How do the Dutch manage to stay so trim? I bet it’s got more to do with the 15,000km of cycle tracks rather than the dietary staples of potatoes and margarine.

Or perhaps it’s because of a ban on foie gras, the controversial French delicacy, which is still “fatty liver” no matter how you spin it (‘a liver that has accumulated a large quantity of lipids through lipogenesis or the transformation of maize carbohydrate and fatty acids’ with ‘unique nutritional and organoleptic properties’… hmm… very unique…)

It may be part of French cultural and gastronomic patrimony, but it doesn’t make it any healthier! I was actually surprised the first time I came to Europe and was confronted by the amount of fatty and deep-fried food on offer. Isn’t this supposed to be from the recent realms of the New World?

But Old World junk food can be as fast as it comes, something I try to push from my mind whilst wolfing down pub fare like smažený sýr (a thick, bread-crumb-coated slab of fried cheese) in a bread roll on the streets of Prague or some hot and oily rösti (potato pancakes) in Germany. I’m still yet to try the deep-fried steak from Serbia, Karađorđeva šnicla (Karadjordje’s steak), or the Bavarian schweinshaxn (deep-fried pork knuckle)!

What really takes the cake – or in this case, the chocolate-smeared animal fat – is salo from the Ukraine. Stereotyped as indispensable for the Ukrainian as vodka for the Russia, salo is a chunk of pig fat. Plain and simple. I think this description best dispels any salo myths: ‘unlike lard, salo is non-rendered pork fat. Unlike bacon, salo has little or no meat.’ Ouch! Talk about a direct hit. Not this, not that, just fat.

“Salo v shokoladi” (salo in chocolate) is a humorous expression akin to the English “chalk and cheese” – but it became reality in a Kiev restaurant a few years ago. This sweet salo, dubbed the “Ukrainian snickers”, is even more gut-churning than a deep-fried Mars Bar.

But as for my favourite of all strange snack foods (with a milder accompanying health warning) is the Russian sirok, which I’ve nicknamed “chocolate cheese.” It’s a little chocolate-coated bar, filled with a light and flavoured tvorog, and best served cold. Sirok is almost like a small chocolate coated ice-cream, but filled with a curd cheese like the French fromage blanc or Italian ricotta. It comes in all sorts of chocolate, fruit or even jam-filled flavours, and I am certain that this was the real scientific breakthrough of the Cold War (forget that space race, the Soviets just mastered cheesy confectionary!)

I haven’t met anyone else who shares my passion for this “chocolate cheese”… although I have a sneaking suspicion that the perpetual popularity of singer Tom Waits in Russia might have something to do with a misinterpretation of his “immaculate confection” song Chocolate Jesus…

‘It’s got to be those chocolate cheeses… makes me feel so good inside…’

It’s inevitable. With the change of seasons, I’m bound to get sick. Especially as springtime looms with its temperature changes and pollen influx, I’ve got a bit of transitional stuffiness to get used to…

Which got me thinking about rich tradition of folk cold and flu remedies in Russia, for there are a whole host of suggestions for every sniffle.

So here are my five all-time favourite Russian cold and flu remedies – and what NOT to do if you actually want to rest, recuperate and eventually be nursed back to health!

1. Vodka
2. Vodka with pepper (do you notice a theme emerging here?)
3. Sunflower oil and milk. In fact, one of the old women who held fort at the dormitories of the university (our don’t-mess-with-me granny) suggested gargling a cup of sunflower oil to my flatmate. She suggested that with each swirl and spit the throat infection would be caught up and sent down the sink in an oily trap. My flatmate, highly sceptical of this approach, instead preferred to…
4. Visit a doctor (but honestly, why go there? You’ll only encounter more sick people!)
5. Nemiroff Ukrainian chilli vodka in a hot cup of tea with honey and lemon juice. This was my preferred method – a failsafe way of injecting a little fire in your belly and throat.

The only problem with three of these five suggestions (I’m sure you can determine which ones), was that they were so darn conducive to multiple dosages in a social context (forget a spoon full of sugar to help the medicine go down – just shoot it back and chase it with some delicious snack gifts from the gods of grazing, otherwise known as zakuski). I would take my “medicine” then someone would suggest some more “for health” and then I would find myself going out to a cosy home-away-from-home nightclub, Dacha, until the wee hours…

As my Dutch courage (or pseudo-health) dissipated, I would realise with horror that I had only set back my road to recovery further.

For the record, it took a prescription of antibiotics and sobriety from a doctor in Berlin (who wasn’t afraid to bandy around the word “bronchitis” a few times in diagnosis) to fix what ailed me… but I much preferred the Russian approach!

Speaking of Kazan, it’s an amazing city to see for the World Heritage kremlin site (and to eat sweet Tatar treats and traditional triangular meat pastries, but that’s a whole other story!). Housing the sixteenth-century Annunciation Cathedral, the legendary Söyembikä Tower and the remarkable Qol-Şärif mosque, the Kazan Kremlin is stunning.

As I’m always one for a tale, the Söyembikä Tower caught my attention. Apparently, or so the story goes, the tower’s namesake was the lovely Söyembikä, the last Tatar queen of the Khanate of Kazan. After conquering the khanate in the sixteenth century, Ivan the Terrible turned his attentions to Söyembikä in the form of a marriage offer. Söyembikä agreed on the condition that Ivan’s artisans complete this tower in one week. The impossible was achieved and the tower finished within the specified time period.

I don’t know how the subsequent conversation ran, but perhaps it was something along the lines of Söyembikä wanting to survey the structure and take one last look at her lands. Of course she threw herself off the highest tier of the tower rather than marry the subjugator of her people.

(So there’s some scholars out there who date it from the seventeenth or eighteenth century, but who let’s truth get in the way of a good story?)

The tower used to be part of the world-famed group of leaning towers, but the estimated incline of 194cm has been largely remedied by stabilisation and straightening measures during the 1930s and 1990s.

By way of homage to Tatarstan and the famous Tatars of the arts, history and politics – have a look at this clip by Alisa Husainova a.k.a SuperAlisa. Using a blend of Tatar and Russian language lyrics, and combining Tatar folk melodies with tongue-in-cheek electro beats, SuperAlisa is well… how else can I say it… super good!

Maybe you’ve stumbled across my blog in search of some travel advice and found it sorely amiss. Or not. Either way, I thought I’d include some budget travel advice for anyone out there considering travelling across Russia without an extensive network of couch-surfing buddies.

This is a handy hint that I only found recommended in one section of my well-leafed through Lonely Planet Trans-Siberian Railway: A Classic Overland Route. I think they had a few authors working on it, and one was more adventurous than the other – or lazier, depends on how you look at it – as he or she had realised that for accommodation in almost any Russian city, one needn’t go any further than the train station.

This is marvellous, in my opinion, as you can get into your room, dump your luggage and have a slight cover of backpack-free incognito as you venture onto your first tentative and lost wanderings. Just like a Russian café (coffee – 25 roubles, tea – 20 roubles, milk – 4 roubles, sugar – 1 rouble, stirrer – 1 rouble) it also offers you the choice to pay for exactly what you want. A shared room with eight, four, two or single, for 24, 12, 6 or 2 hours, with a shower, a hairdryer, possibly even towels… the choice is yours.

As I was travelling light, I’d often just carry my bag, spend the afternoon exploring, and check in for 12 hours in the evening. This way you can also choose accommodation times convenient to your trains.

There are some notable exceptions to this rule – namely St. Petersburg, Moscow, Vladivostok and Kazan. In the two latter cities, it’s possible to enquire about shared rooms at any hotel.

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?

Speaking about the politics of plunder, it seems like a logical next step to go from the British Museum to the State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg. Don’t get me wrong though, it’s one of my favourite places in the world. I have spent as many hours marvelling at London goldsmith and jeweller James Cox’s Peacock Clock with the tour groups in their hovering hoards, as I have in the desolate and far-flung halls of ancient Scythian burial ground gold from southern Russia.

However, the Hermitage has its fair share of interesting history. Established in the late eighteenth century by Catherine the Great, the Hermitage is now home to over three million works of art. I’ve heard something along the lines of ‘not the largest museum in the world, but definitely not the second largest’ being said about its sheer size, but apparently the Guinness Book of Records isn’t afraid to lump accolades upon it – recognising the Hermitage as having the world’s largest collection of paintings.

The Hermitage also contains a sizable amount of Trojan treasures, which were apparently unearthed from Troy by Heinrich Schliemann in the 1870s, and in turn unearthed from Berlin museums by the Red Army in 1945. So it goes…

Despite gifts from artists and ‘donations’ of private art collections seized from the Tsars’ palaces during the early Soviet period, the years pre-1945 are regarded as a time of shocking loss for the museum. During the 1920s and 1930s, when art was smeared with the label ‘bourgeois and decadent’, many thousands of priceless masterpieces were sold internationally or redistributed to other museums across the Soviet Union in a process of nationalisation.

Maybe you are familiar with the regal exhibition halls of the Winter Palace (part of the Hermitage collection’s complex of buildings) without even having set foot in the museum. The film Russian Ark (which I still haven’t managed to see in its entirety, and if you have I congratulate you, I just don’t have the stamina) was an ambitious attempt by Russian filmmaker Alexander Sokurov to chart the three-hundred years of life in the Winter Palace, albeit, filmed as a single-shot walkthrough period piece.


This is not art: pick the odd one out! I’ll give you a clue, Marcel Duchamp is NOT exhibited at the Hermitage…
For all you eagle-eyed out there, you would have noticed instantly that while the sculptures in the images on the left and right are of Greek origin, the image in the middle is a toilet. On a stretched budget it’s all about the art, and not about fancy facilities and providing toilet paper. They might be a necessary port of call, but they aren’t part of the display!

I can never resist a moment of sublime irony. That’s why, when I stumbled across this great post and photo by Svet & Kyle Keeton on Windows to Russia, I couldn’t resist sharing it with everyone.

The sign in front of the veritable wall of local (Klinskoye, Bochkarev, Baltika, Nevskoye) and foreign (Kronenbourg, Carlsberg, Zlatopramen, Bavaria, Hoegaarden, Heineken, Amstel) beers reads:

Уважаемые покупатели!
Приносим свои извинения за ВРЕМЕННОЕ отсутствие алкогольных напитков в нашем магазине.

Or in other words:

Dear Customers!
We apologize for the TEMPORARY lack of alcohol in our store.

Too funny for words! What they mean is that the store has a temporary lack of stronger stuff – spirits and what not – for in Russia beer is considered to be a soft drink alongside cola and lemonade. It’s commonplace to see people at metro stations, in parks and strolling along the street in Russia with a 500ml glass bottle of beer or even a 1.25L PET plastic bottle.

It’s particularly ironic to regard beer as “soft” as some of the beers like Okhota Krepkoye (8.5% alcohol per volume)* and Baltika 9 (8% alcohol per volume) are a couple of Russian lagers that really leave a knock-out impression!

Contrary to all appearances, it’s now illegal to drink beer and beer-based drinks in public places in Russia. The federal law was approved and re-worked during 2004, passed in February 2005 and signed into law by the president in March 2005. The thing is, I’m pretty sure that the new legislation came into effect the following April 1.

Talk about a short-sighted measure! I don’t know if the crowds of people were out, beer cans in hand, to celebrate the ultimate April Fools joke or to bring in the new law with good cheer, but it certainly wasn’t a dry day in St. Petersburg!

* Here’s a brutally forthright beer review of the potent Okota Krepkoye: Pale yellow. Aroma of petrol and corn. Sweet with burning vodka-like alcohol and no body to sustain it. Near undrinkable.

Look, I know my blog is ranked up there with the foremost official world news sources, so I thought it was high time for a Eurovision 2008 update!

It’s less than two months now before all the hilarity of Europe’s #1 pop piss-take (oh, what? They’re serious? No, I can’t believe it!) and I for one am counting down the days until the May 24 final.

I’ve recently heard via a random text message that Dima Bilan will be representing Russia, and any long time readers (ie. my mother) will know that I have a somewhat reluctant fascination with Bilan’s disregard for good taste and dogmatic adherence to a sassy Slavic mullet. Speaking of sticking with a sinking ship, I’ve heard his Eurovision 2008 song already, and I don’t think this will be Russia’s year… again… and especially not since “Dima” – or should we say “Victor” – Bilan has lost the right to use the Dima Bilan stage name after a three year court battle.

So will it be Vitya Bilan performing this year? Only time will tell.

I just hope that one day Ukrainian drag queen Verka Serduchka will grace the stages of Eurovision again in the near future after she was robbed of her rightful crown, as Dancing Lasha Tumbai only came in at second place. All that glitters is not gold…

For the sake of fond memories, here’s some of that Serduchka magic now:

I learned a lot on my trip to Kirovsk though, and pretty much answered my question of “what are people doing living there?” in the Apatity Geological Museum. Apparently the Kola Peninsula region – the “most Soviet” of areas, having been established in the mid-twentieth century – was populated to exploit mineral wealth. Mineral exploration came about with the advances of the railway line, and continued in an “only in Russia” fashion. Why mine when you can just let off a nuclear explosion, for instance? (Although local scientists insist that the immense crater just north of suburb Kirovsk-25 was achieved by heavy machinery and earth movers).

It was a strange science-meets-sport atmosphere there. I guess it continues in the bizarre line of its namesake, Sergei Kirov, whom Stalin has murdered then commemorated through renaming various towns and the Kirov Ballet in St. Petersburg.

I spent twenty-four hours travelling through Karelia to the scientific town of Apatity, which was established in 1966 on the site of a former gulag to cater for the growing scientific population at Kirovsk, at the foot of the mineral rich Khibiny Mountains. They say that three quarters of the elements of the periodic table (a source of pride for Russia, as it was invented by the highly esteemed chemist Mendeleev, the same jolly fellow who standardised vodka at 40% alcohol per volume) are present in them there hills.

I was reading American Psycho non-stop, and I think only one amusing thing happened all train ride. It wasn’t anything to do with the novel, which I found disgusting and shocking (I don’t know what offended me the most: the murders, the sex or the completely vacuous lives of the yuppies). But when I went off to my bunk to sleep, the guy below me started talking about reading in foreign languages, and telling his friend about how I was reading “American Psychology”. I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise!

While it was otherwise, and I’m almost sorry to say this, filled with bollocks – the magazine La vie à Crans-Montana (“Switzerland’s Prestige Magazine”) interestingly introduced one of their articles with:

‘The Russians appreciate Switzerland in winter for its prepared ski slopes and high-tech facilities; the Helvetians adore Russia for its wide open wild spaces.’

Which got me thinking about the skiing spots I’ve been to in Russia – mind you, not for skiing, just for a bit of good old-fashioned voyeurism.

Like the time I ventured up north beyond the Arctic Circle to Kirovsk and the Khibiny Mountains, just to spend my afternoons at the Apatity Geological Museum, being guided through “the biggest shop in town” or wandering through people’s decrepit garbage / storage space and personal rubbish dumps.

I guess during the winter the wrecked car bodies get covered in white, and in green during the summer, so no-one is perturbed by the grimy spring unearthing.

Almost everything in Kirovsk was grey, but it wasn’t as sombre and depressed as it could have been. Instead it was just what could be expected in a Russian mining ski resort town – dust and grit contrasted by a splash of colour in the form of a gaudy branded ski jacket.

Looking back and trying to describe it, I’m reminded of the morose French character in the Molvanîa guidebook spoof, whose “off the beaten track” hints often lead to malaria and hypothermia (somehow simultaneously) all in the aim of avoiding tourist traps. Sometimes travelling solo in Russia can be like flipping a coin and getting both heads and tales at the same time. You just take the good with the bad.

The good included crème brûlée ice-cream and Kirovsk’s “Potemkin village” train station, where just the ornate façade was created and now it stands (precariously) as an ornate wreck.

My goodness Russia had amazing ice-cream (my dentist can provide a testament for just how much I ate of the stuff), but try as I might I never got into the popular pastime of eating it in the middle of winter. Determined chewing and biting effort is not something I associate with an enjoyable ice-cream experience!