According to officially gathered statistics, I am Belle (from Beauty and the Beast) on the Facebook “What Disney princess are you?” survey.

For the record, this means:

You’re an intellectual and pride yourself on it. You know that your mind will lead you to great things – and it will also lead you to a better understanding of those around you. Like, say, a beast.

I wouldn’t go as far as saying that either Belle or myself are intellectuals… but this is Disneyland (and Blogland) so I’ll just let that one slide.

Guillaume is Ariel, which has got me thinking about the troubled past of Copenhagen’s Little Mermaid statue. Since the 1950s, she’s been blasted off her rock with dynamite, painted numerous times, and even had her arm sawn off in a drunken amputation.

The first time she lost her head was a political/artistic act by Danish artist Jørgen Nash and the Bauhaus Situationniste group in the 1960s – but the culprits of the second decapitation remain a mystery, although her head was anonymously returned to a Copenhagen TV station on the promise of an unpaid reward.

This iconic though diminutive statue draws plenty of non-vandal crowds to Copenhagen harbour’s Churchill Park too, including yours truly… on one very cold, early December morning. It was just me, her, and a field mouse. One of those magical pre-breakfast moments.

The Little Mermaid is a story from the beloved Danish fairytale author, Hans Christian Andersen, written in 1836 and not a product of the late 1980s Disney imagination. The image of the mermaid is common in Slavic folk mythology, and there are elements of Andersen’s tale in Dvořák’s opera, Rusalka.

How’s that for your daily trivia fix?

Always one to copy trends rather than set them, I decided to have my own Paris transport strike. I was on a ticket-buying “grève” after the last metro strike, and I figured that if any inspectors stopped me for a ticket, I could always just show them my rendered useless Emir Kusturica concert ticket – it should be worth about 30 carnet tickets.

This “political” act didn’t last very long, because the truth of the matter is that I’m a bit of a wuss. If I don’t have a ticket, my shiftiness is written clearly across face. I dabble in it, but I’m not made for prolonged fare-evasion.

Anyway, my strike had me thinking about my favourite European fare evasion stories, and what I’ve done to get out of paying the fines. There was one time in Graz where we just forgot to get tram tickets (honest!) and an imminent train to Vienna saved my skin, but not that of my Austrian companions.

Another time in Berlin, I had a non-validated (intentionally) child (unintentionally) ticket. My friends there suggested that I do this on the way back from the airport, and as we realised that I was pinged, we subtly separated and they merged into the crowd. As I got off with the ticket inspectors, they discretely disembarked and waited for me a safe distance away. I – alone, in English and all mock sincerity – feigned that I was genuinely surprised that I had to pre-buy my ticket and I was waiting for the conductor to come around, like in St. Petersburg trams.

My academy award winning performance, however, would have been on a tram in Sarajevo, Bosnia. I was caught by the ticket inspectors who gave me a grilling in a mish-mash of Deutchlish (or is it Engleusch?) and I did my confused innocence routine. They asked for my address, I didn’t know it. They asked for my money, I didn’t have it. In the end, I suggested they come to my Turkish Quarter hostel, because I only knew it from a bit of left-right-left ad hoc navigation. They kicked me off at the next stop, but first brought me up next to the driver, who obviously didn’t realise they were in the middle of a bad cop-bad cop routine. He started gesturing with hand signals in no uncertain terms that they might have fancied me. Oh man, could it get any worse? He could have just said it; I wouldn’t have understood… but instead he thought it would be far more ingenious to mime it… ai-ai-ai!

Come to think of it, I have been fined once – on the Helsinki metro. I had no qualms about giving them my Russian address. There wasn’t any way that was getting paid – it was once a blue moon that our mail actually made it to me anyway!

Before the Renaissance… before Eurovision… there was beer.

I realise that I have devoted a lot of posts recently to drinking culture recently, but ‘tis the season and it is a blog about Europe after all… so please view it as European history made fun, rather than the ramblings of a pisspot!

It was actually an Australian flatmate who turned my attention to the finer points (and higher potency) of Belgian brews, and ever since my round-about-roadtrip to Amsterdam I’ve had my eye on all things Belgian. So I decided to orchestrate a little taste test – all in the name of historic and scientific learning, of course… starting with a couple of blonde beers that are both readily available on tap in France, Leffe and Grimbergen.

Both of these Abbey beers trace their roots to the twelfth century, first brewed by hospitable Norbertine monks, but the product is a contemporary and commercial variation on the theme. Trappist beers, on the other hand, are brewed in Trappist monasteries under the supervision of the monks.

Unfortunately the major shortcoming of the project was that my beer tasting vocabulary was limited to “nice”, “good” and “drinkable”… until I consulted the Leffe website. Not only do I now know the correct service temperature for the entire Leffe range and the individual angle required to pour each of the beers, but I also know what that “mysterious” tip-of-the-tongue flavour is in the Leffe blonde…

Banana. The next sip – ah yes, clearly banana; the following sip – perhaps that was psychological; and a third sip – why the heck banana?

Sadly, the Grimbergen site is only in French and Dutch, so it will take me a little longer to determine if pineapple and guava were their secret ingredients. So I’ll have to leave it at “nice”, “good” and “drinkable.”

The next selection of Chimay Trappist beers had me imagining the monks sitting around in their nineteenth-century boys club, no women to spur them on to more worthwhile pursuits, comparing measurements:

“Huh-huh, eight…”

“Whoah, guys! Check it out, 8.5!”

I’d like to imagine that this was the case, but further reading indicated that it was actually measures from 1919 prohibiting the sale of spirits in pubs that spurred the production of higher strength beer.

Putting the ‘pist’ back into ‘Trappist’ – the ideal Chimay advertisement, this monk looks like he’s already had a few (too many…)

I trotted back over the Channel to London last weekend for the Russian Winter Festival. Held annually in Trafalgar Square to celebrate the Russian Old New Year (see my previous post for all that bizzo), it’s basically an extravaganza of folksong, regional dance and kitsch pop. So… it’s pretty obvious I was there at the drop of a Cossack fleece hat!

I was one of the committed few (thousand) who decided to brave the grey skies and wind (which wasn’t really very brave as the rain held off) and stand there for the whole seven hours of the show (unlike the 99,000 latecomers). From children’s choirs to the Russian National Dance Show, made-for-TV pop to rock bands several times in the remaking… it was a great spectacle for those content to stand and watch, but hell on earth for anyone who wanted to move around in the crush of people.

The majority-Russian crowd went nuts for one of the winners of the ‘Star Factory’ TV pop idol contest, Mark Tishman. Everyone laughed heartily at his lame jokes, and seemed to buy all his awful schmaltzy stage moves (and not realise that he’s spent far too long at the solarium, perhaps to hide the fact that he only remembered to bring along his darkest, thickest foundation) – all bar me, so I had so swallow my cynicism and cheer along. A few eyebrows were raised when the expected R’n’B starlet failed to show and was replaced instead by the latex-clad electro-erotic outfit Aqaerobika. It was little surprise that they were announced as ‘fresh from nightclub success in Amsterdam, Berlin and Vienna.’

Another shock (for me at least) – bands such as Sankt Peterburg and Zemlyane, formed in 1967 and 1978 respectively, being fronted by lead singers and musicians that weren’t even conceived (or conceived of!) in the 60s or 70s (and maybe not even in the 80s, for that matter). An interesting advertising take on breathing life into a known brand… why not apply it to known bands? (Why encourage new music when you can just have pretty new faces singing the same old stuff?)

Unfortunately, after the “snowflake” bubbles were released into the crowd, my attention span wavered. I didn’t get to see as much of the ‘Russian Justin Timberlake’, Dima Bilan, as I had hoped, because I was being pestered with questions about my life history from a guy standing next to me (soon dubbed ‘Slava the serial pest’). By the time the craggy rockers, Alisa, mounted the stage, my friends and I decided it was time for drink, but that it was better advised to have an off-site hot chocolate rather than freeze our hands to an icy baltika beer.

Gosh, am I getting soft in my old age?

Bit of an average New Year’s Eve? Don’t worry – you don’t have to wait till Chinese New Year to make it up – Russia offers the disillusioned party person the ultimate solution… Old New Year!

As the Russian Orthodox Church uses the Julian calendar for fixed festivities and Easter instead of the extensively-used Gregorian calendar (it strains my brain whenever I get into this cross-calendar quagmire. For my other attempt to make some sense of it, check out my revolting October post), it pretty much translates as double the fun!

It’s all due to the complexities of religion and twentieth century politics, but I’ll try and sort through it all.

Basically – January 1st is when Ded Moroz (Father Frost) visits from Veliky Ustyug (Moscow mayor Yury Luzhkov determined this relocation from Lapland in 1998; hopefully he was on-hand to help pack boxes for the move) with his granddaughter Snegorochka (Snow Maiden) and presents for the kiddies gathered around the New Year’s yolka (fir tree). With no other determinable family tree, it’s a little confusing how Ded Moroz has a granddaughter, but it’s obvious that mythological pagan characters move with the times. This year, apparently, not only could you send letters to Ded Moroz at his Veliky Ustyug address, but also text messages!

Russia celebrates Orthodox Christmas on January 7th. Banned for 75 years, and only reinstated in 1992, the Christmas celebrations involve feasting, an all-night mass, clouds of incense and a parade of icons.

Old New Year is then the celebration of the New Year, just as the headache has cleared from the last hurrah. In a further stretch of logic, I’m going West rather than East to celebrate it… yep, a day like today deserves a weekend in London for the Russian Winter Festival in Trafalgar Square! Along with Slavic, Chechen and Buryat folk song and dance, there will be an artificially-enhanced smattering of ‘Star Factory’ wannabes soaking in the fourteenth minute of their fifteen minutes in the limelight, headlining popstar Dima Bilan, and scabby old rockers who deserve some credit for being at the cutting edge of underground Soviet rock many moons ago…

Speaking of many moons ago, undoubtedly this was Miss Russia 1938, risking the soles of her feet on the Gulf of Finland’s banks of razor-sharp debris at the peak of St. Petersburg summertime. At this time of year, the shallow water will be frozen and used simultaneously for ice-fishing, reckless high-speed stunt driving and pulling rope-holding skiers from the back of cars (water-ski-style).

Ok, so we were to sleep in the empty cabin of the boat. We had figured that much out.

The moment we were left alone in our confusion, I got into my sleeping bag and pulled it over my head. If we were going to have to make a run for it during the night, I preferred to have had at least a couple of hours sleep first. My companion kept watch at the window, foiling my slumber plan with regular updates of all the shady goings on at the market-cum-port carpark outside.

At one stage, another car pulled up and a man stumbled drunkenly from the passenger seat. I was alerted to the proceedings from a commentary from my friend:

“getting out, um no, falling out of the car… coming our way… oh shit, just got on the boat…”

(thud at the door)

“…opening the door.”

And low-and-behold, before us was the silhouette of a man, supporting himself on the door frame. Silently he reached out to us (I can’t describe our anxiety levels at this point)

… holding blankets. He left us his gift and disappeared into the night.

We looked at each other, lost for words, all except one:

“Christies.”

After that, we slept soundly until morning. We never met the man again. We thanked the staff at the bar and took our morning coffee there. Soon after, we were berated whilst buying yoghurt by the woman in the general store across the road.

“You should have told me yesterday that you were looking for a place to stay; I have a sister who has a spare apartment, here – this is her address, just tell her that Vera from the shop sent you…”

Word gets around fast on the shores of Lake Baikal, I guess!

Still to this day I don’t know exactly what they were saying. Christy isn’t a Russian name (goes without saying really), and in Russian you don’t indicate possession with an apostrophe and “s” like in English… so no idea really!

Lake Baikal, the jewel of Siberia and the deepest lake in the entire world, holds twenty percent of the world’s surface fresh water. The lake is a spiritual centre of the folklore of the traditionally nomadic Buryat people, and a great place for smoked fish for the hoards of Russians and foreigners who pass through to marvel at this wonder of the natural world.

The first time I visited the icy blue waters of Baikal, I was travelling with a friend who I’d met up with on the Krasnoyarsk-Irkutsk train. At Listvyanka, we met with another friend of his who had the foresight (actually it was just the Russian visa requirement) to pre-book accommodation. To cut a long story short, after a day spent doing nothing in particular and an evening drinking tea with the friend, we set off hoping to hitch a lift for the four to five kilometres back to the town from the hotel.

No such luck, and somehow time flew and we found ourselves arriving back to the middle of Listvyanka’s central drag at about midnight. The carpark marketplace where vendors had spent the day smoking and selling their splayed Omul (a whitefish only found in Baikal), had transformed into a quite unsavoury carpark port, where the few bars had taken on an ominous wild-west quality and we weren’t really sure where we stood.

I asked in one bar if they knew anyone who was renting rooms, because we didn’t have a place to sleep. I didn’t really understand the reply, as it sounded something like “Christies.”

“Christies?” I asked.

“Christies.” The same reply, I must had heard right the first time (or – more likely – consistent in my misunderstanding).

This one word ricocheted back between all parties at the counter, the owner and us, the confused backpackers. The way they said it made it seem such an obvious place to stay. I looked around hesitantly for the “Christies” flickering neon light, but nothing.

It was best to start again. “I’m sorry, but I’m not from around here (duh!) and I don’t really understand… Who or what is Christies?”

Someone guided us from the bar to a boat docked approximately ten metres away.

“Christies.”

To be continued…

[...] It doesn’t normally follow that one would undertake an activity where legs can be broken, heads split and fingers sliced off underfoot willingly [...]

For a more realistic portrayal of the perils of skating – check out this funny post from Funabroad. Plus, if my video of Evgeni Plushenko was a little tame or lame for you thrillseekers out there, have a look at this one. When I first watched it, I thought ‘Oh yeah, haha, what a blunder’ and then realised that ice-skating could provide the backdrop for the next Hollywood slash and stab film… ouch ouch ouch!

Actually… I think French black comedy Serial Lover has already delved into that point!

Not enough ice for you? Here’s some stock pics from the Europe trotted archives! The first is an impromptu ice sculpture from some flea markets in Berlin, and the second is the view from my apartment window in St. Petersburg…

European cities have the perfect remedy for the glum onset of winter and the Oh-No-vember blues… It’s called December. As the chill sets in, many set up a central outdoor ice-skating rink for the festive season and then the fun ensues!

Paris has two main rinks; the central, larger and far more popular at Hôtel de Ville, and a smaller one nestled between Montparnasse tower and train station.

Not eager to join the mile long queue at Hôtel de Ville, Guillaume and I just settled in on the side to watch the sophistry and stumblings of the mixed-ability skaters. The next day, earlier in the morning, we had more luck at Montparnasse. It didn’t seem to be the case at first, as from a distance we could just see a sizeable line snaking around the skating venue. As we got closer realised that the people weren’t waiting for skate hire, but… theatre tickets!?! We asked just to be sure, and couldn’t help but wrinkle our noses. I love theatre, don’t get me wrong, but with the ice-skating just there with no queue – time to reconsider priorities, I think!

So we had a great time on the ice. Who would have thought that circling repeatedly, dodging the crowd (him) and trying to avoid spectacular spills (me) could have been so much fun? I think it’s great when a city puts on a bit of a romantic show with an ice-skating rink because it’s usually at one of the city’s most picturesque spots.

In Paris, one can whirl around with the Hôtel de Ville as the backdrop, the lighting provided by an adjacent carousel. In Copenhagen, the main square Kongens Nytorv is dolled up for skaters, with Royal Danish Theatre and the equestrian statue of Christian V as onlookers. In Cologne, the venue is in the midst of the homely seasonal warmth of the Christmas markets. It provides such a buzz… even in damp, cold, rental boots and the knock-kneed awkwardness of a foal trying to learn to walk…

Comparatively confined for space, there weren’t any of these shenanigans going on in Paris. But this video is skating at its funniest – showy spunkrat Evgeni Plushenko doing his thing to Sex Bomb by Tom Jones. 10 points to the costuming department!