Crazy Russians.

Sent the bleeper off again going through security.
"Francais?"
"English."
"Come with me please Sir."
Oh shit. This hasn't happened before. I begin to fear that the mythical aiport security anal probe is to be unleashed on my sensitive derrier. Luckily this time he just wants to rub me and touch me with his metal detector wand. Pervert. He looks suspiciously at my hoodie.
"What do you call this?"
"errr....a hoodie?"
Something in my pronunciation of hoodie somehow makes him think that to pronounce it properly, you have to really phlem it up at the start. "Ccccchuuuuudie. Hmm. Thankyou, you can go."

On the plane i'm sat next to a Russian woman and her little daughter. (Anya and Nastier - at least that what it sounded like) The drinks trolly comes by, and Anya asks me in broken English to ask for a little bottle of red wine and a tomato juice (all drink is free). Although it's only 11 in the morning, I get a Stella. Mainly because it's free. I decide it could be a good idea to read my Rough Guide on Moscow. Skimming through, I read about how in Moscow, and in Russia in general, there seems to be quite high levels of alcoholism. Apparently 1 in 4 or something (I could just be making that figure up, but it was something like that). And in Moscow in 2004, an alcohol rehab centre for CHILDREN opened. Hard bastards.

The drink trolly comes by again a little while later. Anya pokes me in the side.
"2 Vino"
So I ask the stewardess for 2 bottles this time. She looks a little perplexed then hands them over. Anya fills her glass with the first one and downs it.
"Russian girl" she says smiling.
Anya then decides it's time for some entertainment. She says something to her daughter and asks for my attention. The girl then bursts into song.
"I love my mummy, I love my mummy; she mikes my hippy, she mikes my hippy."
Long pause. The little girl looks up at me expectantly.
"Errr. Very good."
The little girl beams and launches into another song.
"I hiv I Kit, I hiv I Kit. My kit is fit, My kit is fit"
This was about a cat that was fat by the way.
Not wishing to give her any inclination to fill out the family tree for me, I just smile and pick up my book.

I'd taken advantage of the hostel's offer of transport from the airport, and eventually found him with 'TSH'(trans siberian hostel) on a little sign. His first words to me,
"Oliver Johnson?"
were to be his only, despite the hour and a half journey ahead. That is, apart from when I tried to put my seatbelt on in his Lada.
"Net! NET!"
I quickly undid it. He must have taken my gesture to attempt to protect my life as a sign that i didn't trust his driving. Either that or it's bad luck to or something. But having seen the way that they drive over here, getting in a car is not something i'm going to risk again in a hurry.

Hostel is small, obviously just starting out, but really cool. The staff are really helpful and the other people are friendly. And it's not too far to walk to Red square. It's getting pretty late here now, so i'm just going to go for a look around the area and grab something to eat. Off to see a pickled Lenin first thing tomorrow! Oh, and I found the Russian for 'thankyou' really funny: Spasibo! That's all for now. Spasibo.

written by  olliejohnson on August 5, 2006 from Moscow, Russia
from the travel blog: A man from Cockshutt.
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