rolling northwest

Since I started keeping a travel journal of sorts, I've sometimes imagined how cool it would be if I could 'phone in' each entry from some new and exciting location. Unfortunately, that just isn't possible. I mean, I'm not actually travelling at all now, so much as just living somewhere else. So in truth, 95% of everything I've published on Ranting Manor has been phoned in from ... well, from the bedroom of my flat.

I'm feeling rather pleased with myself right now though, 'cause tonight's entry is a bit different.

As I type, I'm rolling north-westward in a first class sleeper cabin on service number 54 from Moscow to St. Petersburg. It's about 4am (I think), it's pitch black outside and I've got the feeling that I'm making my way through a vast, icy expanse of almost-nothingness. I love that feeling! In the 'ideal lifestyle' I sometimes imagine for myself, it's something I get to feel at least once in every calendar month.

Some words about my present environs: I was kinda nervous about long-distance rail travel in Russia, especially in regard to safety. Turns out that I needn't have worried. We're hermetically sealed into this cabin by electronic security; the only way to open the door is to wave a pass card in front of it until a piercing little beep announces that the heavy invisible latch has been released.

Inside, you get the feeling that you're in the lap of luxury; the décor is all plush crimson with gold trim, there's endless gadgetry embedded into the walls (including a power point and phone jack for me to plug my laptop into) and a little dinner is provided to boarding passengers, complete with fancy chocolates and jars of red caviar. Waiters come around and helpfully offer to top you up with cognac, shampanskoye and other intoxicating goodies from the extensive drinks menu as your journey gets underway.

However, out in the vestibule area, where the myesta dlya kooreniya ("place for smoking") is situated, it's a different story. The ridiculously efficient heating system that's slowly broiling us alive in our cabin doesn't operate in the lonely vestibule, and it's below freezing out there. You can see your breath plainly, and a thick crust of ice makes the windows almost entirely opaque. (That's ice on the inside, by the way.) Plus, there's a draught at floor level that's cold enough to make you think about frostbite.

All in all, I think this would have to be one of the funnest rail journeys of my life so far.

On the chilling side of things, a short while ago I was standing out in the hallway, just squinting into the pitch-black and moonless night (as you do), and we passed through a village where I saw a building on fire in the main street. It looked like someone's dacha. Most dachas are made of wood, and I'm thinking they'd be at greatest risk of catching fire whilst inhabited, since gas lamps, cigarette ends, open fires and so on are all ideal means of ignition. So whoever owns the dacha was probably staying there when it went up.

Everything I've read and been told about these country homes suggests that they're a kind of 'spiritual centre' of Russian life. So I'm finding it difficult to imagine just how heart-wrenching it would be, waking up in the middle of the night to find your beloved dacha burning down around you, then having to gather up your stuff and make a run for it into the frozen laneway. Out here, I seriously doubt there'd be any prospect of a fire brigade turning up to help you salvage some of your pride and joy. There'd be nothing you could do but stand back and watch the flames destroying your dream, then try to find some other means of sheltering yourself from the bitter (-15C) cold.

But moving on from that rather depressing little tangent: I've managed to get four weeks off work, so now it's adventure time. And I'm joined in this adventure by Maya, who flew all the way here from Sydney last week to visit me, and to get acquainted with some Russian and Northern European beauty spots. Pretty cool, don't you think?


Obviously the first place to explore was Moscow, and since my guest turned up a week ago, it's been doing its usual oscillate-wildly-between-extremes trick. One minute you're feeling awed by the stunning Metro, or losing yourself in the beauty of winter's fine detail, or immersing in the outdoor market experience, or gawping at the famous landmarks and so forth. The next you're being barked at by apoplectic cashiers because you don't have a ten kopeck (0.5 cent) coin on you, or feeling the day slip through your fingers courtesy of Moscow's absurd unnavigability, or seeing a corpse being guarded by militsia in the foyer of a railway station, while outside other Muscovites try their hardest to join him in the next world by flinging themselves face first at the pavement.

Or else, you know, you're just hating the food and the coffee.

The highlight was probably seeing the interior of St. Basil's. It was very different to how I'd imagined it, and quite strikingly beautiful. It departs from the 'normal' layout and design of a church in some pretty significant ways - for example, there's no central hall, just nine small chapels on different levels. They're all connected by winding hallways and staircases, which makes you feel as though you could be exploring a medieval merchant's house rather than a cathedral. Also, the walls are covered with brightly-coloured, mostly non-figurative designs, which lends the whole place a vaguely mosque-like feel. The accoutrements (lanterns and so on) are surprisingly tasteful, too, compared to the clutter of iconography that plasters every surface in most Orthodox churches. I'm really glad I went in and had a look; had Maya not been visiting, I probably wouldn't have bothered.

But anyway, tonight was "farewell" to Moscow, at least for a couple of weeks. Obviously I'll fill you in on how our holiday turns out; expect a bunch of rants in the not-too-distant. For the time being, though, guess I'll just keep on rollin'. Exactly like Johnny Cash. Except that Johnny wasn't actually on the train; he was stuck in Fulsome Prison, feelin' blue as he listened to those big steel wheels roll past his tiny world, remindin' him of how time drags when you're in the Big House. Hmmm ... guess I'll try not to be like Johnny Cash, then.

I need some sleep. Can you tell?