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| Church of the Spilt Blood, St Petersburg |
Ten minutes after leaving St Petersburg's airport I knew. Five burly Russian men surrounded Kate and I insisting we needed a taxi. We quickly relented once we realised that minus 18 degrees wasn't ideal dithering weather. We were assured the fare would be metered but it transpired when dropped off in front of a bunch of old warehouses that we would be charged more than the price of five night's accommodation for two people, for a twenty minute drive. It took us about 45 minutes to find our hostel which was signposted with crayon written on a piece of scaffolding in front of a precarious set of stairs that lead to a heavy duty door of an old warehouse, one of about 15 in an otherwise vacant lot. Two single sheets to cover a queen-sized bed and one flannel later we lay in bed, wondering what could possibly happen next.
The next morning we met the occupants of the other rooms. Everybody was living there. The manager was a curiously tall Rusky who wore short denim cut offs with thermals and two fluero hoodies at a time; one pink, one green. He spoke good English and chatted thoughtfully and eloquently, often scratching his beard for emphasis. The others were young. Another Russian with a red mohawk and large headphones who sat on his computer all day and never changed his clothes. The only thing I ever heard him say was, "Money is the source of all the world's problems." I wondered if his parents knew where he was. I wondered if any of their parents knew where any of them were. A very, very thin Korean man with excellent Russian and English who claimed his computer had been stolen from his room the month before. He came to Russia to study the language. He helped us with directions and booking tickets and eventually we would bump into him at the supermarket in the evening while we all shopped for our evening meals. Two 18 year old Turkish lads who drank all of Kate's vodka and then proceeded to pester the guy with the mohawk for weed. They talked about the world's problems and admitted sheepishly that they were virgins. A 19 year old girl with the face of a 12 year old who answered the door. Two boys the same age as us who claimed to be realtors but didn't work a day we were there. They took us sightseeing that day but soon became exasperated with us. We didn't speak Russian and they didn't speak English except to repeatedly ask, 'How are you?' Later, after a bottle of wine, they mustered an 'I love you- will you marry me?'
We cooked in the kitchen every night and had McDonalds for lunch everyday. One particular McDonalds employee on Nevsky Prospekt loved us. She told us how much to pay for cheeseburgers. She made others give up their table so we could sit down and she could practise her English. Understand? Understand? She would ask.
I don't remember any of the museums, or the churches. Just these people. Coming home every night to cook in their crappy kitchen, sharing their booze and listening to dated western music until 5am.
