Secret Restaurants, Parrots and The Crown Prince of Norway

I think I was more or less on the money when I wrote my first blog and kinda summed up the whole thing by saying that none of it is at all unpleasant but that it is certainly very strange.

I can't show you what I mean just in day to day life - you'd have to spend time here to understand that - but three examples from the last couple of days will probably show you what I mean.

So first, the haircut experience. It's always a bit of an adventure getting your hair cut in a foreign country, especially in one where the mullet is as popular as it is here in Russia. To nip that one in the bud, don't worry - my instructions were clearly intelligible enough to avoid that potential crisis - but in other ways this was an odd occasion.

Firstly, there were 6 hairdressers in quite a run-down salon, which seemed more than enough to satisfy the needs of their 0 customers. They seemed very surprised to see the potential clients that we represented. But more than that, the entire occasion was... made somewhat different from the usual English haircut by the presence of a cage of noisy and energetic parrots above my head. I wasn't really allowed to look at them (Russian hairdressers appear to care a lot more about the position of your head, as if the scissors / clippers have to stay entirely still while you are contorted into appropriate positions for the target hairs to be cut) but I was certainly aware of them perched above me, watching...

Anyway, the second little situation in which I find myself is of a surprising dependence on the Crown Prince of Norway. The story isn't anything major: I have a teaching job lined up with a Russian girl from the Norwegian Consulate (offered to me by her superior, the well named Henning Pentz 'Hanging Pants' Pendersen) and I was keen to get started, but was told I would have to wait patiently until the end of this week before my new student would have enough time for her lessons due to the visit of the Norwegian Crown Prince to Petersburg. I only mention it because it just seems so odd to me that I keep saying things like: "I wish that bloody Norwegian Prince would leave so I can start my new job", which is a not a sentence that I would ever have imagined that I would catch myself saying.

Last night also ended up being a bit more than what I'd expected. Jennie and I were invited by new friend Romain to go and have a couple of Friday evening drinks with him, his girlfriend and another of his friends. He told us the place was a little hard to find. Understatement of the century. He eventually came and found us and it soon became apparent that to gain access to our bar / restaurant, there was a.. procedure.

We went up to the top floor of a building containing a couple of bars and restaurants, where we found a smart-looking bar. We walked straight through there, through a back room and were led into the loos at the back of the bar. The four of us, three men and a woman, stood between the cubicles and the sink (whether in a women's or men's WC I do not know) before Romain went round the back of the cubicles and knocked on a secret door. In truly cartoonish style, a panel at eye level on the door was slid across and we were inspected, Romain tentatively announcing that we had a reservation. The mystery man behind the door demanded a password (no word of a lie) and Romain clearly said the right thing, handed over his exclusive member's card and presumably performed the secret handshake, and we we're allowed in. After that, I guess things were more normal. It was a very swanky bar / restaurant with very good Indian food and impressive cocktails. The evening passed off very well, after an interesting start.

So, as I say, none of it is at all unpleasant. My haircut turned out well, my job with the Norwegian consulate will be a good development and the secret restaurant experience was very enjoyable. But it is strange. I hope I've done that justice. When I catch myself looking up at some excited parrots or standing in a toilet cubicle waiting to be approved as a valid restaurant customer, or telling people that I'm annoyingly dependent on the whim of the Norwegian royal family, I still do just briefly wonder if I'm having a surreal dream.

A couple of final points just for the sake of completeness. The new flat is ours after further negotiations and, after quite some time deliberating, I managed to tell my host that I'd be moving out next week. Much as I've enjoyed it where I currently am, that'll be a fantastic part of this stay. I've started Russian classes, which are of limited interest so far but will probably improve. I taught a class of 12 lads English, which proved to be very enjoyable and quite a success. Otherwise, the usual combination of eating and drinking and watching spurs lose 1-0 to Dnipro has filled my time well.

Highly pleasant. Highly bizarre.

До скорого.

Flat Out

                It sort of wasn’t happening much and now it’s all happening or about to happen. As our classes only start this week we have been fairly free and as such have spent a lot of time in pubs watching football or coffee shops with the Winter Olympics or in restaurants generally enjoying the high quality and, it has to be said, low prices of life in St Petersburg.

               

It really is good from that point of view. You go to a restaurant which is relatively expensive for these parts (say 600 Barney Rubbles a head rather than 350-400) and it all feels quite nice and posh and they take your coat and call you sir and bring your food on silver platters (ok, not quite) and treat you generally very nicely... And then you leave at the end of a large meal with beverages and you’ve spent the princely sum of £8.63. Not bad, is it? It’s like being in Zimbabwe with a £10 note.

We’ve done a few useful things in amongst this merriment. For various fairly minor reasons and a couple of major ones, a couple of us have decided to move out into a flat of our own. We’ve spent hours researching and visiting potential places, more or less helped out by our new friend Andrei at the estate agency we’re using. Anyway, this all culminated last night in some serious action.

                After possibly two of the most stressful hours of our lives last night, intensely negotiating with our estate agent (who probably doesn’t like me because I kept calling him Andrei when that just isn’t his name, as it turns out) in Russian in his car, we agreed to push through our deal for our new flat. He untruthfully claimed that some other people were going to sign on it today and we had to hurry (a subsequent lie detector test determined that this was a lie). He became increasingly tetchy and spoke increasingly quickly as he became later and later for his Valentine’s dinner. He even sprung upon us a surprise new fee in addition what we thought we were paying, changing the nature of the deal from “seems too good to be true” to “well, it was a little bit too good to be true”, but with a bit of haggling, we’ve found ourselves a reasonable agreement and we’ll be perusing a contract on Sunday evening.

                It’s a pretty good situation, actually. The flat is nice and modern and gives us proper beds and highly comfortable surroundings, as well as finally having some internet. It’s also the most incredible location in the very centre of Petersburg but still in a quiet place (just next to the church which I think is called the Church of the Spilled Blood). Cutting ties with my host here will be awkward when she eventually gets back from Moscow but she didn’t even know she’d be having me until the day before I arrived so hopefully she’ll get over it.

                There’s not a lot else to be said about it, I don’t suppose. It’s a great development in the Petersburg Adventure and it’ll surely mean we can do more in town, especially in the evenings, because it’s so much easier to get home.

Actually come to think of it all that was the second most stressful part of last night. Nick and I decided to celebrate / recuperate after the dealings with a small meal out in town. For some reason, two guys having a quick bite to eat together on the evening of the 14^th February in Russia seems to be frowned upon in some way.

For now, it’s a case of having a very lazy Saturday to recover from the trials and tribulations of last night, before going and signing the contract tomorrow.

Oh, and we also went to the Hermitage, 3^rd biggest museum in the world, culture, art, stuff.... probably should’ve mentioned that a bit more. Impressive.

Otherwise, it’s all just getting started, for now. We’re all involved in a couple of different English teaching things starting this week, our classes start, the uni gym and swimming pool and clubs become available to us, we’ve met fellow football players who are good for regular games and this will all let us practise a bit more Russian too. I suppose that is the point of all this.

Up and running.

Better Late than Neva

My blog never really took off in France but Russia is interesting enough that I actually think it might here. Almost a week in to the St Petersburg adventure, here's a slightly overly long blog to report back.

It is certainly all as surreal as I could have hoped. I’m sitting in the living room in a flat belonging to an elderly Russian lady while she phones for clues to her codeword and a programme about some kind of Russian national sporting hero plays, presumably to whip up a bit of national pride. And it’s minus 5 degrees and everything is in Russian and it all seems different and unfamiliar. I’m definitely not suggesting that any of it is at all unpleasant but it’s noticeably foreign and strange, for now.

I guess I should recount the events of the last couple of days. Flew over on Wednesday 5th with Nick and Chris and managed to convince the Russians that we should be allowed into the country. Having been told that I would be met by “Svetlana” (who is not my host), I was slightly surprised when a long-haired and rather eccentric looking man enthusiastically greeted Chris and me, while Nick went off with an old lady who had been standing with him. He knew who we were and was significantly friendlier that his friend who drove us (predictably recklessly) in his car towards our new lodgings.

It was a slightly unexpected start but it became odder soon after. I was dropped at my house, said a brief hello to Evgeniya Vasilevnaya and left my bags (and coat – mistake) before getting back into the car to keep Chris company to his place. I was under the impression that the Long-Haired Man would then bring me home but in fact the car was driven off and we were left in the craziest flat I’ve ever seen. The belated appearance of Svetlana (for it is she) was worth waiting for – she was a Professor Trelawny-like figure (I think – the one in Garry Potter with big eyes) who claimed not to eat for months on end. Her house was full of rolls of twine and thread and cloth and strange trinkets piled high on tiny shelves absolutely everywhere. To say it was cluttered would be an understatement. Her peculiar son Ivan (24, a hulking, clumsy giant with a guttural voice and an interesting ponytail / facial hair combination) made brief appearances to angrily demand food and then disappear.
Svetlana, the Long-Haired Man, Chris and I sat around a tiny, low table being served totally random food products. Spiced tea, mayonnaise, a strange kind of cake, sour cream, biscuits, cheese and sausage on brioche and probably other things I’m forgetting all appeared as a sort of starter while some onion, carrots, red pepper and a small amount of chicken were boiled in some water for a main, complemented by more of the obligatory sour cream. This all took ages. We sat, first talking and then mainly listening as we became more tired, for about 4 hours in this overcrowded, hot flat before the Long-Haired Man declared that we should leave.

An extremely chilly 20 minute walk later, I was finally allowed to see my own place. It’s quite nice, as it happens. I’ll put up pictures at some point I guess. Evgeniya Vasilevnaya is a very friendly lady and speaks in a much more understandable way than the Long-Haired Man. She doesn’t cook for us (me and John from Durham, who arrived on Thursday) but has otherwise sorted us out well with very acceptable bedrooms. The Russian small-talk recommenced but by midnight (Petersburg time), I was out for the count.

Thursday things were still unfamiliar but less mysterious. I muddled my way to Nevsky Prospekt (the main road of Petersburg) and met Nick and Chris for goryachii shokolad and a stroll around the vicinity. We saw some things and did some things but generally just tried to get a feel for the new surroundings. I wouldn’t have said we’ve fully succeeded but we made a start.

On Friday and Saturday we set about seeing the most important sites of Petersburg. Playing ancient games with a cup of vintage cream soda in the Museum of Soviet Arcade Games was a highlight. A walk across the iced-over Neva to a submarine was worth the risk involved (NB for parents who may be reading, there was very little risk...) and the Museum of Artillery History was worth a look too. O’Hooligans Irish Pub (not a typo) allowed us to watch some English sport and we’ve eaten and drunk well in the city so far. Also it’s really cheap. So good news there.

Went to a little vecherinka on Saturday night to meet some new people and met some new people, as expected. Made it home on the treacherously icy roads with just the one tumble (extremely minor damage done to my right ring finger – send help) and then had a lazy Sunday out for lunch first and then in an Angliiskii Pab for the Spurs game. And we actually won.
As I’ve tried to show here, it’s all perfectly pleasant but just totally bizarre to begin with. I can’t say I have any complaints about anything really but if I was told this was all a strange dream then I’d believe it. We’ll see where it all goes from here!