MY OLD MATE PETE

I realise that I haven't written anything about my trip to St. Petersburg in the May holidays with Julia and her family. That isn't because it wasn't interesting (and eventful), but because I'm busy (and lazy).

To begin with, we very nearly missed the train after going to the wrong station. It was only after I asked a Georgian fruit-seller that we realised our mistake and hot-footed it to the adjacent station. Well, three of us hot-footed it and the fourth limped pathetically behind, draging Julia's mother's huge suitcase.

Then, hot, sweaty and out of breath, we totally miscounted carriages and sat in the wrong compartment. So we were ejected from that and had to walk from one end of the train to the other, along the inside - practically jumping from carriage to carriage (there is a little metal walkway between them, but you can see the ground rushing between your feet). Suitcases are not good at jumping.

Having eventually located the correct compartment, we arrived in St. Pete's with little trouble and found the hotel surprisingly easily (the fact that I had stayed there the previous spring may be connected). Then we ran into problems - Julia's sister, Blake, hadn't been registered in Russia within three days of her arrival, and Susan, her mother, had left her immigration document in Moscow.

Receptionist: Where is the immigration document for this woman?
Me: At home.
Receptionist: Can you pop back and get it?
Me: At home in Moscow.
Receptionist: A-a-a-ah.

So there was a tense hour or so when we were sure that one of our party was to be deported and a second send back to Moscow with her tail - or rather, an outsized suitcase - between her legs. But the ever-friendly and helpful Russian service staff didn't let us down and somehow smoothed over all the problems with the visa office.

Our party had a rude introduction to the realities of Russian city life early on in the trip. We were sitting in a cafe on the main drag, Nevsky Prospect, at a window table. Suddenly one of the girls gave a gasp and we all turned round to see, on the street about six feet away from us (but luckily with a window in the way!), a gang of gypsy women and children mugging a group of elderly tourists.

The gypsies forced one of the male tourists onto the floor and succeeded in getting hold of his wallet; but as the gypsies fleed, a woman, evidently the wife of the victim and from her expression absolutely furious, grabbed a gypsy woman and began to punch her in the face! It was only after the intervention of the tourguide that the gypsy woman managed to flee, leaving several possessions and items of clothing of her own on the pavement!

TBC

THE BREAST IS YET TO COME

Another anecdote about my flatmate, Gareth. This one's a corker.

Julia's elder sister, Blake, was visiting from the States. It was her second night in Moscow and the three of us, plus Gareth, were sitting in a bar. It was the first time that Gareth and Blake had met and so they were making polite conversation, as you do.

Blake had been telling Gareth about her ten cousins on her father's side.

'I like girls with big families,' Gareth replied. Only he doesn't always speak very clearly, and Blake was certainly unused to his accent. So she heard him say:

'I like girls with big fumblies.'

Totally unphased by this, the consummate conversationalist, she replied:

'Oh, but Julia's are bigger.'

I hope that you've read my dad's account of our adventures in the Golden Ring. Well, if you thought that we had some problems, you should hear what happened to my flatmate. This is his story (in my words, because he is Welsh).

Gareth had decided to spend the holiday week way down in the south of Russia, in Sochi, on the Black Sea. That's a day away, at least, on the train.

So Gareth headed down to Sochi on his own. Travelling alone, he didn't want to bring a lot of cash with him, but that was okay because he had his debit card. Arriving in Sochi, he went to withdraw money only to find that he had been locked out of his bank account.

The previous week he had tried to access it on the internet but had got his password wrong three times (did I mention that he is Welsh?). The website had informed him that he was consequently locked out but he assumed that he was locked out only of the internet banking - not the entire account and that they had cancelled all of his cards for good measure!

So Gareth was stuck in Sochi, with ten roubles to his name (about 20 pence), a good twenty-five hours on the train away from Moscow, and a non-transferable ticket home for travel in ten days time! Not only that but his pay-as-you-go Russian phone had run out of credit and of course he had no money to buy any more...

I am mildly impressed that he made it back to Moscow, alive, well and with a tan (and a bottle of home-made Caucasus wine no less).

A guest blog from James's Dad:

It only Hertz when you laugh.....

I've just returned home after a few days in Russia visiting James and doing a bit of tourism. We decided to hire a car and James came out to meet me at the airport where I had arranged to pick the car up from Hertz who, amazingly for the world's largest car hire company, only had a single desk on the end of a row of desks run by car hire companies I'd never heard of. And the Hertz desk was locked and empty! Still, after a while Olga turned up and we started the simple process of doing the paperwork. This involved the writing of copious documents by Olga interspersed with her having to run off across the concourse at regular intervals saying "back in 5 minutes". After several of these interludes we reached the point where I'd signed more autographs than Beckham but we had a car key. Off we went to the car park to find the Renault that had been allocated, only to find it wasn't there. The four of us (James, Julia, Olga and myself) wandered around the miles of tarmac for some time before Olga went off for "5 minutes" and returned 15 minutes later with another key.

Now, I'd quite fancied getting a Volga or, at the very least, a Lada. The end result was that we got 60% of a Volga - a Volvo. And very nice it was too, and for the time being in pretty good condition.

To cut a long story short, off we went to James's flat which involved driving round the Moscow ring road. I'd heard lots of horror stories about Russian drivers but I have to say that 99% of them were fine. The other 1% were as daft as a bottle of crisps but, overall it was better than driving in Minchinhampton - where I live - where a pensioner in a Nissan Micra can strike fear into the bravest of men whilst attempting to park vertically up the war memorial.

The following morning James and I went off to visit the Golden Ring - a series of historical towns north of Moscow. And very nice it was too. Visited a couple of towns on the first day and stayed overnight in a great hotel.

Three Wheels on my Wagon......

The following morning we took the wrong road. No worries, as we worked out that we could continue the way we were going and meet the right road further along. Yeah, right.
As we got into more rural countryside the quality of the roads got worse. And worse. Avoiding the potholes was akin to doing the Giant Slalom at the Winter Olympics and in the end they got us.

Entering a small town it was impossible to avoid the potholes as there was one giant one that went across the whole road. Flat front tyre. Damaged wheel rim, and a temporary spare wheel which would last about 5 minutes. James spoke to a taxi driver who gave us directions to a tyre place. We couldn't find it but another guy showed us the way.

The tyre place was a shed run by a 12 year old boy who had perfected the sharp intake of breath but did his best to help us. He bashed the rim about with a large hammer and found a second hand tyre which fitted. Cost? About £8. Good stuff and off we went again.

After another 30-odd miles we reached the city of Ivanovo. Whatever you do, don't go there. It is, without doubt, the most depressing place I've ever been to - actually through, because we didn't stop. It's rumoured that the sale of razor blades and rope have been banned there to help reduce the suicide rate.

Having got through Ivanavo we decided to stop for something to eat. We found a large restaurant (total seating of about 250 people) in the middle of nowhere and the staff of several dozen served us. We were the only people in there. The downside at this point was that the tyre had gone flat again and we were now on Plan G, which we hadn't yet formulated.

The people who ran the restaurant took it on themselves to help us - great people - and the owner instructed a guy who had been delivering soft drinks to take the wheel off and go and get it repaired. Off he went, leaving us sitting in a restaurant with only a full sized stuffed bear for company (oh, and a giant live hawk who lived on a perch outside the front door) and our car up on a jack outside.

Half an hour later the drinks delivery man returned with the wheel fixed and put it back on. The wheel had been balanced and it all looked hunky dory, although the second hand tyre from the kid in the shed was still in use. Total cost was 850 roubles, about £17.

Anyway, we then went back to Moscow - a short trip of about 250 miles - and returned the car to Hertz. Well, sort of. The security man at the car park entrance had never heard of Hertz so James went into the airport while I hovered around tidying up the boot to make it look like nothing had happened. The missing wheel trim was a bit of a giveaway but you never know what you can get away with unless you try.

James returned some time later and said that Olga would be "5 minutes" which was a real surprise and when she turned up we finally got rid of the car although she couldn't get it OUT of the car park. At this point we made our excuses and left.

The upshot is that, so far, Hertz have not charged me anything at all. My guess is that it will either stay that way or my credit card will be debited for the rental, a new wheel and a new tyre. Only time will tell.