Well, my friend Jason has flown home now but I thought I'd write about a couple of the things we did when he was here. Sadly, he'll probably be reading this web log too so I'm unable to embellish the truth / slag him off / bluntly lie. Never mind.

FIRE

On Wednesday we went to a gig advertised in the paper. A local post-rock band (yes, there are such things in Russia), that I knew through one of my students, was supposed to be playing. Sounded good. So three of us went after work - myself, Jason, and the girl from Portland (Julia), who is into that sort of thing.

Unsurprisingly, the venue was underground. I say unsurprisingly because not only is a) every place in Moscow underground, but b) this particular place was called 'Bunker'. That sort of gave the game away. Actually it looked like a converted wine callar more than anything. But obviously with more alcohol in.

The first band were terrible. The second band was pretty good. The third band were also decent. None of them, however, were the advertised band that we had come to see. Small details like this aren't important in Russia.

By this time we'd missed the last metro. Julia didn't want to get a taxi back on her own, and had the not-too-brilliant idea of getting a taxi first to her place then back to mine, so we could drop her off. Sadly she lives in the opposite corner of Moscow, about 20km away: we're not that rich.

The only alternative (apart from leaving Julia when she wasn't looking, which I suggested but Jason - in a rare attack of gentlemanliness - vetoed) was to stay until the metro opened at about 5.30am. Having to work the next day, I wasn't strongly against this plan. So obviously that's what we did.

Earlier that evening Julia had seen somebody ordering a very stupid drink from the bar. You know what a flaming sambucha is, right? Well, this was the Russian equivalent. Instead of setting the drink alight, the bartender sets the bar alight and you have to reach in through the wall of flame, grab your drink, and down it before your sleeve ignites or your arm combusts.

Julia suddenly decided that she wanted to drink one of these. And that she wanted us to as well. Thus followed a very stupid conversation with the barman as we tried to explain that we wanted the 'drink with the fire... flame... burn!' He eventually got the idea. So there were the three of us lined up at the bar in this bunker. The bartender puts down our drinks, and pours some sort of flammable spirit along the length of the bar. He lights it. Woof! Wall of flame!

To be fair, the doctors say that the scars should fade over the next ten years or so. Okay, okay, I'm embellishing again. None of us were burnt. But I didn't feel too good teaching the next day. Jason blamed it on that final shot of tequila. Perhaps it was off or something.