Wanderlust

This morning, I heard someone thunder into the bathroom, rip a throaty fart, then slam every door possible. These weren’t the clipped morning sounds that the other hostel resident, a Japanese student, usually made. When I heard an energetic diatribe about Barack Obama five minutes later, I knew that an Obnoxious American had entered the premises.

American: “You know what, I didn’t vote for Obama. You know why? Because I’m from Chicago, see, and Obama didn’t change anything there. No, I didn’t vote for Obama, because I knew…” Etc. etc.

Diminutive British gap year student (also a new resident): “Huh. Oh. I see.”

American: “Where are you traveling to?”

Brit: “Well, I’m trying to catch the Trans-Siberian Express to China, then visit Peking—“

American: “The Trans-Siberian thing, huh? That’s great.” (Pause) (Grunt) “But you see, the Obama thing, I just knew…”

I picked a good day to depart. I’d rather sleep on a museum floor than listen to the retired, overweight know-it-all’s rants about his own intelligence, and smell his shampoo-and-fart essence, for one more day.

Later, on the plane, I would encounter the Pride of Germany, a group of wobble-bellied 30-something men who giggled like girls, smelled like beer, and made bird sounds in the security line.

More about the airport later. Back to the morning, when the hostel manager informed me that it was “very cold today.” Not something you want to hear from a Russian. I walked out to a bitter bluebird day with fantastic views of sunlit buildings and the expansive Neva River.

After a titillating photo circuit, I found myself waiting at a crosswalk for cars to pass. Here in the city, drivers often run red lights, drive on sidewalks, and ignore pedestrians. The police bribes for such violations are quite low (running a red only sets you back about $20). So a green crosswalk light means you still might get hit.

As I waited for the cars to pass, a babushka in a striped fur coat waddled up behind me and tapped my shoulder. She wanted me to cross the road. The crossing light was green, after all. A car was roaring our way, so I shook my head. She stepped into the road—right in front of the car. I made universal warning noises, hoping she wouldn’t continue into its path.

Instead, she stared down the driver, pointed at the green crosswalk indicator, and kept walking. I followed her. Amazing!

After that, I had a delicious meal of salmon blinys (crepes), apricot and cognac spiced tea, and a lovely salad made from shredded beets, smoked fish, egg, and shredded potato.

And before I could blink, it was airport time. The driver broke what would have been 10 US laws getting me there, but hereabouts, you can do what you want if you know the bribe system. Corruption is so systemized that the bribes have set amounts:

Speeding (20km over limit): $10 USD
Speeding (40 km over limit): $50
Running a red light: $20
Driving drunk: $5,000 bribe, or get your driver’s license suspended for two years.

If you have money, you can basically make your own rules.

It gets better. Within the police force, there is a secret police force whose job it is to jail corrupt cops. A police for the police, if you will. These secret policemen have to fulfill a quota—eg. they are required to throw one corrupt policeman in jail every year.

If you’re a regular cop, it costs $50-$100K to bribe your way out of being indicted by a secret policeman.

So the incentives continue to cycle. Cops have incentive to increase their bribes so they can potentially pay off the secret cops. People bribe the cops to avoid headache. “They need a reason to work,” the driver said.

When he saw me off, he proclaimed: “Don’t forget about Russia!”

I won’t.

I nearly did a faceplant today. Straight into a slushy cobblestone sidewalk. I threw out my hands just in time to save myself from actually eating slush. But it wasn't pretty.

All the people walking around me came to a dead stop until I stood back up. The second I was on my feet again, everyone picked up the pace as though nothing had happened. I wiped off my hands, astounded that nobody had offered me a hand, or the Russian version of "Are you OK?" To the ten people whose path I'd blocked, I was a brief obstacle, nothing more.

Either people fall here all the time, I'm used to people being really nice, or "Are you OK?" doesn't exist in Russian. I wish I could know for sure, but I don't speak the language, and here, that is a major barrier to knowing the culture.

I'd spent the day on a self-guided walking tour. The city is beautiful, it makes me think of Paris plopped atop Venetian canals. Colorful rows of Classical buildings flank the wide, frozen Neva river, with docked tourist boats and distant coal chimneys finishing the scene. Once in a while, you catch site of a golden cathedral dome or spire. Elegant trees add contrast to artful, snow-covered parks. The city is built on islands, so every once in a while, you cross an arching old bridge. The atmosphere is magical, romantic, and busy. This is definitely one of my new favorite cities.

Except for the slushy, puddly, icy sidewalks. How do Russian women walk them in narrow heels like it's nothing? They must have trained for years. I had at least two near-misses before the faceplant. Babushkas waddle them like ducks. I'm about ready for a sleigh.

Also before the faceplant, which is a climactic turning point in this tourist story, I visited the outrageous palace where Rasputin was killed, a delicate Russian Orthodox cathedral full of worshipping women, and the over-the-top Christ of the Savior Blood (I'm butchering the name, forgive me) cathedral. I took a good picture--you'll see it below--then faceplanted.

By the time I started walking again, I was tired, hungry, and humiliated.

I walked into the nearest cafe, a sushi restaurant. Fake sunflowers sprouted from the ceiling. Bird documentaries played on huge flatscreen TVs place around the restaurant. Five Russian men made sushi in front of a real-time airline arrivals/departures screen. Lounge music interspersed with soft rock played from ceiling speakers. The furniture was Japanese, but that was pretty much it.

So the place was weird. But it was busy--always a good sign. I ordered by pointing at pictures on the menu. I thought I was getting chicken and salmon kebabs, a Russian beer, and a sushi roll. I had to drink all the beer up when I saw that I had inadverdantly ordered beef tongue, liver, and pork kebabs.

I've never had tongue. The little tastebuds on the tongue pieces made me recoil. I kept thinking of French kissing a cow. I can see why people eat it--it's tender--but ick. The sushi, however, had amazing salmon and caviar. Best raw salmon I've ever eaten, hands down. It was buttery and melted on the tongue. The red caviar was also crispy and fresh. Delish!

A bitter wind started blowing on my way out of the restaurant, so I called it a day. The cold here is no worse than Colorado on a cold day--until the wind comes in. Its chill is dizzying, best avoided or vodka'd away.

After three days here in St. Petersburg, I'm entranced, but a little offput by how difficult it is to travel here when you don't know the language. It really helps to know people, or at least know how to talk to them. Otherwise things appear grim, hard to penetrate, distant. Might be me, might be the winter...but next time I visit Russia, it's going to be with an in-the-know friend.

I visited the famous Hermitage Museum today. It is rumored to be one of the best museums in the world. Its stunning collection, incredible interiors, and scope make it live up to its reputation.

I'm not very good at "doing" museums. I promised myself to do it right this time. I would focus on a few interesting exhibits, but the buildings were so cavernous that I almost immediately got lost. In four hours, I saw:

French art
German art
Flemish art
Modern art
Greek Antiquities
Egyptian Antiquities
Prehistoric Remains from the Caucases
Ancient Tibetan art
European Armor
Italian Art
Spanish Art

...should I go on? Suffice to say it was overload. What impressed me most--and what truly sets the museum apart--was that the rooms were that housed the art were also elegantly designed, historic, and beautiful. The Hermitage is titillating, if you dose it right.

Note on Babushkas
The museum also contained carefully placed babushkas in every single room. Are you familiar with the concept of the eastern European grannie? You know, the one in the round knit hat and long cloak, possibly with cane, notorious for spying and not taking shit from anybody?

The Russian babushka takes it to a new level. Here, they come ornamented with a porcupine-like fur hats, fashionable boots, and piercing hawks' eyes that give you the jitters. The expression is set permanently to Grim, and every movement is deliberate. I believe the Russians even have a word for the babushkas who work at supermarkets. It translates to Thunder Woman.

So, as I mentioned, every room in the Hermitage has a resident babushka. They're as good as they come in terms of stopping tourists from taking pictures where they shouldn't, eating and drinking in the wrong place, etc. I was reprimanded by babushkas in Russian at least four times, and I'm not sure why. The best part was seeing all their heads peak around the corners when they heard my footsteps. The worst part was that it's hard to enjoy anything when a granny's narrowed eyes are boring into your back.

I left today feeling gratified at seeing a couple really famous pieces by Matisse and Piccaso, and relieved to be out of there. The Hermitage requires at least two days of aesthetic sipping. I pounded it. Time to hibernate in my room and eat chocolate to recover.

See that figure wearing black? That's a babushka heading my way, to tell me that water is not allowed outside the cafe.

I apologize. Firstly, because I haven’t explained this trip. Secondly, for the three of you who like to have regular updates just to know I'm alive, I've been horrible about updating. So here goes:

Have you noticed that we renamed the blog “Wanderlust?” And replaced the “Asia” in the title with “Adventures Abroad?”

There’s a reason for that. We’re going travel through Egypt for three weeks starting in March, and we wanted the blog to reflect our continued exploration.

I’m traveling earlier than Seth this time. I’ll be blogging solo until the beginning of March. My trip takes me to Germany, Russia, Dubai/UAE before reuniting with my better half. Call it the Gazprom Oil Tycoon route. Or the Frigid/Boiling Express. Or the amorphous consequence of four random “that sounds cool”’s.

I started off visiting my Tante Erika and Onkel Juergen in Delmenhorst, Germany. There, I enhanced my waistline with delicious cheeses, wursts and cakes. They were wonderful hosts. I’ll show you some pictures below.

Today, I am in St. Petersburg, Russia. Just for the heck of it. Doesn’t everyone want to go to Russia in the middle of winter? Seriously, I do have a reason. I found a cheap flight there from Berlin. I’ve always wanted to go. Plus, Rasputin’s penis is preserved in a jar in a museum here. That, and the Hermitage, are pretty hard to top.

On Friday, I fly to Dubai, where I will meet my friend Lara and her friend Shanna. We’ll Dubai it up until Monday. They will leave then, but I’ll be there until February 28. I expect to either go visit Oman or sit by the pool and maybe do some indoor skiing.

Then, I meet Seth in Egypt. When the pictures get really pretty, you will know we’ve reunited.

Meanwhile, here are some mutant photos from Germany.

Note: Travellerspoint's photo layout capabilities are the online equivalent of giving a chimp a set of finger paints. I am destroying Seth's superhuman post structuring job from the Asia trip.

1. Old car with wooden-spoked wheel at Bremen car show
2. Porsche tractor (!)
3. Uncle Juergen next to a pretty car
4. Unmarried men in Bremen get to sweep the church steps when they turn 30--the shame!
5. Bremen old town
6. Bremen old town
7. Bremer Stadtmusikanten (the town musicians, an emblem of the city)
8. Medieval Catholic depiction of God himself
9. Cool Gothic art at the bottom of cathedral pillar
10. Art commissioned by local coffee tycoon
11. Old, narrow alley

One of my favorite things about travel is that it demolishes myths. And today was one of those days where the myths imploded en masse. For example:

Myth: I'd be able to get away with a really tight airport schedule (read: sleep in) because German trains are always on time.

Fact: German trains aren't always on time. Especially when you're in a hurry. My first train was 10 minutes late. The second, 25. The bus to the airport, which was supposed to come every 7 minutes, never arrived. By the time I hailed a cab, my flight had 40 minutes until departure. The airport, 20 minutes away by taxi from train station. Taxi delayed 10 minutes by old Berliner ladies hobbling across the street. Myself, sweating profusely.

But at the end, I had a winner: The airplane to St. Petersburg was delayed, too. That is the only reason I am sitting here, typing from an impossibly wobbly bunkbed, next to a Japanese roommate, tonight.

Myth: Airport security in the United States is the worst.

Fact: It was worse today in Berlin. First, the passport control guy informed me that I was in Germany illegally (my American passport doesn't have an entry stamp). He thought the French had failed to stamp it. I showed him my German passport and informed him that I had not been to France in four years.

Second, the metal control lady pretty much stroked my entire body, then unbuttoned the top button of my jeans. Then said "don't be embarassed."

Myth: As a woman, men judge you by your personality, looks, or figure.

Fact: In Russia, apparently, you may also be judged by your ability to free men of their money. A seatmate also happened to be going to Nevsky Prospect--St. Pete's main drag--so I offered to share the cab I'd called up. He agreed. In the end, he paid for the entire ride (39 euros). He is a sports journalist working on assignment here, so he can invoice the ride to his magazine.

After he got out, the driver turned to me and said, "You are good."
"Huh?" I was lost.
"You know, good." He giggled.
"Ungh?"
"You get him to pay!" More giggling.

To him, I'd proven my worth as a moneygrubber by meeting a guy on a plane, then getting him to pay for my ride. He'd already jacked up the cab fare by 4 euros to compensate for his waiting an extra 15 minutes. I, on the other hand, had achieved a true masterpiece.

I asked him later whether it was safe to go out at night alone.

"Oh yes, especially if you keep doing business the way you just did."

I think I'm staying in tonight.