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.