What is it about Russia that makes it so Russian? I arrived last night, after a thirteen hour trip from my flat to Moscow. London City is my favourite airport, because it costs me £1.50 to get there by overland train, and it takes half an hour. And because it's like a coach terminal only with small planes with propellers and, in the lounge, seats that are cushioned because the behinds of businessmen are better than ours. (The thirteen hours add up when you go via Frankfurt.)
Nonetheless, Russia started off well, as passport control only took 20 minutes, not the hours it's supposed to, and for once my queue wasn't the slowest. And my driver was waiting when I fully expected him not to be. There was a moment, as he raced at top speed down what seemed to be a deserted side road at 11.30pm when I realised I hadn't given anyone the number of the car company and that no-one actually knew where I was and I had no idea where we were going. But that passed.
Oh excuse me a minute there is dreadful pounding music outside coming one of the many hotel discos and I will see if I can change my room.
I changed my room. Sadly, this means no more leopardskin carpet and matching curtains, but I took a picture of room 2406 for the historical record:
So I am now in my third hotel room in less than 24 hours. Because the trip started to go wrong as soon as the driver deposited me god knows where in a front of a huge hotel complex, and as soon as I got into the lobby and saw a well-populated casino there, and as soon as I saw the face of the receptionist when I told her my name and the number of my registration and she looked blank. She looked blank half an hour later, having looked in every big book and having phoned Intourist, who did the booking. “Aha!” she said, finally. “Your booking is in Hotel Delta.” Delta is another of the five hotels that make up this complex (the others include Beta and Gamma). A trek across a rainy concrete concourse later, with my mood as black as I thought my mood could get, I was standing in front of a vision.
Before coming here, you see, I had had visions of my arrival. I would be greeted with surliness and scorn by a woman with badly dyed blonde hair, a lacy or slutty blouse, bad make-up and no intention of making my life easier. And lo! There she was!
An hour later, she had stomped off in her red leather blouson to some inner office, and I had to pay cash for another room. It was by then 1am. I was wrong about my mood. They found my reservation after an hour of phone calls this morning.
TIbloodyR.
Today at the toilet summit, a war was narrowly avoided between two large East Asian countries. For more information, you will have to read my book. I had no idea the world of toilets was so cut-throat. Tempers calmed enough for a banquet afterwards, where it was my great pleasure to eavesdrop on a large roomful of people eating nice food and blithely discussing shit and sewage. Also, toilet conferences give you a different view of the Kremlin:
And the Metro is always wonderful. The statues. The 15 rouble ticket price. The smell of drying wet coats. The doors being slammed in your face. The standing under signs holding a map and trying to read Cyrillic while also trying to get two Malaysians, one German and a Sri Lankan back to their/my hotel. The looking at the faces on the Metro and getting all romantic thinking that you understand how Russia produced Chekhov (though certainly you don't). TIbloodymarvellousR.