Krasnoyarsk

Finding a hostel in Krasnoyarsk proves to be difficult, "myest nyet" being the oft repeated refrain. No-one is sure why the budget hostels of the city are proving so popular on this weekend in particular. I was starting to get a little tired of wandering up and down the famous figures of communism, the snow starting to fall quite heavily. In a last ditch attempt I try a travel centre near where one of the hostels should have been and they sit me down with a cup of tea and start to ring around. They have no luck either, but I'm glad it has been their fingers rather than my legs doing the hard work. Victoria, who did most of the calling, kindly offers me a place at her apartment however and until this evening they organise a trip for me to Stolby, the nearby nature reserve.

Jana is a true Stolbist who truly loves the park we are now walking in. This group of climbers, who free climb the giant rock formations, are very commited, I only realise quite how much when Jana tells me that her best friend died doing this last year. I can see that this is still a painful revelation but at the same time she says her friend had believed this is how she would die, here in the park. Now the park does look beautiful, truly Siberian, pine trees covered in a thick new coating of snow. Only a couple of days ago the temperature was up around plus 20. Siberians are particularly noticing the strange weather of the past few years but deal with it as they always have dealt with the weather: stoically. I try to keep the same level of composure but the ice beneath the fresh white blanket is treacherous and several times I end up ungracefully sprawled. After about an hour we reach our destination, known as the first mountain. Just before it is another large rock. Jana asks me to guess what its name is. I go with boat but apparently it is actually an elephant. I count myself as a fairly imaginative guy but this is too great a leap for me, I do touch the rock and make a wish, one of many Stolbist traditions. Another is that if I reach the top of the first mountain Jana must hit me on the bottom with her shoe one time for every day of the month so far. It is the 27th but the ice means we are unlikely to get the chance to enact this particular ritual. We reach the starting point for the easiest route up, the one that Jana says Stolbists take their children up to give them a taste of the pillars. However it is covered in ice, and we've fallen several times between the "Elephant" Rock and here. I try to go some way and cautiously snap some photos, but the blizzard means the views are not brilliant and the ice means that my movements are somewhat tentative and a little restricted. As is often the case I must yet again give my assurance taht I will return at a time of year when it looks more beautiful. We make our way back down, dividing our descent about 70/30 between feet and backside. We're overtaken by a boisterous Russian-Chinese family who've just enjoyed a picnic, running full tilt between the trees and screaming all the way.

The ballet, Chipollino, is for children, vast numbers of them, accompanied by hassled looking teachers and some doting parents. As far as I could discern the plot was this: An onion and various other insects and vegetables are having a merry time of it until an egg king comes along and puts up a statue of himself in their village. They take it down to make a house for the carrot but then the king arrests the carrot and an old vegetable of indeterminate provenance. So the onion and a butterfly go to rescue them and end up getting locked up themselves. They are rescued by a sexy insect unafraid to use her feminine wiles and a bookish insect in glasses who is tormented by the egg kings two queens. It all ends happily with the vegetables winning a big fight against the eggs. There is also a treachorous slug who is punished at the end too.* The kids were lapping this up, their mothers and teachers seemed a little disinterested until the egg king suffered a rather large wardrobe malfunction in the second act. This had the older section of the theatre on the edge of their seats right up until the final curtain.

*I've since looked up the plot and it turns out I may have missed or misunderstood a few things. The carrot was a pumpkin, the egg king was a lemon prince and the evil slug was a tomato. The bookish insect was a cherry and the butterfly was a radish. I definitely did not see the lemon prince getting killed after being stuffed into his own cannon at the end (Not a euphemism). The reason it is so popular in Russia, despite having been written by an Italian, is because he was journalist for the Communist periodical L'Unità.

Novosibirsk - Krasnoyarsk

Their two opinions of Russia could not be more different. On the one hand Irina wants desperately to leave and move to Germany. Her trip to Novosibirsk was to get a visa stamp for that very purpose. Natalia on the other hand works for the Krasnoyarsk Kray tourist board and was in Novosibirsk graduating from her masters course in tourism. She could not love her country anymore. When Irina starts to bemoan the state of her country today Natalia is obviously visibly upset. I want to interview them both, but Natalia declines because of worries about how it will affect her work. Irina gives a very good interview in German however and tries to give some of Natalia's side of the argument too.

Before I left Novosibirsk Dimitry and I went out and we were joined by a friend of his. Before we left I gave Dima a thank you present, which was a large model train set with real working lights and steam. It was quite a crazy present but I hoped it would help him remember quite a crazy Englishman. We went to Pub Liverpool, which is shaped like a yellow submarine. On the walls there are posters of the Beatles, bizzarely placed against a New York skyline. The pub serves "English ale" but instead of a good pint of CAMRA approved goodness it turns out to be an utterly foul dark reddish black concoction tasting like a mix of wine, water, cats pee and beer. Everyone is drinking it. I feel like standing up and telling them the truth about English ale but Dima encourages me not to.

Irina is very helpful once we arrive in Krasnoyarsk, helping to buy an onward ticket to Irkutsk and constantly reminding of things like the change to daylight saving time in a motherly way. Her boyfriend in Germany is not happy with the delay in her getting home, as he has stayed up all night to check she's OK. He texts her on the bus to ask what is taking so long. I apologise too profusely and we miss the stop.

Novosibirsk

Its almost midnight and the massive road grader is almost too big for the small side street it is lumbering down and the driver, obviously bored, decides to play with the large blade underneath his cab, normally used to flatten new tarmac. The result is that the back four wheels are lifted off the ground and spin uselessly while the huge yellow beast grinds to a halt. He retracts the blade and sets off again, nodding solemnly to me as he mounts the pavement. Behind him is a gigantic, sparkling, white stretch Hummer, who honks his horn as he passes and gesticulates. The combination of vehicles is an odd one, but if it were to be found anywhere, it would be Russia.

Its bright sunshine in Novosibirsk and Russian news is gloating over the unseasonal winter being experienced in Europe. Admittedly, its not summery here by any means, and Natasha informs me that St Petersburg is deep in a snowstorm, but it is with considerable glee that Yevgeniy, the Russian correspondent in Brussels, puts the finishing touches on his snowman at the end of his report. Also in the news is the problems in Belarus and another little girl who has gone missing, this time in Krasnoyarsk where I am heading today. Aside from the news, Russian TV is an interesting mix. They have many detective shows that stick to all the good detective show cliches. The Russian for "Hands up!", "Its quite simple really..." and "I think its time we paid Mr. Vladmirovich a visit" are all fairly easy to discern just from the hammy acting. Elsewhere, where programmes might feature a message from the relevant department or ministry, they now have some words from their corporate sponsors. The weather report has three, not only read out by the glamorous forecaster but also featured at the end. In a home makeover show, where a typical Russian apartment is transformed by a typically smug home makeover show host, the programme is dominated by close-ups of the brand of wallpaper paste they are using, to do two small squares of wallpaper on either side of the room. From a design point of view, the "English patterned" wallpaper seems an odd choice, but the wallpaper paste is the show's main supporter and thus it is a necessary feature of every room. Finally there is Dom Dva (Home 2) the Russian Big Brother that has been going for an unbelievable three years non-stop. One housemate goes and another arrives every week and it still remains popular, despite seeming to consist of the same combination of crying, drinking, screaming, throwing things and fumbles on the couches. Everything is sponsored. Even the duvets are emblazoned with a mobile phone company logo. At one point a girl is comforted about a break up by being allowed to try what seemed to be a new brand of some form of cellulite removal strip, the name of which was oft repeated with the swearwords in between bleeped out. Alot of the rest of the output consists of culture shows, films about World War Two and investigative documentaries, all of which are advertised with the same dramatic music and gravelly voiced announcer.

West Siberian Railway Museum

I sense that my decision to pay the accordion player has had a mixed reception. On the one hand he is moving off down the carriage but at the same time the fact I also photographed him means that I have condoned his actions and thus encouraged him to sing more lustily, an unpopular move. The lady across the aisle is glaring at me but she's been doing that the whole way anyway. The guy opposite looks impassive but I've learned throughout the trip not to be discouraged by someone's facial expression, especially not in Russia. I'd draw the line at the elderly accordian hater, who seems to genuinely dislike me already. I ask him when my stop is and he politely tells me that it is in three stops but that his is the next one. I find out a bit more about Andrey, from the Altay region but studying in Novosibirsk before we arrive but then he must go. Except when the train leaves he comes back into the carriage and plonks himself down next to me, saying that he has decided to visit the West Siberian Railway Museum too.

We explain to the security guard why we climbed over the fence. We had taken a wrong turning and didn't want to walk through anymore snow as our boots were already full. Now we are on our way to the ticket office. This is satisfactory to him and after paying we get on with looking at the trains, many many trains. Despite appearances, I am after all doing the longest train journey in the world, I really know next to nothing about trains. I know what I like, which is massive steam trains with big wheels, lots of pipes and preferably some sort of communist insignia but I am very hazy on the technical details. Thankfully, by an incredible coincidence, one of the three other European vistors is Professor Dirk Forschner, a German train expert who speacialises in the history of technological development of the railways, especially in China. He is incredibly interesting to interview and I think he is interested in my trip as well. Particularly interesting are the various collaborative trains, the work of several countries, something Professor Forschner says is something that has charaterised railway history. He also bemoans the state of the locomotives here, for while the collection is undeniably large, the trains are kept outside, exposed to the elements and only superfically maintained. The professor compares it with England, having visited Dorset to see the steam engines there. These are mainatined privately by lovers and steam and are thus pristine and in full working order, while the engines at this state run museum will never run again.

The quantity is nonetheless impressive. Andrei and I find not only trains but a haphazardly parked group of cars, various engineering carriages, a giant railway snow mover, old tractors and even a tank. I clamber on top to try the hatch then see a security guard approaching but its either part of the entrance fee or he can't be bothered to come across the icy pathyways to stop us. I clamber inside and try the oil covered controls.

On the way home the sun is setting. There are three ice fisherman in the carriage with their kit spread out all around. They have caught three kilograms of fish today and are well pleased. Andrey gets off at the station he meant to leave at this morning, saying that he has enjoyed our trip to the museum.

Novosibirsk

"I can't, because it will cause problems with the FSB" says Elena, the receptionist at one of Novosibirsk's cheapest hotels. Cheap in Russia's third largest city, capital of Siberia, is not the same as cheap elsewhere. The centre is replete with every new Western and Russian chain possible, there's even the soap shop Lush. However the hotels seem unable to let go of the Soviet era mentality to tourists and I sense it is beginning to try Dima's seeminlgly endless patience. I met Dima between Barabynsk and Novosibirsk, he'd been sitting in my section in platskart. We'd only spoken briefly but when I got off he offered to help me find accomadation. We first tried the station hotel, a feature of many of the larger cities, but its prices had risen considerably in the past few years. Then Dima suggested we go back to his house, look for hotels on the internet and then ring them from there. It was quite a distance to his home, two subways and bus, all the way back over the river but when we got there he very quickly and efficiently compiled a list of places and found the best one, who said they had free rooms. Armed with this information we headed back to the centre. I'd discovered that Dima often listens to 1Extra, the radio station dedicated to black music, though he primarily enjoys the drum and bass. This was a pleasant surprise and it certainly meant he was more enthusiastic about the trip. Upon arriving at the hotel we met Elena and things take a slightly less pleasant turn. All is going smoothly and I am filling out the forms until the time comes for me to hand over my passport. Elena looks at it. "He's a foreigner?" she says. Dima says yes and Elena starts to shake her head, its not possible. We try to cajole and beg but its no use, always "FSB, FSB". I strongly suspect that it is less FSB and more F-ingBS but there is little we can do. Dima then suggests that I leave my bags at the station and come and stay with him. This is an eminently sensible idea, practical, easy, requiring little effort and fuss. I refuse. I think this is for several reasons: Firstly, I didn't want to impose on Dima. Secondly, I had wanted to explore Novosbirsk at my own pace and thirdly, perhaps most importantly, I didn't want to drink any more vodka. Dima's girlfriend phones from the hospital, Dima says he is helping me so may not be able to visit her tonight. I am dumbstruck. I try to say that I will manage on my own and that he must visit his girl but he says that my problem is now his problem. So we trudge to the station and speak with a lovely lady at the desk about renting an apartment. The only one free is 4 rooms and quite pricey but it will have to do. We must go to a cash machine to pay. As is always the case in these situations it doesn't work. We ask a policemen where the nearest one is. He lies and says it is miles away. Thankfully, Dima doesn't belive him and we find one nearby but I can see that the police have earned their Russian nickname "Moosara" or garbage. Finally after finding my buidling, tucked away in a courtyard within one of the city blocks, opening the front door with my magnetic key and my doors with a conventional one I am in my very own giant Russian apartment. I feel bad again, having visited Dima's nice but not quite so roomy home but I'm glad to have somewhere to stay. Dima then takes me to a sports bar. All the dishes on the menu are named after teams or clubs. I have the Dinamo Kievs and watch Arsenal against Chelsea on the television, talking with a group of Russian Chelsea fans sitting nearby. Dima then walks me back to my apartment, bids me a polite goodnight and then heads home, after six hours of helping me, for which I can only be eternally grateful.

Yekaterinburg - Novosibirsk

Early in the morning in Omsk there is a small pile of beer under the table of the restaurant wagon, but then this quickly grows to fill first the gangway, then the tops of the tables, then almost a half of the carriage. I snap a few photos of this collosal alcoholic heap then help Dima and Misha to sort through the different brands and tuck them away neatly in various hiding places, though the majority are just hidden under table cloths at the back of the car. I'd met Dima and Misha the night before, coming to the restaurant in search of food and finding instead a complex Russian card game. The rules were more difficult to ascertain because everyone kept cheating but my teammate and I did manage to snatch one victory from the jaws of my complete incomprehension. Having asked me to help with the beer loading ceremony the next morning, and shown me all the funny videos on their phones I head back to my carriage and try to sneak quietly into my bunk without waking anyone, a technique I have yet to master in platskart.

Yekaterinburg

I fell into a deep sleep, alone in the room. When I awoke it was getting light outside and I was no longer alone, in fact a quiet count found seven, not including me. Three weren't wearing any clothes and this unfortunately did include me, though the other two were some way away, blocking the door in a fairly involved way. The problem was once again vodka and special occasions. The phrase was always the same "I don't ususally drink vodka but because you're here its a special occasion...". I would probably say the same, or would have until arriving here but as I am always the special occasion I have heard the phrase far more often than my liver would wish. Last night I'd been drinking with Anton, who is studying in Yekaterinburg. He is a punk, but a punk with heart, having compiled and released two charity CDs in the past year, as part of his work on the fanzine, Knap (Russian punk backwards).

On the way back from the tram to his apartment we bought the vodka in one of the ubiquitous little shops, called Produkti. While we had been touring the town Anton preferred to keep conversation brief, avoiding the hassle of confused mistranslation. On public transport we had a fairly strict no talking policy, which I suppose did avoid scores of pitying stares as I ummed and ahhed through my phrasebook. It did make our tour of Yekaterinburg metro stations a little surreal but one could pass the time trying to decipher the horoscopes on the carriage televisions. At home however there was a solution to our language woes in the form of Anton's computer and a program called Magic Gooddy, which gave us at worst some idea of what the other was saying. The surreality of these conversations, usually silent apart from the tap tap of the keyboard, was increased considerably when the toasts began. In Russia, every shot should be occampanied by a toast. So we would fill the glasses in the kitchen, sit and reflect for a few moments, then troop into the living room cum bedroom, type out a toast nod, then rush back to the kitchen and drink before we lost the intended sentiment. With the initial toast, which was to meeting, Anton had typed that traditionally there must not be a big gap between the first and second drinks. This would have been fine but Anton did not seem to want any real gaps at all. This was testing not only on the stomach but also on the brain, as this many imaginative toasts were increasingly hard to come by, and considerably harder to type. I understood that we were toasting to "Peace in the world" (Though as the words for peace and world are the same Russian the program actually produced World in the World), "Less stereotyping of punks" and even "Adequate housing in Africa". By the end of the third bottle we had been joined by Alexey but the combination of the long day's sightseeing and the long night's toasting had left me somewhat drowsy and I apologetically head to bed in the guest room, alone but not for long.

The next day Anton was understanably feeling a little worse for wear but Alexy and I decided to head out to explore a bit more of Yekaterinburg. We first headed for Uralski Pelminy, a buffet restaurant specialising in the delicious Russian dumplings. I particularly enjoyed the Soviet posters, my favourite being on ewith a slogan something along the lines of "Spoil your child and he will become a worthless drunk in later life". This was illustrated by a top half showing parents offering gifts to a chubby baby, whose pose and facial expression is then echoed by an unshaven scruff laying on bench. After an unsuccessful attempt to visit the Military Museum we met several wedding parties at various other sights around the city, including strangely the immensely powerful, evocative but not very romantic war memorial. We also visited the church erected on the site where the Romanovs were killed, as well as the little chapel next door to their aunt, who died after being thrown down a mine, buried alive and then poisoned by gas pumped in afterwards. Personally I would feel that even sainthood and a church was not really adequate compensation. We passed a statue of Pushkin walking in the snow on the way to some wooden buildings then on the way back the Russian weather obliged the statue's creator and provided a real blizzard to give the statue its proper context. Faced with this we retreated to a cafe, Alexey for a beer, I still only able to manage a juice. After this we headed to the station, a while before the train was due, to get some interviews and record station announcements. The announcements done we headed for left luggage, so that we could move about a bit more freely. I was feeling fairly tired and had fallen asleep several times while sitting in the waiting room, waiting for trains to be called out over the tannoy. However, the luggage man was a cheery fellow and after he had given me the token with which I could reclaim my bag I felt cheerier too. As we were leaving Alexey suggested that this luggage man sounded as though he might have something to say. I agreed, so we headed back in and Alexy asked if an interview would be possible. At first I thought we were being given the standard reply about it being his job and problems with the boss but Alexey said no, the only problem was that we must first drink some Russian vodka. The offer was not hugely appealing but this was work so I took a deep breath and stepped into the back room. Thankfully he only had enough for one shot each but even this was going to be quite a challenge for the two of us. While he went to get something to eat afterwards Alexey looked around for somewhere to tip the stuff but the room was pretty bare. So with chocolates to ease it down we did one more toast and then I set the recorder going and we started the interview.

Nizhny Novgorod - Yekaterinburg

"There's no hurry" Famous last words, found in my phrasebook, as I assure Dimitry that we can certainly do the interview after he and his colleagues have had something to eat. I am looking forward to speaking with the four of them, Gazprom engineers on their way to a new gas station in the far North of Russia. The site is two hours helicopter flight from Yigursk, which almost qualifies as the middle of nowhere itself.

About two hours later Dimitry knocks slightly arythmically on the door of my compartment and asks whether I would like to do the interview now. I realise I have been very niavely interpreted the meaning of "something to eat" as he, Nikolai and Vladimir have already enoyed a considerable amount of vodka. Cucumbers, similarly pickled, are merely a sideshow to the alcohol themed main event. Alexsander, the driver, is not drinking but he doesn't speak English and is asleep on the top bunk.

The interview process gets gradually harder, due to the continual vodka consumption by both the interviewees and the interviewer, fearing that refusal may well offend. The cucumber supply is soon exhausted but this does not dissuade the engineers from opening another bottle. Despite Dimitry's earlier agreement that it would be better to speak in Russian during the interview he now wants only to speak in English. His knowledge of the language, gained while docked in Hull as a sailor in the Russian Navy, has unfortunately suffered under the deluge of alcohol and once I have recorded their names both questions and answers begin to lack coherence. Nikolai suddenly slumps forward into the remains of his wife's cucumbers and begins to snore but I persevre. After a few more glasses, Vladimir offers to take me up to the gas station. "It will be an exclusive, he says, which is true enough though he and Dimitry are not sure when I would be able to return. The time frame may well be weeks and after the initial excitement of a Gazprom helicopter into the wilderness I sensed that the appeal of the trip might wane rapidly and so I decline.

Niznhy Novgorod

Dennis is the leader of gang called G.O.P. as is evidenced by the tattoo of the letters that he and the other members have on their ankles. I'd taken a taxi up to Dennis' apartment outside of the town and apparently been overcharged but I'm just glad to get there after arriving just after 1 AM in Gorky, as the city is still known on the train timetables. Despite the late hour, we go to buy vodka and some food and when we arrive back at the flat his girlfriend Yana prepares a delicious potato dish and chops some salami. We stay up late talking about many things and drinking many glasses, despite my protesting eyelids that want only to close. Dennis says he is a patriot and has a Russian flag proudly taped to the door of the kitchen but despite this, his skinhead hair cut and big black boots he is not part of the growing facist movement in Russia. Music is his primary hobby and his knowledge is incredibly extensive, including of English and American bands, and he is full of information about everyone who comes onto the music channel, that is playing a mix of alternative Western and Russian tunes in the background.

Up the dirt track past mounds of rubbish we duck through a gap in the fence into the train yards. We've waited until a train on the track nearest has left, because Akts, as he is known in the world of graffiti, reckons there is probably a guard on board. I have seen some of Akts work in the incredibly professionally produced Russian train graffiti magazine: Iron Curtain. These controversial works of art represent quite a feat, especially when you consider that the Russian police takes a dim view of their decorative efforts and will shoot if they catch someone in the act. Personally, I disagree with the police and think that a beautifully decorated train is considerably more interesting. Tonight we're not going to paint anything, so we complete the interview with the trains passing by and the snow beginning to fall and then head for warmth.

Suzdal

The VDV are the Russian equivalent of the SAS and I have been reliably told that they eat live frogs, break bottles with their heads and bricks with their bare hands. Thus I was understandably concerned when I mentioned this unit and Dimitry, the man sitting next to me, showed me the tattoo on his hand that marked him as one of them. The reason I had brought it up was after he showed me a video on his phone that showed army personnel effectively "Happy Slapping" someone they have stopped to search. It is incredibly brutal and knowing their reputation I asked if this was the infamous Special Forces. After seeing the unit and regimental number on his palm I decide to change the subject.

After a bus ride over some increasingly poor roads, and a short hop from the bus station in a friendly taxi, Ashleigh, an Australian who is taking a break from teaching English in Izhevsk, and I are in Suzdal. This is a tiny and picturesque town, about 200km from Moscow, and part of the Golden Ring around the capital that preserves some of the Russian medieval past. The small wooden buildings with wonderfully ornately decorated windows are certainly beautiful as are many of the incredible profusion of churches, more than 12 in a town who's main street runs for less than a kilometre.

One of the largest, inside the Kremlin's earth ramparts, is the blue domed Nativity of the Virgin Cathedral and nearby we eat lunch. The restaurant has also recently hosted Vladmir Vladmirovich himself, the former President Putin, as well as several famous cosmonauts who left their autographed pictures. Outside again we are confronted by what is currently Suzdal's oddest attraction. Firstly there is the wooden church of St Nicholas, who's old dark walls and roof are broken by patches of bright, yellow new wood from a recent restoration. However, also made from this new wood is a large group of what appear to be fair ground attractions, arranged in a circle around a central stage. There is a ferris wheel, swings and a massive sledging slope all made entirely of wood but more odd are what appear to be massive instruments of torture. One is a wheel that is covered in wooden stakes, another is a giant bed of the same stakes that can be winched open and then slammed shut. There is also a series of wheels with whip like branches attached, that can be spun quickly to flay bystanders and a few other vicious looking odds and ends, whose purpose I cannot readily discern. The whole arrangement seems like something along the lines of the Wickerman and to add further to the surreality many of the structures are covered in fake snow, despite the fact that there is plenty of the real stuff around.

Taking a small run up, I step on the log, over the collapsed jetty and into the river. Well, onto the river, as the ice is still almost a metre thick, at least according to Arcady. We had seen the four men ice fishing from the bridge above and I asked if I could go down to join them. A hole is made using a large two handed drill and then a baited line or a net is dipped down inside. After a short wait the net is pulled in and there is the first catch, small but a catch nonetheless. I take some photos and the fisherman want me to pose with fish and drill. I do so but unfortunetely they have a few difficulties with the camera and so when I look back through the photos I realise that my fishy smelling hand was all for naught.

Moscow

On the way to the army base we pass some dark trees, just visible in the horribly soggy March snow that is doing nothing to enhance this already depressed looking suburb of Moscow. Natasha is worried because we are near Bitssa Park, that for some time harboured the notorious Chessboard Killer. When we arrive at the base, Sergey comes out through the gates, past the guards and the high walls and we walk towards a nearby apartment block. He looks completely different in his fur hat with badge and green camoflague. He is allowed the fur hat, which doubles as a pillow, because of the four years he spent at military university training to become an officer. After deciding that it was not the career for him he had to work hard to get kicked out, as the army do not want to let such a costly investment go easily. Even after leaving he still has to serve for a few months, though as the commander of a unit of new recruits. His duties seem to consist mainly of watching his troops move snow and pulling all night stints in order to do his Major's English homework. The Major has just asked him to teach his son English, on the army's time, obviously.

In the one of the hallways of the apartment block, where it is a little warmer, we do an interview and he shows me the badge hidden inside his uniform that says "Imagine Peace". I realise that what we are doing can't look anything but suspicious and the old ladies who walk past, glare suspiciously, having lived through times when an Englishman with a microphone was a national emergency. Then one such lady knocks on some nearby doors and another soldier pokes his head out, looking over quizzically. Sergey thinks we should adjourn to the children's playground outside. Here Natasha sits on the back of a bench while we finish the interview, then three policemen arrive and Sergey suggests that its better if I don't talk for a while.

TRAVELLERS TIP: Don't buy anything in Moscow unless it is absolutely essential to your survival. However far you are from the centre, however much the shop looks like a discount store you won't find a cheap pair of jeans.

Velikhy Novgorod

The wall is inscribed all over with the name of Viktor Tsoi, the Russian equivalent of Kurt Cobain, who died after falling asleep at the wheel in 1990. The fact that he has such a huge following, even today, is evidenced by new scrawlings that adorn this archway of the Novgorod Kremlin. I would have missed this if I'd been on my own but thankfully I have Anton and his friends Misha and Phil to guide me, friends of the previous Misha from St Petersburg. The Novgorod Misha rings someone else called Anton in Yekaterinburg so that I'll have someone to meet when I get there. The reason for the confusing profusion of identical names is the apparently the Russian practice of having a name day as well as a birthday, meaning that if you wanted a second party, you had to choose a common name. Valentin, obviously on the 14th February, is fairly popular as is Viktor on the 22nd but not many seemed to have gone for Benedictus on the 21st. Suffice to say, whatever the reason, it can often add another hurdle to the language barrier.

I enjoy Velikhy Novgorod, which lays claim to being Russia's oldest city and for a long time its capital. I arrived feeling awful, possibly as a result of an open window at night, possibly as a result of too long in the plunge pool of the banya. On the train here I didn't even attempt an interview. The first step would have been to ask the impressively, stately lady next to me to move, a not inconsiderable challenge and one that in my weakened state I balked at. This morning however I was up early enough for breakfast and to catch the maddest of the city's residents taking a dip among the icebergs floating down the river, then running onto the beach for a bout of vigorous arm wavings, hopping and press ups.

At the station, daunted by the task of finding an English speaker on the way to Moscow, I start my search on the platform. I meet Svetlana, who says that she understands quite a lot of English but doesn't speak it. Once the trains is moving I start the interview and it turns out she has been to see her mother and son in Velikhy Novgorod during the holiday weekend but must now return to work in Moscow. When I asked her earlier about International Women's Day she replied that she didn't really like it in what I thought was the joking way people say they hate Valentine's. It turned out that she was not joking and really did hate all the flower giving, not having a man to give her flowers herself. I felt awful because after what I had thought was an innocuous question she was almost in tears. I wrapped up as quickly and politely as I could, apologetically leaving her compartment and heading for the dining car.

New Year's Eve and A Wedding

5... 4... 3... 2... 1... S Novym Godom! Its actually still the 9th of March but we are in Purga, a bar in St Petersburg that celebrates New Year, Russian style, every evening. This involves, predicatably, lots of drinking, but also dancing, a comedy film called Sweet Irony, lots of special Soviet songs, a speech from the Russian leader and a fairytale grandmother. There are other things going on in this particular bar on this particular evening that are apparently not so traditional. For example, many of the men are wearing bras and the grandma is actually a transvestite and has been dancing suggestively with me all evening, culminating in a fumble on the stage that I thankfully extricate myself from before too much damage is done. I know this is not traditional because I have Natasha here with me. She lives in St Petersburg but is originally from Vladivostok, on the Eastern end of the Trans-Siberian. We met in the Mod Club, the local indie kid hang out attached to Achtung Baby!, in the early hours of International Women's Day and have got on famously ever since, in spite of my previous convictions that I would remain professional and detached.

The bride and groom are decked out in matching white and both are looking radiant. Admittedly, its white paper, but it is fetching nontheless. The celebrant is the same transvestite from earlier, though now decked out in a mini-skirt and blonde wig. It takes a matter of minutes before the pair have tied the knot and their future happiness is sealed. The best man and maid of honour stand with them and pose for photographs. It is impressive that a bar would take the challenge of having not one but two themes, running back to back, every night of the year. Perhaps as a reaction against the scarcity and predictability of Soviet entertainment establishments, many themed restaurants and bars are dotted around the city. One that we had previously sampled was the Spy Cafe. The barking cyborg dog at the door and the waiters in prison uniforms and chains led us to believe that the food would be similarly tasteless but against all the odds it was actually excellent. Back at Purga the newlyweds seem keen to get their honeymoon underway, so we bid everyone goodnight and head out back along the canal.

The Queen of Spades

In the middle of a casino, a man takes aim at the defenceless old lady and shoots, but somehow ends up hitting himself and dying a long, slow and melodic death. This may not seem to make any sense now, but in the context of opera it is relatively sane. I tried as best I could to discern the plot, with help from the program notes and the nice Russian couple in the box next door. Tchaikovsky's musical marathon, clocking in at almost 4 hours, is essentially about the problems associated with gambling addiction. It is the all too familiar story of boy meets girl, boy wants to marry girl, boy needs money to do so, boy becomes obsessed with winning combination of three cards that girls grandmother learnt from the Count Saint-Germain while she was in a Paris, boy shoots grandmother, grandmother's ghost tells boy secret of the three cards, boy goes mad, girl commits suicide, boy wins lots of money but then shoots grandmother's ghost and ends up killing himself. Its based on a book by Pushkin and apparently is studied by many Russian children while they are at school. The title comes from the fact that the Grandmother posed as the Queen of Spades for a painting and it is the queen that appears as the last card at the end, instead of the ace that Hermann, the protagonist, needs. Funnily enough, the game they are playing is called Faro, just like the place from which I started out a month ago.

My parents and I had eaten that afternoon at Leningrad, a classy restaurant in the North of the city, beyond the Peter and Paul Fortress. It was populated by a mix of businessmen in suits with ties and "businessmen" wearing tight black vests with shaven heads. The menu was split into two halves, Old Russian Cuisine and New Russian Cuisine. After a delicious meal, mainly from the old side, we had something of a dash across town by metro, which seems to be almost permanently in rush hour. Great throngs of people crowd the bottom of the long, long escalators and everyone is shuffled along at a single pace. We might have made it on time but a slight map reading error means we are wiping our feet at the theatre doors a little after the curtain has gone up. This means we must spend more time with our stewardess, an elderly lady charged with ensuring everyone is in the proper place at the proper time. Her empire consists of boxes 5-10, which includes our seats. First she checks that we have the more expensive foreigner tickets, as the theatre is one institution that holds on firmly to dual pricing. Then she makes us wait for a suitable time to enter, a little way into the first scene. Subsequently, there ensued a long, drawn out, emotionally charged game of musical chairs. It would be impossible to describe the movements of the occupants of boxes six and seven here without the aid of a diagram but suffice to say, it did mean that there really wasn't a dull moment in the four hours, for whenever the opera started to drag the seat related drama, which largely stemnmed from the protaganists vastly differing levels of interest in the performance, could occupy one's full attention.

Just so you that you don't go and kill your girlfriend's grandmother to find out, the three cards are 3, 7 and Ace.

Editorial from Neva News

I had to put this up. Its from an otherwise fairly normal English language monthly in St Petersburg called Neva News. I've been carrying it around for ages. Its from the Christmas edition, accompanied by a merry picture of Grandfather Frost (The Russian Father Christmas) and his young blonde wife (I think she's his wife [Update from Russian editor: Snegurochka is actually Father Frost's granddaughter. Apologies). I won't say that it gives any great insight into the Russian psyche but I don't think you'd see it anywhere else. Here it is, complete and unabridged:

EDITORIAL

Where are we all going?
Individuals, known only by what we see in the mirror.
And in the soul.
Why then do we take everything so seriously?
When we die, all of us die... Just a question of when.

Look at our history.
Tolstoy, Puskin, Dostoevsky, Brodsky, Akhmatova.
Mao Tse-Tung, Stalin, Hitler, Churchill, Truman, Bush.
Art v Mass murder: World War I, World War II.
What have we learned?

Some of us lead. Some of us follow.
Some of us vote. Some are fallow.
Whatever the process the outcome is the same.
People do what they're told, then die.

So the food is poisoned.
Water polluted, good air made bad.
Citioes grow and the trees decline.
And a pretence remains
That all is well.

Merry Xmas (sic) to all, as we realise
This festive time is not for celebrating
Anything like whate we are told.
Thank God we all live and we all die:
As we recall Artists, Poets and Writers.

Kahue.

Banya

A brief description of banya might give the false impression that it is in some way comparable to a sauna. This is not the case, in the same way that a wolf is not really comparable to a chiuhuahua. Proper banya involves not hot coals, but a proper room sized furnace. As I enter, I pass the wood pile by the door, five or six foot hulks of timber ready to feed the flames.

True banya is a single sex experience. It is possible to do a mixed banya, Simon and I went along to one last night, but it is an expensive affair, 2000 roubles, with optional extras like an erotic, honey massage. Real banya is 100 roubles, the optional extras are birch twigs to hit yourself with, called veniki. For an even more authentically sado-masochistic experience you can use juniper, which has needles instead of leaves. These twigs are soaked in water in the communal shower area then taken with you into the steam room. Here you sit for as long as you can stand, then you jump up beat your self vigorously all over, from the bottom of your feet to the tip of your nose. Then you dash down the stairs, out the door and dive into the icy bath. This is an intense experience. The first time I do it this time, I get pins and needles in my head. There are quite a number fathers taking their children to banya after work, something I hadn't seen before. Even as young as ten they throw themselves into the ice bath with carefree abandon and lay down on the benches for a birch twig beating. After about an hour I decide I have suffered enough and stumble towards the showers, feeling fairly lightheaded but deeply, deeply cleansed. After a shower, I head to the changing room to dry off and chat with some Russians. It is worth mentioning that the whole experience has been conducted very naked. My watch is filled with water but still working, though I don't know how long it can last.

St Petersburg

The bears hugging are deemed too primitive. The L'Oreal gift set is not classy enough. A towel is too practical. Misha and I, along with many other men in the supermarket, are trying to buy last minute gifts for Women's Day on the 8th March. It is in fact already the 8th, as midnight struck several minutes ago. In the end we cobble together a nice selection for Valya, who Misha is keen to please after an argument earlier this afternoon. Outside we look for flowers in one of the 24 hour flower stalls, many of which are converted specially at this time of year, moving out DVDs, CDs bottles or phones to make way for the bright blooms that will find their way to the hands of almost every woman in the city. Misha chooses one bunch, only for it to be wrapped and sold to another man but eventually we have our full complement of gifts and can walk home to present them Valya. There is also a present for their kitten, Lordi, named after the Finnish horror-rock group that won Eurovision. Amazingly, after all the gifts have been secretly wrapped then presented with great fanfare, we head out into the town, even though it is now after 2AM.

TRAVELLERS TIP: Be careful with buying a cheap watch. The theory is that it won't matter if it gets broken or stolen. In reality, it often breaks before it is ever within sight of a potential thief. My first strap snapped in Amsterdam while I was putting on a bag. I'd bought the watch in Portugal for about five euros (3.50), its best feature was that it had a second hand painted on the face, so it was always eleven past the minute. The second watch, which was 125 roubles (3.00), lasted about thirty steps from the kiosk I bought it in. The third, which came from the same kiosk, cost 300 roubles (7.50) minus what I'd paid for the first and lasted for a day until I went to banya. I am now on the fourth which I bought in Suzdal for the princely sum of 25 roubles (50p). It has lasted just over a day so far. (Update: Watch is still working OK but has taken to making poorly calculated automatic adjustments to compensate for the time difference across Russia. The last one put it back 11 hours and 21 minutes)

St Petersburg

The song finishes with a crash of drums, a final guitar guitar and keyboard chord. I'm in a rehearsal with Mallory, a St Petersburg pop-punk group. I'd originally set out this evening to drop my parents off at the airport but having done that I was leafing through my guidebook when I found a note written there four years ago. The handwriting was that of Alexandra, a girl from a group of leather loving heavy metal fans I met on the metro home in 2004 who had asked me to come to their new underground club. After several rounds of toasts to celebrate their first foreign visitor I had headed home but not before the kind words and the address of the basement venue had been written down. So I had returned, but all that greeted me was a second hand shop, staffed by three friendly Russians who vaguely remembered the previous musical tenants. Feeling it would be a shame to give up too easily, I asked around for any more details but to no avail. One guy, who had just pulled up in a battered old car, did know several good clubs. After a long while of sitting and talking, out of the cold in his ageing auto with the engine and heaters on full, Misha invited me first to his band rehearsal and then to stay with him and his girlfriend, Valya, in the north of the city.

St Petersburg

Sergei, editor-in-chief of a St Petersburg colour supplement, has an exceptional command of some suitably colourful words of the English language, using several words throughout the evening with which I have only a passing familiarity. "In Moscow, you have a meeting and you make a decision. In St Petersburg, you have a meeting and then you decide when you will have the meeting to make the decision." he says. We are eating Thai curry in the apartment of Andrei and Sasha, photographer and doctor respectively, friends of Simon, who is in St Petersburg researching the next edition of the Lonely Planet guide.

Many stories are told about the old days and the not so old days. Andrei and Sasha once borrowed the car of a famous boxer with whom they are friends. Not far into the journey the police car pulled up behind them, "Pull over, Piotr Grigioryevich, pull over" blaring from their megaphone. When the driver turned out not to be the boxer, from whom this policeman had taken so many drink driving bribes that they were on first name terms, he just shrugged and let them drive on. Another time Sasha was working as a nurse on a naval ship in dock, an obligatory military element of her medical training. As the only two women on board, she and the other nurse often found sailors returning day after day with minor, self inflicted bumps and scrapes. When the orders came down that they were to put to sea for one month, the two girls decided enough was enough and bought the captain several bottles of whiskey to avoid several weeks in close proximity to so many men on the verge of desperation.

Apparently, this story is by no means confined to the past. Today it is possible to see the incredibly prevalent officers of the GAI (Their name has changed many times but this is one of the more polite terms still used to describe them) stop a flashy car, only for the driver to flash a piece of paper and continue. This is an expensive document, a fast track pre-paid bribe, that allows the owner to claim that they are on police business, however unlikely this seems for a woman in high heels, fur, sunglasses and Porsche. If you don't have it, you must stop your car, get out and go through the routine of document checking before paying to be one your way. If you don't stop for their random checks, they are allowed to shoot your car.

St Petersburg

A woman is writing "I love you" in the snow on the parapet of the bridge, waiting for her man to arrive. Even though it is almost an hour after midnight and a light fall of flakes is drifiting gently down, people are still out on the streets near the Summer Garden and the Field of Mars, many walking their dogs. I'm heading home from the hotel where my parents are staying, having just arrived for a short visit to catch up with me and to experience the Venice of the North. Their first slice of Russian life had been the bus trip from the airport. Unlike most of the clientele at the Angleterre, they had eschewed a tinted Mercedes and opted for one of the bright yellow minibuses that plies an arcane and complex web of routes around the city. Mum was very pleased that she had been given the role of money collector for this trip, sitting at the front and collecting fares so that the driver is not distracted too much. This role is not always assigned and it can be a little nerve-wracking to watch the driver count out change from a 100 rouble note, weaving through several lanes of fast moving traffic in heavy snow. A second reminder of the difference in cultures came when Dad tried to order a non-alcoholic cocktail. The subsequent confused debate, which required the summoning of the manageress and the barman, concluded that he wanted a milkshake. Walking home I am offered some of a very evidently non-non-alcoholic beverage by two friendly guys, making slow and incredibly scenic progress away from a small bar, watched by some of the other clientele, who look grateful that the men have decided to call it a night.

Today is the day when Russia found out officially that its new President is devoted Deep Purple fan Dimitry Medvedev, though the result hadn't really been in doubt since December. In Moscow there are some unofficial protests that are dealt with swiftly but in St Petersburg there is an official demonstration. An official demonstration must be registered several days before, meaning this had to be organised before the election had even taken place, illustrating how little doubt there was about what the result would be. Even though the protest has been sanctioned there are thousands of police on the streets. One square is like a car park of large wheeled aggressive looking Militia trucks. The square is ironically named Vostania, which means Uprising.

It is well known that Russia has embraced capitalism with some fervour and indicators of this are everywhere. Looming large over the square of St Iaasc's Cathedral is the giant face of Penelope Cruz advertising some face cream that would undoubtedly have been considered unforgivably bourgeois a few decades ago. More stark evidence is the store for all things bling known as Hip Hop Pimp, adverts adorning lamp posts all over town. Finally, on the train this morning I noticed that the woman sleeping on the bottom bunk was carrying a board game with her, the most capitalist of them all: Monopoly.

There is obviously another side to this capitalist coin, that one can see in almost every street and metro station, those left behind in the rush to create a New Russia. Elderly ladies hold signs, either bright ones advertsing nearby shops or scuffily handwritten ones advertising their plight. It is as ubiquitous as it is frustrating, as one feels powerless to help so many people so obviously in need. As I walk home in the snow, my fingers just beginning to go numb, many of those I have seen today struggling for a few coins are facing the rest of the night in this bitter cold.

Vilnius - St Petersburg

Running up the hill to the station I can see that the clock shows two minutes until the train leaves. I burst through the station doors, rush out onto the platform, pull open the door and jump aboard. The provodnista, ruler of the Russian train carriage, has a more kindly face than some but she says I'm in the wrong carriage and indicates the door. By the time I have pulled my most plaintive face the train has started moving anyway so she sighs and leads me back down to the platskartny, dormitory carriage. Here the 54 bunks, arranged in groups of six, are presided over by a stricter mistress. She scrutinisies my passport and tickets for several minutes, unwilling to take responsibility for this problem child.

Provodnistas never have Dress Down Fridays. Our bundle of joy is wearing knee high leather boots with sharp heels, several inches long, to go with her crisp blue uniform. The heels click as she marches up and down the gangway between the beds, exasperatedly delivering sheets and blankets. Chris, a Polish guy sitting in the same section as me, politely inquires at what time the bar will close. "Ask someone," she snaps. This draws a sharp hiss of breath from Jelena, an eldery woman who is another of our bunk mates.

In the dining car, which is Lithuanian until we reach the border, one provodnista is glued to a Russian television drama about five pregnant women. Chris and I eat some passable local fare and chat about his trip to St Petersburg, where he will be studying for a term at one of the universities there. After exams he will return to the Warsaw School of Economics and will almost immediately face exams there too.

Interesting interviews with Chris and Jelena, with Chris acting as interpreter. Jelena still refers to St Petersburg as Leningrad. I also talk with Vladmir, who is a Russian living in Daugavpils but studying maritime naviagtion in St Petersburg. Most interesting is his passion for Manchester United, even to the extent of making the long trip to Old Trafford itself, via, by accident, the cricket ground of the same name. When talking of the club he does speak a little louder and more passionately. By the time we have finished many are in bed and someone comes over to tell us politely to do the same.

TRAVELLERS TIP: Don't bother trying to do serious interviews after people have seen you trying to climb into the wafer thin gap of the top bunk while wearing only boxer shorts.

Sleeper train is something of a misnomer. No sooner has my head begun to nuzzle into my sleeping bag, the lights are on and someone is calling for my passport. Not long after the same again, though this time in my haste to wake up and comply I knock myself senseless on the bunk roof. A dog excitedly laps its way among bags and slippers, licking drowsy faces that are too slow to react. I think it was supposed to be searching for drugs. The routine is repeated four times in all throughout the night, with minor variations in uniform, questions asked and speed. Finally, with snow falling in fat flakes outside, we are in Russia and can sleep until St Petersburg.

On the radio in the morning the two DJs talk of how the world views the Russian people in general. I can view specific individuals up close while waiting in the queue for the refreshingly rusty and medieval looking and sounding bathroom. The provodnista is wearing flat shows but this seems to have put her in an even worse mood. A huge white fish, one looped line and a dot, adorns a building in the suburbs and then is replicated thousands of times in minature graffiti form on the trackside walls, all the way into the station.

Vilnius

When I wake up Matt Gash is heading illegally into Belarus. He says he'll be back in a couple of hours. I'm amazed at his energy at such an early hour, as he had stumbled into bed not long before after we had taken a trip to the Pabo Latino. I had tried to use the opportunity to learn some Lithuanian, Mr Gash got as far as good evening and then repeated this to everyone in earshot, with varying degrees of success.

Later that morning Matt returns, having got a taxi to drive him to the official crossing point then along the border until they saw a secluded gap between two farms. He then got out of the car, jumped over the ditch seperating the two countries, climbed through the barbed wire and stood there proudly for a few moments. Then he climbed, jumped and drove home. "That's Belarus completed," he says.

The Centre of Europe, as decided by French scientists in 1989, is in the centre of a golf course. I wish we could play a few holes but Matt Gash and I are on a bit of tight schedule. Vitaly, the same driver who took Matt to Belarus earlier says he'll wait for us. He also works as a croupier in a casino and is built like a breakaway Eastern European state. There are three monuments that possibly represent the actual centre, a rock, a big paved compass and a silver column topped with a gold crown. Matt suggests we touch all three just to be sure. As we go to leave, an old man calls out from the nearby log cabin. Matt wants to make a break for it in case we have to pay but he seems friendly enough. His name is Johanes and he is learning English while he waits for tourists. We both sign the visitor's book and ask for a certificate. Johanes writes it very neatly and then dries the ink on a radiator.

Back in the Old Town we embark on a whirlwind tour, interrupted only by a delicious sea-bass dish, that actually won the 2007 Kremlin International Food Award. This includes several churches, the cathedral, the market, the castle and finally Uzupis, a small island on the East side of the city. The bridges to Uzupis are famed becuase of the padlocks on their railings, put there by newly weds to symbolise their love. The keys are then thrown into the river. Uzupis declared its independence in 1997, and as such has its own government, currency, flag, constitution (Which includes some notably absentees from the US Constitution such as "A dog has a right to be a dog") and army (Roughly 12). Independence day is, perhaps unsurprisingly, April 1st. Their first undertaking as a state was to build a monument to Frank Zappa. Even though his bus to Riga leaves soon, when Matt hears this he has to cross the bridge. He stands there for a few moments and then walks back across, meaning he'll have done four countries by the end of today.

Warsaw - Vilnius

Marcin walks into the cafe, tucked into the warren of tunnels underneath Warsaw central station. Piotr knows him from work and calls him over. I buy Red Bull in case I start to drift off. Thankfully I know that I can interview Marcin for starters though he is only going as far as Bialystok. On the train he gets most animated when we talk about his band, which is the reason he is heading out of Warsaw where he works. One of the band members is deciding where to move and he wants to convince him to come to the capital so that they can practice more often and he is taking the early train so that he can do it in person. The band play prog rock that Marcin says is inspired by the flowing forested landscape of their home town Suwalki in the far North. Our train will be passing through there later today.

I meet Matt Gash after Marcin has got off. He is sitting on the last seat in the carriage, his book beside him, with long hair and tattoos poking out from under a leather jacket. The book is in English so I ask where he is heading and he answers Vilnius. Oddly for an American, Matt Gash not only has a passport but has used it frequently, as I come to understand from his description of his trip so far, which has taken in many European countries since Brussels, including Serbia and the barely fortnight old Kosovo. This however is the tip of the Matt Gash iceberg, as he is planning to visit not just these countries, but every country in the world over the course of four years, of which one and half have passed. Matt Gash is fast. In South America, he made 22 flights in 17 days, including one over the Andes where severe turbulence sent the plane into a dive that had him thinking terrified thoughts about snow and cannibalism.

We change trains at Sestokai and on our next train, which feels authentically Lithuanian, we meet Bruce and Ashleigh, two Australians who have been living in Finland. In an attempt to further break with stereotype they wait a full five minutes before ordering a beer. It transpires that the beer tastes like a mouldy honey sandwich.

David was briefly visible on the first train from Warsaw, carrying his small German shepherd cross puppy, with its larger male counterpart following behind. His clothing is well worn and his hair is shaved in a vaguely buddhist style, leaving only a pony tail at the back, so he can be pulled up to heaven. He is Lithuanian but has been living in Italy for several years but is returning now to renew his passport. Then he plans to take the dogs overland to Nepal, to study Buddhism. When he talks it is occasionally hard to understand for a few moments, then he will burst forth with a phrase of such eloquence that you think he must be reading from a book of poetry. This morning he was ejected from Warsaw Station after the puppy made a mess on the floor. The big dog is called Bear.