So, this is it. Morning of the final day of my journey from Tokyo to Sheffield. In a few hours, Mr. C will be arrive from Bristol to take the helm of the family chariot and drive it three hours north to the university of Sheffield, from where I shall pick up a key to Broad Lane Court, the now familiar block of early-90s housing that we all know and love. No doubt I will then be meeting my housemates (at this stage I know that one is American and another Jamaican), and wondering how on earth I'm going to fit everything in that room. They're not the largest of student flats you've ever seen, but they are clean, warm, and have high-speed internet (I noticed yesterday that I can set my Airmac Extreme to generate an invisible wireless network, so that gets over the issue of no wireless networks being allowed).

Penguin at dawn


I finally finished my packing yesterday afternoon. I've managed to reduce my long term memory collection (that being schoolwork, letters, diaries, cards and photos) down to 6 banana boxes, which can be stored under my bed for the time being and sent to Japan when the time comes. Mum and dad have been just great, giving me the space and time I need whilst feeding me yummy food and doing all my washing! Despite being in a financially sticky situation, they have also been very generous in covering my transport costs, getting my 16-year-old bicycle serviced and sorting out a big box of food to keep me going until my student loan comes through.

I'm pleased to have been able to keep my body clock on Moscow time, waking naturally just after 6am. Early to rise and early to bed is my ideal rhythm, but whether I can maintain it whilst at uni I don't know. I was asleep by 9pm yesterday!


Waking this morning I feel excitement, it's surging through my body. There's a nervousness too. The nervousness is connected with the thought of all the things I will be committing myself to doing. The course. The Japan Society. The Photography Society. The Student Ambassador thing. The daily exercise. The web-site creation. Oh, and the part-time job, which I now accept is going to be necessary if I don't want to end up begging towards the end of term.

Where's the time for my reading? Returning home last week I was delighted to find an article in Resurgence by Deepak Chopra; it was a response to Richard Dawkins' book The God Delusion, which I note with sadness remains in the top 10 bestseller list. Unfortunately I don't have it to hand (it's at the bottom of one of my boxes ready to go to Sheffield), but it is a superb expose of the fundamental flaws in Dawkins' thinking. It left me thinking of Dawkins as the Channel 5 of the literary world - full of cheap sensational crap aimed at those who have just finished reading Big Brother 345 - Debbie's secret diary from the inside.

That was actually the first of Chopra's works I've read, despite being only too familiar with his name. Having read that, I asked mum if they happened to have any books by him. I suppose I shouldn't have been all that surprised when she produced two, one dealing with coronary diseases and how to overcome them, the other focusing on The Path to Love. I started reading the latter last night and have found it utterly inspiring.

Nephew No. 1, Jamie, playing the clown



In this book, Deepak 'explains how we can rediscover the love we long for, one which is rich and meaningful, satisfying and lasting - by restoring to love its missing element: spirituality'. I can see that by reading this book one could come to appreciate one's relationship with one's partner, family and friends on a whole new level, and come to accept that when one is struggling with others, really one is struggling with oneself. One's current partner is always the right person - the right person for who we are at that time.

Through the glass: Nephew No.2, Edward



Unfortunately I now have to load the car up, and I doubt I will make the time for this book once I reach Sheffield, so instead I shall be buying the audiobook version from Audible.co.uk - Hurrah for modern technology and its role in the path to enlightenment!

Nephew No.3, little Ralph


See you in the North!

Love, Joseph

I find it somewhat ironic that it's only now I reach the UK that internet access becomes an issue.

Mongolian Yurts? Light-speed connections to the information superhighway.

Isolated Chinese border-town hotels? SO online there's a Google search toolbar in the bathroom to help locate lost contact lenses.

Dodgy 8th-floor youth hostels in Moscow? Username and password required to flush the toilet.

Parent's home in Western England? A wind-up telephone attached to the net courtesy of long piece of string, and a Windows 98 PC that has all the internet-connectivity skills of a stale chocolate-chip cookie.

Thus, the lack of Mumbles of late. That, and of course the only-to-be-expected reaction against the keyboard following a month of copious drivvling.

So, where are we then?

The folks' place, Herefordshire, 3 hours West of London. Dangerously close to Wales. I've been here about five days now, having spent last weekend visiting the Bristol crowd. I would be making my way to Sheffield already, my final destination, were it not for the fact that my housing contract only comes into force on Saturday morning. I welcome the pause however, as it gives me the opportunity to do the annual sort-through of belongings that mum and dad have stored under my old bunk-bed. This time I'm being extra-ruthless, as when I return from Sheffield next summer I'll be off to Japan for good (a.k.a. a decade or so), thus anything that I won't use this year as a student is going. Books, 200 Minidisks of music and 3 Sony Minidisk players/recorders, 90 CDs, miles of USB cabling, a chess set, more books...

I am helped in my task this time by the reminder that I am not the 'owner' of any of these things, just the temporary keeper, and I will be letting go of them all one day anyway. Having this at the forefront of my mind as I sort through objects that at one point were a major part of my life (such as my minidisk collection) makes assigning them to the relevant box (Charity shop / eBay / Sheffield Freecycle / recycling bin) much easier.

Whilst rummaging around in the front bedroom I came across one box that I had completely forgotten about: the one containing 6 months' worth of anti-epilepsy drugs. That's 3200 purple pills to be returned to the doctor with a smile. It's been about 3 months now since I replaced my Epilim with organic multi-vitamins (and extra vitamin B complex), and I had been looking forward to seeing the epilepsy specialist in Bristol later this month. That was the appointment that I made 18 months ago, with one of the UK's best consultants. The appointment which, when late on Wednesday afternoon I finally located the letter detailing the appointment, turned out to be early on Wednesday afternoon.

Woops.

It's been a good week though. Babies seem to have been the dominant theme. Firstly, there's my new nephew, third son of my amazing sister (and her husband). You know, she really is incredible. If I were her I would be definitely be having a breakdown, every ounce of sanity having been purged from my brain by the non-stop stress generated by having to look after a baby whilst trying to stop a 4-year-old and a 2-year-old from destroying the planet whilst fighting over the Noddy car. The problem is, whatever one of them wants to play with, the other then wants. I think parallel universes are about the only thing that would keep them quiet.

That's not to say that they're not adorable. They do make you smile, especially when you listen in to the two of them on the baby monitor at bedtime, big brother Jamie trying to reassure little brother Edward that it's alright, mummy will be coming upstairs soon, he doesn't need to cry. Oh, and the first thing Jessie heard when she woke up in the morning: "Did you have nice dreams mummy?"

Another very cute baby I was happy to finally meet was Lewie, product of co-operation between dear Jo and Jim of Bristol fame. They make a great family; it's so good to see how things have worked out since our college days together, and I feel very grateful to be counted as one of their friends.

Next little'un to visit was the littlest of the lot - Alice and James' 5 day old bundle of loveliness, Isaac. He's mightily cute, as only newly-born babies know how to be. Quiet too, something one can't help but feel is a significant bonus having been around toddlers for a couple of days!

The final baby of the week to make my acquaintance was Jo and Joe's 9-month-old son, Ben. He's a lovely boy, and despite initially being a bit shy around the bearded stranger, by late afternoon he was more than happy to try to pull my nose off. I got some lovely shots of him - he's very photogenic.

This baby-fest (which is a continuation of that that began in Japan where 4 of my friends became parents this year) has left me really looking forward to becoming a dad, and thinking what a great mum *Twinkle* will be.

---

I am happy being here in England. There has been no reverse culture shock - I've lived in this country for over 2 decades so I really should know the score. In fact, it's all been remarkably easy, and leads me to question the very existence of (reverse) culture shock as anything other than a figment of one's imagination - yet it is something I have felt keenly upon returning to the UK in previous years. It would seem that my three-pronged approach has worked. When on that train in Russia I made the decision to

be happy to return

accept differences in attitudes towards life and others with recognition that this is what I have always known here

live in the present, one day at a time

There is one more factor which I believe has aided me considerably, and that is the lack of heartache (something of a novelty for a Joseph returning from Japan). This time I have a great big rock of security (I'm not sure if *Twinkle* would appreciate being called a 'great big rock' ...but it's a very pretty rock that I happen to fancy rather a lot), a strong source of love and support which gives me an incredible sense of strength and ease. I feel very secure, protected by our partnership. Whilst I guard against becoming dependent upon another for my own sense of identity, I celebrate being a part of our relationship. Our meeting was a precious gift, which serves to further encourage me to believe in an intelligent energy that serves as our shared source.

I wonder how I would be feeling now if I hadn't embarked upon this voyage of self-discovery this year? I guess that I would be carrying on as before, agreeing with others who told me that it was going to be difficult, feeling that it was difficult, and having a difficult time.

You know what though? It seems I'm not the only one who has an attitude of acceptance towards life (now there's a surprise!). It's the just-bought-a-red-car syndrome (suddenly there's red cars everywhere). For the first time I'm noticing the embrace without stress or worry by friends and family of what many in this world might refer to as 'problems'. Acceptance, and trust that all will work out (because funnily enough, it always does!). On those occasions this week when I have met people with a lack of trust / distinctly negative attitudes towards life's happenings, I've found myself recognising their stance immediately, like a red hot poker up my nostril, only without the singed hair. Whereas a year ago I may have voiced agreement that yes indeed, that's really not fair and is something to be angry about, or yes, so-and-so is a pain in the arse, now, I find it impossible to back up such opinions and not feel dark. Why confirm their negativity? It does them no favours, it does me no favours, it does the world no favours.

---

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Mr. C, who has very kindly agreed to do me a huge favour and drive my parents' car full of stuff to Sheffield tomorrow. The privilege is usually dad's, but he has been struck down by a rather ferocious attack of the flu rendering him horizontal, poor chap. I'd drive myself if I had a license, but I won't be reapplying until next summer, a year after my last epileptic seizure.

The academic emails have begun to arrive from tutors at university, reminding me of the task ahead. This morning I read the first half of a book on dissertation writing, and have a topic in mind. I have a stack of A4 pads ready to be scribbled on, and 2 boxes full of pens and post-it notes. The kanji revision cards have been recovered from the bottom of a box of T-shirts, and are sitting expectantly on the sideboard. Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway Joseph!!

Anyway, I am now off to town with mother to pick up my freshly-serviced bicycle, the bicycle that will help me return to Japan as the most pert-buttocked Westerner ever to have stepped foot on their concrete shores. Maybe.

And then tomorrow morning, it's Sheffield Here I Come!

Tarra.

There's no words for this Mumble.


Except to say, it's good to see this familiar sunrise again.

Date and Time: Thursday 13th September, 2007. 15:49 BST

Location: Carriage C, Seat 35, First Great Western to Newport, 3 minutes West of London

Crikey o'reiley! How on Earth can anyone afford to live in London?! 2 hours there has nearly bankrupt me! You know how much a single ticket on the underground costs? Let's do a comparison:

Beijing: about 21 pence
Moscow: 34 pence
Tokyo: 70 pence
London: FOUR POUNDS!!!

And they're trying to reduce congestion??? I think that is an absolute outrage, and as a mark of protest I shall not return to London unless absolutely vital. So naaaa. That'll hurt 'em!

And it's not just the tube. You know what the minimum charge from a public call box is now? 40p!!! That's DOUBLE what it was when I left last year!

OK, deep breath.

I don't really mind at all as I rarely use public phones and seldom visit London.

---

Talk about baptism of fire. London had some nice surprises in store for me, aside from ticket prices. Well, British Rail to be precise. It all started when I went to the ticket office at Waterloo station to renew my Young Person's Railcard. I'd bought my ticket from London to Hereford online in Tokyo, selecting the Young Person's Railcard option, thinking that when I got to London I could simply renew my old railcard. At that point, I had about an hour until my train departed.

Things seemed to be going ok, until the chap behind the counter noticed my date of birth.

"Ah, you're over twenty five".

"Yes, that's right. I'm a mature student".

"Ah, mature student. I'm afraid if you're a mature student you can't renew your railcard without additional ID."

"That's OK, I've got my student card here."

"I'm afraid I can't accept that. You either need your university's stamp on the form, or an International Student ID card. Without it, you can't renew your card, and without a railcard, you can't use your ticket. You'll need to buy a new one. It'll be £50."

After an initial reaction that I vocalised with a high pitched and fairly loud "WHAT?!!", I stopped, and took a deep breath. What had I been listening to this morning? Wasn't it a lesson in how to deal with frustrating situations?

Breathe Joseph, Breathe.

I smiled at the chap, and said, "OK, ok, so basically, if I can somehow get an ISIC card in the next 30 minutes, I'll be able to renew my railcard, and catch that train from Paddington with my existing ticket?"

"Well, theoretically. But I doubt you'll be able to do that. I have no idea where you could get one of them. Not round here."

"Thanks."

I picked up my rucksacks (which suddenly seemed to have put rather a lot of weight on) and left the ticket office, wondering what on Earth I could do. Think, think. ISIC card. There's only one place I know you can get them, and that's STA travel, the student travel company. But where am I going to find one of them?



It was time to give British Telecom a pint of my blood (otherwise known as £1.00, or 100 pence, or 5 trips on the Shanghai subway), for the privilege of connecting to the internet for up to 15 minutes. That's even more expensive than that rip-off joint in Moscow! OK Joseph, calm down. We're not in Moscow now. This is London. I browse to STA's website and check out their store locater. Nearest one is... er, I haven't a clue. There's lots of places in London listed, but I haven't a clue where any of them are. Except one - Victoria, I've been to Victoria station, that's probably easiest.

Amputating my leg and giving it to London Underground PLC, I board a tube train. 10 minutes later I'm there, and looking to see where the sun is - according to STA's map the branch was to the south of the station. Rounding the corner of the next to the park I spy their office, career across the road in front of several taxis and a London Bus, slam through the front door and, gasping for breathe explain my plight to the man behind the counter. He'd been looking incredibly bored, but on hearing of my mission jumped up from his seat and said, "Ok, well usually you have to make an appointment, but this sounds like an emergency - we can't have you missing the last train of what sounds like an epic adventure!" With that he takes my details and sends me off to a photo booth in the nearby station; I return minutes later with a lovely selection of shots of one sweat-drenched boy looking somewhat uptight.

He is my hero, and within 5 minutes I'm seen running from the shop, ISIC card in hand. The clock is ticking away - I have 25 minutes until my train departs. In that time I have to donate my left arm to London Underground to get to Paddington, then beg with anyone in the queue at the ticket office to let me be a Russian and push in at the front. I rehearse my speech in my head, and picture myself on my knees in front of some suited businessman, pleading with him to let me go first.

As it happens, when I get to the office I see the First Class counter is free, the chap behind the glass looking half-asleep. I soon wake him up with my story, "PLEASE could you renew my railcard! You'd really save my bacon. Grudgingly he accepts my application form. When he tells me "Sorry, can't do it, you need your university stamp" I try not to look victorious and push my shiney new ISIC card through the slot. He's not impressed by my preparedness, and ignores me as I tell him what fun I've had to reach this point. A couple of minutes later he's done though - I have a new Young Person's Railcard, and a train waiting for me on Platform 4.

Success!

---

I shed a few more tears when walking the South Bank (prior to all the excitement). Tears of gratitude, tears of achievement. I'd actually done it! I'd made it all the way from Tokyo to London by train (and ferry, and car, and bus). A pretty amazing achievement really, even if I do say so myself. The longest journey I'd ever taken. It forms half of one of my long held life-long ambitions - to circumnavigate the globe without the use of planes.

It's funny being back in the UK. Or, more precisely, it's funny being back amongst British people. They're so proper! Personal space seems to be highly valued - when making my mad dash from Waterloo to Paddington via Victoria on the bankruptcy metro, I accidentally bumped into a couple of people. I apologised, but clearly this wasn't enough, they weren't at all happy.

Reintergrating is going to be interesting.

OK, enough for now. Time I looked out of the window.

Love joseph

Date and Time: Thursday 13th September, 2007. 11:56 CET

Location: Carriage 4, Sear 24, Eurostar train from Brussels to London - about to depart Brussels

Well boys and girls we made it! I tell you, it was so nice to reach British Passport Control in Brussels.

"Hello, how are you?" I was asked by the chap behind the counter.

"Very well thanks, and very happy to see you!"

I mentioned that I'd come from Tokyo and he was intrigued. He seemed to forget about the queue behind me and started asking all sorts of questions. What countries had I been through? What was the most memorable bit of the trip? What was it like being back in Europe? What a nice welcome home (and I haven't even reached the UK yet!).

The ICE train from Koln to Brussels was lovely. The driver sits in a cabin with a perspex wall, enabling the few passengers that were on board to watch him play with his knobs. It was terribly exciting for a little boy like me.



There's been a few occasions this morning when I've turned my attention to the fact that this journey is very nearly at an end. Yes, it's still another 9 days until I reach my final destination, Sheffield, but of course, stepping back onto British soil is the major marker in time. Recalling the events of the past 4 weeks has seen me overcome with emotion, bringing tears to my eyes. Thinking of all the amazing characters I've met along the way, the many challenging situations I've found myself in... I find it deeply moving to recall the many acts of kindness that have been shown towards me. This journey just would not have been possible without the support of so many, and for that I will always be deeply grateful.

---

Crikey, this Eurostar train is FLYING! And I only paid them 30 Euros for this Brussels to London trip. That's cheaper than any flight - only takes a couple of hours too. Why people still fly I don't know... [and as of November 17th, the Eurostar service will be even faster, thanks to the opening of London's new St. Pancreas terminal and the new high-speed rail link leading from it].



Minor glitches aside, I think overall the uploading-on-the-road thing has worked pretty well. Feedback welcome.

Hmm, it sounds like I'm wrapping things up - and I've not even passed beneath the English Channel yet! Stay tuned folks, it's not over yet!

Date and Time: Thursday 13th September, 2007. 00:02 CET

Location: Berth 32, train from Moscow to Cologne, German border control

So this is it, just left Poland, now back in comfortable EU territory. By that I mean we're now in a country where I can speak the language, at least to a certain extent, with a healthy dose of Japanese unconsciously thrown in where memory fails me. You have no idea how exciting this is for me after 4 weeks of feeling like an imbecile!

You know how long the border official held onto my passport for? About 3 seconds! Oh the joy of not being a hardcore foreigner!

It's hard to believe that despite being 3 countries away from the UK (Germany, Belgium, France) I will actually be there in precisely 12 hours. After traversing the vast expanse of Russia these European countries seem like miniature counties, little toy countries that just occupy the eye for a second or two. Crikey, I mean, I could walk home from here if I felt the urge. (but actually, I think I'll stay in my comfy bed, then transfer to Germany's ultra sexy answer to the bullet train - the ICE - then in Belgium board the legendary Eurostar for the final leg through France and under the sea. No doubt when we make landfall in the UK a 30mph limit will be imposed due to flooding and we'll take another 3 days to reach London...)

I understand that the rhubarb is already being prepared for tonight's (tonight's...??!!! yippppeeee!!) celebratory meal, oh, and all but one of my parcels sent by surface, SAL and air mail from Japan have arrived and are waiting for me to open. Thinking about this I have very mixed emotions. Whilst I am excited about being back in the UK, I think that this is a reaction to 4 weeks of having to watch my luggage and struggling to communicate (don't get me wrong, I don't regard this as having been a negative experience in the slightest. It's been one of the most fun and memorable trips of my life ever, and I would do it again - but it'll be nice to be able to totally relax for a change!).

However, if I think about opening parcels from Japan... well, that's a different kettle of fish. It bypasses the past 4 weeks and summons the harsh reality that I am a long long way away from 'home'. No matter how gentle the re-entry process, it still doesn't change the basic facts. It'll be interesting to see how I deal with it. Currently, my biggest concern is mum and dad's lack of broadband internet, the only connection being a very slow dial-up via my first computer, a Windows 98 PC!

Anyway, enough of this midnight babble. After a stop of approximately 15 minutes we have left border control (the Russians, who held us up for 11 hours coming out of Mongolia could learn a thing or two from the Germans me thinks...), and are now zooming across Deutschland (the spelling of which I forget), scheduled to reach Cologne in just under 6 hours.

I think I'll have a shave in my private sink, before settling down to a few hours kip on my final overnight trip on this voyage half-way around the world in 28 days.

Date and Time: Wednesday 12th September, 2007. 14:26 CET

Location: Berth 32, train from Moscow to Cologne, somewhere in Eastern Poland

I suppose it's only appropriate that after a year of heavy use (almost every day) and much brutal treatment, my trusty laptop starts to show signs of wear and tear. In a way, I am happy about the breaking off of a section of plastic from its front. It is a sign of maturity. A sign that it is a trusty workhorse, not just some posey toy with a picture of an apple on. Although I wasn't necessarily expecting this breakage, I'm not all that surprised: Sir Simon (who waved me off from Osaka port many moons ago) has a reconditioned model with the same problem, caused by near-constant pressure applied by the lid to this particular section of plastic next to the trackpad. A design flaw. Apple, please take note.

---

Hello Poland



So yes, I've finally arrived in the EU. It makes such a refreshing change to not have my passport taken away for hours on end at the border. A brief glance at the United Kingdom emblem on the front, a casual flick through the pages and it's handed back with a courteous 'thank you'. No more intimidating border officials removing ceiling panels and emptying out bags in search of illegal imports of bears paws either. It feels good to not be classed as a criminal until proven otherwise.

Even the Russian woman who's looking after us has a European attitude. There's no more shouting at us to get back in our boxes. Instead, she comes politely knocking at our doors, asking if we would like a cup of coffee to help pass the time whilst the bogeys are being changed.

I always thought that a rather strange name for a set of wheels. That aside, the little boy in me was mightily excited when I realised that the huge warehouse we'd been shunted into was the bogey-changing station. I'd read about it in the guidebook: Mongolia, Russia and Belarus use an abnormally wide gauge track on their railways, thus any cross-border trains need to have their wheels changed at the appropriate spot. I'd missed it the other end having changed trains at the Chinese border town of Erlian. Crikey, Erlian. Seems like a lifetime ago. Remember the fun I'd had at the station, watching desperately eager Chinese passengers pushing their luggage into the x-ray machine in front of me? The endless shunting backwards and forwards for no apparent reason? The chap who I was later to spend a few days with in an isolated Mongolian yurt falling off the platform at the sight of Pepé?

The idea of trains simply being jacked up and having their wheels replaced whilst all the passengers are still on board really appealed to that part of me that always wanted (but never did have) a great big Hornby model railway. There was also the idea that by not getting off we were being allowed to be naughty - the drunken kids riding in the back of pick-up truck at crazy speeds down a New York State highway (no mum, I didn't really do that when I was over there 10 years ago, honest...), or the secret hitching a ride in an open-top rail freight wagon from Hereford to Liverpool (thinking about that now I can hardly believe I actually did that, age 16, ...but I did!).

Unfortunately, being a border crossing point I was warned that photos weren't allowed, thus the poor quality of the stealth shots on this page.

Slowly, the train is jacked up

The process was remarkably simple. First, the train was shunted into this big warehouse with its dual-guage lines and overhead crane, the carriages were then separated and each positioned precisely between 4 heavy duty jacks. Down into the pits below us jumped a load of workmen armed with hammers. They banged away for a while, before signally for the carriage to be lifted. The movement of the jacks was barely noticeable, and it was only when I found myself looking down on the neighbouring carriage that I realised that we were now riding high. From the far end of the building a new set of bogies was shunted under us and then positioned precisely by the workmen, now armed with big levers for sticking in front of the wheels. Once again the whir of the jacks was heard - down we came onto our new set of wheels. In the meantime, the overhead crane was being used to change all the couplings to the European standard. The speed with which all these huge bits of metal were replaced was staggering, and reminded me of a formula 1 pit-stop. OK, so it was a bit slower (taking about 45 minutes), but nonetheless...

New bogeys are shunted into place

It was whilst we were in that yard that we saw what I think will be the last of the old women selling berries, fish, cigarettes and loaves of bread. I'd been quite amused at the border station by the ongoing battle between uniformed personnel and these babushkas. Clearly here the practice was frowned upon, and so whenever an official appeared the babushka gang would retreat to beneath a stairwell, hidden from view. Now and then one of them would stick their heads out, and if the coast was clear she'd signal to the gang. Back up to the train they'd come clutching pieces of cardboard with what I assume was a list of what they had to sell in their big plastic bags written in Russian. One of them even managed to stow away onboard, and when we arrived at the bogey changing station just down the track she appeared in the corridor, pausing outside every cabin and whispering to us "Cigarettes? Vodka?".

Now in place, the train is lowered onto the bogeys and a fresh coat of superglue applied

---

Until yesterday I knew nothing of Belarus. I still know very little, having only read the introduction to the former soviet state in a Lonely Planet guidebook. "A taste of the old Russia", complete with human rights violations pretty much sums it up - although unsurprisingly I saw little of that from the train. No, what I saw what looked like a rather idealistic landscape. Cute little wooden houses with flower-strewn gardens, the occasional donkey and cart, and lots of agriculture stretching across the many flat miles (flatness being another well-documented feature of the country). What I saw of the capital (Minsk) from the train didn't make any great impression upon me - it could have been any city which was yet to embrace the glass-plated skyscraper age. But of course, passing through a country on an international rail route can't really give you any more than a general impression of the place - although of course it still beats flying where you don't even realise you've crossed a border!

Poland is pretty flat too. Having not read a thing about the country I don't know if this is a general trend or not. Once again, it's agriculture all the way. Both large and small-scale. You might have one huge great field of corn, and then a comparatively small patch of potatoes being worked on by the whole family. In the distance, an evergreen forest forms a horizon.

---

We're now about 18 hours into this trip, which with time zones taken into account is actually going to be 34.5 hours long. I've enjoyed it so far. I slept very well last night - the bed is ultra-comfy - and today I've read an entire book cover to cover. 'Drop the Dead Donkey 2000 - the novel to end the century'. As you can guess from the title, this Channel 4 book is not exactly an intellectually stimulating read, being based as it is on the rather lame newsroom sitcom of the early 90s. I never found it that funny when I watched it as a teenager, yet despite this, I've been utterly riveted by the 'comedy' and superficial storyline contained within its 250 pages. I don't think I could read it in normal life, but for this trip it was just right. (Incidentally, I didn't really 'choose' the book: it was the only English language publication on the shelf at the last hostel where I swapped it for the well written but ultimately depressing In Siberia by whatshisface).

Right, must be time for another piece of bread and a boiled egg.

Date and Time: Tuesday 12th September, 2007. 06:55

Location: Bed 32, Train 11 from Moscow to Cologne. Currently in outskirts of Moscow, 20 minutes into 32 hour journey

Diese zug ist nicht 'gut'. Diese zug ist SEHR gut!

or something like that. I tell you, this train is something else. This is train travel how it's meant to be. This is what it's all about! This is the most perfect near-ending for this trip halfway around the world in 28 days!

I arrived with plenty of time to spare at Moscow Belarsussky station last night - two hours in fact. That gave me the opportunity to spend the last of my roubles on vital supplies of chocolate, and stand around getting very cold. Finally, the platform is announced, and a few seconds later the train slowly reverses into the station.



The first thing that strikes me is that it's a very long train. Quite where my carriage is I don't know - in the section of the ticket where the carriage number is usually noted it simply states '256'. Odd, I think. Whilst this train may be pretty long, surely it can't be that long!

Things do not bode well as I approach the train. For a start, the scruffy sign in the window of the first carriage has 'Minsk' written in Russian - I want to go a long way beyond the Belarus capital - does this mean that I'm going to have to change after all? Then, looking through the window I see that these are platzkart carriages, and ancient ones at that. Prehistoric cracked leather bunks that look about as comfortable as beds of nails hang down from the walls - that train I took from Krasnoyarsk was luxury compared to this! Whilst not expecting any first-class treatment, I can't help but feel disappointed that I have to spend another 32 hours trying not to fall off the top bunk.

The Ost-West Express

I continue to walk, now in search of a member of staff - the one thing you are unlikely to find at Russian railway stations. Interesting, I note that the carriages change completely about a third of the way up the train. Now they say they're going to Warsaw - and inside they look even worse than those going to Belarus! This must be the Polish section then. The Russian electric water boilers at the end of each carriage have been replaced by coal fires. This is clear not only from the smell of the smoke pouring from the little chimney, but by the lumps of runaway coal that litter the vestibule area. I dread to think what the toilet looks like.

I continue to walk - I'm nearing the front of the train now, and starting to despair. Perhaps, because my ticket was last minute, I don't have an assigned seat. Perhaps there's an open carriage within which I'll have to fight for a place to sit. Perhaps. But I don't despair - everything will work out just as it was to meant to, whatever that might mean.

And you know what? It does, in the most luxuriously spectacular way I would never even have dreamed of. When I reached the penultimate carriage I noted that its destination was Frankfurt. This sounded hopeful - it was at least the right country! And what's this? Ah, yes, below the destination is printed '256', the only other remaining carriage being '257'. This must be it.

From the outside, these two carriages differed significantly from the others. They were taller, squarer, and had clean shiney paintwork. Somewhat modern I thought. I'm greeted by a very polite German-speaking Russian wearing a very smart navy-blue suit and a peaked hat. He checks to find out which language I would like to use (I opt for German!) takes my ticket and welcomes me aboard.

I make my way down the corridor looking for berth 32. Odd, I think, there's only three numbers per cabin, not the usual four (or six). Finally locating mine, I open the door, and within seconds am almost jumping for joy! OOOOoooooohhhhh the luxury! On one side of this miniature cabin is a row of three very comfy-looking seats. The beds were actually in the wall so you couldn't bang your head on them, and as I found later when the attendant came to lower mine, when it folds out, you find your bedding strapped to the top of it, ready to go! After weeks on Chinese, Mongolian and Russian trains this struck me as very sci-fi!

The most comfy bed in the whole world

In the corner is a little table, and as I only discovered this morning, if you fold the table top back you'll find your own private sink below! There's a bathroom cabinet above: open the door and there's your mirror, a decanter of sorts and two glasses. On the wall a thermometer, and next to that the temperature control knob - yes, a TEMPERATURE CONTROL KNOB! "Can life get any better than this?!" I ask myself. On the wall behind the door is a rack to dry your towel on, and hanging from it 3 high-class wooden coathangers with gold-plated bits attached. The door is completely lockable, and even has one of those security chains on if you only want to open it a bit - perfect to keep those bothersome immigration officials out of your personal space! Every bed (of which only one is in use of course - it would seem I have this cabin all to myself, which is nice - I can always be social a bit later by visting some of the other folks down the corridor) has it's own little light and button to call the attendant, making this the first time I've had room service on a train!

Pepé gives the sink a go

I must say, I am utterly blown away by this luxury! What style to spend my last overnight trip in! Anyone would think I was travelling first class.

My personal bathroom cabinet

You see, I knew there was a reason I missed that first train yesterday...

The following 3 posts come courtesy of a wireless link at Cologne station, Germany

Date and Time: Tuesday 11th September, 2007. 6.10pm

Location: Sweet Moscow Hostel, Moscow

Checking in to the Sweet Moscow Hostel I was almost surprised that there was no-one there that I knew. Ok so there was the girl with the siblings who lived just up the road from my Sheffield accommodation, and a Japanese guy - but that didn't really count.

However, the lack of small-worldness didn't last for long: the following day, whilst chatting with the lady behind the counter at the Belarus embassy (possibly the nicest smiliest civil servant you've ever met, who started to laugh everytime she saw me due to our communication problems), who should appear beside me but Tom, as in Tom from the hostel on the lake Baikal island, and Tom from the Irkutsk hostel. That wasn't the last I'd see of him either - I bumped into him walking round the Kremlin a few hours later, and then of course once more at the embassy at visa pick-up time.

A cloudy day at the Kremlin



His wasn't the only familiar face I saw that day. Whilst watching the most extraordinary domestic ever to be played out in Red Square (a Chinese couple in their early forties yelling at each other like angry Tyrannosaurus Rex's - they drew more of a crowd than Lenin's tomb!), who should tap me on the shoulder but Darren and his wife Kylie - I'd shared a room with them in a hostel over 4000km to the East of here. They gave me an update on the dried curd that I had inadvertently left in the shared kitchen, telling me that they had continued my quest to get everyone who stayed at the Baikaler to try some. Turned into a bit of a party game apparently. I'm glad it went to good use, as I was a bit miffed that I'd forgotten it, imagining it being left to harden further (if that's possible) on top of the microwave.

Note how wide the woman's mouth is open. THAT'S how loud they were



I enjoyed my day out and about in the centre of Moscow. On the Sunday of my arrival it chucked it down, thus I hadn't been all that keen on sightseeing (it was that afternoon that I got stung at the umbrella shop. I've since been back to try and sell it to them in its nearly-new state. The woman, on seeing me, said

"Oh".

I finished the sentence for her.

"Yes, that's right, it's me."

She wouldn't take the umbrella back, even at half price. Looks like I'll be lugging all 3 tonnes of it back to Sheffield then. It has got a good push-button erection action though.)

So yes, it was Monday that I set off early for the Belarus Embassy to apply for my transit visa. Met a Japanese girl from Kyoto in the small queue - I was struck by how much of the language I seem to have forgotten in the space of three weeks!

Application submitted and $45 dollars paid, I trotted off to the Kremlin, which lies at the very heart of the city. I'd never really known what a Kremlin was - just some government building I thought, but it turns out it's a lot more than that. Moscow's Kremlin is mightily impressive. It has huge red walls interrupted at regular intervals by magnificent towers. Inside the compound can be found a number of palaces and cathedrals, and at 202 tonnes the world's largest bell that has never had the pleasure of being donged.

Not quite 22 tonnes, but a nice bell trip nonetheless



Whilst I was very taken with the Kremlin architecture as seen from the outside, I wasn't intrigued enough to pay the entrance fee to wander around its inner sanctum, and opted instead to walk the (outer) circumference. Another reason for not going inside was that penguins weren't allowed access, and the thought of a few hours without Pepé filled me with fear.

Pepé admires the kremlin walls



Approaching the eastern side of the compound I was struck by St. Basils - the icon of Russia. It truly is quite a sight. So outrageous it seems more like an oversize children's toy than a real building. (Legend has it that Ivan the Terrible, who'd commissioned its construction in the 16th century, had the architect blinded after its completion so as to prevent him from creating anything comparable).

Pepé doesn't know what to make of St. Basils







Unfortunately, Red Square was closed that afternoon in order that the (British) Queen's Royal Scot's Guards could practice tattooing their bagpipes: for three days from the 13th this part of Moscow will host a magnificent dawn celebration, featuring military bands from all over the world. It was a shame that I was unable to get a shot of them in their kilts (they being hidden behind a stack of portable seating) - nonetheless, I loved standing there just listening to the melodious wines echoing down the boulevard.

Lenin's tomb, being situated in Red Square, was also off limits. However, with the aid of my 200mm lens I was able to get a couple of shots of the magnificent slabs of granite.

Lenin's tomb



Another sight I enjoyed was the Changing of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unnamed Soldier, a memorial to all those who died in the second world war. I wasn't aware that this would be happening, and it was only when a crowd began to gather along the railings in front of the Kremlin wall that I realised that the Ministry of Silly Walks had managed to extend its influence all the way to Russia.



Clearly, these chaps have never looked at themselves in the mirror when doing this. In fact, I bet mirrors are banned in their dojo.





The highlight though had to be the exchange of meaningful expressions seconds before the fresh guards dismissed their colleagues. A close up reveals that these two are clearly quite emotionally involved. Is one of them angry with the other for the things he said last night? Or are they communicating about the darts match after work through precise rhythmical movements of the eyelids?





Moscow has a lot to offer the weekend tourist. In addition to the eye-catching architecture, it has a wide variety of highly regarded museums and galleries. These, however, were not for me. Whilst I find history in the classroom fascinating (a recent discovery, thanks to the talented staff at SEAS), museums tend to bore me silly. A piece of pottery is still just a piece of pottery, no matter how old it is. I can but hope that this attitude of mine changes over time as I'm sure when I'm a pensioner museums will feature prominently in the SAGA holidays I take. For the time being though I'll give them a miss thanks. Galleries - it depends on the nature of the exhibition. I love modern 3D art, and recall with enthusiasm some collections by artists whose names completely escape me in London, Milan and Tokyo. Naturally, I am a great fan of photography exhibitions too, but stick me in a room with a bunch of 18th century landscapes and you may soon find me dead on the floor. Once again, I hope to educate myself in this field before I die - I know that if one attends a gallery equipped with knowledge of the artists and their influences paintings can come alive, no matter how dull the scene being portrayed.

Despite not visiting any of Moscow's fine galleries, I have had the opportunity to appreciate some real live art - in the subways. The Moscow metro system features some of the most stunning stations you have ever seen. A magnificent labyrinth of huge caverns deep below the ground (I actually suffered from vertigo when stepping onto one escalator!), great domed halls with walls plastered with original tiled mosaics, fancy chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. If ever there was an underground network worthy of a ride, Moscow's is the one! The service is fantastic too: at peak periods the next train can be seen approaching the platform before the tail of the last has disappeared. My only complaint is the signage, which is absolutely atrocious. The lack of any English can be forgiven (anyone planning on being in Russia for any length of time should learn the Cyrillic alphabet, as I didn't), but the complete lack of underground maps anywhere except on the trains themselves means that one has to get on a train in order to find out which train one has to get on! This accounted for the fact that on my first evening it took me about 90 minutes to cover a distance of some 2km. I can only guess that this oversight is deliberate, there being some idea that any form of modern colour on the walls would destroy the austere beauty of the communist-era architecture.

Another thing that has struck me when wandering the streets of Moscow is the beggars. Being a large capital city there are of course many of them (as with China and Mongolia, over a third of the population live below the poverty line. The state pension is only about £40 a month, yet the cost of living in places like Moscow is now said to be comparable with London. It's a dire situation, and thus its unsurprising that you do find many people on the streets, cup in hand. What is significant about Moscow's beggars however is their age - almost all of them look over 50, and the majority are female. They clearly manage to get by on charity; I lost count of the number of times I saw generous donors dropping a few coins into the cups of a sign-bearing babushka.

There was one beggar, a young woman sitting on the street near the Belarus embassy that caused me to stop and think twice. Generally, I don't give to beggars, instead donating to charities that invest money in setting up support systems for people in need. But this time I was so stunned that I'd literally walked not 20 yards further when I had to stop and ask myself how I could possibly ignore this woman's plight. Why had she made such a strong impression? In her arms, wrapped in what reminded me of the swaddling clothes that Jesus was wrapped in the picture in our Children's Family Bible, was a little baby, not six months old. As I walked by, his dark eyes seemed to fix upon mine, and follow me. I was utterly stunned. I wouldn't describe myself as the religious type, but this experience was overwhelming, and saw me hurtling back to Sunday School. I started to think, "Ok, so I've heard that there are organised crime syndicates that have beggars working for them, but seriously, would a mother be so callous as to put her child through this, in these freezing temperatures, were she not desperate in her bid for survival? I turned around, walked back down the road, and handed her a note from my wallet.

It was not long after that that I picked up a free copy of the English-language Moscow Times. talk about contrast. The Russia depicted in this was the one of the may sleek black cars with tinted windows that filled the streets outside of Moscow's many casinos. Pages and pages of 'news' about oil and gas deals - and that wasn't even in the business section, which also had little else to talk about. Seriously, anyone would think that this was published by the state's energy companies. Oil field this, natural gas pipeline that. I winced at the thought of those pristine areas of Siberia that were being sold off for their 'vast energy reserves'.

Then there was the political news, most of which had some energy connection. It was either that or stories of corruption and the suppression of an opposition movement in the run-up to next year's presidential election. Oh, and the ongoing 'chilly war' with the West.

I'm quite glad I don't live in Russia.

But you know, I've really have found the ordinary people to be extremely kind and friendly, often going out of their way to make you feel at home. It's only when you put them in any position of authority (such as behind the counter in a shop) that they become somewhat tricky to deal with. However, even those steel facades can be melted by a big smile and comical use of a phrasebook (except when it comes to border officials).

St Basils peers over Red Square at Lenin's tomb



Being in Moscow, and Russia in general, has been an interesting and rewarding experience. It feels good to have more of an understanding of the people and the place, an understanding that until now has been pretty much limited to a couple of 'memorable' flights with Aeroflot!

I now appreciate that not everyone drinks vodka all day every day (the drink beer instead; alcohol is a major factor behind the declining population here, alcohol-related health problems and accidents being common causes of death); the women are beautiful until age 30 when they seem to throw it all away (probably the stress of living with alcoholic partners); people in positions of authority are hard nuts that can be cracked with grotesque displays of deference and a sense of humour; I can easily pass as a Russian (until I open my mouth. Must be the nose); the food is great; the country is so huge that it defies the imagination. I mean, 11 time zones! The environment is trashed in those areas that have been settled; and finally, PDAs (Public Displays of Affection) are common, especially snogging (the more of ones partner's face one appears to be eating the better).

So that's Russia then.

Tarra.

Date and Time: Monday 11th September, 2007. 3pm

Location: Sweet Moscow Hostel, Moscow

Before I tell you about my time in Moscow, I must breathe out. I am just recovering from the most hectic 2 hours of this trip so far. It could have been the most stressful too, beginning as it did with a realisation that I had done someting incredibly stupid, something that made the bottom of my belly fall out.

It began at 9am. I'd been up for several hours, trying to sort out a few issues with the hostel's computer, as requested (my expert opinion in the end was that the best thing to do was to throw it out of the window and buy a Mac). At 8am I was joined by Svetlana, the 19-year-old Russian student of Urdu who looks after folks when the manager, Baira (as featured in that photo in my album of Pepe eating a pickled sandwich) is away. We chatted for a while about learning languages and so forth, before I started to edit some Moscow pics. It was whilst I was doing that that it occurred to me that I should check the time of my train that departed for Berlin, via Belarus and Poland, tonight.

I was pretty sure that it was scheduled to leave at 10pm, but best to confirm to be on the safe side. First off, I needed to check the address of the travel agent who was holding my ticket for me - I'd bought it a couple of months back via the internet at a cost of $219, and had to pick it up from a Moscow office that by sheer 'coincidence' happened to be located just up the road from the hostel.

Looking at the email from the agent I got the biggest shock of my life, and then the sickest feeling ever, as I saw, below the travel agent's address, the train times. "Monday September 11th, 8.20am".

Oh. My. God. That was, er, about an hour ago. I quickly found a wall and started banging my head against it.

You should have seen me fly! My clothes were back in my rucksack in no time! At the door I was seen off by Svetlana, Takashi (from Japan), and the couple from Belgium. "Good luck!" they called, as I forgot my fear of long drops and summoned the elevator. Oh! But my socks! I'd left my socks in the bathroom! Back in I went, grabbed the sweet swelling pair and then dashed back out onto the landing where the lift doors were just squeaking open. I felt everyone rooting for me as I ran, rucksack laden, up the busy commuter street to the main road which I was only too familiar with having spent hours trudging its pavements on the morning of my arrival in town. This time though it was a very different place - it was quiet. But not just quiet - deserted. What's going on? Hang on, what's this? there, on the opposite side of the streets all the traffic is being held back by police. The buses confined to their stops. Glancing down the road things become clear, as a huge long motorcade of police cars and armoured vehicles sandwiching 2 black Mercedes came into site. "That must be Putin" I thought to myself, having dreamed about seeing him a couple of nights back.

Despite being in a desperate hurry to get to the travel agent, I calculated that dashing across the road in front of the cavalcade would probably not be the wisest of moves - if I was able to make it to the other side I'd probably find myself feeling rather holey, or flat.

Emerging from the underpass I darted down the sideroad as per the emailed instructions, and a few queries later found myself in the reception of MPP Megapolis travel.

Despite being told to take a seat and wait, I couldn't help but pace up and down the almost deserted office. They weren't due to open for another 45 minutes, but I'd asked Svetlana to phone ahead and let them know that an idiot of an Englishman was going to show up shortly.

I showed 'Jenny' (well, she struck me as 'Jenny') my receipt, who, unaware of the minor problem with date and time handed it over with a smile.

When I pointed out what a silly boy I'd been she threw her hands to her head and made an "On no!!" sound in Russian. Yes, I was a silly boy wasn't I?

I didn't really know what to expect. Having experienced the joys of Russia service for the past week or two I thought I might just get a shrug of the shoulders, and a "there's nothing we can do about it". But no, this was Jenny, Jenny the amazing, Jenny the incredible, Jenny the I-can-talk-on-two-phones-at-once. I explained the situation with my tickets from Berlin (translation service provided by her colleague on the other end of the phone) - if I missed those high-speed rail links from the German capital I had no way of getting home, at this late stage the tickets would be prohibitively expensive, and I only had £100 (US$200) in the bank. On hearing this, Jenny invited me into her office in the back, and flew into a frenzy.



She did use two phones at the same time, babbling away with a voice that carried more urgency than an ambulance siren on speed. As more staff arrived at the office, so they were collared and instructed to make further phone calls. After about 20 minutes the English speaking receptionist turned up. On hearing my story she burst out laughing, and agreed that yes, I was a silly boy. The office was now buzzing. With all that activity, there had to be a positive outcome.

Initially, taxis and buses to the Russia / Belarus border were looked into, but no, it really was too late. Even with a suicidal driver we'd never catch that train. Trains of course were out too - this was a non-stop international service, so the national ones had no chance of competing. Flights ...er, what was the whole point of taking this trip...? (I must confess that I did think that if worst came to worst, I might have to take to the air. I mulled over whether I'd reveal it or not on the Mumble!!) (I know honesty would have got the better of me).

Another major issue was my Belarus transit visa. It came into effect at midnight last night, and is only valid for 48 hours. Miss that window of opportunity and I have to traipse back to the embassy and go through the entire application (and payment) process again.

After 45 minutes of frantic activity Jenny struck gold - there was a train leaving Moscow tonight, not to Berlin, but direct to Cologne, the very place I was heading for (after Berlin) to catch my high-speed train to the UK via Brussels! A miracle!! This train was even better than the first one - despite leaving Moscow 14 hours later, it arrived in Cologne 25 minutes earlier!

And guess what time this train is leaving? 22:00. Exactly as I had (mistakenly) thought from the outset. Funny thing that...

But what about the cost? What about the $200 I'd paid for the train I'd missed. Surely I couldn't expect any refund for that, what with me having given absolutely no notice, thus effectively absently occupying the seat all the way to Berlin. Two Hundred Dollars. It made me sick to think about the wastage. And the price of the new ticket? $300. But then Jenny gets her calculator out and deducts 75% of the value of my wasted ticket - I just need to pay the difference - $150 - almost exactly what I have left in the bank back home.

And so the story has a happy ending. I'm told to return in a couple of hours when my tickets will be ready. This gives me time to drop my bags back at the hostel and buy some flowers for Jenny, who blushes when I present them at lunchtime. I'd wanted to buy chocolates for the receptionist too, but was now down to my last 10 dollars - if I spent that, I wouldn't be able to eat until Hereford!

Walking through the office on my way out from Jenny's office, a couple of members of staff in their mid-40s shout across the room, "Hello Mr. Brown, how's business?". Laughter erupts all around. I tell them that thanks to their company business is great - although my name is not Mr. Brown!

There's a postscript to this story.

Back at the hostel I started chatting with the Dutch chap who'd had a restless night on the bunk above mine. I ask him if he's liking Moscow. No, he's not. In fact, he's desperate to leave but can't find a flight. There's something about the way he's talking that tells me that there's a story behind his desperation, but I don't push it. Instead, I tell him about Jenny the amazing travel agent - maybe she can help. As we head off to the now-familiar office together I learn more about his plight - he's been jilted by his boyfriend, and can't bare to be in this city any longer. I sympathise with him. Its not nice to be in such a state in a place with so many memories.

Opening the door of the office, I am greeted by laughter - it's the secretary - "what are you doing back here?!" "It's not me, it's my friend. He needs to get out of Moscow, and the service is so good here that I couldn't help but recommend it!

I've left him in their capable hands.

With all that sorted, and my eye firmly on the clock, I've been shopping and bought 3 huge loaves of bread, a big bunch of bananas, half a dozen (now hard-boiled) eggs, some olive spread and a tub of Philadelphia. Sandwiches have been made - they should see me through.

---

If I was able to turn the clock back 12 hours in order that I could get that train this morning, would I do so? Well, although it's cost me all the money I have left in the world (literally), I don't think I would. The kindness shown me today was priceless. As was having the chance to talk more with the staff and other guests here this morning, and then of course there's my friend who, had I not missed the train, maybe wouldn't have been able to get out of town today. Oh, and I wouldn't have seen Putin either.

Anyhow, I SHALL be on that train for Cologne tonight. It's a 34-hour journey that will see me pass through 4 countries - let's hope my bananas see me through.

Bye bye Moscow, thanks for having me. It's been fun.

[a full account of my time in Moscow will be uploaded once I arrive in the UK. Can't afford to miss another train so it's off to the station for me! In the meantime, Moscow photos are now available in my online Web Gallery]

Date and Time: Monday 10th September, 2007. 22:45

Location: Sweet Moscow Hostel, Moscow

It was only when our train was within about 90 minutes of Moscow station that our little section of carriage 9 got talking. Up until that point, the atmosphere had been somewhat strained by Marilyn and her daughter. Mother had had a funny effect upon us all. We felt that we had to behave ourselves whenever the mother scolded the child (which was constantly). But when we all woke up at about 5am on Sunday we discovered that mother and daughter had done a disappearing act in the night, and had been replaced by a rather talkative granny, age 45 or so.

This is what platzkart is all about





Well, that was it, we were off. Once it had been established that I wasn't Russian and that I didn't understand any Russian (that didn't take long) the questions came with all the force of a machine gun, and at about the same rate of rapid fire too. The lady from the next carriage translated: What was I doing in Russia? Why had I come from Japan? Did I like Russia? What was my favourite city? Was I married? Did I know anyone in Moscow? Where was I going to stay.

It's when the line of questioning reaches that stage that I start to become uneasy. I begin to imagine being welcomed back to people's houses, and being unable to relax for fear of offending the generous host. Of having to continue to make a huge effort to communicate, when all I want to do is take it easy in an English-speaking environment for a while. Like at the hostel I booked a couple of months beforehand. So I tell them, "Yes, I know people in Moscow" (well, I've exchanged emails with the hostel receptionist haven't I?). "I'm staying at a friend's house" - and this is true, well, now it is as I've met the owner of this 8th floor apartment that has been converted into a guesthouse of sorts.

They seem satisfied with this, and move on to the next topic: the ring on my finger. The granny becomes very animated when I show her a photo of *Twinkle*, passing it around whilst nodding and cooing in approval. It's then that the slightly odd-looking chap in his 20s (another recent addition to our carriage) starts to tap-tap away on his Nokia. I'm curious. He's been eyeing me suspiciously ever since he got on. Glancing up at my bunk, looking away when I catch his eye. What's going through his mind?

Suddenly, he sits bolt upright, and reading from his screen announces to the world, "My name is Arthur. I am a student. I want to be an actor". I try to suppress my involuntary laughter (caused more by surprise than anything), and instead just manage to splurt out, "You speak English!!" A look of satisfaction gradually spreads across his face until he is positively beaming. Spurred on by this initial success he ignores my question that follows ("do you live in Moscow?") and instead returns to his touch-screen Nokia, beating out his next sentence. "I am 24 years old. Where are you from?". We've already covered this ground, so I assume he's just going for the stuff he kind of knows. Well, that's OK. I answer his question, although he pays no attention to what I'm saying - he's too busy tapping out his next announcement.

The sense of relief I am expecting to feel when we arrive at Moscow never comes. Instead, there's just sadness that our little community has to split up so soon. It's not quite over though - the granny beckons me to follow her; she guides me off the platform, around the corner and down the stairs to the Metro ticket office. I thank her, say goodbye, and start to think about my first task of the day: finding the hostel.

---

PepŽ waits for the Moscow Metro



Initially I was really impressed with my navigation skills. I'd found the street that was given on the booking confirmation on my ridiculously undetailed Lonely Planet map, and figured out which subway train I needed to take to get there. Grateful that it was only 6.30 on a Sunday morning (both streets and platforms were deserted, giving me time to think), I made my way to what I thought was my station. Emerging from the dimly lit passage, I was faced with Lenin, sitting outside what I guessed to be Lenin's Library.

Not Lenin's library



The hostel was number 31 Arbat Street. This street seemed to match the description given (Arbat something-or-other-written-in-Russian), so off I set in search of the building.

The Moscow Metro