I’m writing this on the overnight train to Minsk. There’s no Wi-fi and intermittent phone signal so you’ll be pleased to hear that you won’t be bombarded with another load of drivel, tonight at least.
Negotiate the Metro again to Gorkovskaya (see, I’m learning the lingo) adjacent the Peter & Paul Fortress. The last time I visited there were bedraggled bears dancing on chains for tourist entertainment but I’m pleased to report that I can’t see any this time.
The fortress occupies Hare Island and as you cross the bridge there’s a grey hare perched on top of a pile. I thought it was a kangaroo at first but later realised it’s true identity when told I was actually on Hare Island.
Tourists chucking money at it trying to land coins at its feet – presumably for good luck.
Choose an audio guide for the morning and told I need to hand over a National ID card for security. I’m not handing over passport or driving licence and instead give my National Trust membership card. She’s dubious about this but relents when I point out the word “National” in big letters and puts it in envelope nr 8 for safekeeping.
The grey drab cloud soon gives way to blue sky and sun which enhances the yellow ochre of the buildings. The church houses the remains of Tsar Nicholas and family who were executed in 1918. I’d been to see the place where they were executed in Yekaterinburg and by chance then a monk had walked past who was the spitting image of Rasputin. There’s no such figure today apart from the usual cruise ship tourists.
The fortress cells were used to hold members of the Decembrist movement and having been to their house in Irkutsk where their families were exiled (and enjoyed the champagne and concert….eh, LC) it’s a far cry from the stark cells. I’d been asked if I’d seen the bendy bus toilets yesterday and hadn’t a clue what was meant until I see them here today. Basically, a bus converted to toilets.
I return my audio guide and before I’ve even arrived at the counter she’s saying “Ah, nr 8” and hands me my National ID card back.
Stop for lunch enroute to the Aurora cruiser. Am told it will be “3-2 minutes”. Does that mean half an hour or 2 to 3 minutes? Too busy texting a friend (you know who you are and I look forward to winning the challenge) as I pay and go and it’s not long before the waiter catches me up and says “You forget….” and hands my coat over.
Unfortunately, the Aurora is closed for what appears to be a cleaning and painting operation. Its gunfire signalled the start of the October revolution. Bit of an old hand at running the Metro now so pop up on Nevsky Prospekt before walking back to the hotel via various backstreets and the Church of Spilled Blood – it’s like St Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow but not as ornate and colourful.
Friday night rush hour is in full swing and who’d be stupid enough to take a large heavy rucksack on the Metro at that time of night. My momentum is somewhat unnerving as the Metro comes to a screeching halt and it’s only my neighbour that stops me from acting like a giant bowling ball and creating carnage in the carriage.
I’ve bought emergency rations of French bread, blue cheese, crisps of dubious flavour, Maltesers and a Snickers…..just in case the included dinner on board isn’t satisfactory.
I discover the crisps are cucumber & dill flavoured – quite disgusting!
The young blonde carriage stewardess, with unfashionable crimped hair, inspects my ticket and points to the nrs 9 & 10. My berths. I’d used a Russian ticket agency and had been dealing with a Russian girl who’d offered to come to my hotel……to hand over the tickets.
It’s a two berth and have sole occupancy. The window table in the middle has an assortment of drinks, snacks and Minsk maps along with a pink plastic flower bouquet. Red curtains and netting adorn the window. It’s a lively décor. Depart on time and stewardess comes to cabin to collect tickets. She speaks no English and I no Russian. I have the technology. I speak into my phone and it translates into Russian. Impressed, she replies in Russian and I have the words in English. The conversation was “When is dinner?”…….”Evening”, she replies. Who’d have thought. There’s a warm bottle of beer sitting by the window but I’d like an ice cold refreshing pint after slogging about St Pete’s. Point to warm bottle of beer and shiver and say “Brrrr” at the same time. Within 30 seconds I have what I want. Now that’s communication.
She’s obviously been asking down the carriage who speaks English as returns with a bloke who simply points at a piece of paper says, “Chicken……fish” and returns to his cabin. The chicken arrives with a smiling chef who can speak a little English. He deposits two polystyrene boxes in front of me. Hmmm. Delicious. Not.
There must be an angel
Peter & Paul Church
Peter & Paul
