Waking up the evening following my first ever eventful and long night in Moscow, I found in my possession a delightfully vague invitation. It was a hand-drawn map, sufficiently illustrated to appeal to hippies, and sufficiently confusing for the rest of the general public.

Towards the Estonian border, between St. Petersburg and Moscow, Pskov can be found. Where the roads from Pskov and the Velikiye Luki intersect near the Latvian border, is Pustoshka. Somewhere around Pustoshka (the peace-sign marking the spot was a little obscuring), was Russia’s annual Rainbow Festival venue for 2004.

Whilst national and international Rainbow Festivals that celebrate alternate living and hippy culture throughout the rest of the world are reputed to also be a bit of an open celebration of all things pertaining to drug culture, the Russian rainbow is a drug-free event, and this is pretty much adhered to, except for a few covert spliffs. It’s also pretty much the only time you’ll find an alcohol-free event in Russia, so I don’t know how much more counter-culture you can get!

The Russian festival lasts for a month, but you are free to camp there pretty much for months either side. There are not really any fixed dates, other than how free-spirited and hardy you are in battling against Russian seasonal change. It drew an interesting crowd. I’d say there wasn’t so many “hippies”, but more computer programmers who like to camp naked and young street punks who enjoy the free meals, but are still inclined towards getting back to drinking port wine on the Arbat as soon as possible.

I was travelling with some fellow students who I had roped in for the adventure, but after we caught the train to Pskov, surrounded by torrential rain and a flood of Adidas tracksuits, we were stuck wondering exactly where we were trying to get to with our nonsensical map. Then we saw them, a trio with long hair, ponchos and camping mats. We couldn’t catch the same bus to Pustoshka as them, but luckily caught up with them on the road to the festival because they had stopped for a picnic. And lucky we did. The short stroll to the festival site turned out to be a 20km hike, and we arrived in the dark at about 1am, when we were greeted, offered tea and ushered into someone’s tent where we were told we were welcome to stay for the night.

How we found it, I don’t know. I met other people there who had been hiking and camping out for two nights before they found it. On the way home, we got a lift back to the station in a Lada. Casting our detox to the wind, the first thing we did on our return was buy some beer!

I’m very intrigued by global cultural traditions regarding bathing.

And not just a simple shower, but the birch-branch toxin-releasing slaps in a Russian banya or a sojourn in supposedly curative mineral waters. On this, I promise I will later elaborate, because like nineteenth-century Russian writer Mikhail Lermontov, I believe that ‘the air in Kislovodsk is conducive to love’ (love for Narzan mineral water and the Caucasus Mountains, as it was in my case, not for Georgian or Muscovite princesses).

But I’ve just been told by a friend about his visit to Budapest, which, scandalously, didn’t include a trip to the Turkish baths. My, my, my – I’m still reeling.

Stunning Budapest is located atop a network of warm thermal and cool mineral springs, and nothing beats a soak in her calcium, magnesium, sulphate and fluoride rich waters to ease away muscular aches and pains.

One is spoilt for choice in the public spas that function as meeting points for the locals of the Hungarian capital. There are genuine Turkish bathhouses that date from the 16th century Turkish occupation of Hungary, or fin de siècle Secession palaces, akin to ‘bathing in a cathedral.’

The Gellért Baths are the most renowned of Budapest’s baths. Built according to Belle Époque tastes, these extravagant tubs reveal a lot about Hungary’s imperial history. An attitude of elitism is maintained through a comparatively hefty price tag (the other baths in the capital receive government subsidies), so I settled for just having a peak in at the lobby.

Seeking solace in subsidised spa, the Király Baths are a far cry from the bright light and regal mosaics of the Gellért Baths. While this dark, damp and domed Turkish bathhouse may be on the opposite end of the Budapest bathing spectrum, it definitely provided one of my most memorable experiences in Hungary.

A small and unassuming bathhouse dating from 1565, the Király Baths are almost hidden from the view of the street. Once inside, visibility is minimised in the steamy darkness. Some light attempts to penetrate the thick steam through little holes in the cupola, but really, all there is to do is sit, relax and perhaps even marvel at the anatomical aesthetics of age. Everyone gets their kit off and soaks away their sorrows. The baths are open for both men and women, but on alternating days.

Inside, the building is revealed to be octagonal, and the main pool assumes this shape. There are also smaller pools containing either icy water for post-sauna dip or hot water to further fortify the experience. The only respite from the heat of the hammam steam bath is provided by condensation, cooled from the cupola and dripping back down in big, fat plopping drops. Something sprung to mind at the time about centuries of bacteria – but grubby, dark and damp is all part of the magic of Király Baths.

Let me foremost state that I hate bowling.

Thus the scene is set (a little removed from Europe, but since I’m on the topic of head injuries…) as I was invited one evening from a cafe in Kunming, China, to indulge in a few shots at the ten-pins. Politely I declined and instead cycled back home.

However, my bike – a veritable bargain – was also a death trap on wheels, a rickety direct train service between this earthly realm and the gates of hell.

Chuggety-chugg-chuggetty-chugg…

I laboured against the pedals, straining to make it up a hill.

The din echoed through the streets again as I coasted down the other side of the aforementioned embankment. Only this time faster, a continual cacophony, that started to turn the heads of the odd bystander. My bike sounded like this in the daytime as well, but usually there was a plethora of cyclists and automotive traffic and general hubbub to drone out the metallic protests.

Bettina-MacGyver here recalled, somewhere in the problem solving of the previous few days, that if I just balanced my foot against the front-metal-bit which joined to the spokes-metal-bits then I was assured silent riding. So I perilously reached my foot forward, oblivious to the speed that I was gathering and momentarily rested my toe on what turned out to be actual spokes… and somersaulting head-over-heels-over-handlebars I was thrown off the bike, skidded down the road. My foot was caught in the front wheel (both of which now lay behind me as I lay on my stomach), so just for good measure I collected either the seat or the mudguard in the back of my head.

I disentangled my foot from the wheels and jumped up defensively, in my best impression of maintaining a “nothing to see here” façade. The crowds rushed around me regardless, and it was at this moment that I realised there was a steady dripping on the road besides me.

Blood.

Still calm, I rationalised that thus far I have always been able to ascertain the location of a toilet – the only real emergency previously encountered – through a carefully constructed system of charades, phrases and blunt enthusiasm. I launched into my routine of pointing to the blood, pointing to by head, and then the “where” clincher, a huge theatrical shrug which would have had any children’s pantomime actor consumed by jealousy.

Everyone around me noticeably increased their panic level.

“This is worse than we thought; the girl is delirious as well.”

As they say in real estate, it’s all about “location, location, location” and I happened to stage my prang next to a medical centre, and from there I was whisked to Kunming Hospital.

The things I do to get out of bowling…

Throughout the warmer seasons, a grassy mound in the corner of a park near St. Petersburg’s Sennaya Ploshchad just looks a bit out of place.  But when snow covers the surrounds, it becomes a hub of activity for marshmallow children in puffy parka jumpsuits, teenagers with beer bottles and grandmothers in furs with hot, greasy, deep-fried piroshki pies stuffed with cabbage, meat or mushrooms.

On this one particular occasion, the usual suspects had gathered, but this time with the addition of some wide-eyed novices in the form of international exchange students.  Watching the kids on their bums and adolescents on their feet, all sliding down the hill in groups or individually, we wanted to have a go too. 

Hesitantly, we linked into a train of bodies, and shuffled to launch ourselves edge of the “slide” of hard-packed ice.  We found ourselves in a tangled, horizontal mess shortly after take-off, and so some Russian boys took it upon themselves to show the foreigners just how it was done.   Eventually, we got the hang of it (well, everyone except me.  Any group that I joined was destined to fall, even the groups of seasoned teenage professionals). 

We were almost about to call it a day, when one of our party took a tumble and split her head open.  (“Blood on the ice!” – the cry of a New Yorker at a Prague ice-hockey match springs to mind…).  On the insistence of one of the Russians, a street kid self-crowned as “Pasha, King of the Hill”, we took her across to the chemist where we bought some supplies and then realised that HE intended to undertake the operation.  Oh no, please Pasha, just help us get back to the clinic of our university. 

Hailing a car (another of Pasha’s operations) took much longer than normal too.  It turns out he was trying to get the usually 300 rouble (about 8€) ride for 100.  As there were five of us, all foreign, and the university was quite far, we implored him to be reasonable with the drivers, and quickly! 

In the end, someone agreed to his conditions.  It was an unfair deal, and desperation was evident as we all piled into his crumbling Lada.  It was only halfway that we realised that perhaps the vehicle wouldn’t even make it, and we all sat silently, willing the blood to stop flowing of its own accord. 

Stop-start-stop-start, the engine was turned off at every red light.  Our driver had an empty tank and a heavy load.  Stop, start, stop… stopped… still stopped.  On the last major hill before the university the car stopped dead in three (approximations of) lanes of traffic. 

Was this really happening?  Davai, davai… come on!  The engine spluttered back to life and we disembarked at the next set of traffic lights to walk the rest of the way.

There’s a lot to be said about 1990s European rock music from former Eastern Bloc or Soviet Union countries. Unfortunately for this discourse, I wasn’t anywhere near by at the time, so I’ll have to leave it to someone else.

I have, however, been privy to many reminiscences of young Russian rock fans (many of whom weren’t actually old enough to be consciously there at the time either) during street busking sessions. I’m sufficiently well versed in the standard repertoire of the troubled adolescent troubadour, and think that the time is ripe for this blog to move from Eurovision pop to hall-of-fame power ballads.

There is one German song which still gets repeat performances in the pedestrian thoroughfares of St. Petersburg and Moscow. Recounting a journey following “the Moskva [River] down to Gorky Park” to eventual metaphorical freedom and a wailing electric guitar solo, ‘Wind of Change’ by Scorpians is… admittedly… super-daggy.

Despite its cheesiness factor, I used to think this was the most profoundly political and emotionally-stirring song EVER when it was released. Admittedly, that was 1991, and I was eight going on nine, so I wasn’t in a position to be the most astute commentator on current affairs (as a friend once put it “Berlin Wall? Who cares, I’m going back to play in the sandpit”). But amongst the nostalgia of childhood, I undeniably have a soft spot for “Wind of Change” and, yes, you will catch me whistling along with the intro, imagining that I too am holding a sparkler in Potsdamer Platz…


‘Wind of Change’ by Scorpions

Another hostel memorable for its “close encounters” is in Budapest, Hungary. I can’t recall the name, although maybe for defamation purposes, it’s better that I don’t.

Budapest is another city in which I am quite happy to venture out of a morning at first light and not sit down until plonked upon my bed of an evening, about to take off shoes and socks and retire for the night. The Hungarian capital is divided by the river Danube into Buda and Pest, with Hapsburg imperial and belle époque influences abound.

But back to the hostel… if you could call it that for it was more of a two-bedroom apartment. In fact, that’s precisely what it was. One bedroom became the girl’s dorm, and the other, the boy’s dorm. The owners, a young goth couple, slept in the “hostel common room” (or lounge room) at night on a folding bed. There were even moments where the woman could be seen shaving her boyfriend’s back in the hostel bathroom. That provided an intimate bonding experience, to say the least…

My visit coincided with that of a particularly funny American lad, who was prone to flights of fanciful imagination, especially on seeing the girls/boys rooms which reminded him of childhood sleepovers. So, logically, we continued this train of thought to build huge forts with all the blankets in the hostel and then launch pillow attacks on the rival fiefdom.

We felt obliged towards such behaviour…

That trip also contains the golden memories of drinking large bottles of very cheap beer with the metro station bums (after ditching some others who had settled in a rather ritzy wine bar – one drink and we were out of there to see how the other half drank). Perched around a kiosk stand we chatted on in no mutually comprehensible language, except counting from one to ten in Russian and “Russell Crow… Gladiator” followed by repeated thumbs up.

An interesting evening had by all, I’d say.

Stuck for cheap accommodation in Venice (and frankly, who isn’t?). I’d just like to thrown in a quick word of recommendation for this gem, glimmering just off the main drag, a stone’s throw away from the train station.

It’s not listed in any guidebooks (although a welcoming sign in the foyer encourages you to feel free to mention it to your guidebook), but Archie’s House, run by the very amicable Dr. Arcadio Baghin, is an essential part of any Venetian visit.

The friendly atmosphere is openly encouraged by Archie from the beginning. If you are looking for more of an aloof, solitary or melancholic experience though – maybe look elsewhere. On check-in, Archie explains the history of Venice, shows her geographical position and explains the significance of the lagoon islands. On a free map photocopy, he suggests a two-day tour (all mapped out and numbered), with the first day being devoted to walking and the second to cruising on the vaporetti water buses. Before being allowed to retreat to your room, you get a thorough tour of the hostel – the kitchen (admire the new fridge), the hallway (complete with relaxing fish reading light), the bathroom, the balcony.

On a budget but want to eat something other than pizza? Archie has even compiled a list of “recommended restaurants”, so you have very little need for the new fridge! The first venue – “the favourite of Archie!” – deserves a bit of a word of warning… Even though Archie describes it as the “student’s canteen”, the Mensa D.L.F. Ferrovieri, is a little difficult to find, and a little bit confronting on first entry. You see, although anyone can eat there (and it depends on the cashier whether or not you get a student discount), its primary purpose is as the canteen for the train station employees. So if your eyes are at first greeted by a sea of uniforms, don’t panic!

To find Archie’s is less taxing. However street names, as you will find on your visit, are practically irrelevant. Just turn left on leaving the train station, put your nose to the ground and avoid all sweet temptation from ice-cream and hot chocolate vendors, cross the first bridge and then start looking for a corner marked out by a Japanese flag. You’ve reached Archie’s house and prepare for the making of fond memories.

Coming from a Petersburgian vantage point (ie. the polar opposite), I always thought Moscow architecture was something typically Russian. That was, until I actually got out to see more of Russia, and flying back to Moscow from Vladivostok felt like I had arrived in a seething international metropolis.

Which is much closer to the reality of it all.

I really loved this post about the strange architectural highlights of Moscow.

Two especially worthy mentions are the Koltsevaya (Ring) Line (I’ve spent a few hours myself sleeping on that metro line!) and the VDNKh park. In fact visiting the Venice Biennale recently brought back all my memories of the Former USSR-member pavilions in the VDNKh, so reading this struck a chord!

Some other highlights in Moscow included the Arbat memorial wall to deceased Soviet rock rebel Viktor Tsoi, and casting one’s eyes upwards to the seven “Stalinist Gothic” 1950s skyscrapers. These imposing structures dominate the vast Moscow skyline (oh to stand on the Bolshoi Kamenny Bridge and behold the panorama – a far cry from the dense build-up of St. Petersburg where everything has been built at a quite uniform “no taller than the Winter Palace” height) and are fascinating – if not a little ominous! Including Moscow State University (MGU), Hotel Ukraina and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, these buildings are an excessive modernist combination of Russian baroque and neo-gothic architectural styles.

And, as the 1970s German New Wave group, Genghis Khan, once sang:

Moscow! Moscow!
Drinking vodka all night long
Keeps you happy, makes you strong,
A ha ha ha ha – ha!

I’m surprised I’ve managed to write so much on this blog without having devoted a post entirely to the Eurovison Song Contest. I’ve mentioned museums, old town squares, recycling and even discount airlines, but nothing of the supreme pinnacle of European culture.

I must rectify the situation.

For all those not yet practising members of the cult of Eurovision, here are some excerpts from one Eurovision drinking game to give you an idea of the proceedings:

Sip your drink for any costume change, use of props, wink at camera, mime heavy guitar solo, song in language other than English or native tongue, or if UK gets no points. Sip for ‘ethnic’ dancing, but drain glass if hip hop dancing. It’s also a sip for use of fireworks, but bottoms up if singer catches fire. Of course, if your country wins – drain your glass!

That’s just a taste of it – here’s another.

This is Dima Bilan, an established popstar in Russia and their entry in the 2006 Eurovision Song Contest. He had the misfortune of going up against the overwhelmingly popular Finnish heavy metal group, Lordi, with their ‘Hardrock Hallelujah’, and managed to take out second place.

But as you can see, this clip has all the essential Eurovision elements (it’s just unfortunate that there was rebellion in the ranks and the Finns had an unorthodox victory). There are elements of national character – with the Euro-mullet (or perhaps skanky post-Euro-mullet) and ballet dancers, how much more Russian could you get? The Eurovision pop-kitsch measures are appreciated as well, a huge white piano prop and lots of “yiiihh” when gasping for breath at the end of the lines. One can’t go past the song lyrics either. I love them. “Baby now it’s happened with us, we are dancing on broken glass, can’t stand anymore” – ahah! A pop pun! And nonsensical grammar!

The original film clip features some ‘bonus’ features including 1. a better accent, and 2. more attempts of street-cred dance moves by Bilan, some little jumps rendered pathetic next to the assumed years classical training undertaken by the ballet dancers.

Bring on Eurovision 2008, I say!

I was lucky enough to catch the Venice Biennale in its closing weeks. With my apologies to the Doge’s Palace, I’m exuberantly glad that I did.

For over a century now, the Venice Biennale has promoted avant-garde artistic trends. This year marked the 52nd occasion of this biennial event, and was themed ‘Think with the Senses – Feel with the Mind.’

With my senses receptive to any possibility due to the number of sipped free espressos, I strolled through the national pavilions of the Giardini site. I felt like I was in an enormous Eurovision Expo – but this time on a global scale.

Irena Jůzová from the Czech-Slovak Pavilion with a lukopren cast of her body…

“Eight points… huit points”

Finland, Norway and Sweden’s use of humour in a dart board installation and Bagdad Travel Agency…

“Nine points… neuf points”

Great Britain with some distracted telephone doodlings from Tracey Emin of birds riding penises…

“Three points… trois points”.

Worthy of special mention: France. In ‘Prenez soin de vous’ Sophie Calle appealed to the jilted lovers of the world by asking 107 women to interpret an email of rupture that she had received from her partner. The earth-quaking note ended on a rather distant “Take care of yourself” and that was exactly what Calle undertook through the amazing exhibit. Chosen due to their diverse professional backgrounds (an opera singer, ballet dancer, clown, linguist, moral philosopher, journalist, criminologist, head-hunter, ikebana master, just to name a handful), the women analysed, commented on, danced and sung the letter. As Calle puts it, “It was a way of taking the time to break up. A way of taking care of myself.”

Worthy of ignoble mention: The USA, who seemed to be inadvertently issuing homage to waste of all sorts. On entering the pavilion one was greeted by numerous blazing and heat-emitting light globes. We all know you haven’t signed the Kyoto Protocol; you don’t have to rub it in our faces. Bigger and better, everyone could have candy and free posters, which were then stuffed into faces and littered around the entire expanse of the Giardini. Look, I know that the USA doesn’t trash the Biennale, Biennale festival-goers trash the biennale, but really, it’s time to accept culpability for providing the means to this end.

It can all be read more deeply, I’m sure you can infer the parallels.

A little humour went a long way. The aforementioned Scandinavians achieved this in every one of their exhibits, but my favourite – the red, white and blue ‘Liberté, Equalité, Fraternité’ Parisian public toilets – even caused further humour as confused patrons tried to insert money into the slot and open the doors, I don’t know, but I’d say it was in an attempt to relieve themselves. Lucky I was far enough so they couldn’t hear my hoots of laughter.