The bus to Saint Petersburg
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Sankt Peterburg,
Russian Federation
Friday, January 30, 2004
continued from ; Tales of Tallinn
30th January - To Saint Petersburg.
The public bus crawls from Tallinn's north terminus at some godforsaken hour in the morning . Of course , I haven't slept . Too busy being entertained at 'the club' . The border crossing at a place called Narva , seems quite mechanical. I am steered in the right direction along lines of gloomy people by a helpful mother and her daughter. My Russian visa , which I should add involved three visits to the embassy in London to obtain , is stamped with a little picture of a bus and the date and place. Nobody speaks English throughout the entire journey. Even Jim Carey apes in Russian during the in-bus comedy , The Mask.
Once inside this Russian Federation , there are some three more hours on a long perfectly straight road with a railway parallel to it. The occasional dog to punctuate vast blankets of unbroken snow. It starts to get dark and is so cold inside the bus that I am wearing a hat and scarf as we zoom along . Once within the limits of St Petersburg , we are dropped off at some location unknown. I am slightly bewildered and don't have much of a clue where to go from here . But I do have the fax I was sent by a hostel as part of the visa application process. A lady sits behind her little glass serving hatch in the cavernous foyer of the grand Saint Petersburg Metro . She looks cross but offers to help me out nevertheless. Then swipes my hostel papers and telephones the place . Gathering up her fur hat and matching coat , the stout little woman bustles out from her office and ushers me onto the right train. Repeating the name of the destination " Plostyad Vosstannia". I shan't forget it. Finally , a confused and dazed backpacker finds his intended hostel and checks in with the English speaking receptionist. Codes for various doors are given to me on tiny slips of paper.
The International style hostel is a small oasis of comfort . Now I am finally here , I hit the sack and cannot be bothered with finding dinner. Its a bitterly cold night. And the wide pavements are icy and slippery. Super-icicles are suspended from overhead guttering like meter long daggers which will drop suddenly and kill the pedestrian skating by below. Teams of specialists clear them during the day while a section of pavement below is coned off. I have two room mates. One from Brazil . One Aussie.
I think it was my turn to keep everybody awake last night by farting and snoring. Through corridors scrubbed clean like in an asylum , I go to find the breakfast room . There are several sets of doors with numerical keypads. I am late and seem to be the only one not sticking to the designated time. I find out why soon enough. Once inside said breakfast room , I see a long table of backpackers silently eating in unison. And standing at the far end of the table , the mad woman surveys me with contempt. Our breakfast commandant . With that military way of directing a process in short machine-gun bursts of speech. She is bloody scary to be perfectly honest. Star-shaped Rice Crispies must be consumed first , with cold milk and a spoon . Bread and condiments follow , and there are communal servings of the butter and jam in small metal pots , which like the tea , must be shared equally. Do not stand up or reach across the table. Leave when ordered to and do not re-enter. As I sit down on an iron framed chair , I observe a hard linoleum floor . Then the 70's style table top , fashioned unemotionally from Formica. The brutal functionality of the power switches and cabling , all of it indestructibly Russian.
Next ; Some typical Saint Petersburg activities
