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.