Having had my old diary recently posted to me (and opened up trying to find out the particulars of the Ural Youth Museum), I thought I’d share with you all some of the “profound” thoughts swimming around there and committed to paper when I’m off travelling by myself.

June 4, 2005

I’m facing off against a latte soup. The kind of thing that, heaven forbid, you were to fall face forward into, you would end up entirely coated in foam. Or drown.

Now I had sworn never to buy a coffee with milk in it in Russia, but this smells good. And after the first sip, lives up to all expectations.

I had also vowed that Novosibirsk held no interest for me, but then being jolted by the memory that “small town” Russia isn’t necessarily a piece of cake, so maybe I’ll settle back here for another night, continue to be a little bourgie in the geographical centre of Russia, and enjoy my coffee with milk and the surprise of supermarkets with organic sections and bio juices…

It’s not all rosy here though, despite the socially-conscious ‘Papa don’t drink’, ‘Recycle’ and ‘You’re twice her size’ (anti-domestic violence) banners in the streets. There were some drunken soldiers using the showers at the train station before I did. The women who worked there gathered around, shooing them out. But they were still stifling giggles and clucking ‘Soviet Army’ to themselves and anyone in earshot.

I don’t know. I’d be busting some balls if anyone came into my hotel and commandeered the showers, not able to stand or support themselves against a wall, at 6pm. I’m not anti-drinking, and indeed, those who know me will attest that I’m quite pro- the activity. But I really find the general acceptance and tolerance of those who are so slaughtered a little perturbing. What can you do though?