having discussed the finer points of laundry, Spain and plans, I met Charlotte who would be our room mate for the next few days. Charlotte is a pretty German girl from Munich who was hunting for an apartment in Madrid. She would be studying for the next semester. Unable to join us for the evening, the rest of us changed and went hunting for something to eat and something cold to drink.
Emma played navigator, possessing the relevant pages from Lonely Planet for this part of the world (excised from the parent volume in a pseudo-surgical manner), with mixed results. After a suitably scenic tour of the finer points of Madrid, we arrived at “the” tappas place. The first round of beers were refreshing but failed to provided more solid nutrients. Emma returned with an additional beverage and announced that tappas needed to be purchased. The bar itself was quite trendy, everyone was well dressed and appeared to be having a good time with the assistance of drinks, tappas and cigarettes. There was even the token “so cool for skool” who was reading a text book at a nearby table. The bar staff were fun and the drinks were cheap.
This stage of the evening was not long-lived. Having had a little to eat and drink, we retreated to the hostel and I crashed for the night while the others went out. It had been a very long day. Indeed, even the nasty-butt had returned, shepherded in by some Spanish rain, by morning.
Back on the street, my mystical belt of weather control seemed satisfied with the culinary tribute. It was a nice walk to the train-station, about midday.
In fact, almost exactly midday...
Once I had lined up to get the train ticket, the british guys in front of my had gotten to their turn and were ordering.. Request done, they got money out.. the attendant looked straight past them, at the clock, and slammed the shutters down in front of him.
It was Siesta time... everyone else can go to hell...
Turning around in amazement, the three of us used detailed phrases to discuss the situation in the very finest Queen's English.
Indeed, I was back in a third-world country.
A passing guard pointed out that you can not buy tickets from an automatic machine in Spain. We were welcome to try the internet, but it was not always reliable, or go across the street and try the travel agent. Otherwise, the staff at the ticket stalls were away till 3pm.
A little more Queens English preceded the digging out of a british laptop. Reconsidering the reputation of Spanish IT, the growing group of us made the trek across the courtyard to the travel agent.
One by one, the english speakers baulked at the price and the travel times, choosing instead to wait for the ticket booth to open. Weighing up the price, and the hamburger in my stomach that appeared to be turning with the weather, I lashed out the 75 Euro for a first class ticket to Madrid. Now I just had to wait two hours.
Dumping my pack in storage, I wandered the inner part of the city. Stopping for an ice-cream and sitting in a park for a while, I did my best not to second-guess the actions this morning that might have prevented this. Eventually the first hour and a half was up and I started to meander back. Not sure if it was the hamburger or a return of the nasty-butt, I turned the meander into a dash..
One problem with Spanish rail tickets is the number system. Using an empirical numbering system for trains is great, whatever.. Making them look like departure times is just mean... Having sat down for a minute, with a supposed 45 minutes to go, I got a sudden sense of paranoia and set out to double check my train details..
Just as well! I was in my seat and the train left less than 15 minutes later. Spanish Rail, I declare you a FALSE PROPHET!!!
Travelling by rail in first-class is a little different to second class or tourist. Once I dislodged the man pretending that it was his seat, I discovered that there is a little more leg-room, a dodgy DVD was played, there was food that was several steps above the fair offered on Ethiopian Airlines and complimentary beverages.
Forcing myself to eat the meal (I'd paid an extra 40 Euro for this.. NOM NOM NOM), I felt a little too toxic to make use of the bar. It appears I was paying a very dear price for that hamburger, and the steaks were rising at every turn (get it? hamburger... STEAKS... yeah, it's lame. don't care. it's my blog so I'll write what I want :p )
Arriving in Madrid about 5 hours later, I'd failed at sleeping and resorted to staring out the window. I was sad that my memories of the Spanish country side were grander than they appeared this time. I'd travelled this exact train 8 years ago, but it had been much more... impressive? then. Following the masses off of the platform, I got instructions for getting to the hostel and called Emma and Josh.
The walk to the hostel was long and hard, I appeared to take a very convoluted route and was feeling dodgier at every side-street. Finally getting there, I checked in and dumped my gear in the spare bunk. I assumed the other two were Emma and Josh plus a miscellaneous. Immediate needs handled, I started to wonder where the others were.. They knew I would be here soon, in fact I was late. Giving up waiting in the room, I went to find the kitchen. Maybe they had been in town and would be here later?
Mad hostel is quite an impressive place to stay. There are several levels of accommodation, including a lift with a sign warning that it is only a little lift, and more noticeably a giant courtyard down the centre of the building. The courtyard can be covered with a perspex shield on the roof in bad weather, but is typically open. WiFi is free, along with the breakfast and there is a laundry. You have to use their linen, are recommended to keep everything in your locker and all major security points are controlled by an electronic bracelet. All in all quite cool.
Entering into the spacious common room, I saw an Emma that appeared to be in an unfit state to move. Leaning down to give her a hug, Josh appeared not long after. Announcing that they were currently in the middle of the city on a pub and tapas tour, they had no plans for the rest of the day.
Thus begun Madrid.
Having discussed the finer points of laundry, Spain and plans, I met Charlotte who would be our room mate for the next few days. Charlotte is a pretty German girl from Munich who was hunting for an apartment in Madrid. She would be studying for the next semester. Unable to join us for the evening, the rest of us changed and went hunting for something to eat and something cold to drink.
Emma played navigator, possessing the relevant pages from Lonely Planet for this part of the world (excised from the parent volume in a pseudo-surgical manner), with mixed results. After a suitably scenic tour of the finer points of Madrid, we arrived at “the” tappas place. The first round of beers were refreshing but failed to provided more solid nutrients. Emma returned with an additional beverage and announced that tappas needed to be purchased. The bar itself was quite trendy, everyone was well dressed and appeared to be having a good time with the assistance of drinks, tappas and cigarettes. There was even the token “so cool for skool” who was reading a text book at a nearby table. The bar staff were fun and the drinks were cheap.
This stage of the evening was not long-lived. Having had a little to eat and drink, we retreated to the hostel and I crashed for the night while the others went out. It had been a very long day. Indeed, even the nasty-butt had returned, shepherded in by some Spanish rain, by morning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)