Lonely Planet writes that Lisbon is ‘beguiling’, and I have no qualms about agreeing with that.

It’s a kick-back-and-enjoy type of place, all from the quaint comfort of Tram 28. Tracing through narrow alleys, climbing hills and linking all the central tourist attractions, this Lisbon route is like Bus 100 in Berlin or Vaporetto 1 on Venice’s Grand Canal – i.e. filled with people with no intent to actually go anywhere except the end of the line, with no rhyme nor reason to capriciously alight at any other station. A pity for anyone who actually wants to get anywhere, but that’s just the way it goes. There’s ways to avoid all the craziness if you live somewhere. Don’t try and get across Nevsky Prospekt in a hurry on a summer’s day in St. Petersburg, and flee town for peak-season in Paris… otherwise sit back, relax, and take that tram to the terminus.

Sorry, where was I? My first ever visit to Portugal…

On Friday, Guillaume and I (needless to say, it was all due to my bad influence) got side-tracked from seeing any sights other than tall, cool beers and short, hot coffees, but we made up for it in the evening, being shown around Belém by our indefatigable local tour guide (and French sibling), Marion. Just a stick’s throw from Lisbon’s centre, along the Tagus River, Belém has more UNESCO World Heritage sites than you could poke a stone at… if you were that way inclined.

I couldn’t get enough of the Jerónimos Monastery and Belém Tower, and decided that ‘Manueline’ or Portuguese late Gothic architecture from the early 16th century is alright by me. Especially when it’s deemed necessary to incongruously plonk a solitary tower on a river bank… Of course it was more strategically relevant in 1520, but I wasn’t there back then (like I said, first visit to Portugal) so I’ll forever consider it as another weekend whim!

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?

But the my memory of the Ural Youth Museum (shame about the tragic name!) sticks with me today as being one of the most creative and thought-provoking displays I’ve ever seen.


No photos were allowed in the museum, so the accompanying images are some general shots of Ekaterinburg.

It began with dates and faded pictures as a background to a stage with a single chair, though all askew, as if through the eyes of a drunk. The next room contained the entire history of mid-twentieth century Russia as a massive installation. The materials were primarily wood and photocopies, although these formed ladders and canvasses, the images torn in half and blackened out, as historically appropriate. Then mirrors semi-spiralled throughout, further disjointing one’s senses, but eventually you come to realise that a change subject is reflected on the panels. You find yourself staring face-to-face with your own image.

Ha, sucked in! – I found myself thinking – I’m not Russian (and if I was, I would probably be touching up my lipstick) and this is not my history. But the effect was universal.

Next you head up a flight of stairs, and then, as if the strange angles weren’t disconcerting enough before, the next room is half-full with the figures of soldiers, marching up a 45° incline. You have to follow a similar path; however the lighting is only on the eerie figures. The darkness continues in the next room, as does the 45° angle floor, although it tapers away into the next exhibit.

The exhibition leaves you a little dizzy from the ordeal in the dark of walk – stop – look – whoa – walk, and totally reeling from the content. Imagine Disneyland’s ‘It’s a small world’ attract meets a bunch of Russian students with an intense c.20th national history, a photocopier, a lot of wood and some hammers. Amazing stuff.

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!

That was, until I actually stepped across the threshold of the Great Court and plunged myself into a world of wonders. An instant convert. I’ve since spent hours, days, months in those hallowed halls, studying the Rosetta Stone, ogling at the Elgin Marbles and amazed by the Assyrian sculpture.

Needless to say, on my recent visit to London, I rushed back there to see ‘The First Emperor: China’s Terracotta Army’ exhibition. It was actually one of the main reasons influencing my decision to trip back across the Channel.

I gratefully scooped up an available late-night ticket, braced myself for the crush of the crowd, killed time drinking coffee – and then finally, my time with the Terracotta Warriors had come (no, I hadn’t gone to Xi’an when I was in China, if that’s your next question).

It was fantastic, what more could I say? The details of the sculpture, the grandeur of the First Emperor’s eternal empire, the immense process of construction and creation… and also the madness/genius/vision that would compel one to launch on such a project (Hey, but if the young King of Qin could untie the ‘Warring States’ to become Emperor over a united China, defying death is a comparatively slight task!)

Of course the first thing I was greeted with on my return was Qin Shihuangdi’s men staring back at me. Seems they’re traipsing around the world on a museum tour of duty. Next stop: Pinacothèque de Paris… That’d be about right, wouldn’t it!?!

It all took place some years ago in a Turkish coffee shop, on the ascent to Prague Castle. I was with a Slovakian friend who was introducing me to the wonders of sahlep, a traditional Turkish milk-based drink, served hot and sweet, garnished with powdered cinnamon. Sahlep powder is apparently the dried powdered roots of one of two types of mountain orchids, and the drink is best when it’s thick and creamy.

You can see what had all my attention at that particular moment in time.

All of a sudden my companion started tugging at my arm and trying to convey in an unsubtle hissed whisper that I look over his shoulder without actually looking over his shoulder. All of a sudden he was lost for words and started half-giggling (the women serving behind the counter completed the other half of the collective giggle, as they stopped work and stared too).

It was… get this… Karel Gott.

I had the same reaction too. Who?

In hushed tones I had it explained to me that Karel Gott was akin to the Czechoslovakian Julio Iglesias, and that his mother would just die if she knew that we had seen him.

‘So, we go get his autograph?’ I queried, as the momentous nature of the occasion was a little lost on me.

This suggestion was dismissed with a daggered glance, and a ‘if you dare do anything as embarrassing as talking to Karel Gott, I’m going to kill you’ recommendation.

Pfft. The man, the legend, was doing an interview with some journalist type, which quickly concluded. They got up to leave and all eyes followed their departure. As they reached the door, Gott brushed past me to reach for his coat, saying ‘excuse me’ to me in English.

And then they left.

I wasn’t allowed to talk to Karel Gott, but it seems he decided to speak to me.

That’s about the pinnacle of my non-illustrious record of meeting famous people…

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!

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.

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.

Switzerland is a small mountainous country, whose climate is anything but tropical.

It never had any colonies in cocoa-growing countries in South America, or Africa, or anywhere else.

It may seem surprising that it has become one of the world’s leading chocolate manufacturers.

Now that you mention it, swissworld.org, it does seem strange. I’d never wondered about Swiss chocolate much before – I’d just devoured it in large quantities without giving much thought to its origin and history.

But now that Swiss chocolate is fresh in my mind and recent on my tongue, I thought I’d find out a little more.

The European love affair (indeed, the vast bulk of the top twenty chocolate consuming countries are European) began with the introduction of cocoa to Europe from the Americas in 1528 by the Spanish conquistador, Cortez.

By the 17th century, the appeal of this new la-di-dah drinking chocolate had spread from the Spanish court to the French court with the marriage of the Infanta Anne of Austria to King Louis XIII (1615). Although the heyday of hot chocolate was winding to a close by the 19th century, the popularity of the recently invented solid chocolate was on the increase. It took off from there – and soon chocolate bars, milk chocolate and fillings of dried fruit, liquor and praline emerged as if by alchemy.

Switzerland became synonymous with chocolate in the years 1890-1920, a period which coincided with the “golden age” in Swiss tourism. I tried to find some recent facts and figures about the consumption of Swiss chocolate, but like any statistics, you can find just about anyone willing to say anything.

I couldn’t resist the figures from CHOCOSUISSE, the Association of Swiss Chocolate Manufacturers, as anyone who captions a graph of Per capita consumption (Source: International Confectionery Association) with ‘The Swiss like chocolate’ are definitely alright by me in the high-brow stakes.


The Swiss like chocolate. In 2007, as in previous years, they had the highest per capita consumption with 12.3 kg. However, this includes purchases by tourists and cross-border commuters.

And I like Swiss chocolate. I was most impressed to sample the Swiss interpretation of “chocolate biscuit” as heavy on the chocolate and light on the biscuit (I mean, if I wanted a “biscuit chocolate” I would have asked for one!)