g&k

Several years ago when visiting Austria, Kathryn & Gavin set a record for seeing every tourist site (or is it sight?) in Vienna in one day. This occasion of slick, efficient and comprehensive touring has set a benchmark that we have continued to aim for when confronted with a lot to see and not much time to see it. So it was that we set out to 'Vienna St. Petersburg. This was our only full day in the city so we were going to hit all the highlights.

Nevsky Prospekt, the main street of the centre of town, opened our enterprise in efficiency by being a tourist destination in its own right as well as providing the route to the Hermitage at the other end of town. Along the way we passed several elegant and ornate buildings. Not least of which was the one pictured.


Gold hilt lettering and impressive glass-work topping the building. All that you would expect from a sewing machine show-room. It turns out the most elaborate shop front used to be the sales room for Singer. Sew there (ah! hilarious). Also along the way was another of St. Petersburg's less admirable novelties - water. The city is noted as being one of the few first world cities where you can't drink the water cos it might hurt you. Knowing this Kathryn was forced to dive for cover several times as street-weeper machines came along the gutters spraying water as much at the pedestrians as it did the street surface. Kathryn was not about to become a victim of aerosolised Giardia.

Surviving the water-borne scourge we arrived at our major destination for the day - the Hermitage. When I (Gavin) was growing up, ‘Hermitage’ seemed an odd word - I knew it only as following the word 'Grange' (thanks, Dad). Then I played the PC game Civilisation and learnt that it was some wonder of the world. But it still sounded like an academy for hermits. Even as we were about to visit it I really didn't know just how important a place it was. And now having to describe it seems too difficult. It is too much.



The building itself is magnificent and impressive. It was the Winter Palace of the Russian Imperial Family, the richest in Europe - and they wanted you to know it. Every room is elaborate, gilded and inspiring. The ridiculously golden Jordan Staircase sets the tone as you enter room after room of palatial grandeur.


And then there are the contents. Treasures of antiquity, rarities of history and works of fine art from every century and continent. The only comparison I can think of is if you were to take the contents of the Louvre and stuff it into the Palace at Versailles. It's nuts. Having spent the last week thinking of many reasons why no-one should ever go to Russia this is one reason you should never miss it. It is epic. Completely deserving of the title a 'wonder of the world'. Even more than a school for hermits.



Inside Kathryn found her historical namesake, Catherine the Great. Kathryn is a great fan of anybody, like herself, bearing the descriptor "the Great". Roman busts lined gilt staterooms. Every character of Russian history was portraited.


And the masters of 20th Century art world were lined up like collector cards. Amongst this, the modern sense of Russian hospitality wasn't lost - I was sternly told off for taking my iPad out as they thought I was taking a photo with it. In fact I was opening the Hermitage App they have advertised in every available space. In place of an apology the stern woman gave me a look that said 'I wish I could spit on your corpse'. If only she was around when an entire family found it necessary to touch a variety of 300 year old tapestries on display. Or perhaps when this dork actually took a photo with an iPad. Really? Can't afford a camera?


This is a new chapter in the 'dumb tourist' look. It might be because we were in our fourth week of travelling, or perhaps it was me not appreciating cultural differences but I was getting heartily sick of peoples complete lack of decency and awareness of others. Idiots stopping at the top of escalators, having group meeting in narrow doorways, pushing past me when there is plenty of room to go around. Reaching exacerbation in the Hermitage I decided to simply stand still and let the morons do as they might. What they did was to walk straight into me, push, and walk on without even looking at me. Speechlessness added to my apparent invisibility. So we left.



One of the things not mentioned as a highlight of the city-formerly-known-as-Leningrad are the canals. In the bright sunshine that we had been enjoying for weeks now they seemed just as impressive as any in Amsterdam. We followed the long bend of the Moyka (technically a river but whatever) admiring the blatantly European architecture. We were on our way to a lunch stop at an (according to the book) famous Russian pie shop. The major difference between Russian pies and other meat pies are the disdain with which they are served.


By this stage we were so used to unfriendly service it passed almost unnoticed - particularly as the server seemed happy to not be further infuriated by idiotic Americans speaking in progressively louder and slower English or the Russian who seemed to think that paying almost enough for the pie should be good enough. The decor was more inspiring than the pie or service. It did look as though it may not have changed since somebody first, uttered "Communism? Well I've never heard of it but it seems like a good idea to me...".


From here we continued our ruthlessly efficient tourism by visiting the evocatively named Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood. Similar to the Church of the Blood in Yekaterinburg this marked the site of the violent death of a Tsar, this time Alexander II. Externally it was more similar to St. Basil's in Moscow with its multi-colour spires and domes. However unlike St. Basil's it was never turned into a stable by Napoleon so its interiors were preserved in their technicolour ecclesiastical glory - similar to those in the Kremlin. Dissimilarly, though, here in St. Petersburg we were allowed to take photos. And so, dear readers, we share these images with you.


Happy, suitably impressed and satisfied with our conquest on the city we made our way back to the hotel along Nevsky Prospekt. Coming in the opposite direction was a growing tide of sky blue clad football fans. On reaching the hotel and turning on the TV we discovered these were Zenit St. Petersburg fans. It was last day of the season and they were playing Dynamo Moscow for the title. Gavin was very happy he had chosen not to wear the Dynamo Moscow shirt he had bought as a curiosity the day before. Russian fans have a reputation of being passionate and rather stabby. But the game provided appropriate contemporary Russian entertainment for our meal of vodka and zakooska. And they won the title. Go Hobos!

Today was the day of our walking tour followed by a visit to the Kremlin, tomorrow we're off to St. Petersburg.

Prompt and on time, as ever, we made our way to the meeting point via the venerable & friendly metro system. As it turned out we were early when we met our diminutive young Muscovite guide and two fellow tourists from Malaysia. A few minutes later another ‘tourer’ arrived, a New Zealander who said he was from Australia. So which was it? Melbourne, was his reply. But he said it "Mulburne". New Zealander. Then it seemed we were ready to go. Then thirty Dutch tourists from the same hostel arrived. Perfect. The guide also then reminded us that we couldn't go into the Kremlin today, it was closed. Because it's Thursday. What the hell does that mean? After being brutishly battered on the metro and swamped by lowlands tourists we weren't in the mood for this bad news.


As soon the tour set off the thirty-something year old NZ tourist set to spading (remember that term?) a 19 year old girl from the Dutch contingent. From shameless eavesdropping it transpired that the Dutch were all on the verge of graduating from a communications degree. Despite this most of their communication seemed to consist of MTV catch phrases and utterly stupid comments or questions. For example, when we stopped at a statue to commemorate the Russian general hailed as the hero who halted the German advance towards Moscow, one of the more extroverted Dutch boys, sporting a blue cast on his wrist which I can only imagine was earned whilst trying to put both legs of his trousers on at once, asked earnestly “Can you climb it?". What? This was a 25 foot high statue of a man on a horse on a concrete block, why would you want to climb it? The tour guide was obviously confused by the question so the Dutch guy repeated it several times, being a communications peri-graduate after all, "Can you climb it?". "Is it possible or is it allowed?" asked the guide trying to clarify. "Allowed?" said blue-wrist. "I don't know, No-one in Russia has ever wanted or tried to climb it so we don't have a rule" replied the guide. Honestly. Only this Dutch idiot could make the Russians public behaviour seem sensible and demure by comparison. Good grief.

The tour wound past St. Basil's, the GUM and Red Square that we had seen yesterday. Today, though, there were a lot more seats and markers in the blue, red and white of the Russian flag to be seen in Red Square. Our guide explained that the decorations were being installed for the 9 May celebrations when Russia commemorates the repulsion of the German forces in WWII or as the Russians call it 'The Great Patriotic War'.


It had been evident from the beginning of the tour that our guide, a twenty-something female Muscovite uni student, was quite nationalistic and it sounded as though history was taught with Russia always assuming the moral high-ground - ever the valiant resistor of oppression and invasion. Sometimes this sounded quite conservative, especially when describing how no-one likes illegal immigrants cos they are ruining Russia and Russians can't get rich enough because of them (I think Tony Abbot would like it here). This single -sided nationalism was more evident when describing 'The Great Patriotic War'. According to 21st century Russia, the war began in 1941 when Germany invaded the USSR. Not in 1939 when Stalin allied with Hitler & invaded Poland. There were many Russians, from Siberia to Moscow, wearing orange & black striped ribbons of St. George in commemoration of those who died in the War, just like us with our poppies on Remembrance Day. But it seemed odd that they should have such a different idea on the same events. It makes you wonder how distorted the West's view of the war, and the world, might be. After all, history is written by the victors. And we've put a Starbucks at the Kremlin, the Forbidden City and the Reichstag.

We gathered next to watch the changing of the guard at the eternal flame. This was a small parade of just 5 troops but was complete with all the goose-stepping we'd been hoping for. The highlight, however, was the moment of change over. Both soldiers cocked their heads to the side and regarded each other sideways. It was like two pigeons sizing each other up. Completely hilarious.


Only the children could get away with laughing though, everyone else feared the gulag. After this we filed past a metro stop and some museums with requisite explanations of how Russians are better than most at anything. We then arrived at the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. This stood on the site that it had before it was blown up 80 years before in order to be replaced by the Palace of the Supreme Soviet, the 8th of Stalin's Seven Sisters. To explain - the cathedral had existed since 1883. It was demolished by the Soviets to be replaced by the Lenin-topped tower described previously. During the war the 'Big Lenin' was abandoned and a big swimming pool built instead (it's easy to dig a hole after all). After the fall of communism the cathedral was precisely rebuilt to the actual 19th century designs. So we all stood and duly photographed the 20 year old cathedral from 1883.


The cathedral was the end of our little tour and we tried to quickly avoid being asked to go lunch by the New Zealander. It is perhaps a bit unfriendly but the guy basically brought the whole Southern Hemisphere into dispute. He tried so many poor jokes typified by his performance outside Basil's Church. The guide had been trying to explain that Vasiliy was mentally affected. She had been saying 'mentally sick', 'disordered', 'diseased'. "Retarded!" exclaimed Mr. NZ. Even the Dutch looked shocked.


Fortunately we escaped and headed off to the metro to go out to a flea market that the book says is perfect for good souvenirs, etc. Typically the map wasn't great. The directions were worse. Get off the metro and "follow the crowd". The four other people who got off at this metro stop, deep into the Moscow burbs, went in four different directions. Using a compass we headed in the direction suggested on the map. There were both fleas and markets but nothing resembling what we were hoping for. There was a huge empty plot that may have been where it once stood.


But the map was on a scale of kilometers so it was next to useless. So we asked for help. Big mistake. To ask for help is to scream out loud that you have a horribly contagious disease. People could move quick enough to avoid us. Russian's indifference to polite behaviour moved to outright bastardry. "I can't read English!" exclaimed one businessman as he rushed away from us, "It's written in Russian!" we implored. He could only answer in meaningless vowels as he dashed for his life. Defeated we headed back to the hotel. Bumped into, cut off and pushed past all the way home. Then just as we were traipsing back we saw a bus crash into a police car. Ha! You guys are going to suffer. Probably the last car you want to crash into in Russia. At least we get to leave. You guys have to deal with Russians for the rest of your lives. Thanks for having us though (see? Manners).

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.

A town we rolled through today had been flooded, perhaps from the flow of melting snow upstream. And we arrived into Moscow. Beyond this nothing really happened. We got up late (cos there was nothing to do) and resumed our respective electronic pastimes.


We were visited briefly by the train's crazy cat lady, all dressed up in her flowy mu-mu, mad red hair and a very hirsute black cat with luminous eyes but a sedated stare. She chatted away happily in Russian, quite aware that we couldn't understand a single word she was saying. Eventually she returned to her nest.


After a few idle hours we were there. Moscow. We were relatively unceremoniously dumped onto what felt a bit like a side platform rather than the culmination of an epic rail journey. So we marched along behind the army recruits onto the street and faced the 8 1/2 lanes of mad traffic. Driving in Moscow seems like driving in the rest of Russia just more. And faster. It’s as though when cars were first invented the Government laid down a few basic rules- red is stop, drive mostly on the right- and then said "Off you go!"


Given this relatively free framework drivers aggressively make the most of it. The wider boulevards in Moscow allows more room for serious speed to be achieved. Routinely cars would accelerate, hard, down empty lanes of busy roads only to break just as hard at the other end. This was also the case if pedestrians were crossing. The preponderance of powerful European SUV's, especially Porsche Cayennes, made increasing sense. Nowhere else we've been could you truly make use of formidable acceleration and also require a good few inches of steel cocooning you. The end result of pedestrian accidents must be gruesome. Fortunately our hotel was easy to spot occupying one of Stalin's 'Seven Sisters' - grand skyscrapers that were designed to match, and surpass, those going up in New York in the first half of the 20th Century. The full set was supposed to include an eigth super-tower. The top was to be adorned with a massive statue of Lenin complete with a library in his outstretched hand and a conference hall in his head. This awesomeness was never realised. The site that was earmarked for it was occupied by a cathedral.


Such theistic ostentatiousness was an affront to the Soviets so it was promptly demolished and turned into a swimming pool. However it was after this that Stalin realised its 'special energy' derived from its astrological and numerological significance which made it the appropriate spot for his mega-structure. Obviously some super natural mumbo-jumbos are more acceptable to Communists than others.

Having filled up on the train we both just wanted a snack for dinner. A quick walk around the block yielded little but a familiar sign with unfamiliar letters. It was a Subway. The toppings were less familiar. Where we expected lettuce there appeared to be cabbage. There was also unidentified orange blobs. Nonetheless we dived in with our worst Russian. Puzzled by what we were trying to say the 'Sandwich Artist' asked "Chicken Sub?" in perfectly understandable English. Tis was a welcome surprise. As was the quality of our subs which we enjoyed back in our room. We turned on the telly whilst planning our assault on Moscow - Hitler & Napoleon did just the same thing. A scroll through the channels revealed the usual list of traveler friends - BBC world, CNBC, Bloomberg and CNN. CNN with Anderson Cooper. And CNN with Becky Anderson. Kathryn doesn't like Becky Anderson. Pausing mid-mouthful, "I can't stand Becky Anderson and her face. Her eyebrows dancing all over the place.", she exclaimed. Watch out Moscow, Kathryn's coming for you. Better keep those eyebrows where we can seem them.

Today we left Asia. But not before we had a few hours to kill. We went for a repeat meander of downtown Ekaterinburg. It seemed a good day for an ice cream but yesterday we learnt that everybody tends to drink a beer in public, so we went looking for a beer. All we could find were ice-cream stands. No thank you, that's so Western. Instead we headed somewhere more foreign - a Scottish Pub. A Scottish pub is a curious thing, there's no globally famous beer like Guinness, and the decor is very 'British'. There is Scotch, but that's not really a pub drink. Instead there are just random St Andrew's crosses about the place. And the dozen or so dwarf-sized mannequins dressed in kilts & sporrans in all the window fronts.

After a lunch of Russo-Scotch food we headed to the supermarket. We had learnt our lesson regarding the absence of platform food and the goodness of Zakoosaka on the last train. As such we stocked up on finger food and vodka. Picking vodka is not easy.

There are about 20-30 to choose from, they all cost about the same and have no readily distinguishing characteristics. So we bought some 'pretty' ones. With supplies in hand we spent our last hour or so in the hotel lobby before taxiing back to Ekaterinburg Vokzal.


It was all very familiar on the train by this stage. We were even in the same carriage, compartment and seat numbers. A complete facsimilie of our last trip two days ago. The train stop times were the same as last time. Almost everything was just like 48 hours ago. It was like we had slipped out of the time-space continuum for 48 hours and reemerged now, smelling a little better. And with more vodka. One thing that remained exactly the same was the impact point on Gavin's head of the all too solid head rests.

They are seemingly positioned to deter people from sitting too close to the window. So when you suddenly lurch over, having seen something of interest beside the train, you will connect, headways, with a very solid object. Having walked around for two days with a constant headache from a few such blows to the head on the previous trip Gavin was not keen to repeat the effect. Unfortunately the neurological sequelae of these head traumas was an ironic amnesia. And so he immediately launched head first into the head clunker as soon as the train started to pull away from the station. If any readers know Gavin's Visa card PIN or favourite colour could you please leave a comment - he subsequently has forgotten them. He did not, however, forget a large number of excellent swear words.

If things on the train were pretty much the same, things off the train were changing. A little. The birch/larch/pine forest was a little more diverse with rivers and clearings here and there. There were more settlements including some quite pretty villages but also more industrial areas.

The increasing number of rivers were crossed by numerous bridges. As the day drew to an end we wondered if we would recommend this trip to others. If the long time spent on the trains and difficult visas and challenging communication was all worth it. In short, was travelling the Trans-Siberian worth it? I dunno. We'll tell you tomorrow.

Mmm, buffet breakfast. Then we were off to our first sight. We cross now to our correspondent on the scene...



After uniting the continents through the power of the High Five we drove back into Ekaterinburg. Along the way Kathryn discovered a monument of much greater cultural significance. To her anyway. Another IKEA, complete with backward 'N' to add to the one spotted in Ulaanbaatar. However once returned to town we decided to take a walking tour of Ekaterinburg, being that it is so walkable and the weather so nice.



Ekaterinburg is a pretty city, in the middle at least, with a central canal-cum-river derived from a weir that holds back the rather inauspiciously named 'City Pond'. It looks altogether more European than Irkutsk in Siberia despite being technically still in Asia. However, like Siberia before it but perhaps more noticeably here, it is crumbling around the edges. Literally. Concrete gutter dissolves into rock & dust. Roadway edges are rough & rocky. The motorway on ramp was just about a dirt road.



But the city does have a number of small but fetching monuments. Most are devoted to the periods before and during the soviet era. Unfortunately for Russia it seems that since Glastnost & Peristroika, no new major works seem to have been built. Nor anything cleaned. But there were less Russian stereotypes here than in Siberia. More western. Although when considering what it is that gives a standard, 'boring' soviet background a western look it's advertising. The neon streets in Beijing and Shanghai are excellent examples. This is the familiar Western 'sheen' that we are used to. And that is disappointing.



But things here were exotic too. For both of us trams are always exotic. Trains that drive on the road? That's just mental. It all seems so industrial revolution and foreign. The electric busses with overhead cables even more so. They seem synonymous with bread queues and communism. There was a sculpture that was a huge concrete keyboard laid out besides the river. It is, according to the tourist map, the largest in the world. Now there's a claim to fame.



Similar exoticism was also seen, although perhaps less poignantly so, in the Russian aversion to facial hair and the alleged stories of police corruption towards tourists. In fact the Police were so biased against us they didn't even care we were there at all. Just as well we would soon flee this oppression. Damn you KGB!! There was, however, a bridge of love. Couples had attached padlocks adorned with their names to the bridge's railings. Some were even heart shaped locks. We liked to think the keys were thrown into the river. One, however, had an end date: 2002-2011. Guess he'll need the bolt cutters.



The other site of note visited today was 'the Romanov Death Site'. This spot marks where the Romanovs, including Anastasia, were killed in the basement of an engineer's house in 1918. Subsequently the Soviet's built a Museum of Atheism in the house above. What do you put in a museum like this? A bunch of empty displays with captions saying 'Here isn't a god'? A list of things God didn't create? Dioramas of events where nothing supernatural occurred? It would be great! But instead, there's a church. Or more correctly "The Church on the Blood".



After a certain Boris Yeltsin, an Ekaterinburg governor, had the original house demolished in 1977 in case it became a shrine for Monarchists, a massive church was built. And more than become a rallying point for monarchists the Russians posthumously exalted the Romanov's the rank of Saints. From bourgeois oppressors to miracle workers in one life-time. At this rate drunko Yeltsin will become a God. Today it is surprisingly difficult to find exactly where the spot is. The guidebooks describe a number of markers that no longer exist. We satisfied ourselves that we were 'close enough'. That night we crossed town to find an actual Russian restaurant. The sign isn't in english but fortunately our Cyrillic reading is so awesome now we could find it. Despite being in a basement the interior is series of rooms each done up like a different country Russian dining room. When taking your order the waiter asks where you are from and plants the relevant flag on your table to let everyone know.



Fortunately there were no Americans in tonight to send troops to every other table. Kathryn's beef Stroganoff was very good. Gavin's four quarters pie less so. We could identify two quarters - onion and mushroom with cheese. The other quarters were less clear. Beef and rabbit? Not sure. Not good. But we left feeling like we had got to know Ekaterinburg.

It snowed. The forecast on the internet said it should. The meteorological observation station was next door to the hotel so the information couldn't be more relevant. But we didn't get our hopes up til we saw it for ourselves first thing in the morning. But there it was and Siberia looked the way it should. White.







The clouds had snuck in under the cover of darkness, deposited the snow, made it stick and then left, leaving a sunny white world behind. Kathryn was particularly ecited and rushed out to take photos. Here we discovered another Siberian speciality - frozen winds. It was like 100 chinkles of yesterday’s kryptonite poking through your clothing. It was time to rug up. After days of lugging around heavy winter coats, jackets, gloves, scarves, etc. through sunny mildness it was time to put them to use. Just as soon as Kathryn's fingers unfroze.



We repeated part of our stroll towards Listvyanka to appreciate the new wintery appearance. However we noted another completely unexpected change in the landscape, the ice had all but gone! We had noted quite a lot of ice passing down the river the previous evening but had never expected the lake, as far as we could see it, to have unfrozen. Now there was water and waves to the far shore. A few small pockets of ice remained, being churned away by the relentless washing of the waves so that it seemed it would be consumed in front of our eyes. It seemed the most extraordinary pair of weather conditions any two days could produce. Yesterday a dry shoreline butting a frozen lake, now the roles reversed with white snow on the land and active blue water. We would have described our experience with the weather so far to be lucky but this was truly remarkable.



At the far end of our walk we spied 'something' out on what was left of the ice. On closer inspection it was a person. With even closer inspection, via a zoom, it was a diver. Or at least someone dressed up as one. They had a rope leading into the water which they tugged on occasionally. Either they were looking for a very big fish or there was another diver down there. Probably looking for the Dutch backpackers from yesterday.



Coming back we passed an area of grassland that yesterday was literally on fire. The melting of the winter snow leaves huge areas of dry, dead grass. These are frequently seen to be burning. Whether this is the result of cigarettes tossed from car windows or deliberate burning to reduce the risk of fires from cigarettes thrown from car windows we weren't sure. What did seem evident was that the fires burnt randomly and incompletely and never seemed to be supervised. This process was common all over Siberia. The pitch of grounds that we passed today though was now patchily covered in snow giving it a black & white appearance considerably more deserving of the title Dalmatian Coastline than the one in Croatia.



Also along the way was the graphic work of some very intuitive entrepreneurs. The walk into Listvyanka was popular but could be longer than expected, especially if it suddenly turns, well Siberian on you. Recognising this, various taxi owners had stenciled their number all along the promenade into the town. Well played, sirs. Had we been given the choice we would have employed one for our transfer back to Irkutsk to catch our train. But we didn't, so, too bad.



At Irkutsk station we boarded the Rossiya train. Service number 1. The supposed flagship of Russian Railways. And it was, on initial inspection, certainly a pleasant update from the wood panelling of previous trains.



But what was most pleasant was the twin berth compartment. Our own little private room. Power point, tv and all. Luxury. And very soon after setting off we were brought our first meal. Things went downhill from there. The food, although sufficient in quantity did make you miss being hungry and not having this taste in your mouth. The beds too, although being more pleasing to the eye, had found some way of being more uncomfortable than previous offerings. Oh well, who cares, we always have a blog to write.



And of course we could always visit our train-mates Simon & James back in 2nd class. This time they found themselves shacked up with a Russian & a Ukrainian pair of blokes who were giving a lesson in how to drink vodka. As the boys pointed out, if there was any easy stereotype of the Trans-Siberian being about meeting gregariously friendly and proudly nationalistic Russians who helped you consume prodigious amounts of vodka then these two men fulfilled those stereotypes to a t. By the time we met up with them they had already finished four bottles. In just four hours. We shared a couple of shots before going to bed. We were assured that tomorrow, Simon's birthday, would be the big one.