The short history of my cat, Oscar.

My cat Oscar is not a feline who takes to everyone. He can be quite choosey. And he can also change his mind, so he keeps everyone who meets him on their toes. It’s just his cat thing.

He is an American shorthair, mainly white, with black along the back and a completely symmetrical face mask so that, head on, he is perfect.

It looked like the right size when he moved in. Now it would be too small.

He came to live with me about eight years ago, when his original owner died. John was an institution on my block, having lived there a very long time and always with a cat or two. When I first met him, 33 years ago, he had just one; an ancient bag of bones called Lily. Named after the British actress Lily Langtree, she was already old, deaf, toothless and hardly ate anything. But the vet assured John she was fine, so the two of them just aged together. I used to feed her if he went away and was always terrified she would expire while I was in charge.

Before the last of his trips abroad, John warned me that there was a small stray that was likely to turn up on the doorstep of his Brooklyn brownstone. He was feeding this cat some dry food outside the door and if I saw this interloper, it was okay for me to do the same. Next day I met the cat, who was to be called Oscar (after Oscar Wilde). As I came up the stoop, this small skinny bundle was just hurtling towards me, jumping along the ledges that featured on all the brownstones. He was a doing a long jump from one to the next and within seconds was right there and hungry.

Lily had died sometime back. Sadly, so did John. He had been fighting cancer for years but in the end, it would take him. On one of my last visits, as he had come home to die, he asked if I would take Oscar. Of course I would. I had been without a cat for several years and missed the feline interaction.

So Oscar moved two doors along and took up residence and became the feline thug-in-chief of the block. Like all cats, he could lie on his back and invite some tummy-tickling. You only did that once, as the clamshell of legs and teeth closed around your kindly hand. He hated all other cats, so when on patrol outside, he would see them off and if a fight ensued, he was always going to be the winner. He wore his scratches as a badge of honor. I suppose, once a Brooklyn street cat, always a Brooklyn street cat.

We settled down together and he would be more than happy to have a lap to sit on, but on his terms. I got to recognize the body language of when he was about to decide that he had had enough and could turf him off fast. He would spend hours outside, even on the coldest of New York winter days and sometimes stayed out all night. The moment the kitchen light went on in the morning, there he was at the window.

With Janny, his favorite toy. It came from Newfoundland, Canada 6 years ago and whatever is inside is still working!

Then, eighteen months ago, I sold my brownstone and moved to a posh apartment on the 46^th floor. Oscar, of course, would come too, but I was desperately concerned that being high in the sky was no replacement for a garden, with trees to climb, birds to chase, mice to catch and bring home and all the usual things that he enjoyed. How would he cope with just looking out of a window and not being part of the action? I had already thought of a few people I knew who I could ask to take him, as I had visions of him just beating the place up and being very, very unhappy.

So what happened? He took to apartment living like he knew no other. No more the need to defend his turf. No more helping to keep the rodent population down. Now he could really retire, at about the age of eight and take to napping or full out sleeping. He likes to stretch out to sleep, no rolling up in a ball. He can be found flat on his back, four paws in the air – it is so inelegant. If needed, he could look out of the window, which he does from time to time and stares down at the stick insect people, but he really is not too interested in them.

He is nosey, so if I am talking on the phone, he will come to see who it is and generally get in the way. Now he enjoys a Zoom call and can become too excited by the different voices, so usually ends up being shut in a room. I have a walk-in shower here and it is his daily pleasure to sit outside, watching the water cascading down the door. I am presuming this of course; he could just be a voyeur. He is not above sticking out a paw with a few claws ready, just to show who is boss. But then five minutes later, he is lying in my arms, purring up a storm, paws still doing the kitten clenching and we are both happy.

Oscar has gone from being a waif, probably from an unmarried mother, (he doesn’t talk about it) to being a posh and fat pampered cat.

As always, he fell on his feet. Or, I suppose, his paws.

Trip Around the World 2003. Part 8. Irkutsk to Khabarovsk. Check-in, Russian style.

Leaving Irkutsk, I go through the tortuous controls of domestic travel in Russia. First a po-faced woman at the door to the check in area has to examine my ticket and passport and compares the passport mugshot with my face and the coupon is stamped as OK to proceed further. This is called Registration and not to be confused with Check in. Registration only ever starts two hours before departure and then check in closes at least 40 minutes before departure and they even make an announcement informing everyone. Those of us who managed to hit the window of opportunity can look smugly at each other.

Once you have been through Registration, there is no going back to the outside world. At the check-in counter (this should be really be in quotes, as it’s not like anywhere else), you shows your stamped ticket to the gorgon behind the desk, a fat unsmiling woman wearing a flowered housecoat/pinafore, hair all unwashed and looking like it would take something heavily industrial to remove the grease. She appears more ready for a morning watching television or peeling potatoes than checking in airline pax. She indicates, with a very operatic flourish, that I have permission to place my bag on the scales. Only trouble is there is a 9 inch high bar between my side of the scale and hers, so you lump the bag up and over and then she wants my hand baggage on top and declares that I am 5kg overweight and sends me off to the cashier several places down. I pay the whole USD7, which ain’t much, but it is all wrong and IATA would not condone adding my hand baggage to my checked baggage but what the hell. I return to my new ex best friend and she looks carefully at my hand written receipt and in exchange, gives me a boarding card. No such luck as a seat number or a cheery greeting or farewell. Just a grunt. I stand with everyone else (as about 10 seats available for about 50 people) and then another move is initiated and we go through yet another control, where another woman looks at our ticket, our boarding card and us and ticks us off her list. I’m grinding my teeth of course and promising never to complain about any airline check-in and boarding staff in the west. Finally, I am allowed to proceed and don’t put anything away as who knows who will need to look at something next. I meantersay, you are exhausted by all this and you have only gone about 50 feet.

Many shops here, several selling odiferous dried fish, which is just what you would NOT want to sit next to or even have overhead (and none of these old rattle trap planes has closed overhead bins, we are still in the days of shelving) and thus it is quite normal to have things bounce out on take off or landing. I do may own private security check each time to make sure I am not about to be decapitated. Many salacious and explicit sex newspapers in the ‘bookstore’. Absolutely amazing what is on sale and I see one middle aged, quite pleasant looking woman, happily reading one, the side facing me showing a couple quite intimately linked, all in living color to boot. Oh dear oh dear. Later, on the plane, looking between the seats to the row ahead, someone is looking at even more graphic evidence and I feel like some prurient Victorian vicar.

Our plane eventually turns up an hour after we should have departed. It has come from Moscow, through the night with the 5 hours time difference, so a sleepy gang is disgorged and separated into those getting off and those in transit. I realize that nothing is posted on the gates as to which plane is going where and once in a while the p a system shrieks into action and various people get up and get on buses and disappear around the corner. Fortunately, I had noticed a man coming in off my plane who was in transit and was wearing a bright red shirt just like mine, so I keep him in sight. He slumps in what to him is 0300 and know that when he gets up, so do I. And about another hour later, by which time the metal seats are becoming very hard and I have watched a group of Germans try to board practically every plane in a panic of being left behind (and I don’t blame them, I would not want to be abandoned here, but at least they would have company). A loud p.a. and the red shirt jumps up and so do I. We are boarded by a woman actually in a uniform but wearing dizzily high heeled boots, with a spike coming out of the heel at the back – how she manages to stay on them all day is a real Russian mystery.

I find a seat with a sleeping guy by the window and no one in the middle and plonk my backpack there and am ready to out-glare anyone who thinks they may want that seat. The aircraft is pushed back by something that looks more like a farm tractor. They rev the engines up somewhat mightily and then let the brakes off and we are shot out of a gun, but even so, it always takes too long to get into the air. VERY grumpy looking crew, as they too have come through the night and are clearly wishing the next three hours were over quickly. One exceedingly miserable looking and disheveled flight attendant, sits at the back of the cabin and as usual is not strapped in. The standard cold cuts and cheese on a tray no less and then a foil which turns out to be a large piece of hot sausage, goodness knows what went into it and tastes horrid, so I abandon and play some Mozart, which is a great comfort in such inhospitable surroundings. Here we did have some boarding music which lurched from Johann Strauss waltzes to some quasi Italian Take me Back to Sorrento (fat chance). Everyone in a great slump as I seem to be surrounded by pax ex Moscow, so at least it is quiet.

The boys up front always get their own big shiny kettle of tea taken up to them after take off. This huge kettle, is a feature of all Russian flights and holds a huge amount of liquid and crews over here would veto it immediately on safety grounds, as the handle is wobbly and of course it’s far too heavy, but here it will fill an awful lot of small cups without the trudge back to the galley. Carpel tunnel syndrome does not translate into Russian!

And when we do land, the biggest difference is that in our world the moment the plane is on the gate, everyone jumps up and decides they must be first off, whereas around here, we all sit very quietly and wait to be TOLD to get off… smazing. Of course, in places like Iran, everybody starts to stand up while the aircraft is still decelerating, so I just hope none of them go traveling dans la Russie or they are in for a shock.

Khabarovsk turns out to be okay. Well, it was better than Irkutsk.

Going to see Tosca at the Tashkent opera, with Irina, who had never been to an opera before.

Sometime around 1998, I was dispatched to Uzbekistan to see if we could include it as a stop on a private jet trip. Working for a luxury tour operator, it was my job to see if it would be okay/safe for us.

So I winged in via Frankfurt and a local tour operator had been found and my guide, the lovely Irina, was waiting for me in the dawn I had started in JFK when she had been eating her lunch yesterday, so was very out of hours and just needed sleep. She knew this and took me to the hotel and said I will see you at 4pm. Good I said.

And she was there, A recent graduate in English from the university, she was keener to discuss Jane Austen than downtown Tashkent. I broke the ice by saying if JA was here, what you want her to see ?? She got it and off we went.

One stop was in front of the traditionally styled opera house. As I am a classical music and opera person, we came to a screeching halt. Is the opera playing right now ? I don’t know. While she went to look, I examined the cyrillic posters outside and worked out that Tosca was on that night. Did she like opera? I don’t know – I have never been. It is too expensive. Would you like to go ? OH YES. We went running back to the box office and tickets were available and I flashed out a whole wad of Uzbek som and we had our places booked. Nothing but the best for us. Tickets in the orchestra USD10 each. I know how to take a girl out in style.

We continued our sightseeing and in a cafe, I gave her some info on going to the opera. I was praying it would not be a disaster. I ran through the plot, almost to the end. I wanted her to have a big surprise.

Later she and the driver collected me and we are in our seats. I can see that she is in her best outfit, all made up and is totally wired. The place is big and has some nice faded gentility to it. Just old red plush.

I spent the next couple of hours just watching her, sideways. She is on the edge of her seat and I was reliving my early opera experience through her. At the end, when Tosca jumped, she gasped. You didn’t tell me that was going to happen! No I says, I wanted you to experience that moment.
She was overwhelmed and swore she would save to come back for another one. Over a glass of wine, I told her the true story from a Metropolitan Opera production, when the soprano jumped off the battlements. The only problem was the landing was just too bouncy and poor Tosca shot back up in to view. Irina just howled with laughter at the thought.

Next day, she told me she had been in touch with all her friends and now they all wanted to go to the opera. I hope they did.

Trip Around the World 2003. Part 7. Irkutsk, Siberia. The city of brides, many of which are just drunk!

In Irkutsk, Alexei and Ivan are very happy to find me and I am escorted off to the first of three hotels I’m going to stay in there … only the middle one was any good. BUT before I leave the airport, must tell you of a very different little industry around here … Japanese Exhumation Tourism. When you stand by a baggage belt (I use that word fairly loosely, as it’s likely to be a hole in the wall and a roller track system near to terminal collapse) and there are some older Japanese standing with you and then up comes things like brand new shovels, all neatly tied together and then packs of solid cardboard cartons, all brand new, then people like me say “Wotz all this in aid of ?’ I think they are perhaps geologists or the like, but in fact they are coming to look for the bones of their long gone rellies, who died here in WW11 and other local conflicts over the years, about which I probably know nothing. You just never know what travel market you may unearth (well that sounds the best word!) unless you keep your eyes open.

And next day off we jollywell go to see all of Irkutsk. I had been expecting a fairly modern city, but discover pronto that it is anything but … more like 19th C Russia, with trams. It doesn’t seem to have any center and I soon realize like Gertrude Stein who, when visiting Oakland Calif, said “There’s no There, there..”, well she would have made the same observation about Irkutsk. It’s basically a mess. Not nasty, just a mess. Along the riverside, there are plenty of old beer bottles and cans and couples are out in the balmy late night, midsummer air. It’s also the city of brides, as there seem to be weddings all over the place. Brides in the full frou frou and one on a scale of Marie Antoinette with her crinoline and hair much upswept and then sprayed with silver glitter. The fact that she was swigging from a beer bottle just added to the occasion! Honest, she WAS! Another, barely able to stand but still drinking, was a genuine bottle blonde of the old style (ie bright butter yellow curls, think Betty Grable). She had forgotten to get her roots done, so the one inch of jet-black hair did not help the bridal splendor. Nothing like black roots, gold curls, bright metal teeth and a bottle of Corona as the picture to send to all the rellies who could not make it. Most of the bridegrooms and also the rest of the hangers on did not look too happy and the fact that the majority of Russian weddings end in speedy divorce was somewhat reflected in a lack of jollification. Important hangers on also wear a sash, a la Miss World. Brides always troop off to the local war memorial and leave their bouquets there. The town seemed to be full of weddings, with their specially decorated cars, sometimes with two gold rings on the roof.

Best thing in IRK is the art museum which has some really great stuff and is certainly worth the stop. The combination of hard reflecting light from outside, coupled with the neon inside, did not do the pictures much good, as some were so reflective that you had to wander around and crouch down to find the only place you could actually SEE the picture. Ivan, who is all of 30, already twice married and has been learning English for 6 months and is practically fluent, is there with me and enters in to the spirit of trying to improve the visitor experience. We organize one of the babushkas to open shutters and turn off lights in various permutations to see what we could do to better the situation. So here am I, rather than organizing crews on planes, now taking over a large gallery as to what light is needed where. Amazingly enough, the old crone enters into it with alacrity (usually they turn the lights on when you enter each room and off when you leave … it’s a thrilling job). She comes over and looks too and we get on famously (and she asks Ivan to make sure I write it all down in the comments book downstairs, which later we can’t find and them downstairs have no knowledge of…).

We also visit a mini stately home, and do the tour and see where they will have a concert on an original piano that practically went to see Napoleon off from Moscow. The guide here knows the groups that used to visit ex the Orient Express train. I ask her if she knows my French mate Micheline and she does and we do an impersonation of Mich, which has us in stitches. The Russians can be great fun when they want to, but the suspicion of foreigners is still very much there with the older generation.

Next day is spent on and around the River Angara and Lake Baikal (source of no less than a fifth of the world’s fresh water supplies). We do bits by car and bits by hydrofoil, and the local market is much devoted to smoking fish from the river, which we buy and eat in our fingers and it’s delicious. I am smoked trout fragranced for the rest of the day. I invent a story for Alexei that he comes here only to see one of the, shall we say, less than beautiful fish smokers and I christen her Galina and then he says his wife is called Galina, so now we have Galina2 and I get a lot of miles out of that. I fear poor Ivan is going to split his sides if he laughs any more. It was no surprise later to find out they both know Monty Python, which of course sets us off on more impersonations.

We have a nice lunch in the sun and persuade the restaurant that the blasting rock music really does not fit well with it or us. Later we inspect a train we are proposing to move them along on one sector. Had to go to the train yard for that and the lady cleaners, with their hoses sluicing down the outsides of carriages all stopped and stared as our little procession went by, lead by the director of the railway company (I think… I get introduced to so many people so quickly that they become a blur). Anyway, they are not used to seeing forangs wandering around. Then there was the Oceanographical Institute to be impressed by, where a real schoolmarm type, complete with a long pointer, had some locals frozen to the spot, while she probably reeled off endless facts and figures and they looked totally glazed.

We penetrate next day deep into the forest to see a place we shall use for a dinner, complete with a long chute type of thing that looks like it should be in a water park. Apparently it is only used in deepest winter. They pour some water down it in October (which would last nicely as ice until April !) and you climb all the way up with your tin tray, slide down at speed and shoot across the frozen lake and I should think would probably go for miles and have a very long walk back. And did I want a dip in the lake and no thanks and more and more. And I’m taking notes the whole time so I can write it all up later. There are people back home who think I’m perched on a barstool all day, drinking martinis (and of course there are times when I WISH I WAS).

Meanwhile I move hotel like some traveling salesman and the second one is much the best, no a/c which cud be problem on a hot still night, but it cools down quite a lot now and with the window open I am fine, so inshalla’h so will they. I’m not sure about the waiters in the gold bow ties. I meet the lady owner, who is exceedingly grand. Originally from Serbia, her business card has addresses in Russia, Serbia and Cyprus for banking. She speaks fluent, idiomatic English and would take no prisoners. I am quite frightened of her. Later I am at the business center (no capital letters as it really an internet access in an airless room) and have just finished a long message to base and BANG, the lights all go out and I lose the LOT. The air was somewhat blue is all I can say. I found my way upstairs as it was still semi-light and produced my trusty flashlight and flashed it at the reception staff on the way out, just to show them what a super boy scout I am. They were very impressed. We go out and eat somewhere and a lot of vodka is of course drunk, as when in Rome or Irkutsk (which somehow doesn’t quite sound the same).

Finally I am ready to leave for further east and the city of Khabarovsk, so back to the airport and I get my farewell hugs from the boys and they confess that they need a break, as they haven’t laughed so much, so long, for many days and I HAVE to come back with the aircraft.

A break here for you. Think about this. At a Russian airport, like Irkutsk, which comes first: Check in or Registration?

La Vendange part two – wine – champagne – food. I meet an American who can’t speak English and admire the statue of Pope Urbain 11. And in LHR, what do I say to the customs man?

Here I am, on my first morning, cutting away, blood being lost, frozen fingered, stiff backed, but all was not lost, as after only about 90 minutes, who turns up but Madame Beaumont, with a big basket of bread and saucisson and some really hard cider. So we all had to stop for a quick nosh and drink. I think we all felt a lot better and our work continued for a couple more hours. Once my basket was full, I hiked to the end of the row and dumped the grapes into a big wooden tub. My nighttime mate Hercule was there and the tubs were manhandled on to his cart and off he trundled. I’m not sure he had anyone with him. What the need? He had been doing for ever or at least since he left a cave.

Then midday approached and there remains nothing more sacrosanct in France than LUNCH. Home we went and after minimal handwashing, sat down at the table and Madame Beaumont appeared with food that could have been served in some posh French restaurant in London. Here, it was just lunch. And sublime bread from the boulangerie, which was located en route back from the fields, so we picked it up. Just once, I was allowed actually to hold the baguettes. It felt like I had really been accepted in to la famille Beaumont! Oh boy, it was just basic peasant fodder and we inhaled it and wiped our plates clean with the leftover bread and sat back very fat and happy. But what is this? This is dessert. Oh how lovely to live in France, I thought, where tarte aux pommes or mousse au chocolat seem to flow from everywhere. Eating is just a greatly appreciated experience here and this made me a fan of French food for life.

I caused much mirth the first lunch time, when all looked done, sitting closest to the sink, I piled up some plates and cutlery and moved them in that direction. What was I doing? Have you gone mad? Well, I was just trying to help. No way. Even Madame agreed … this was HER job and not mine. She was a one woman union and I was some scab who was taking her job away from her. Oh dear. I did not try again and every meal was silently hoping my mother was not looking.

Back out we went for only about 3 hours, as in northern France at the end of September, days were becoming radically shortened and no one can pick grapes in the dark. Well, actually I thought, you almost could, as so much of the finding the hardpacked bunches was done by feel rather than sight.

One thing I would never forget were the rifle shots. Of course, hunting is a way of life here and there was always someone out there stalking something that moved and a shot or two would echo down the valleys. The champagne vines were basically terraced down the hillside, leading to the Marne, one of France’s great rivers. And of course, one of the major battlefields of WW1 was just north of us. What amazed me was how just one single shot echoed around. You could practically hear it coming and then is whizzed past and went on its way. Whatever did WW1 sound like? Something I had never thought of, but it must have been deafening to be in the wrong spot.

Back home by 5:30, we cleaned up and then a bottle or two would come out. A bottle or two of champagne, as the rellies, who were possibly being paid en liquide, as the French call cash payments, but here it had literally turned to liquid. Dinner was at 7 and everyone ate heartily, so all done by eight thirty. We also had some red wine, usually Bordeaux and cheeses, all local of course. So here we are, in a rather damp ancient stone house, built in, it felt like, c1500, with faces that dated from that era too and the wooden shutters of course had been closed and the fire stoked, so what do we do now? Well, we put on our coats and go to make a social call on the Joubert’s two doors along. In an equally damp feeling house, there was nothing to do but try M. Joubert’s house tipple and do a bit of blind tasting.

Little did I know when I started out from the UK, that I was entering the most seriously alcoholic three weeks of my life. It seemed that if we were not cutting or eating, then all we could do was drink red wine and champagne. It was total hell of course and I only did it to be polite. And the amazing thing was that in all their blind tastings, they could recognize their own homemade tipples and just who had made what. 99% of the grapes went off to the big co-operative and then to some champagne house in Reims or Epernay, but there were always enough bunches for a little home enterprise. I nearly drowned in champagne.

We did get Sunday off. So we piled in to some ancient French vehicles (there was absolutely nothing new in this village) and off we tootled to either Reims or Epernay, the two big champagne cities and what did we do? We went to a champagne house, where someone had a brother or cousin or the like and we got a behind the scenes visit. I was shaking hands with never to be seen again strangers on a par with the queen touring the colonies. Everyone was ravi to meet me, the foreigner. It was like I had come from the moon. And of course, we ended up in the wonderfully named ‘salon de degustation’ or tasting room and the bottles came out and I don’t think anyone ever said no. We were very merry on the way home. Of course, this was way before anyone had invented a designated driver and we had to make several stops for countryside peeing too. We were all equally looped.

One day I was taken to meet one of the oldest inhabitants of the village, as they thought I should. Because he was American. Most amazingly, he had arrived there as a soldier during WW1 and had never ever gone home. I was introduced all in French and of course he spoke it back and then I thought he might like some English, as I appeared to be the only English speaker in this area and it turned out he had totally forgotten everything. You would not think it possible that you could forget your native language, but he had not used it in 50 years and it had gone.

Chatillon-sur-Marne did have one son who had made it big in the world. How about becoming Pope! Given the unusual name of Odo, when he was born in 1035 (yes, 1035), he became Pope in 1088 until his death in 1099. He was known as Urbain 11. And to celebrate this fact, there was a large statue of him, overlooking the valley and blessing us all. Apparently, he was best known for starting The Crusades, which was the movement to reclaim the Holy Land from all those heathen Moslems. He started it all!!

As all good things come to an end, I bade my dear family au revoir. They insisted I take some champagne with me, to the tune of four bottles and I could have had more if I could work out how to carry them. BUT, what would I be faced with at customs in Heathrow? This was way before red and green channels and all that. You had to line up and be grilled, as if you were going to sabotage the whole country with the contents of your bag. And the alcohol limit was just one bottle of anything and I had four. I was going straight to jail. I knew I was. My knees were knocking and I was in sheer panic mode and then suddenly, I had an idea. Look for the oldest customs guy and get on his line.

So I did. When my turn came, I confessed right up front. “I have been to France to pick grapes for the last three weeks, so that when your daughter gets married, you will have champagne to drink. I have four bottles”. Best line I have ever given to anyone. He laughed and said “How did you know? She is getting married next week. Thank you. Off you go”.

At 20, I go to France to work in ‘la vendange’. How I learned to cut grapes, stay with a bucolic family, share a stable with Hercule and drink a great deal of champagne.

When I was 20, so of course now, I can’t remember how, but I saw an ad for being a temp. worker in Champagne for the grape harvest. NO pay (!) but live with the family for two/three weeks (and it inferred drink champagne all day and night) so what could be better than that? I applied and was accepted.

Armed with the name and address of my host family (and absolutely nothing else… this was pre-cellphones or anything like that), I jumped on a plane from London to Paris and then took a train to Epernay, which is NE of Paris going towards Belgium. From there I had been told to take a certain bus from the station and just get off at the village of Chatillon-sur-Marne. What you did then seemed to be up to you. Had this been today you would be armed with cellphone numbers and texting and Googlemaps. In those days, I just got off a bus in a village.

I did all that. It was dark by the time I boarded the bus, which did not help in locating a village. I sat right at the front, literally behind the driver, who said he would tell me, but I was not 100% sure. I did not take my eyes off the village signs that fortunately are well posted outside each one. Suddenly in the intense blackness, there was the name I needed. I descended along with a schoolboy, on to a very deserted street. If there was lighting, it was candle-power.

Fortunately, the child was being met by maman and I fell on them as apparently the only people alive there and asked for the abode of Monsieur Beaumont. She had never heard of him. My life was saved by an old crone who tottered out of the gloom and she was quizzed and pointed down the street to where the pale street lamp was and assured us that was chez lui. I certainly hoped so, as the rows of houses either side looked like they were about to collapse at any moment. Summoning up all my courage, I knocked on the door.

Madame Beaumont answered and stared at me like I had two heads and had come from the moon. In my best French I assured her I was here to stay and help, which just seemed to confuse things even more. Fortunately, a teen male child came to see what was going on and all became clear. I was the foreigner who had come to help. Well, duh… didn’t I just say that?

They were just about to sit down for supper and a place was laid for me. Probably 8-10 of the most bucolic French faces I had ever seen and all speaking something that kind of sounded like French, except I could barely understand a word. Pere de famille, Monsieur Beaumont, probably 50, was virtually toothless, so that did not help. It was just so amazing that a total stranger was sitting eating within five minutes of coming through the front door and I was already just one of the family.

I never worked out who was who, as they were somewhat lax in making introductions. Families very much come together for ‘la vendange,’ so I gave up trying to work out if they actually were immediate family or cousins from Nantes who came every year to help out. They all looked very connected in appearance.

We drank champagne like it was tap water. OMG, I was quite buzzed and also had to find the loo fast, as it always goes through me at record speed. The loo was… basic … I realized there was a sort of conflab going on about sleeping arrangements and did manage to ascertain that I had not just barged in on a family but that they were only vaguely expecting me, but it rather seemed no more than that. SO, I was here and what do we do with him?

Answer was… put a bed in the stable. However, I was not going to turn into the Little Lord Jesus, as I was sharing it with … not a human… but the family horse! Hercule was his name and he was definitely descended from a long line of cavemen art. He was HUGE and had eyes the size of soup plates. A partition was erected and his straw swept to one side and I am assured he is ‘très sage’ and will not bother me. There wasn’t much I could do about it anyway and in the end I had to admit that if I had to spend nearly 3 weeks sleeping with a horse, then Hercule was just the best room mate ever. He would put his huge head over the partition in the morning and gaze at me. I liked to think it was admiration, but he never let on.

In the morning, we assembled in the front room which doubled as parlor and dining room. The traditional oilcloth table covering was swept of the breadcrumbs from last night and big bowls of milky coffee (the type of soup bowl things they use in France, with lips on either side for lifting) and hunks of bread and that was breakfast. Oh, I forgot. As it was cold in the morning and very misty and dank outside, then the bowl of coffee could have a good shot of marc (think grappa) which would serve to fortify us until we warmed up from our labors. An excellent idea.

We walked to a nearby vineyard and I was shown the ropes. All the others had been doing it all their lives and now there was little moi. I had a wooden basket (think bucolic peasants sitting around in hayfields pictures by Breughel and that was us, but no hayfield and in dank, gloomy weather) and a pair of long pointed ‘scissors’ and shown how to rummage around in the leaves, all still firmly attached but turning beautiful autumnal shades and when my hand found a bunch of the hardpacked black grapes, then I cut. Two things needed to be factored in here. My left hand was frozen within minutes and became more numb by the second. This was a good thing so that when I used my scissors and impaled the points on my left hand fingers, I felt no pain. It was a very good thing, as I was continually doing it.

Within ten minutes of stooping or just kneeling on the near frozen earth, my hands were iced and bloody and my back was giving out. At least eighteen more days of this?

There will be more to come. Food, glorious food. And I meet an old American who had lived in the village since 1917 (honest) and he could not remember one word of English!

Trip Around the World 2003. Part 6. In Armenia, a guide is after me and I visit the flight deck of a Siberian Airlines TU-154. “It’s old” they said.

And so it goes on for two days. It was supposed to be two and half but have you ever heard of an airline rescheduling its flight no less than 14 hours EARLIER than your ticket? Well Siberia Airlines did and I was not happy. Instead of departing at 1630, we are now going the same day, but at 0230. That is not my fave time of day and it cut down on vital time here. But there was no escape. (I did find out later when 1 went to the airport to see what the aircraft handling would be like, that everyone was resked, as they were doing runway work for three weeks, which may also have accounted for the plowed field that we landed on – and more worrying too. which we will try to take off from again. I DO worry about these things and just hoped that will remember to take all their equipment out of the way.

We spent two action packed days seeing what there was and it’s not bad. Yerevan would be quite a pretty place if they were not digging the whole town up. It has been decreed that the trams must be gone, so all the old lines are being removed, which of course is sad, as they give character as well as being a cheap and fuel efficient and non polluting way to move the masses around. Probably they are seen as backward and we want modernity. Pity that someone didn’t tell them that places like Zurich still have them and would not give them up for anyone. But that will all be over by the time we arrive, but made it difficult for me to work out accurate times of how long from here to there. By the time we leave home on the these trips, it is all timed down to the minute.

Two tour guides became attached to our mini expedition. One Lily (and of course very dark of hair and eyes) and another whose name defeated me. Both young, lots of make up of course. I had them giggling pretty soon and they said afterwards that they had not had such a good time showing the sights ever and I was welcome back any time. The said Lily I suspected, was also after shall we say, other pleasures, as I suddenly got the wink and a very direct LOOK and she had to sit next to me at dinner and all that sort of stuff. She tried a bit of footsie and a hand on thigh at one stage. It was too late to invent the wife and kids and grandchildren, which I have been known to concoct when necessary, so I played very hard to get, which revved her up a bit more … oh dear. In the end, when the dinner conversation was going full blast, I looked at her in my best old geezer way and firmly muttered “Stop it” and she did. I also got to meet Elvira’s daughter, another Sasha. She is 17 going on 40. Such a chip off the old block, it is spooky. But they are both around the same size, as Sasha does have a spare tire too and they must have an interchangeable wardrobe. Sasha can also pout big-time. When you put the two of them together, it is a really frightening sight. Mother had the most mascara over the long false eyelashes and Sasha had the most lipstick, which was frequently being reapplied.

I was shown incredible old Orthodox churches (Armenia is v proud of being Christian since the 3rd century when the rest of us were practically living in caves). The main church was fabulous as it was Sunday and there was a service and we joined the masses. So easy to move around in churches here as there is no furniture in the orthodox world, as you stand the whole time. The bishop or whoever he was, was robed in full glory and everyone was kissing the ring and the crucifix around his neck and a generally good time being had by all. There was a women’s choir, all draped in lacy mantilla like things and looking on the verge of tears and best of all were the monk types who not only wore robes, but large black cowls pulled up over their heads. If you remember the Monty Python skit about the Spanish Inquisition, well that was exactly what they looked like and I nearly disgraced myself when I worked where I had seen them before. And to show respect, you must remain totally silent inside any church and you walk out of all of them backwards, still facing the altar. They practically had to drag me out as the singing was so fantastic and I made a note to see if we can be sked to be here on a Sunday. That is why I was there, to think of things like that.

We explored some ruins (a let down) and the museum, less than inspiring apart from a couple of silver chalice like things from the third century which were totally wonderful and worth going to see just for them. We visited the Armenian brandy factory, which was very close to the hotel and I endured a long winded presentation about its history and production and knew immediately that we would not be going there. It didn’t taste all that good either. And we drove miles to a lake, where there was no There, there and a total waste of time (but everyone said how wonderful it was) and I am grinding my teeth cos a lake is a lake is a lake and if it does not have something worthwhile to see, like a vast waterfall or a monster, then it’s not for us. Why do people get so excited about a large flat piece of water? But the rolling hills countryside was certainly beautiful.

In town, I found a very cute little local restaurant that we can use for a dinner. Heavy on atmosphere and we tried the food which was delicious and if they kind of moved the tables a bit closer together then it would be ours for the evening. The owners were just so peasant and low-key, compared to Elvira who was fairly pushy. We put the menu together right there and then, as you must not let the locals ever do that, as what They think we should eat might not be what We would like. They were quite amazed that I would do that right now, so I was always pointing out: That is Why I Have Come.

We were all too soon off to the airport again, after a vast fish meal to keep us going. Hotter than hell and of course a cast of thousands, but half were the see-ers off, but golly it was an oven. We had already been warned that it would be quite likely to have a delay and I had resigned myself to that agony and had noted on the way in that all the seats looked like cast iron, but in the end it was almost on time. Much checking of your passport and then ticket + passport and sometimes just the boarding card and sometimes, all three. We would have been spot on if they had not been missing a pax, so huge amounts of counting and recounting – everyone had a go and got it wrong and I wished that there had been an Air France crew member there, as they are all issued with little clickers and we could have been done much faster. A huge manual loadsheet got sent up front. And then we trundled off down the unmade road and lurched into the air. This was now Siberia Airlines, a new one to me. No one wearing fur or with snow on their boots for sure. The cabin crew looked like a hooker’s outing, in skin tight pants. Well padded Siberians should NOT be wearing such things … on the ski slopes perhaps, but NOT in flight please. Full house again, but Nelly and I frightened anyone out of wanting to sit next to us. I’m getting good at the TU-154 and we knew where to sit. For once, of course, they were sticking to the seat numbers, but Nellie briskly told off the couple who had the madness to think that the seats we were in were actually theirs and they slunk off. Dunno what she said (perhaps that I was a dangerous foreign lunatic..) but it worked.

Around here of course, you are still fed and watered on all flights and this was to be no exception. Nelly is my ears for these flights and I ask her to translate any crew mutters she hears and on this it was the fact that the ovens were not working … none of them I thought ? Seemed kind of odd. So they came around with the trays and they had the usual Russian deal of cold cuts and cheese and several bits of bread and a bitta cake for dessert, so we all scoffed away and when I thought they were bringing the carts down to clear it all away, NO. It was the celebrated foils of hot food, EXCEPT THEY WERE STONE COLD! I’ve never been on a carrier where I was presented with a genuinely cold hot meal, containing chicken and rice. Just a solid greasy mass. And even worse. they all ate it. Ah me, you just never know what will happen next

So we arrive in Domodedevo airport in Moscow at 0400 local… very posh it is (or will be when they are done) and eventuallee the masses of nylon bags and my solitary case come up on the belt and Nellie and I repair to the one and only airport hotel a few hundred yards away. I discover that although it is fairly new, they forgot that Moscow has long hot summers and air con. would be a good idea, but no such luck. You have to open the big window to get a whiff of hot air and discover that the totally unsilenced old converted bombers, which are called passenger planes now, are all blasting into the luft about 100 yards away. To make it even more fun, the sun is blazing down and there are no curtains, but slatted blinds, so the room is fully lit. Any other complaints? I try to sleep but to no avail. NOTHING IS RIGHT. We had not been supposed to be there until that evening, so now we have a day in Moscow. As Nellie had some errands, we went to the big city together. On the bus and subway train too, as we had the time to spare.

Watch this space for the next action packed installment, including the moment I am traveling on my own and my departing flight disappeared off the screen and I says to myself: “Look out, my flight has just evaporated.

Tim

ps notes from Russian menus … Beef stake, Toung, Eskalopp, Grek brouchette, Trouth, Lam and to wash it all down. Bakardy. Bon ap.

Trip around the world. 2003. Part 5. Welcome to Yerevan, Capital of Armenia. And Elvira, the make-up queen.

Anyway last time I left you was in Samara and it’s semi-nude river bathers. About as far away from La Grande Jatte (if you know what that picture looks like) as you can get.

Me and Nelly eventually escaped in the middle of the night and in a totally packed TU154 (the Russian equiv. of a B727, bigger, but with less power … a great combination, so they have to accelerate like mad and go a great long way down any runway just to get into the air. The fight was AWFUL and I was most happy it only lasted two and a half hours. Packed out with about 150 (half of them children) and Nelly and I fought to keep the seat between us free, more to N’s efforts, who was in her grandmotherly and VERY formal way telling people where to sit. The problem had started with the fact that we had seat numbers and the crew decided in the middle of boarding that it was better to abandon them … would just love to see a BA 747-400 boarding under those circumstances ! So, chaos reigned and the crew hated us all to a man, even before we got off the ground. It was just grim and I was happy to land in Yerevan at some ungodly time in the middle of the night. And it’s a rough runway (why should I be surprised ?) so felt like the wheels had been removed and we were running along on fast eroding legs.

But the worst thing was and this really gave me the willies, was the fact that I saw, as we were skimming over the threshold, that no less than three of these grim looking flight attendants were happily standing up in the longitudinal front galley, with the open flight deck door ahead. Had we landed with a bump (or more of a bump than usual) they would have accelerated fast onto the flight deck and hit those nice big levers that put on the power and we would have gone accelerating to an uncertain end. Boy. did I give them my best black looks when I departed.

Well we are in immigration. I am well prepared with my visa, but of course no one on the plane has given us any forms and form filling in is a way of life, esp. when international travel is concerned. So I looks and looks and there is nothing. I even have my pen ready. The line at immigration is positively zipping along by Soviet standards, so I lines up, shows the passport, open at the visa, as they will never find it and the man just looks at it and I am IN. What is the world coming to with NO forms? I’m still expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder with a handful of paper, which of course will only be in cyrillic. Bags take ages and when they do come I discover that practically everyone travels with identical bags. Hardly Samsonite or the like, but the thin blue and red striped nylon bags that are a staple of the third world traveler. They are all identical and no one has ever had the idea of putting a bit of ribbon on the handle or painting their name along the side (which I am sure Mrs Amarinda Ghosh of blessed memory would have done), so all is confusion and it is very hot and we have all had enough of the night already. When my big red proper suitcase turns up, it is riding around in state.

The local agents are there to meet and greet. Alexander (or Sasha) and his wife Elvira. Oh my oh my, how I wish you could all see Elvira as she really is a sight for sore eyes (no, probably a sight to GIVE sore eyes).

She is scrag end of mutton done up like lamb chops of the youngest variety. A mid-forties woman tarted up as an 18 year old and boy does it show! Tousled multi-blonde hair, but black roots, about every type of makeup that you can imagine, applied with a trowel and the mascara over the false eyelashes in veritable clumps. Looks like the oil you see on the news washed up on beaches from spills. There was a lot going on there. Lips are full and two or even perhaps three tone. The body is that of a middle aged woman, but we are 100% in denial, so the chest is up and away and there is a cleavage on a par with the Grand Canyon – a vast dark abyss. I try not to stare but can’t help it. I bet she has a Victoria’s Secrets catalogue at home. The top is black and white knit and around the midriff it is all white see-through, so the spare tire can be appreciated in its full glory. The pants are toreador tight and you can feel the stitching screaming. But the best are the gold shoes.

She is on stilts, with the super pointed mules that everyone here is tottering around in. I wonder why they look vaguely familiar, as who do I know who could even stand up in them, let alone walk ? Then the penny drops… they are out of the Topkapi Museum in Istanbul ! The points at the front were so long that they have become turned up, to give an ever more Ottoman appearance. It just had to be seen to be believed. But having said all that, she was very sweet and we got on tres well. And amusingly enuf, it was battered Arabic that brought us most in contact. It turned out that she worked also for Syrian Airlines, so I called her habibi and we are now mates for life! I just don’t want to go shoe shopping with her, as I saw no less than three of her other pairs and they were all a disaster.

So we are kissed and warmly welcomed and jump into the battered old Lada and lurch into town. Most amazing sight half way was a mini Las Vegas. I kid you not. Lines and lines of garish casinos (casini ?), all with neon running amok even at 5am.. It seems we are big on gambling around here. The Marriott hotel is high on ceilings and has the creature comforts our patrons need. A sort of Armenian Manuel takes me to my room and makes a big production of showing me how to open the door with the card, which I was prolly doing before he was born and I am allowed to collapse for 5 hours, as we have stuff to do.

Time for a break. Lots more to come. I meet the daughter. And Lily, who is angling to give me a private tour…. Vera, I hope you have found Armenia on the map ?

Trip around the world 2003. Part 4. I get to visit Samara, in Russia, for a bit longer than expected.

Golly —– now many days later and I am sitting in the slightly less than beautiful airport of Samara, which is about 1000 k east of Moscow.

I am now en route to Yerevan, the capital of Armenia, doing a scout for a trip in a couple of years. I am with me ole mate Nelly. It’s like traveling with an over solicitous maiden aunt. I shall have to tell her soon to stop asking me if I am alright.

We started this morning, in St Petersburg, having waived bye bye to my plane, which went off to N Finland and all the mossies looking for fresh blood up there. It was my last interaction with that group and had several farewell kisses from the regulars, so of course I told them how I was bravely going forth in to deepest Russia and that I expected to see them there, in a couple of years’ time. It really does take that long to get one of these posh trips organized.

We, meanwhile, bravely checked in with the sullen Irina for the Air Samara flight to … yes, Samara. (Vera, get Harry to find it for you). Nothing as easy as my big bag being checked through on our connection to Yerevan. This just doesn’t seem to happen in Russia, so you are perpetually claiming and rechecking your bag. Only good thing I suppose is that you do know it is hopefully progressing along the line with you.

Air Samara has no such luxury as seat numbers either, but the resourceful Nelly has had a word with someone and we are going to have protected seats … ha, I thought, fat chance. The reality was we were bused out to the plane and then left standing in a line in the sun, which is another nice Russian practice. It will be carried out in any climatic conditions; rain, shine, blizzard. They force you off the bus and this enables you to give the plane a close once over and kick the tires. Meanwhile Nellie has wormed her way to the front and has been permitted up the steps. Goodness knows how she managed that. I held back as I knew all would be well. Boarding just about last, I met the adorable Natasha, who probably was a big baby and has gone forth and grown ever since … boy, she was BIG and her vivid blue uniform, a la KLM, did not help.

Nellie had engineered seats two rows from the front with the backs of the empty seats ahead of us pushed down, so I happily put my feet up after take off, but they would not have cared if I had done it before either. The young slip of a girl seated opposite, Dior sunglasses (and who could tell if they were the real thing or from Canal St?), pulled out her cellphone in flight and made long a call, which wudda had her arrested in the USA. We were most comfortable (well as much as you can be on a TU134 aircraft). Nellie had warned me and I had already suspected, that the flight would probably offer drinks only, but having made a sweep down the cabin with water and juices (and half bottles of J Walker Black for your inflight purchase and consumption), then they reappeared with styrofoam snack boxes and we had more food than a transcontinental flight gives you in the USA. I was even offered extra salami should I care and we all became buddies. Natasha had about 5 words of English but she sure smiled a lot and did her best to keep me entertained. She must have told the flight deck crew about me, as two of them came out and gave me a good stare. I don’t suppose they get too many non-Russian passengers.

We landed in Samara and the fun and games began … you were not expecting this just to be a routine story, I hope. We walk from the domestic terminal, lugging our bags, to the international one next door, avoiding the potholes and general air of dilapidation and beer cans that are a feature of all Russian airports. We were expecting a 6 hours layover, which was bad enough but then discovered that it was worse. It was now 1500 and our flight to Yerevan would be leaving at 0020 …. ahhh… I am not happy (surprise surprise), but as this is all a spin off from the old Aeroflot days, then passengers are expected to accept the news and you go bugger off (a phrase I learned in India about 50 years ago) and don’t complain. Nellie had discovered all this without me and by the time she came back and told me, I thought a personal interview with the Air Samara gang would be in order (silly things like customer service, rights of passengers etc etc and more practical things like food and drinks). They had closed the door and were playing gone fishing, so perhaps they knew I was on my way over.

So there we stood, looking forlorn and hot (it was about 85F) and wondering what to do, We had already interrogated the lovely Natasha about what to do for 6 hours and she had happily told us that the city itself was no less than 60k away. To cut a long story short, I made the executive decision that much I like airports, there were too many hours to spend in one which appeared not to have any form of food and water and I was going to go barmy (all right, barmier) sitting in a scruffy place like this for hours, so we hired a very very clapped out taxi and Nellie negotiated a rate to take us to town and back and generally show us around. We had become involuntary Samara tourists, so roll it on!

Of course, the roads were dreadful, with no lane markings, so was kinda like being back in Iran with traffic deciding how many cars abreast you drove. Better just not to look, but sitting in the front, I had no choice. Rolling green hills eventually gave way to urban sprawl a la Russe. Awful bleak tower blocks of stunning lack of any imagination and suddenly there was a space rocket sitting on the middle of a roundabout … you just never know what you going to see I tell you… turns out Samara is where they make rockets and they want you all the know. Very nice it looked and I was suitably impressed, as was the driver who gave a golden toothed grin and a thumbs up.

And then around the next bend, there was the mighty Volga River rolling along and very impressive it was too. I suppressed an urge to sing the Volga Boatman Song or even Old Man River and could see why such river hugeness inspired great big music. Locals swimming around and generally disporting themselves, this being a Saturday afternoon and there was a sort of ‘beach’ with parasols. Women in bikinis, who might have looked great 40 years ago but gravity had taken over in all directions and guys too wearing little enough to have them arrested on an Amurrican beach, but this is la Russie and we are dedicated to turning pale pink to brown at every opportunity and I suppose if you all look as awful as the next person then it really doesn’t matter.

Houses of all shapes and sizes – some like old Siberia, small wooden things with carved and decorated fronts and not looking too happy. Some splendid churches with several golden domes which look fabulous against the black clouds which suddenly arrived and a short downpour ensued, just as we had decided that we would get out here for our walkabout and the man would come back to this spot at 8pm and pick us up.

The place had a very quiet look for a Saturday but I reckoned that it was hardly exactly hopping at any time. Old trolleycars wandering along their tracks too, all looking like they were driven by 17 years old girls. Traditional wooden houses, decorated a la Siberienne with extra pieces of carved wood around the windows and running under the eaves. And some old crones selling produce from their gardens. Huge HUGE bright red strawberries that I knew would be the same color all the way through and taste superb and then piles of jumbo black currants and I had an attack of childhood nostalgia. We bought far too many of each, which we later on took with us to a restaurant and Nellie had them washed and after some blinis and a sort of goulash, which apparently was a local dish and I don’t think I would make a special trip back for more. We gorged on the fruit until I was frightened for my inside, knowing that we had another 3 hour flight ahead of us and did NOT want to have to get caught short in a TU154 lav, which would prolly NOT be the closest thing to cleanliness amongst other things, so we actually had to leave a third of each behind. Tragic.

We wandered the deserted streets. I wanted some cash and Russia is awash with cash machines, but they are mainly INSIDE the bank, so if it is closed that you s.o.o.l. Doesn’t make much sense to have them behind locked doors but many things don’t make sense around here. Thought possibly I would try to find an internet cafe and the resourceful Nellie started to interrogate strangers on the street, all of whom looked totally blank at the idea. I suggested the teen population would be a better target and even there we were drawing a blank. Had we finally arrived at somewhere sans Internet?

Well in the end we did find it. In the post office, totally unmarked outside as to the fact that there was such a facility within, so no wonder nobody knew it was there. The building had every impression of being closed and you had to push on all the doors to find the magic one that was unlocked and then up the impressively sweeping big stairs, with no one around, feeling like intruders. Had a small panic attack on being arrested for breaking into the PO of Samara and being thrown in jail there and effectively disappearing off the face of the earth in consequence.

Suddenly there were some machines and they worked muy pronto. There was also an ATM, so this was a doubly good stop and I said many spasibas to the poxy looking woman running the place. Her fuzzy pink mules certainly brightened up the Mother Russia/Soviet drabness of the surroundings. Nothing like a Soviet style concrete, grey, slightly evil smelling and empty Russian post office to make you appreciate color. Meanwhile outside a middle-aged couple, bright pink from the sun and clutching beer cans, were staggering back from the riverside. If you were to sew together the total amount of fabric used in both their costumes, you would have not come up with very much. But there was an awful amount of Them.

Anyway I’m jumping ahead here and will finish this message here and leave you dangling for all the news of the latest shoe fashions in Yerevan, capital of Armenia, a taste of the celebrated brandy they produce right down town, a mother/daughter combo who seem to be competing with each other for worst dressed/most over made up woman in Yerevan and what life is like on board an Air Samara TU154 and later, a sister ship operated by Siberia Air, where some of the cabin crew distinguished themselves by standing up for … you will find out.

Trip Around the World 2003, Part 3. St Petersburg. Meet Valentina, who loves me…

Well here we are in Russia. I escaped from Greenland on their nice big red plane and 4 hours later, Copenhagen loomed. A quick night in the airport Sheraton, at some huge price and a good breakfast in the company of many other businessmen, all in suits and ties. The elevator was fragranced by many exotic colognes from them, as none here would go out without something dabbled behind the ear or on the chin. One of the waitresses, who was Thai, could also speak Danish, which seemed a great feat to me and of course her English was fine. I congratulated her on this achievement and she added that she had a good working knowledge of Lao too. My poor little mind was in meltdown.

Then a bit of luck. The SAS flight to St Petersburg was clearly overbooked, as the system had not been able to find me a seat and they were desperately asking for volunteers to be rerouted via Stockholm. I just could not take up the offer, as my time there was short. By keeping the ears open at the gate and I don’t know why they used a bit of English, I heard the words ‘jump seat’. Perhaps there is not a Danish translation? Hmm, I thinks, let me have a word. I told them I was not unfamiliar with such a perch and would be happy to be strapped in next to a nice Danish lady. They had a think about it and eventually after much radio use, one of them waved and said would I be okay to sit on the flight deck jump seat? I said it would be a great idea, so I ended up in the very cramped flight deck of an MD-88 with my two new best friends Arne and Lief. The only thing that worried me is they both looked young enough still to be wearing short trousers. And the icing on the cake was that just before they closed the door, another SAS girl came rushing in and presented me with a nice $100 bill because of giving up my seat. I said I’d go anywhere if you move me up to the very very front like this and give me cash too.

The flight was fast and uneventful and they gave me a headset so that I could hear the ATC. I must say when we got in range of Russia, the accents varied wildly. Some I could not make out a word of their English, to the poshest of posh, with a guy sounding like he had learned it right from Queen Elizabeth.

Then I meet my new best friend Victor and his clapped out Volvo Estate. Sweden would be in shock I can tell you. He, me and Nelly get into this old bright red car and then he had to get out to hot-wire it to start the engine. Welcome back to Russia ! We then lurched off (I would imagine there were clouds of steam and smoke behind but I dared not look). Nelly and I are in the back trying to catch up (and she is better in German than English, so she lapses into that the whole time which is very frustrating. I am going to be with her for the next week, as she will accompany me to Armenia, so that’s just a tease and trailer for forthcoming attractions. Be patient and Vera get the atlas out dear…Harry will help you.

We are driving along and I get this message to the brain from the nose saying ‘something’s burning’ and so does Victor. He pulls over and opens the hood and pokes around generally. I make plans for instant evacuation as don’t fancy being a charred corpse on a Russian road, but anyway we continue and all appears well. (A later note, the next day, the same huge smoke smell arrived inside the car and was located in the cigarette lighter, which for some reason had decided to show it worked and heated up the area of the dashboard to prove it.)

At the hotel, the most powerful woman in Russia was waiting for me. The once seen and never to be forgotten Valentina. She runs all our movements in Russia and the former -stans like Uzbekistan etc. We can do nothing without her. She was an Intourist guide when the government handled every tourist movement and when that broke up, she started her own agency in St Petersburg and by being one of the ballsiest women in Russia (and there are very many), can unlock any door and fix things that no one can ever think of. ‘You want to meet Putin ? I will fix..” A statuesque 60’ish lady, amply bosomed and with a taste for dramatic, outlandish clothes and much hair (usually some variation of very red). She puts her arms out like some great operatic diva and I take a deep breath, as I am about to disappear in to a fuzz of sparkling angora or the like and there will be a mass of jewelry and dangling earrings that can take an eye out. She is the queen of bling. She clutches me like some long lost son and the air is fast being squeezed out of my lungs. We all know this is coming and compare notes as to how long did she hold you for this time? She professes she loves me dearly and I get another kiss on the strength of that. I always have to check for the lipstick transfer that just happened. I have capital spending authority to go to any duty free shop and ask for absolutely what is the very latest, just released perfume (and hopefully it is exceedingly cloyingly sweet) and I make a big presentation of the duty free bag. She feigns the sort of wide-eyed Miss Piggy ‘Pour MOI”? look and I say just for you and she rips it open and screams. She knows every sweet smell there is on this globe and nearly passes out from joy. “Now I am the ONLY woman in Russia with this…” and then I get re-clasped to the bosom all over again. I need danger money.

I ran around with Nelly and a couple other guides and just went over the usual route. We have been here several times before, so nothing new and we had it down pat. Our TCS plane came from Finland on sked and Nelly and I and the guides are standing outside the doors from customs, which was where they were supposed to exit and it did seem rather a long time, with no sight of anyone. What was the problem? Well, we discovered there was NO problem and we are in such good stead with the Russian authorities that they took everyone off the aircraft in a couple of buses, which then exited the ramp via a sort of back door and our guests and staff are already sitting on the coaches outside, waiting to go to the hotel. It really does not help us if they decide to do something useful like that but fail to pass the message down the line.

The weather cooperated and apart from the zillion or so other visitors, we had a good time. We had a wonderful dinner in the Throne Room of Peter the Great’s palace at Peterhof. This epic man (6ft 8 ins tall no less) had been to Versailles and said he wanted something better and it’s a 50/50 toss up which is grander. It’s baroque on speed I can tell you, with exquisite handmade 18th century Chinese silk ‘wallpaper’, lavish furniture and much much more. As the dinner was on July 4th, I had bought some good Amurrican flags in Brooklyn to go on the tables and the pax thought that was the icing on the cake. The room itself is all gold and mirrors and totally over the top and they were all blown away by the grandeur and agreed that they would never ever again dine in somewhere so great.

Our hotel, the Astoria was also superb and I could happily return … at about USD500 a night, so it should be. It is enormously GRAND for sure.

And how about a country which produces canned gin and tonics? Honest, they do. I spotted the cans in a line of kiosks, which are the best way of describing shops near the hotel and of course, in the interests of science and general global knowledge, I purchased a couple to put to the test. They pile up everything they sell against the glass and helpfully put nice big price labels, so in a country where speaking and reading the language is a definite challenge, you can do the whole transaction by pointing and showing how many on your fingers. The financial transaction is done through a hole about 12 inches square located in some cases almost at crotch level. The same works even for the currency exchange place next door … we don’t want anyone actually coming into our space here. These g and t cans, at a cost of USD.75 each, looked like a good deal, esp as they are a half litre. Mega cans of g and t’s. Granny Sybil (my mother) would be giving them the thumbs up.

Mind you, public drinking especially later in the day, is a very much normal everyday activity in Russia. Not just the boys but the girls too are often walking along the streets, happily swigging from a beer bottle or even a g and t can on the way home. Just think what the 5.55 from Charing Cross to Orpington or the 6.01 from Grand Central to White Plains would be like if half the pax turned up carrying their own alcoholic refreshments? Well that is what Russia is like. I have to tell you that the canned g and t’s turned out to be stronger on the t rather than the g, but as I have my own bottle to beef them up, then all was well.

The locals also are the world’s most uninspiring looking gang. I’ve had enough time today to walk some streets in St Petersburg and take a good looksee at the inhabitants and they really are a grim looking lot. And the way they dress does not do them any good either. Mutton dressed up as lamb may well have started here. There are sights that just make you stop dead in your tracks and say ‘NO – whatever were you thinking of when you bought That ??’ And even most of the lambs are pretty grim too.

On that note, take a break. Onwards with Air Samara and a longer stop there than expected, so I get to meet the near naked locals swimming in the River Volga.