Life is a Lemon

By Helen Matthews

The writers of management platitudes say that when life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade. In Sorrento, they appear to have taken this advice to heart in a big way.

There are a lot of lemons in Sorrento. The town is surrounded by lemon groves, their trees carefully protected with netting against giant hailstones.

But they don't only make lemonade. They make all sorts of lemon-flavoured products: limoncello, a liqueur which can be described as a cross between lemsip and paintstripper; lemon ice-cream; lemon sorbet; lemon granita; lemon sweets; lemon biscuits; lemon chocolate; lemon sauce; lemon risotto; lemon profiteroles. You name it, they do a lemon version of it.

If the edible versions were not enough, they also do lemon soap and numerous tourist souvenirs of varying degrees of merit featuring lemons, ranging from ceramics and table linen to fridge magnets. It would be quite easy, if pointless, to have an entirely lemon-flavoured meal, served on tableware decorated with lemons.

I am not that keen on lemons as such, but I tried several of the lemon-flavoured edibles in the interests of research. Lemon risotto is quite pleasant, if a little too like rice pudding for a starter. Pasta with lemon sauce is more interesting, particularly when made with unusual star-shaped pasta. 'Lemon delicious' is a sponge-based dessert with lemon cream, which is surprisingly pleasant, and nothing at all like the synthetic lemon-flavoured desserts I remember from school dinners. A chocolate version of this dessert looks more delicious still. Lemon granite (a refreshing crushed ice concoction) is widely available from Sorrento's gelaterias and from street stalls in Naples, and very welcome in the heat, but overall the quality of granitas in the area does not match that of Sicily, where they are a little more sorbet-like.

Sorrento's gelaterias serve ice cream and sorbets in many other flavours as well as lemon, from the anagrammatic melon to apple, and from amaretto to tiramisu. The oddest flavour I saw was Ferrero Rocher - presumably the Ambassador comes to Sorrento for his holidays. The Bougainvillea has a menu for ice-cream sundaes as thick as a telephone directory.

The bigger gelaterias also serve a waistline-threatening range of cakes. Interesting patisserie is also available in cafes and bakeries. I sampled a delicious pastry with cream and raspberries, from a small bakery in Naples, which cost only 50 cents.

Pizza was of course invented in the Naples area, and it is impossible to beat a genuine Italian pizza made in a proper pizza oven. Whilst purists might argue that real pizza should be topped with nothing more than tomatoes, mozzarella and a sprinkling of herbs, pizzerias offer versions topped with other items including ham, sausage, mushrooms and artichokes. Those looking for a Hawaiian pizza with pineapple will be disappointed.

Pasta is also good. Seafood versions such as spaghetti alla vongole are delicious. For the more adventurous, I can recommend ravioli with almonds and cherry tomato sauce. This is in effect marzipan ravioli in tomato sauce, garnished with a langoustine. It may sound revolting, but actually tastes surprisingly good. The Sicilian speciality of pasta with tomato and aubergine sauce is also widely available, although here it goes under the name of 'Siciliana' rather than 'alla Norma'. After such interesting pasta starters, main courses can seem a little dull, but a plate of mixed fish and seafood from the grill is never boring. The only problem is finding room for the dessert afterwards. If you are planning to visit the Sorrento area, be prepared to gain a few extra pounds.

While you’re in Sorrento...as well as Naples, the local trains can get you to the famous sites at Pompeii and Herculaneum within an hour. If going in the summer, take one morning for each site rather than combining the two; there’s little or no shade, so it’s hot work.

First published in VISA issue 69A (Oct 2006)

Christmas in Turkmenistan

by Helen Matthews

The Christmas trees were a bit of a surprise.

New Year display in Ashgabat

I have been on anti-Christmas trips before, only to find that seasonal kitsch is harder to escape that you might imagine. In Marrakech we found inflatable Santas in the souk and complimentary chocolate yule log in our hotel room. The lift in our Cairo hotel played a falsetto version of We Wish You a Merry Christmas. This time, though, I thought I had finally cracked it. Turkmenistan is a former Soviet republic in Central Asia with a predominantly Muslim population, a Presidential personality cult and very few western tourists. Surely there would be no reminders of the seasonal festivities here?

It wasn’t long before I discovered how wrong I was. The road from the airport was practically lined with Christmas trees, adorned with giant bows and baubles. In the city centre, some of the public buildings even had tableaux with Santa and reindeer. It turned out that although Christmas isn’t celebrated in Turkmenistan, New Year is a major festival, and they just happen to celebrate it with decorated trees and St Nicholas (in both his Russian and western incarnations). The state television service even broadcast continuous footage of smiling children dancing round these trees, often in front of a smiling President.

Fortunately, I hadn’t come simply to escape Christmas. I had been intrigued by this most bizarre of the former Soviet Central Asian republics since I heard about President Saparmurat Niyazov (Turkmenbashi) erecting a revolving gold statue of himself, renaming a month after his mother and building a 37 km staircase into the mountains to exercise his civil servants. Turkmenbashi had died in 2006 and I wondered whether his successor, Kurbanguly Berdimukhamedov would have undone some of the worst excesses of the regime. I had heard rumours that the revolving gold statue was no more. Since summer temperatures are in the 40s and my Lonely Planet guide to Central Asia said that the December temperature in the capital, Ashgabat, was ‘above freezing’, the Christmas holiday seemed like a good time to go and find out.

The first clue that President Berdimukhamedov had not entirely erased the tradition of the Presidential personality cult came when we boarded our (delayed) Turkmenistan Airways flight to Ashgabat, and noticed that in the cabin was a large portrait – of President Berdimukhamedov. We were to see a great many more portraits of the President before the week was out. They were to be found in all public buildings, including the lobby of our hotel. The museums had a ‘Hall of President’ where photographs of the President in a series of poses could be admired: playing football and tennis; cooking outside a traditional Turkmen yurt; riding a horse; wearing academic robes etc.

The idolisation of the President seems strange to us, but there are reasons for it. Under the Soviet Union, Turkmenistan had been something of a backwater, even among the Central Asian republics, with neighbouring Uzbekistan and its tourist attractions of Samarkand and Bukhara getting more attention. Turkmenistan had only primary industries, producing oil, gas and cotton. Its reliance on imported foodstuffs meant that the collapse of the Soviet Union in the early 90s led to food rationing. In the opinion of our guide (or minder?) Murat, Mikhail Gorbachev wasn’t a hero, merely another politician who enriched himself at the expense of the people. But President Niyazov, a former Communist party official, developed the economy and saved the nation. Turkmenistan now grows its own wheat and rice, and every family has at least one car. The country’s oil and gas resources mean that the inhabitants get a free petrol allowance and cheap electricity. President Niyazov also had the task of forming a modern nation and national identity from a former Soviet republic that had previously been populated by nomadic tribes. He did this by writing an idiosyncratic national myth or history, The Ruhnama, a book which was required reading in every school. The Ruhmama now has its own monument in the centre of Ashgabat. But then there are many monuments in Ashgabat.

Ruhnama Monument

The city was flattened by an earthquake in 1948, and is therefore very new. On the way from the airport, we drove first through the ‘old’ part, built in the immediate aftermath of the earthquake, with low houses and tall trees, then past the later Soviet-style blocks, until we reached the 21st century post-independence zone in which the government seems intent on converting a major chunk of their oil revenue into huge, white marble buildings and monuments. Many of the new buildings in Ashgabat have a symbolic design: the Education ministry is an open book, the Gas ministry a lighter, the Health Ministry a hypodermic. It is a good place to be an architect. One of the stranger buildings is a giant ferris wheel: Ashgabat’s answer to the London Eye, but with the centre enclosed in white marble. We didn’t venture inside, but Murat told us that the view is rather restricted. The area outside this wheel was a forest of New Year trees - a prime location for the dancing children. Even the old Tochulka Bazaar, Turkmenistan’s equivalent of the Sunday market at Kashgar, has been rebuilt with gleaming marble pavilions; a shopping centre selling everything from traditional Turkmen clothing and disgruntled camels to fridges.

The only variation from white marble is gold leaf. Rumours of the demise of the Arch of Neutrality, with its rotating gold statue of Turkmenbashi, turned out to be exaggerated. The entire edifice had merely been relocated from the city centre to a park on the southern side of the city. Its gold statue might be large, but it turned out not to be that unusual. The Monument to the Independence of Turkmenistan (also known as ‘The Plunger’) is surrounded by fountains and large gilded statues of Turkmen figures. From there it is but a short walk to another gold statue of Turkmenbashi.

Monument to the Independence of Turkmenistan

Aside from Turkmenbashi, Turkmenistan’s two claims to fame are the Akhal-Teke breed of horses and carpets, both relics of the nomadic past. The Akhal-Teke horses naturally have their own white marble and gold monument, and are a source of national pride. Turkmenbashi once sent one to John Major as a gift - it ended up on a stud farm in Wales. Carpets, which provided the ‘furniture’ of the traditional felt tents or yurts, are if anything more important. Each of the five regions of Turkmenistan has its own traditional design, and these five patterns appear on the national flag and many government buildings. The Carpet Museum in Ashgabat contains the largest hand-woven carpet in the world, complete with a certificate from the Guinness Book of Records. Turkmenbashi’s signature is of course woven in to the design.

We were told that mobile phones would not work in Turkmenistan, that internet access was restricted and that hotel rooms were routinely bugged. Online reviews of our hotel mention men in suits hovering in the corridors, presumably spying on the guests. Well, my smartphone worked perfectly well – soon after arrival I received a ‘Welcome to Turkmenistan’ message with details about roaming fees. I was able to call home and send and receive texts with no problems. We were able to use an internet café in the Yimpaş shopping centre. We had to register by depositing our passports, and access to Facebook was blocked, but there were no problems with checking email or accessing the BBC website. I have no idea whether our hotel room was bugged, but I saw no suspicious men in the corridor. [If it was bugged, I hope the 'buggers' enjoyed the Dalek Empire audio we were listening to.]

On Christmas Day we had a free day on our own, and I saw no signs of our being followed. Of course this might have been because so many buildings had policemen stationed outside them to stop passers-by from doing anything alarming, such as taking photographs or walking on the wrong side of the pavement. (Photography in Ashgabat is fine, as long as you are not taking a picture of the Presidential Palace or a Ministry Building. You may walk past the Presidential Palace, as long as you cross the road first.) We were probably within sight of an official of some sort the whole time we were exploring, not least when we dropped into a café for elevenses only to find that every other customer was a policeman. They appeared to be too interested in their games of chess to pay us much attention, however, as we drank our cups of Earl Grey and ate our complimentary fun-size Bounty bars.

Nissa, Boxing Day 2012

On Boxing Day, we discovered that the ‘above freezing’ temperatures in Ashgabat might also have been something of an exaggeration. We awoke to find it was snowing heavily, but we set off for the Parthian city of Nissa regardless. It was an interesting new experience to visit an archaeological site in the snow. It was treacherously slippery, particularly because we couldn’t see what was under the snow. Nissa is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but it was quite difficult to appreciate that what looked like heaps of snow were actually column bases in the throne room of a Parthian palace.
 

 After Nissa, we went to the Niyazov family mausoleum and the neighbouring mosque, built on the epicentre of the 1948 earthquake, and discovered in the process that snow on polished marble is even more treacherously slippery. We later discovered that Turkmen carpet has its uses as a non-slip all-weather surface.

That afternoon we were due to fly to Mary, in order to visit the Silk Road city of Merv. At the airport, we were able to go through security, but were then told that Mary airport was closed owing to the bad weather. It was at around this point that I discovered that average winter temperatures in Mary were considerably colder than in Ashgabat. After an announcement that the flight was delayed until 10.00 p.m. Murat decided not to wait at the airport, but our car had already left and, to his disgust, the taxis wanted three times the usual fare, despite being Government-run. He had previously told us that in Turkmenistan you could flag down any car if you couldn’t find a taxi. This gave him an opportunity to demonstrate. We therefore got into a private car and returned slowly, as the roads were by now quite treacherous, to our hotel, where we had dinner and prepared for a long wait. Murat called us later to say that he hadn’t been able to get any information from the airport, but his contact in Mary said the weather was improving so he suggested we go back to the airport in the hope that the flight would depart. I was not that keen on leaving a nice warm safe hotel for a dangerous drive to the airport and a possibly non-existent flight, but off we went. There was quite a bit of confusion at the airport about when or if the flight would depart, and we nearly returned to the hotel again, but we were finally allowed to board the plane at 12.15 a.m. Or at least that is what we thought. We trekked carefully down the stairs (whilst carpet is a very good anti-slip covering in the snow, it can be a tripping hazard if it slips down) and then had to stand shivering at the bottom of the stairs whilst there was some talk of a bus. Eventually we were told to walk across the icy tarmac to the plane, where we faced another chilly wait until we were actually allowed on board.

On safe arrival in Mary we had another slippery, snowy trudge to the terminal. The luggage arrived promptly and we were taken to our hotel in a Russian 4WD reeking of petrol. We awoke to find that there was no power, heating or water in our room, or, it transpired, the hotel in general. Or the whole city, for that matter. Over a cold breakfast, Murat told us that three of the five regions of Turkmenistan were without power, as one of the country’s two power stations had failed. However, he assured us that this was unheard of and that as the job of the minister responsible would be on the line, he would be giving it his personal attention, so we were not to worry. I thought in the circumstances it was unlikely that we would be going anywhere that day, but shortly after 10.30 a.m. we set off for Merv in a nice warm Land Rover. I was greatly reassured when Murat told us that the café where we were due to have lunch cooked on a barbecue, so there was a prospect of hot food later. As it turned out there was no need to worry as the power was restored by the time we returned. I don’t know whether the minister kept his job.

 Merv


Snowy sightseeing at Merv was slightly easier than at Nissa. Partly because as a medieval city, more of it survives above the ground, and partly because the size of the historical area meant that we travelled round it in the Land Rover. The only thing we were unable to do was to go up onto the ramparts. We had no difficulty in seeing the other sights, including the Mausoleum of Seljuk Sultan Sanjar, the city walls, the mausolea of two Ashkabs (standard-bearers of the prophet) and the house of the forty women (supposedly so-named because the eponymous women leapt from the windows to escape a fate worse than death at the hands of the Mongol hordes.)

House of the Forty Women, Merv

Maybe in retrospect midwinter in Central Asia wasn’t such a good idea from a sightseeing point of view, but it was certainly an adventure, and if I had come at another time of year I would have missed the Christmas, sorry, New Year trees.


First published in Visa 110

  

The King and the people

By John Keeble
Today (December 5th) is the King's birthday in Thailand -- a very special day for the Thai people.

There are many public events around the country, with people wearing the King's birthday colour (yellow) and many more posters and photographs on display.

Some of my Thai friends changed their Facebook cover and profile pictures to honour the King (see below).

The day started very quietly here in Chiang Mai -- at 7.30am, it was as quiet as Christmas Day in the UK. By lunchtime, there were traffic jams and from then on there were events and people everywhere.

Royal gardens near Chiang Mai (Photo: Anna Friesen)

 Music composed by the King is played in Chiang Mai



10pm and the crowds are still out for the King's birthday


King event near Chiang Mai (photo Cathy Popol)




(Below) Photos used by Facebook friends as their profile or cover photos today
to honour the King 

 

At Home with Santa

by Elizabeth Johnstone

Trees and water, water and trees. As the Finnair flight dipped towards Rovaniemi in the late autumn sunshine, all you could see was swathes of forest punctuated by mighty rivers and wide lakes. Most visitors come to Finnish Lapland in the winter, but our citybreak was in October, the off-season, when the famous autumn colours were to be seen. Our plan was to do some sightseeing and get together with local Mensans. Without snow, tourist activities were limited, but socialising fitted the gaps perfectly.

Post-ash, I wanted ATOL protection, so I booked hotel and flights as a package through Guild Travel, the travel agency of the Finn-Guild in London, itself an offshoot of the Finnish church. We had scheduled Finnair flights (Assigned seats, snacks and drinks. Luxury for this easyJet flyer!) Off-season, there were no direct flights from London. The one-hour layover in Helsinki in each direction was simultaneously convenient and nerve-wracking, as we wondered if we would see our luggage at our final destination. Of course, the Helsinki baggage handlers did us proud and we were reunited with our suitcases without incident. Rovaniemi Airport is about the size of a sports hall. The single baggage conveyor belt boasts a selection of cuddly-toy Arctic animals. A selection of stylised reindeer leaps off the roof. After all, it is the ‘official airport of Santa Claus’.

We took the Airport Taxi (minibus) to the Sokos Vaakuna. I chose this hotel as I had stayed in its sister establishment of the same name in Helsinki the previous year. The Vaakuna was well up to the expected standard. I tried out the (single-sex) sauna this time. The etiquette was to use one of the paper seats provided when sitting on the wooden benches. I had a go at ladling water on to the hot coals to provide a burst of löyly or intense heat. The hotel was so quiet that I had no-one to talk to in the sauna, otherwise I would have stayed a lot longer in this most civilised setting. The hotel’s buffet breakfast offered a splendid selection of Nordic delicacies as well as more international fare. An easy way to spot the native Finns was to look for the plate of porridge. On our first evening, we dined at Nili: a little pricey, but with charming service and bags of atmosphere – or there would have been, if it had been fuller. Our freebie starters of reindeer broth came in the typical kuksa, or hand carved birch cup.

The next day, we set off on the most important part of our sightseeing, visiting Santa Claus. We took the number 8 bus to the Santa Village, a collection of outlet and souvenir shops, cafés and the official Arctic Circle Post Office. I sent off postcards to friends and family from there to get the special postmark. The Arctic Circle is painted on the ground, a classic photo opportunity. In case you are wondering, the Arctic Circle is defined as the parallel of latitude that runs 66° 33° 44° (or 66.5622°) north of the Equator, or a line that marks the latitude above which the sun does not set on the day of the summer solstice (usually 21 June) and does not rise on the day of the winter solstice (usually 21 December). Off-season, the complex was very quiet, and only one café was open. The shops were not at all tacky, with souvenirs generally of high quality.

Visiting Santa is impressive. It is free of charge. You are led deep into a labyrinth, passing the massive pendulum which allows Santa to stop time and visit all the world’s children in one night. We got straight in, but I imagine that you generally have to queue. The great man thanked me for the sherry and mince pies we had left for him in the past, and indicated that the reindeer had appreciated the carrots. He also shared a few remarks about Glasgow Rangers FC with my husband. Santa is nothing if not cosmopolitan. We declined the photo taken by an tech-savvy elf. These come in various formats, starting at an eye-watering 25 Euros for one snap, but I bet a fair few are impulse-bought by moist-eyed parents.

Back in town, we obtained passes for the main city museums. We started at Korundi, the ultra-modern art and concert venue. Modern art always provides a talking point. After that, it was time to rendezvous with Arctic Mensans in the restaurant attached to our hotel. They had thoughtfully chosen a restaurant with Lappish specialities. I am no stranger to reindeer meat on my plate, but other tastes were new: I had reindeer tongue, whitefish roe and rillettes of moose in a selection of starters. It was a most convivial evening. Our hosts courteously spoke perfect English, even amongst themselves, which is always faintly shaming for this languages teacher.

The other two museums were the Arktikum and the Pilke centre. The former, jutting out magnificently towards the river, is full of informative, if worrying, information about the current state of the Arctic and its inhabitants. The latter is full of hands-on activities for children related to trees and forestry. Trees and water, as I mentioned earlier, form the fabric of national life.

That afternoon, we were taken out and about to see local residential areas and leisure facilities. Very scenic on a fine autumn afternoon, but we were told that a Finnish driving test is in three parts: “normal” driving, driving in darkness, and driving in slippery conditions. We dined at a moderately-priced-and-cheerful pizza place that evening.

Our hosts arranged a wonderful outing for us on the Sunday. They took us hiking in the forest at Vikaköngäs. Scratch a Finn, and you will find a forest dweller with a deep connection to nature. Access to the forests is regarded as a birthright and schoolchildren are taught forest skills from an early age. ‘Hiking’ sounds laborious, but we proceeded along well-constructed, if slippery, duckboards past tumbling rivers and russet trees to our destination. We reached a superbly appointed barbecue area, complete with fireplace, logs, twigs (with which to spear the sausages) and an earth toilet. Not one scrap of litter to be seen, either before we arrived or after we left. Our hosts had brought huge amounts of food and drink. This townie had never grilled a sausage over an open fire before! There were other hikers, Finns and foreigners, and everyone quickly got talking. We decided that the national characteristics of sausages formed too controversial a topic and moved back to the safer areas of politics and religion.

Our last meal out was a good value set meal at the Monte Rosa. Our flight home did not leave until lunchtime, which left plenty of time for my last session of supermarket shopping. I stocked up on rye bread, lingonberry preserve, reindeer and similar goodies, not forgetting another Littala mug for my collection.

Getting to the airport presented a dilemma. Flying from any of the London airports, you are recommended to be at check-in two hours before your flight. In Rovaniemi, the airport taxi called at our hotel in the town centre one hour before the flight. My husband and I struggled with this concept and debated it at length. Finally, our inner Londoner won and we (almost certainly unnecessarily) got a regular taxi somewhat earlier.

An uneventful trip home, and we found ourselves at Heathrow in time to struggle back through the rush hour. I still can hardly believe I was at the Arctic Circle, although I can always keep an eye on what’s happening in Lordi Square with the city webcams. The square is named after the city’s most famous sons, a heavy metal band who won the Eurovision Song Contest in 2006. The sightseeing was wonderful, but was easily matched by the warm welcome we received from fellow Mensans. Next time – with snow!

First published in VISA issue 100 (Dec 2011)

Impossible Things, Before and After Breakfast

by Neil Matthews

“The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright -
And this was odd because it was
The middle of the night.”
(Lewis Carroll, Alice Through the Looking Glass)

This quotation came to mind as soon as we had booked the holiday in Russia - five nights in St Petersburg and two in Moscow. St Petersburg in June experiences the ‘White Nights’, when the city’s northerly location means that the hours of darkness are extremely short. It was disconcerting to wander back to our hotel at almost midnight under cloudless blue skies and unbroken sunshine.

Night-time sunshine was not the only odd aspect of the trip. In many ways, my pre-conceptions of the two cities derived from received perceptions of two major figures from Russian history. It is well known that Peter the Great was the essential inspiration for the creation of St Petersburg as a ‘window on the West’, a new city in European style reflecting Peter’s travels through western Europe as a young man. (Ironically, and in typical Russian fashion, the oldest surviving Russian city is Novgorod, whose name in Russian means ‘new town’.)

In contrast, I thought beforehand that the ancient and present Russian capital, Moscow, might still fall under some of the shadow of Communism - all that old footage of May Day military rallies at the Kremlin - and specifically Stalinism. Stalin, with his purges, paranoia and insistence on ‘socialist realism’ in the arts, did not seem to have been other than a negative, destructive force. Visiting the two cities did not destroy all my ideas and assumptions, but it did challenge them.

It would not be wise to make the facile mistake of trying to guess what an individual dead for over 200 years would make of modern St Petersburg. Peter was a man of his time and to treat him otherwise is to make him “a fish out of water”, as Ranjitsinghi wrote in another context. It is, in my view, quite legitimate to think about how impressive the new city of St Petersburg might have looked two centuries or more ago.

The horse drawn carriages carrying the aristocracy of the 18th century would probably have enjoyed the wide boulevards, so evocative of Paris. No doubt the painted facades in blue, green, yellow, pink and myriad other colours were even more beautiful when they had been in place for mere decades.

This is not to imply that the city is unattractive now - far from it. In some ways, in this “age of miracles and wonders”, it is surprising that St Petersburg has changed as little as it has, especially given its turbulent central role in Russian history over the past 100 years or so. The view along the Neva, for example, remains a largely unbroken and lovely vista. A visit to the Literary Café on Nevsky Prospekt, where Dostoevsky and many other writers once dined and where a string quartet will entertain you, offers a whiff of Imperial Viennese elegance. But back streets show telltale signs of decay, neglect and tiredness.

St Petersburg has embraced the West - to some extent, and not always for the better. At our nearest Metro station, there were wide screen advertisements, but no posters by the escalators. The Metro itself offers a curious mixture of design features and flaws. Many stations are designed with a little upward incline as trains pull into them, in order to decrease the pressure needed on the brakes. On the other hand, when your train stops at the next station and the doors open, there is often no sign confirming the name of the station; so you have to get out and hope that you have counted correctly!

The Hotel Moscow - the name is another perverse touch - included its own mini-market, beauty parlour, sauna, post office and casino amongst other things. While this was undoubtedly very convenient, I did wonder whether it was a legacy of the old Soviet suspicion of tourists and a wish to control them by making it easy for them to stay in one place and not ‘stray’. There was also the surreal touch of eating breakfast in a St Petersburg hotel to the live piano accompaniment of Midnight in Moscow and The Last Waltz. An English language newspaper, the St Petersburg Times, ran an article while we were there, calling for more Western investors to help set up mid-range hotels, which might be more suitable for modern tourists than the old, huge, relatively de luxe hotels.

Such mid-range hotels would probably not feature the blini bar we visited at the Hotel Moscow, where you can eat blini (pancakes) with various fillings. There is even a blini special, with choices of menu featuring blini as starter, main course and dessert. Anyone who recalls the episode from The Rise and Fall of Reginald Perrin where Perrin orders ravioli, ravioli and ravioli at an Italian restaurant will get the general idea.

Blini

The satellite TV in our hotel room carried BBC World broadcasts, including a special report on homelessness in St Petersburg. We recognised with some surprise that the report on Volodya (a contraction of Vladimir), who sells a Russian equivalent of The Big Issue, had been made directly outside our hotel. It was more disconcerting still to meet Volodya himself outside the hotel the next day. The world is a smaller place than ever. The local English language newspapers reported on the Bulger case and also on how one British school had imported teachers from Russia to solve its recruitment problems.

Maybe one should not exaggerate the extent of change in St Petersburg. The Hermitage is undoubtedly beautiful, although we glimpsed no more than a fraction of its content. We also spent a pleasant afternoon in and around the Alexander Nevsky monastery, and the cemetery which contains the gravesof many great composers including Borodin, Mussourgsky and Tchaikovsky. The Peter and Paul fortress now houses the remains of the last of the Romanovs; and you can buy Nicholas II commemorative mugs there, too. Thus does the whirligig of time bring in his revenges.

Overall, though, the city seems shrouded in a sense of melancholy. Its time has gone and may never come again - for all the jet skis on the Neva, the basketball competitions and rock concerts outside the Hermitage and the Pizza Huts and McDonalds along Nevsky Prospekt. I am not sure how much the city’s inhabitants actually want Westernisation - its benefits or problems. From a selfish, tourist viewpoint, it would also be sad if others could not do in future as we did, and eat blinis in a café across the river from St Isaac’s Cathedral for £1.50 per head!

One myth is due a decent burial: St Petersburg is not, never will be and probably never was “the Venice of the North”. Aspects of the city reminded us more of Paris (the boulevards and street artists), Vienna (architecture and cafes), Prague (bridges) and Amsterdam (canals). It does share a certain surreal quality with Venice, but not for the same reasons.

A 5½ hour journey on what may be the world’s slowest ‘express’ train, in the company of some excitable middle-aged Italians, took us to Moscow and the Hotel Ukraine. This monstrous creation boasts 28 floors - though no 13th - and over 1500 rooms. The tour brochure labelled its exterior as ‘Stalinist wedding cake’, but the architect had probably seen too many old RKO serials e.g. Flash Gordon or King of the Rocket Men. The inside was much more elegant in look and style, but there was still plenty to interest and intrigue. There were a number of seemingly redundant lifts at various points. One or two floors included the old Soviet ‘design feature’ of a middle-aged lady at a desk, presumably waiting for secret agents to sidle up to her with key code phrases such as “The bathroom illuminations have been destroyed”. In contrast to Midnight in Moscow on piano in the hotel in St Petersburg, taped Western music played while we sampled the array of breakfast options including sausages, rissoles with suspicious fillings and bread pudding.

A brief digression on food: Russia will not offer a great culinary experience for the discerning. But we did enjoy the solyanka (meat soup), pelmeni (a cousin of ravioli), sturgeon and other fish and the aforementioned blini. Vegetarians will not go hungry, either, even if Russian salads do tend to contain substantial meat or fish elements. We ate in Lebanese, American rodeo theme and pizza restaurants, amongst other places.

With less time in Moscow than St Petersburg, we focused mainly on the inevitable: Red Square, the Kremlin and the Metro. Red Square is neither red nor square - the original Russian name was not ‘red’, but ‘beautiful’ (I think!) The weather was so hot and sunny, and the hustle and bustle of tourists and locals so overwhelming, that any sense of lingering menace from Cold War days was simply non-existent. We did not get to see Mr Lenin, as it is forbidden to take cameras or bags into the tomb - but there is nowhere available to store these items. I should also mention that Mr Lenin is closed to visitors on Fridays. Even a dead icon of world revolution needs a day off, it seems.

The Kremlin we found most impressive, and good value at 1000 roubles - equivalent to £30 for two adults, which included an additional fee for permission to take photographs. There was virtually no queue for the Armoury, with its displays of Faberge eggs and many other attractions, when we arrived, although we did see many tourist groups entering as we left. (It was certainly better value than the overpriced Tower of London, where hapless visitors are carried on a conveyor belt past a giant screen showing a video of the Coronation, and then past the Crown Jewels - a sort of Generation Game in reverse, without cuddly toys.)

We could easily have spent more time in the Kremlin’s array of cathedrals and its beautiful gardens. The Russians are proud of possessing ‘the world’s biggest bell’, although it does have a large piece broken off it - maybe by the world’s largest mice? A large cannon from Revolutionary times faces the current State Council building, perhaps symbolically...Talking of symbolism, on one side of Red Square there is GUM, the famous shopping centre. Lenin might turn in his tomb (but not on Fridays) to see it now. GUM’s grey exterior belies a beautiful interior, whose style reminded me of St Petersburg or even Milan. Most of the shops appeared to be designer clothes stores or shoe shops.

The Metro induced mixed feelings. I had expected to be appalled by the opulence which had been described to me in its decorations. It was built by prisoners in the 1930s as a piece of political nose thumbing at the West by Stalin. Considering the shortages, the climate of fear and the millions of Russian lives lost or ruined at the time, the time and money spent on marble decorations for an underground seems obscene in many ways, and yet...

When I saw the bronze figures at Ploschchad Revolutsi, or the Socialist art in Kievskaya, Belorusskaya and Mayakovskaya, it was impossible to condemn it completely. Let us hope that the horrors of world war, experienced by Russia more than most countries, never come again. But, if they do, the citizens of a besieged city might, just might, find some small comfort in the images of unity, determination and compassion. In modern Moscow, they are a welcome flash of colour.

Time defeated our efforts to explore Moscow more thoroughly. We did finally locate the old Lubyanka - once headquarters of the KGB - in a square of depressingly similar grey buildings, having waved at the shop staff dressed up as M and Ms who were cavorting in the heat on the other side of the square. At least they lent it some cheer.

Russia is probably too vast a country to generalise about, but Lewis Carroll’s characters might very well have been quite at home in St Petersburg and Moscow - two odd and surprising cities.

First published in VISA issue 44 (winter 2001)

John Keeble's Thailand Live Blog

I met Satan on the way out of Chiang Mai. He seemed a nice enough chap. Ready smile. Helpful. He was working for Thai immigration. That's how I recognised him – he had his name on his identity badge.

He processed my exit permission at Chiang Mai airport. I thanked him, said 'Get thee behind me Satan', and stepped into the limbo of the air transport system.

I took it as a good sign. I was going to need the luck of the devil to make my spur of the moment Myanmar travel hopes work.

 

Another day, another airport

 

Autumn in Helsinki

by Elizabeth Johnstone

My husband Gavin and I like to get away in the autumn/winter and we have had many excellent city breaks in European cities. In October we went to Helsinki, a slightly unusual destination, perhaps, but less than three hours flying time from London and in the Euro zone. We live in Hertfordshire, so took the train into Kings Cross and then to St Pancras. There we picked up the Brighton train which deposited us at Gatwick relatively painlessly. I had booked the EasyJet flights back in April, before I joined the Finn-Guild, the Finnish language and cultural organisation. I booked the hotel through their offshoot, Guild Travel, and got an excellent deal at the Soskos Hotel Vaakuna. Had I known, I could have booked the whole package through them which might have been preferable in the post-ash environment.

I did my homework via the Rough Guide to Helsinki and Lonely Planet Guide to Helsinki, so plenty of activities were planned. The first evening, we went to a restaurant (www.ravintolakaarna.fi) where we had a light meal of Nordic tapas. I enjoyed venison and smoked reindeer, and my husband’s plate featured smoked salmon and the popular local fish vendace. It was the first, but not the last, time we were to meet Finland’s draconian alcohol pricing. Every drink is measured scrupulously and priced eye-wateringly. 5 or 6 euros for 400cl of beer and 7, 8, 9 or more euros for 12 cl of wine was about standard. Alcohol other than the weakest beer can only be bought in the attractively named Alko, which makes you feel like one. We saw plenty of youngsters on Saturday night ‘pre-loading’ with off-licence cans before having to pay even higher prices in clubs etc. Behaviour a little boisterous, nothing terrible, but police well in evidence.

Our hotel was built for the 1952 Olympics and retained that look, but had all the usual mod cons. It was just across the square from the spectacular main railway station (which we did not hear) and could not have been more central. The buffet breakfast, where the Finns filled up on porridge before tackling the rest of the spread, was excellent though at times the tables needed to be cleared more quickly.

Our first full day was Sunday which meant that there was a dearth of places to visit, but we struck lucky with Kiasma where the building is as much a work of art as the contents. Ironically, the top floor contained an exhibition by Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin which quite frankly brought to mind the phrase ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’. I tried out my limited Finnish buying stamps and postcards at the GPO then we made our way to Stockmann, the John Lewis of Finland, whose Helsinki branch is the biggest department store in the Nordic countries. After a delicious lunch, we bought tickets for an orchestral concert that afternoon at the Finlandia-talo Hall, one of many architectural masterpieces by Alvar Aalto. This was a great idea for a dark rainy Sunday afternoon. It was fascinating to see how seriously the Finnish audience took the concert (well, it was the Sibelius Violin Concerto, in his native land). Banks and banks of cloakrooms catered for every member of the audience who were all in Sunday best.

That evening, we ate at a superb restaurant where my husband had a mixed seafood fry-up and I had calf’s liver, bacon etc. By mistake we ordered starters, ‘small’ portions of salmon soup. Gavin commented that he had had less salmon in a main course. The soup would have been sufficient as a meal in itself. Of course, I am so greedy that I ate most of my main course as well.

Monday was fine enough for some serious sightseeing. We headed for the Senate Square, the classical heart of the city, with its harmonious ensemble of historic buildings. The elegant Lutheran Cathedral dominates the square. I very much liked its severe interior, although some might find it bare. By chance, there was an exhibition of life-size bears (the Buddy Bear project) designed to portray the national characteristics of the different countries. I was very taken by the cigar-chomping Cuban bear! As this was a great exhibition for children, there were various groups of pre-schoolers in evidence. Every child wore a high-visibility vest, making them look like groups of miniature council workers. Full marks for child safety!


We walked down to the harbour which was not at its liveliest on a dreich October morning, past the summer high season and not yet into pre-Christmas. But we admired the massive ferries, waiting to set off for Sweden and Estonia, and browsed among the market stalls. The fish was so fresh that it was virtually still flapping, lingonberries were sold by the litre, and the refreshment tent advertised that the temperature inside was a good 18C. I was drawn magnetically to the stalls selling fur items, many of which were of excellent quality – Finnish ladies as well as tourists were shopping. Of course, fur is a contentious issue. It would take a brave person to wear real fur in London, especially some of the less tasteful items featuring the deceased animal’s face. Whatever your views, it is hard to argue with the necessity of wearing the warmest possible clothing in the winter temperatures that the Nordic countries achieve.

From above, the Church in the Rock (above) looks as though a flying saucer has crash-landed and buried itself in the hillside. Inside, it is an impressive and atmospheric combination of natural and manmade materials, very conducive to spiritual thoughts apart from the coach parties who troop through regularly.

That evening, we ate at the very entertaining Zetor. I had one of the most typical Finnish dishes, sautéed reindeer with mashed potatoes and lingonberries. I could wax lyrical about these little bubbles of deliciousness, which pop in your mouth to add a fruity tang to your meal.

Then it was off to some dancing. My goodness, the Finns take their dancing (like most things) seriously. Gavin and I were a bit rusty and felt intimidated by our lack of prowess, so we practised at the side before daring to step onto the dance floor. I bet all you Strictly fans did not know that the Finnish tango is a recognised variant of the dance.

Our last full day featured a ferry trip out to Suomenlinna, the Fortress of Finland. I predicted correctly that this series of small islands guarding the sea entrance to Helsinki, with its fortifications and gun emplacements, would appeal to my husband. The ferry left from the main harbour. With serendipitous timing, the President of Finland stepped out of the presidential palace right in front of us to bid farewell to an official guest, to the accompaniment of an army band and an honour guard from the navy. I told Gavin I had arranged it all specially, but he did not believe me.

We spent a pleasant couple of hours on a bright and brisk day clambering around the islands, with spectacular views back towards Helsinki and out towards Estonia, a close neighbour and now an EU partner. On our return, we visited the Russian Orthodox Cathedral, whose gold-edged domes face the more sober cupola of its Lutheran counterpart. As you would expect from the biggest Russian Orthodox church outside Russia in Western Europe, the interior decoration was sumptuous.

Our evening’s entertainment was an ice hockey match at the Hartwall Areena. Ice hockey is massive in Finland - only Canada has a higher proportion of professional players per head of population. The biggest Helsinki team is the Jokers and we went to see their league match, having bought tickets online back in the UK. It was also their anniversary, and they lined up all the teams for a salute. What a spectacle! I don’t have a sporty bone in my body, but I couldn’t help being thrilled by the speed and excitement of the play. Dry ice, cheerleaders, pounding music, the Rocky theme every time the Jokers scored, fanatical supporters – it was a great finale to our stay.

Our flight home the next day was not until late in the evening so, after checking out at noon, we pleasantly filled in time at the Botanical Gardens and the harbour (I just had to stroke those furs one more time) with lunch at Kappeli . ‘Soup of the day’ with rye bread and butter was more of a big meat and potatoes dinner in a tasty broth. Just the ticket for a winter’s day. We admired the sailing ships in the old harbour and warmed ourselves up with coffee and buns at Cafe Esplanad (www.esplanad.fi). All too soon it was time to make our way to the airport which we did easily by local bus. Packed in our suitcases were my culinary trophies: various berry jams, smoked reindeer, smoked salmon trout and hot-smoked salmon, rye-bread rolls, xylitol chewing gum and strong Finnish coffee.

So what else caught my attention? Heavy double doors in every public building; the superb English of almost everyone; separate bills (Gavin was startled when the waiter asked if we were paying together); no-one crossing at red lights even if there was no traffic; Moomins.

So, fascinating from start to…well, you guessed it!


First published in VISA 94 (Dec 2010)