YOU’D THINK that having ridden the world’s railways for around 10,000 kilometres over the last three-and-a-half weeks, and the fact that we were about to board our first European train, that the Shines would be fairly nonchalant when it comes to reaching stations in strange cities.
Well you would be wrong. But even so, both Mrs S and myself were surprised by the level of voice-warbling stress that crept into our planning and execution in catching the 158 from Moscow to St Petersburg.
Having knocked off Red Square and the Moscow Metro the evening we arrived, we allowed ourselves a slower start to the day in the Mercure Arbat — braving the almost indescribably chaotic breakfast (no cutlery, no coffee, lots of staff but no clue) before getting our plans together.
Trawling for tat on Arbat Street
We’ll plan well in advance and ask reception now to book us a taxi, after struggling with cabs the evening before, we thought, congratulating ourselves on our foresight.
Amina was standing behind the counter in her slick black uniform, a picture of professionalism.
“Hi there, we need to check out at 12pm and will want a taxi to Moskva Oktiabrska station, please,” Mrs S told her, breezily. “How long will it take, do you think, because our train to St Petersburg leaves at 13:30pm.”
Amina raised her eyebrows. “Taxi will take five minutes,” she smiled.
“But that’s not possible. All trains for St Petersburg leave from Leningradsky not from Moskva Oktiabrska.”
Okaaaaaay.
“Well our ticket says Moskva Oktiabrska,” I pitched in, helpfully.
“Do you have ticket?” Amina asked.
So upstairs I troop again to the little hotel safe where I extricate the SNCF-issued ticket and, sure enough, it says Moskva Oktiabrska to Sankt Peterburg G.
“Never heard before,” Amina says, sticking to her guns.
“Well can you call the station and find out?” Mrs S asks, attempting to break the deadlock.
See Amina, it bloody well says OKTIABRSKA
“Only have number for Metro. Do you have number on ticket? Is Russian ticket?”
No is French ticket but is Russian train and Russian station I thought, but instead continued surfing the Mercure’s wifi and soon found enough recent references to Train 158 leaving from Moskva Oktiabrska to feel comfortable that we are right and that Amina must have been off school that day.
“Ok, listen, we’ll take a taxi at 12 to Moskva Oktiabrska please. And check out at the same time. We’ll just go for a little walk now and be back to check out soon.”
Amina smiled but she didn’t look very happy.
We swung through Arbat and its souvenir shops, and our tat-ometer clicked away enthusiastically as we snapped up matryoskha doll Christmas decorations, fridge magnets and a pair of lurid fake fur Russian hats – orange for Ben and jade green for Jasper.
The heavens opened as we were at the farthest point from our hotel and we walked briskly back the hotel.
“I know problem with train,” Amina said triumphantly before I could even get in the door. “Your ticket say Moskva Oktiabrska, but train leave from Leningradsky. It same thing.”
I cannot tell a lie. This failed to clear anything up for me.
“They are the same place?”
“Yes, same.”
“So if we get a taxi to Moskva Oktiabrska we can get the 158 to St Petersburg?”
“Yes. It same place as Leningradsky.”
“Ok, we’ll still do that then, Amina. Many thanks for your help.”
We lucked out with the jolliest taxi driver in Moscow for our trip to the station and while he wouldn’t actually drop us at Moskva Oktiabrska/Leningradsky (well, why would he?) he did motion in the general direction of it as he turfed us out of his car on the side of the road opposite.
After tramping over rubble, through puddles, up and down broken concrete steps and into a dingy waiting room, we were finally there.
Boy am I glad to see you
We passed through a metal detector manned by an armed guard dressed in what looked like black riot gear. Our bags passed through after us and we moved up the platform towards where the front of our bullet train would be departing.
Some 40 minutes before we were due to leave, lights illuminated on the doors to indicate they had been switched on and were primed to be opened.
This prompted an American woman of a certain age to spring into action. She had adopted an imperious stance on the platform, flanked by her husband John and a youngster who looked like, and behaved in a sufficiently fawning manner to be, her grandson.
“Jaaaaaaaaahn, leave them there. Let the man do it,” she instructed her husband as he started to help the balding Russian porter struggling with her enormous cases.
It had been said in a tone which suggested it was not the first time today she knew what was good for John, and had told him.
‘Jaaaaaaaaahn’ looked pretty sheepish but did as he was told – he’d clearly been in this situation before, and it didn’t do to cross this matriarch.
‘The man’ huffed and puffed and sweated as he lugged case after unwieldy case onto the train.
I had sidled closer to the entrance with Mrs S and the three children. We had eight bags of our own between us and generally it takes a little time to settle the children in their seats – especially in this case as we were split between two carriages.
Taking his lead from the hen-pecked ‘Jaaaaaaaaahn’, ‘the man’ swiftly stepped to one side and blocked the children from getting on the train before his mistress, presumably in case a move of such audacity would displease the demanding matriarch.
The look of triumph on her face was something to behold as she stepped in front of the children onto No. 158 as though she were an empress boarding an imperial sea liner.
Her nose was firmly in the air as she took up position in seat 15. The dauphin was next to her in the aisle-seat 16, orange headphones clapped round his perky head, and ‘Jaaaaaaaaahn’ sat opposite, his nose in a guide book, but poised to leap to attention should the need arise.
I moved to the back of that carriage in a two-seat row, with Kitty choosing to sit with me.
The Peppa Pig theme tune started up as Kitty settled down and American-Psycho poked her nose above the headrests to survey the carriage, delighted at her place round a table while others squeezed into smaller spots.
I’ve never been especially convinced by the concept of karma, preferring to believe it is just a more exotic way of spelling coincidence, but what happened next had me revisiting this theme all the way to St Petersburg.
Just before the doors were due to close a large man loomed into sight by the entrance. Sweating profusely, he fumbled in his chest pocket for a slightly damp ticket and thrust it in the face of a female conductor.
She pointed in our direction and Igor-the-large began making his way down the alley.
Here comes the Big Man
The man was big, he was sweaty, he was squeezed into a Pringle tank-top which revealed large stained sweat patches on his shirt under his arms. His black denim trousers had a worn sheen about them that comes with too much wear and too little wash.
Certainly he was of striking appearance but that was not the most distinctive element of this character. The most noteworthy aspect of this man was the smell.
It was strong a smell of unwashed bodies, seasoned with the fetid stench of unwashed clothes. It was sweet, worse than musty, and cloying. The sort of smell that you would want to be upwind of on any day, but certainly on a warm one.
When he paused and peered at seat 18 opposite orange-headphones boy and nose-in-the-air woman, I wanted to cheer.
He overshot his seat, hitched up his trousers, adjusted his tank-top and reversed into seat 18.
If American-Psycho’s nose had been pointed in the air before, it was now seeking the Mir Space Station. I walked Kitty up to Mrs S and the boys in Carriage One hoping to catch her eye, but she had twisted her body away from the man and was staring intently out the window.
‘Jaaaaaaaaahn’ seemed almost as amused as I was, relieved no doubt to be off duty for a spell while his wife was sulking and staring into the middle distance.
Good here, innit?
Twenty minutes into our journey I was still chuckling when Natasha sauntered down the aisle pushing a decommissioned airline trolley. This was a pleasant and unexpected surprise and made my plans to raid the buffet car redundant.
She doled out cheese, nuts, beef, chicken and mash and drinks which Ben and I shared, Kitty having pinched his place at the front of the train.
We rattled through countryside in comfort – at 250kmh – and I even managed a nap after lunch.
The story for Mrs S was a little different and she came heading down to the back of the train wild-eyed with about an hour to go. She was smelling slightly of wee thanks to a leaky Kitty nappy, and announced in no uncertain terms that she needed a break from her daughter and that I was to head up north and take over childcare duties with our youngest.
Love your work, Natasha
I manfully controlled the two-year-old for most of the remaining hour, only needed to walk her down to see her mummy a couple of times. No need for applause.
We pulled in to St Petersburg bang on time and our taxi driver met us on the platform. He spoke good English and, unlike his opposite number in Mesocw the day before, actually offered to help with a bag.
We then practically walked to the cabbie’s house to collect his car before splitting into two VW Jettas for a 5-minute drive.
He couldn’t really explain to me why we’d had to practically walk to the hotel only to get a taxi for the last hop, but his English was superb all the same and certainly good enough to exclaim: “You are very brave man, travelling with whole family.”
You don’t know the half of it, I thought…
In other news… Kitty resumed her fighting with Jasper after a brief period of distraction and I mediated, mostly by offerind electronic gadgest as a reward for calm behaviour. Meanwhile, in the other taxi Ben was pushing himself against the door away from his mother in a bid to avoid brushing against her and the wee smell…
After just a few minutes we pulled up to the Pushka Inn on the waterfront and checked in.
The Pushka palace…
Galina, the duty manageress, spoke perfect English and made the process totally painless.
Handing us the keys to 306 and 308, she smiled: “Please enjoy your stay with us… and you will find in your rooms complimentary water because of course you should not drink the water in the taps.”
Raising my eyebrows, I nodded.
“Like Moscow.”
My eyebrows dropped, and I froze.
That cleared up one thing that had been bothering me, at least.
It turns out the St Petersburg water has Giardia lamblia a parasite which causes stomach cramps and diarrhoea…
The Pushka Inn was a delight – a tiny hotel carved out of an old waterfront family mansion, with a tiny two-man lift the alternative to stones steps leading to the upstairs rooms.
Going up? – room for small one…
There were more smiles in the first five minutes than in two days in Moscow, and it was soon evident how more western this city is compared to the capital.
It was shortly before 7pm once we’d got changed, jumped on all the beds etc and we headed out to see some of the city before supper.
We had been recommended a boat tour of the city as an excellent way to see a lot of St Petersburg in a short period, but when we arrived at the waterfront we could not get on the English-language boat because it was already full. Of Italian tourists of all people. Which frankly seemed a bit rum as it wouldn’t matter what language it was in for them if not Italian.
Anyway, this meant we ended up the sole English speakers on a Russian boat. We were still able to appreciate the beauty of the city; and frankly there didn’t appear to be many laughs involved in any case so I don’t think we missed much .
It is all Greek to me
We were surprised what a nesh bunch the Russians were, though, all huddled under blankets as we sat up top in shirt sleeves.
Having yanked Jasper by the shoulder out of the road to save him from being run over (“I saw you step out and thought you were crossing, daddy”) we then slid into the adjoining Café Pushka for a bite to eat before bed.
A cacophonous family with eight children immediately cast the Shine children in a most positive light and we waited for our food playing a land-based variation of Battleships the restaurant provided on their paper placemats. Everyone, children and adults were playing and the dining room sounded like Bletchley Park with all the A3, F4, G6-ing going on.
Someone put these children to bed!
When the food finally arrived Kitty swiped Ben’s Chicken Kiev off his plate by the bone Bam-Bam style before I could rescue it from her fist and avert a crisis. These children needed to be in bed. As if to underline the point, Ben, pulled the quote of the day out of nowhere as we waited for the bill.
“”Who knows where we are going tomorrow?” Mrs S asked.
Ben: “I do, I do, I do, I do. No I don’t…”
Well, the rest of us are braced for another international train – this time to Finland and Helsinki.
Apple Pie 
WOODLANDS TO WATERLOO 