It is hard to know where to begin in Moscow if you're not going straight to the Kremlin. We had booked a walking tour for the nest day that would include the Kremlin area and after we would go inside. So today was for the 'the rest'. Being right here in the heart of the former communist beast from which the Cold War was fought against the West there was obviously only one place to go. Shopping. Because capitalism won, pinkos.

More correctly, and politely, we were going to the Arbat, Moscow's famous pedestrian arcade. To get there we would take the Metro. The Moscow Metro is a tourist attraction in its own right, according to the guides anyway. This means either Moscow is very boring or the Metro is very good. Certainly the stations in formerly Communist Budapest, the second oldest metro in the world and a world Heritage site, were very impressive. Stalin had said 'that before palaces had been built for kings, he was going to build palaces for the people'. Underground. With trains in them. So with a degree of expectation we descended into Komsomolskaya Metro. There certainly was an older world grandeur to the entry and ticket halls with attractively decorated lights and fittings. On entering the platforms, though, things were distinctly different. Tiled walls, brass balconies and a mezzanine level over-looking the trains.

This unusual, open space was repeated at other stops with small bridges rising off the platform and over the tracks. There certainly was a sense of grandeur that contrasts with the usual functionality particularly of the London Tube. And the people liked their palaces and packed into them. The stairs were so full that the crowd would often come to a complete halt at choke points which were numerous due to the puzzling Russian habit of only opening one half of every set of double doors. So we joined the slow shuffle and enjoyed the carefree local customs of never holding a door open, never allowing anyone else on first and never apologising for anything.


At the Arbat we moseyed up and down a very tourist orientated strip of souvenir shops and alfresco cafes. There were human billboards/touts along the way doing a bare minimum to attract you inside. When we did stop at one to ask for information he had none. What’s the advantage of these guys over a plank of wood with the sign nailed to it?


To complete the historical absurdity, or poignance, of visiting a commercial hotbed in a formerly anti-capitalist capital we decided to really rub the Soviets noses in by going to the most American Western place we could - the Hard Rock Cafe. But even here there was a picture of Lenin on the wall.

After lunch we headed towards the centre of town that is the Kremlin. Circling onto the north eastern side we came to Krasnaya Ploschad, Red Square. A long square with dark cobblestones bounded by the dark red Kremlin wall. It was recognisable from all those reels of footage of Soviet troops parading past Stalin, or Kruschev, or whoever the baddie in the movie was.


We half expected to see missile trucks rounding the corner at any time. It was from this spot that the Soviets rattled their sabre at the West. It seemed so implausible for a free Westerner to be stood now in the centre of this parade ground. More incongruous was what the Soviet hierarchy would have seen behind the marching troops, charged with an aggressively defending the Communist motherland. The GUM. A shopping centre. Apparently Stalin had wanted it destroyed but the wives of the party bosses complained bitterly that there was nowhere else good to shop. So it stayed. It would seem the KGB was not utterly efficient in ensuring the hearts and minds of every comrade were steeled to eliminating the bourgeoisie.


At the far end of the square is another Russian postcard moment. St. Basil's Cathedral. Named for Vasiliy (Basil) the Idiot, the only man who could speak to the Tsar because he wasn't afraid of him. Certainly one would presume that only an idiot would have suggested the technicolour palate used on this, an orthodox church (think black cloaks and beards). But the result is stunning. So good that apparently Napoleon burnt out the inside and turned it into a stable. Them horses must have been trippin'. On the cobbled approach to St. Basils there was the predictable population of happy-snappers taking photos, us included. However there was a particular penchant of what we think were local Russians, to have their photo taken sitting in the ground in any sort of glamour-esque pose. More disturbing were the forced dance/pose routines of a few small groups of children and cheering ringmasters, I mean parents. The dancing consisted of very MTV pelvis thrusting mixed with traditional Russian Cossack moves. The results seemed utterly unlikely for an 11 year old boy to be doing by choice. Most unappealing though, were the fully grown adult tourists who laughed at, danced amongst and posed next to the kids. Like a happy bunch of pedophiles in some sort of depraved petting zoo. Just because you're on holidays doesn't mean the Russian girls Under 13's gymnastic team is a tourist attraction you can touch.

Disenchanted with our fellow tourist kind we returned to our Stalin tower (he never hurt anyone). There were no good restaurants near us and we were not in the mood to travel across the city to a Lonely Planet recommendation that may not even exist anymore (our LP guide book was increasingly sending us to nonexistent locations). Instead we turned to our old favourite mode of eating in foreign European cities, the supermarket run.

With a 'Producti' around the corner we secured ourselves a collection of 'Zakoooska' to complement our modest vodka supply. With Kathryn only managing one shot Gavin had to press on alone in reducing the vodka weight load. It what you, our reading proletariat, would have wanted.