Tripping Out

I hope you've had a good week!

Exactly a week ago, I was sitting in Alex's mother's apartment in St Petersburg, a little overwhelmed by the scale of the place, and the lung-chilling cold, when we discovered that the rumors were indeed true: REM's equipment had been stopped by Russian customs, the gig would not go ahead. Bother. Not exactly what I said, but it sounds similar, and conveys the sentiment. I'm quite bitter, since this is the first gig I've tried to catch since accidentally missing The Pixies slot at a rock festival in San Marino, and it makes me a tad pessimistic about traveling to Amsterdam next week to see The Frames and Bell X1.

On the other hand, I traveled to St Petersburg with a bone-fide Russian at very little expense. The last time I was in St P, in July 2003, I was a tourist amongst tourists, staying in a very dingy hostel. They assumed that we were a group of Finnish Vodka tourists (or so the excuse goes) and so showed us to their very worst rooms (which were bad).

The communal toilet looked like it had lost the capacity for flushing circa 1985, but had carried on stoically taking crap none-the-less. It's smell was a physical presence. It had also somehow managed to mislay its seat, which we were encouraged to replaced with our own money. Similarly, toilet paper was considered something we could invest in ourselves if desired. Whenever I stay in poor accommodation, I immediately treat it as a prison sentence, and start counting down the days till my liberation. The idea that I have to return sort of hangs over me like a cloud; and like a cloud, it rains on the parade that is the trip, dampening the experience a little (extended metaphors are tedious, aren't they).

To add to the general experience, at the time I had quite literally only 20 euros to my name. This limited my activities somewhat, and meant I spent four days subsisting on blini (pancakes), which were the cheapest thing to eat by far. Now, I like pancakes more than most, but after the third consecutive meal, the honeymoon is over, and by the end of the fourth day the relationship has deteriorated to the point of barring orders.

Anyway, the point was going to be that at the time I noticed that the Russians I encountered (waitresses, tour-guides, our land-ladies, the Militia, customs officials) were quite unpleasant. They were supercilious, they were contemptuous, and they were grumpy. I blamed the tourist season, and my negative context, and vowed to return and verify this impression.

This time around, I'm delighted to say that my experiences were polar opposite. For a start, there were no blini, and Alex's mother tried her best to food poison me. Don't misunderstand, the fare was spectacular. I'm simply trying to convey that, at a certain point, an excess of anything becomes toxic, and in this case, the quantity of food she provided was threatening my health. Magnificent woman, she is possibly the only person ever to have found my capacity for packing away the stuff lacking.

Then there were the people: Alex's jovial friend Dmytri put his beautiful new apartment entirely at our disposal, and moved back in with his parents for the duration of our stay, turning up at lunchtime to cook for us. He will forever be my standard for judging "the perfect host" (he immediately got high marks by providing towels - I am always profoundly grateful when my lodgings include towels). Very friendly, quick to laugh, and generous to a fault, this was a face of Russia I had missed the last time. Alex's mother couldn't have been more generous or welcoming either, and was like a surrogate mother, even providing me with extra clothes against the cold.

Also, I got to see the Hermitage again. Now, the National Gallery in Dublin is by no means a barn, but they're very proud of their single Carravagio. You get the feeling that the Hermitage doesn't show an artist unless they have at least half his works. Rooms of Monets, Picassos, Mattisses, and the Rembrandts! Alex led me to "The Return of The Prodigal Son" and gave me some pointers. He then went on to tell me the story behind "Danae": in the 80s, a disturbed visitor poured concentrated acid on the canvas (you can get deliciously close to the unprotected canvases in the Hermitage) and stabbed it repeatedly. After 10 years of reconstruction, it's scared, but still fit for display. The Fabergé Eggs, while overly extravagant to my mind, were beautiful. Further extravagance is evinced by bathrooms are designed by Versace!

Alex also gave me some really leisurely walking tours, the antithesis of our inane bus-tours, that whizzed us past palaces, and dropped us at every tawdry market selling hats or stamps or other fake CCCP memorabilia. When walking, you really do get a feel for the enormity of the place (compared to Helsinki, or Dublin). The palaces are simply huge. I took my camera, but without a wide-angle lens I was stumped. The streets are miles and miles long. The apartment blocks are staggering - twenty stories tall, and cubic, in rows upon rows...

I got to see little glimpses hidden from summer tourists: the long, think streaks of polished black ice in the snow, upon which the young (and young at heart) slide along. Evading the ticket lady on the tram; the liberal interpretation of traffic laws. I also got an extensive tour of the metro system, which I believe is the deepest in the world, St Petersburg having been founded upon a swamp.

So all in all a successful and enjoyable trip, despite the gig. Off to Stockholm this weekend, and embarrassingly I've just asked for leave again, to go to Amsterdam next Wednesday. Sometimes it feels like I lack sufficient judgment to enjoy self-determination.