German efficiency evidently extends to telling fibs or at least in getting away with ‘let’s-land-an-hour-late-and-hope-that-none-notices’. And they did. Land an hour late. They may have mentioned that we were late to everyone else, but as I was in La La Dire Straits Land (no visa required) I kinda missed it… if indeed it happened. Sneaker buggers.
An hour of baggage handling fun, a zoom across a bleak snow swept St Petersburg and I arrived at the apartment – scene of much drama in recent times and still something of a quandary. What a mess. Exiting interest seemed to have packed up everything – her stuff, my stuff and the landlord’s stuff – then decided what was worth nicking if it’ll fit in the car. Weird un-boxing your own stuff without having moved anywhere. Aside from boxes the joint was a mess and not a drop of water in sight. A quick twist of the stop cock rewarded me with a jet of scalding water scything past my right ear to splat the wall behind in a gentle rusty beige. How to scrub up? Open stopcock. Run to bathroom. Fill bucket. Run back. Mop wall. Easy.
Forever exhausted but tirelessly enthusiastic on matters of family, Viktor the Accountant processes tricky accounting situations for grateful clients while dreaming of his own hotel on the shores of Old Ladoga*, Viktor has been a friend for many years. As one of only two Russians that I trust he is a must see whenever I come to St Petersburg. We exchange champagne, whisky and news and plan (as we do every time we meet) to start doing some work together.
From Viktor’s office it’s a sprint home where flu and fatigue lure me into a quick nap. 2 hours later and Oleg the landlord appears to fix leaking pipes and change locks. In some otherworldly trance I head to Nevsky Prospekt resplendent with New Year decorations and traffic far heavier than the city’s founders could have forseen. The formality of passing muster to earn a Russian multiple entry visa is an annual chore. My application has trundled its way around the various ministries who decide such things in Putin’s new post Soviet Russia. A thumbs up from the KGB, natty certificate gets issued and the last stop is the only decent travel ticket agency on town. Dressed like a Bond girl, Natasha hands over the goods in exchange for a scribble on the visa roll and a bottle of FG. Such a pleasure.
By now my flat is hosting a swarm of neighbours, drills, pipes and a haze of expletives from the plumber who’s rampant binge drinking has been so rudely interrupted for the sake of labour.
*(A lake to the east of St Petersburg and the largest in Europe)
An hour of baggage handling fun, a zoom across a bleak snow swept St Petersburg and I arrived at the apartment – scene of much drama in recent times and still something of a quandary. What a mess. Exiting interest seemed to have packed up everything – her stuff, my stuff and the landlord’s stuff – then decided what was worth nicking if it’ll fit in the car. Weird un-boxing your own stuff without having moved anywhere. Aside from boxes the joint was a mess and not a drop of water in sight. A quick twist of the stop cock rewarded me with a jet of scalding water scything past my right ear to splat the wall behind in a gentle rusty beige. How to scrub up? Open stopcock. Run to bathroom. Fill bucket. Run back. Mop wall. Easy.
Forever exhausted but tirelessly enthusiastic on matters of family, Viktor the Accountant processes tricky accounting situations for grateful clients while dreaming of his own hotel on the shores of Old Ladoga*, Viktor has been a friend for many years. As one of only two Russians that I trust he is a must see whenever I come to St Petersburg. We exchange champagne, whisky and news and plan (as we do every time we meet) to start doing some work together.
From Viktor’s office it’s a sprint home where flu and fatigue lure me into a quick nap. 2 hours later and Oleg the landlord appears to fix leaking pipes and change locks. In some otherworldly trance I head to Nevsky Prospekt resplendent with New Year decorations and traffic far heavier than the city’s founders could have forseen. The formality of passing muster to earn a Russian multiple entry visa is an annual chore. My application has trundled its way around the various ministries who decide such things in Putin’s new post Soviet Russia. A thumbs up from the KGB, natty certificate gets issued and the last stop is the only decent travel ticket agency on town. Dressed like a Bond girl, Natasha hands over the goods in exchange for a scribble on the visa roll and a bottle of FG. Such a pleasure.
By now my flat is hosting a swarm of neighbours, drills, pipes and a haze of expletives from the plumber who’s rampant binge drinking has been so rudely interrupted for the sake of labour.
*(A lake to the east of St Petersburg and the largest in Europe)
No comments:
Post a Comment