Tsarry, Tsarry Nights

Thursday Night, 9 PM (again)
Ekaterinburg, 1814 Kilometres

After more delays, totaling five hours, we reach Ekaterinburg or Yekatinburg at 9 in the evening. This time, though, we can actually see it. It doesn't get dark here until 11:30 PM.

Although still on the Asian side of the Urals, this is a very European city. People are fashionably-dressed, in terms of what passes as fashionable here (shorts worn with hose; many women sport stilettos, but unlike the Italians, they haven't quite mastered the art of walking without wobbling). 20-somethings are skateboarding, and at sunset, young lovers stroll the romantic walkway lining the city pond. It seems a very modern city, despite that fact that during the Cold War, the presence of the military and weapons manufacturing made this a closed city over which Boris Yeltsin presided in the late 1970s and early 1980s. At the time, it was called Sverdlovsk, named after one of Lenin's right-hand men.

The country's fourth largest city is best known for its pivotal role in 20th century Russian history. Nicholas II, the last tsar of Russia, was exiled here with his family after being deposed. The Bolsheviks then knocked off the last of the Romanovs here in 1918.

In the ultimate display of Catholic guilt, Nicholas was canonized after the fall of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s. The impressive Church upon the Blood was built in 2003 as a form of repentance, confession, and remembrance.

The pcitures above: That resembling the Washington Monument is an unfinished television tower. Its claim to fame is that it is the world's tallest unfinished TV tower. The green building serves at Vladimir Putin's home away from home when he visits Ekaterinburg, which happens about every other year.

One Night in Novosibirsk

Wednesday Night, 3343 Kilometre
Novosibirsk

One of the things I love about traveling behind the former Iron Curtain is that so many quirks still exist from those rather surreal days. Last night's stop in Novosibirsk, the capital of Siberia, provided that sense of deja vu as yet unexperienced in Russia.

As noted in a previous post, the visit itself was delayed for five hours. What was supposed to be a day-time city jaunt turned into a twilight and post-twilight tour. At 9 PM, we arrive at the very impressive train station, shaped like a train by Constructivist architects who apparently took their marching orders quite literally. Build a train station, they were told, and they built a station resembling a train. We stepped out in the damp cold to watch a cultural performance while standing in puddles. Although I have never stood in a puddle to watch such a performance, it nonetheless reminded me of the ones that were de rigueur on tours designed by Intourist, Cedok, Orbis and other state-run tourist agencies.

Actually, the performance was quite pleasant, as those things go. But the odd thing was when the performance ended, one of the girls picked up a pail and solicited donations. Now, THAT would have never happened in the Soviet Union. My companions and I thought it rather beyond the pale for a luxury trip. I have never observed performers, hired by a tour company to sing for their supper, passing the hat.

Dark Lenin

Moving along,
our bus couldn't get out of the parking lot for several minutes, as the gate was closed. So, by the time the city tour by bus started, it was 9:50 PM. First stop--a statue of Alexander III next to a span of Trans-Siberian Railway bridge. With light rapidly diminishing, we then drove through what dimly appeared to be a nondescript city. By the time we got to the main attraction, the largest theater in all of Russia, it was nearly pitch black. Apparently, there was a statue of Lenin in the courtyard, along with other sculptures
we couldn't see, except in dark silhouette. But our guide acted as we had night vision, pointing out details impossible to spot.

Then there was the propanganda pitch singing the praises of Novosibirsk as the country's third largest city, its third largest cultural center, and its third largest educational center. Apparently, it is also a Russian mecca for scientific research and the ballet school there is state-supported. We were encouraged by the guide to stay for a month, so that we could go to the ballet and opera and see 25 different performances for as little as 30,000 rubles (or $100) total. I do not recommend this idea.

My overall impression of Novosibirsk-- all in all, there really is nothing to see here, which is a good thing, because we couldn't see it.

Are We There Yet?

The next two posts are marked with the days they were written. However, no Internet connection has been available for nearly three days, so I am uploading them on Friday in Kazan. We are less than 900 kilometres from Moscow.

Wednesday, 5185 Kilometres: Today is the first long slog of this Trans-Siberian adventure and it's getting sloggier by the minute. Actually, the slog started yesterday at noon, when we boarded the train after an overnight at the Courtyard by Marriott (really) in Irkutsk. In the afternoon, there was an entertaining and educational vodka tasting, followed by rest and dinner.

Because we set clocks back two hours before bedtime, we had extra time to sleep in...to the point where when the figurative breakfast bell rang at 7:30, we were all ready to eat. We were then informed that, in addition to the two new hours gained in this time zone, we had fallen behind three hours overnight due to something or other on a bridge. I didn't really get it. But the bottom line is that our next excursion off the train... a visit to the drab Siberian capital of Novosibirsk...would be delayed from 4:00 to 7:00PM. It didn't seem like a big deal at the time, but as the day wore on, we got further and further behind schedule. Getting to this industrial center seemed to be becoming a pipe dream.

At 7 PM, our original departure time FROM Novosibirsk, we were informed that construction...or a derailment...or something...had caused a traffic jam on the tracks. But we would arrive in Novosibirsk..'round about 9 PM. We should be there any minute....or not.

That said, spending today, of all days, train-bound wasn't such a bad thing. For one, it's been raining all day. For two, the germs festered by Typhoid Marty, who had been hacking into the communal food since Day 1, had now reared its head in many of our throats. Third, my period came....of course. So, all in all, if 35 hours straight had to be spent on the train, this was one of the better times to do so.

After our stop tonight, our next stretch is scheduled for 21 hours. I shall write more during that time....about Novosibirsk, the Siberian Tea Party (not affiliated with the American political wingnuts), and about good housekeeping.

Pun Linguistics Redux: Crime and Pun-ishment

In honor of my very first steppe in Russia this weekend, which coincided with the one-year anniversary of my Top 10 finish in the O. Henry Pun-Off, I reprise my Soviet soliloquy presented there.

My entry in the O. Henry Pun-Off World Championships.
Results below the fold. YouTube performance here.

During the Cold War, I had a Soviet boyfriend. CYRIL LICked the competition in college. He got high MARX He was a well-RED SQUARE even POLISHing off LENIN'S TOME. But when PUSHKIN to shove, he was STALIN about going to GRAD school. IVAN TERRIBLY for him to MATRYOSKALATE, as did his BARENTS. But he didn't like the RIGA of the POGROM.

He could have been a STURGEON, or another BELUGAtes. But he didn't want to MAXIM-ize his PROSPEKTS...to STEPPE out of his comfort zone.


Still, I loved Him. He made me feel SAFIN he was good at his KORBUT a little off-balance. But there were CAVIARs.

I won't beat around the BABUSHKA. At ANASTASIA relationship, things change. I had my Sista' SOLZHENITZYN moment when I realized the guy was a PUTSCH.

Let's CHEKHOV the list. He never MINSKED words. He could BORIS to tears. He was a bit GORKY. It IRSKED me that he was always working ENGELS. He was a snob, acting all SIBERIA. It went beyond the PALE.

I remember ONE PARTY when he drank so much Stoli that he couldn't get his BERINGs STRAIT. I was PETROV-ied he would go ANDROPOV the face of the earth.

He was a K-G-Beast. He was SOCHI-ep. He was rather VOLGA. And a bit of a SLAV. Plus, he was always ROMANOV, going PIEROGI on me. I started RUBLE-ing the day I met him.

One time, while doing TASS like IRONing CURTAINS when I said to him, "Don't UKRAINE on my parade." He replied, "CRIMEA river." That was it. I said, "I'm FINNISHED. TATAR."

All the signs should have RAISA a red flag. But I was young and TSARry-eyed and fools RUSSIAN to love.URAL looking for a moral? Y'ALTALLINN you, when you are fishin' for love, the KIEVery time is to MIRly cast a MIG NYET SOYUZ don't make the same mistakes I did. No BOLSHEVIK.

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According to my reading of the scoreboard, with this ditty, I finished #8 out of 30 for Punniest of Show. So-VI-et. I believe my downfall was artistic impression. Certainly, on technical merit, with more than 60 puns in less than two minutes, I should have skated along with a slate of 9s and 10s. Too bad there was no Russian judge. Given the cryptic nature of the language, I believe I needed a judge familiar with the territory. For example, I ended up taking out sentences like "He was oblast and had good kama" due to obscurity.

Meantime, congrats to the champion, one Jerzy Gwiazdowski from the NYC POLITeBURO of Queens. His geographic riff won the day.

Dear reader, did I miss any Russian puns? You can always do a GOGOL search and offer suggestions. Please speak up. After my mediocre FINNISH, I am needing a whole LADA love.

Don't Get Sick in China

As part of a government-run tour of China back in the mid-1980s, we made various obligatory stops at communes, factories, and a hospital. At the time, the latter seemed like a place of torture, as patients laid around undergoing procedures like cupping and acupuncture--treatments that seemed archaic at the time, but, in retrospect, rather ahead of their time. The sanitation conditions at the hospital weren't all that keen. Pity the poor Westerner who might fall ill and end up in one of China's health centers back in the 1980s.

Or pity the poor Westerner who falls ill in 2013...namely, me. It's an extremely hot May day in China. We have spent a long morning sightseeing at The Summer Palace. The afternoon is reserved for the concrete-clad Tiannamen Square and the expansive Forbidden City. It's 95 degrees, not counting the heat emanating from the pavement below. It is 2:00 PM--high time for Chairman Sun.

All is fine until we enter the Forbidden City, inside of which beverages for sale are verboten. I start feeling the effects of heat exhaustion, a condition from which I have suffered three times previously (the last after a torturous Bikram Yoga session). My heart starts palpitating, I go pale, and my mouth dries up like the Gobi. I know from experience that at this point, I am too far gone. I sit against the walls of the Forbidden City, knowing that it's a long walk to get out.

One of my colleagues runs outside the walls to buy beverages. Mostly water--which I later learn from the doctor makes matters worse--a version of Chinese Water Torture. But that's getting ahead of ourselves. I commandeer a wheelchair and ride through the rest of the Forbidden City, nearly crashing into people, rickshaws, and bicyclists along the way. But I get back to the awaiting bus one hour after the symptoms began and now feel a bit better.

That feeling was short-lived, and I knew an IV drip was the only cure. It took two hours to get through traffic to a hospital that ostensibly had an International Travel Clinic. Ostensibly, I say, as no one seemed to speak any language other than Chinese, and the toilets in the waiting area were definitely Eastern-style (not to say that some of the visiting foreigners might not be most proficient using said squatters).

After another hour, at 6 PM, I met with an English-speaking doctor and told him I believed I was suffering from heat exhaustion and dehydration. He ordered blood tests. Let it be said that Chinese nurses are not gentle with their needles, which are the old heavy metal types. After being jabbed in the wrist several times, I was finally wheeled back for an IV. I should add that my blood pressure was never taken, nor was my temperature. Furthermore, I was not given the ability to change out of my clothing, stained with sweat and, ahem, other bodily fluids.

Two young ladies from the Chinese outpost of Zarengold Tours stayed with me throughout the night and thank goodness. There was no accessible button to call the nurse. There were no regular rounds--I didn't see a doctor nor a nurse for hours at a time. When I had to take a bathroom break, my lovely ladies would grab my IV bag and hook it above the toilet. The dfacility, while Western-style, did not come equipped with toilet paper nor soap. No soap in a hospital? Not very encouraging.

Also not very encouraging--the first charge on my bill was for 6000 RBM--the equivalent of $1000. Then, each time they would run a blood test, they would take my credit card again. I can't wait to see the total.

I was dismissed at 7AM the next day, with nary a word from the on-duty doctor. My wrists were sore from the needle punctures, but at least I seemed to be rehydrated. And hopefully, my lovely TravelGuard insurance policy will cover all of the medical expenses, along with the extra hotel night I needed to stay in Beijing before rejoining my group in Mongolia.

7 Things to Remember When Traveling to China

It's been 27 years since I was last in China, and boy oh boy, have things changed.

The airport is new and shiny, with Western style toilets (hooray).
The city outskirts and innards are now lined with high-rises and highways.
Cars have replaced bicycles as the main form of transportation.
And I am sure more will be discovered during my next three days here.

But for now, let me provide 7 pieces of advice to first-time travelers to China.

1. Just because you feel overwhelmed upon arriving, remember that the basic rules of international airports still apply. Do not get money at the currency exchange located near baggage claim. Instead, wait until you are in the main terminal and use a bank ATM. You'll get a better rate. Also, don't fall prey to gypsy cab drivers, who are lurking in the arrivals terminal. The one who tried to tackle me first offered a ride to the Kempinski for 400 RNB. Noticing the scorn on my face, he reduced it to 200. In fact, the ride in the LEGAL cab cost 80 RNB.

2. Don't expect cab drivers will know English. Always print up the address of your destination in Chinese so that your driver takes you to the right place.

3. Unlike in the USA and many other Western countries, smoking is still common in China. Always request a non-smoking room. The regular rooms have an ingrained stench, even at nice hotels.

4. Sorry, no Facebook. You'll have to wait to share your posts and pix until you get beyond the Chinese borders.

5. Similarly, GMail is iffy at best. While you can do searches on Google's main page, access to Gmail and other Google apps (Blogger, Maps) is often blocked by the Chinese government. I have tried to get into GMail scores of times since arriving. I made it through twice, once through the backdoor of google.co.uk. If GMail is your main email account, prepare to forward those messages to another service before leaving home. HotMail, for example, is working fine here.

6. Even if you are traveling first-class, it's still BYOTP in many tourist toilets. What's more, said toilets may not be the, ahem, comfortable thrones to which Westerners are accustomed.

7. Avoid ending up in a Chinese hospital. More on that in the next post.

BTW, this post was uploaded in Mongolia (see #4)

Of Fonts, Bananas and Crossword Grids

Keep Reading
This will make sense shortly

Well, there aren't many benefits of being ill for a week, especially when one works from home. (Before I continue, fear not, dear reader. My plague appears a virulent form of the common cold.). I suppose one sunny side is that the indoor time has not inured me to the wave of summer weather that has recently befallen our nation's capital. The reason that is good news is I am heading to the Baltics at week's end, where temperatures are currently in single digits. And even though said numbers are in Celsius, it's still going to be pretty chilly.

But I digress, as I so often do.  Before I head out on a trip, I like to stock up on books. Being an old-fashioned gal when it comes to my reading, I prefer my ABCs in print rather than in E-form. Fortunately, prior to contracting the wayward germ that has waylaid me, I had purchased a number of books, both from local bookstores (good for me) and Amazon (I am not totally out of date, after all). So, I read three books in six days and will provide an extensive book report on my favorite, called Just My Type (this type is New Times Roman, Italic 12), in my next post. The brilliant book on fonts, penned by Simon Garfield, is a fount of information and entertainment.

But again, I digress. Blame the lingering fever. Given the avidity with which I read (I often down a 350-page book in one day), I am always thrilled when I find books that truly capture my imagination. Interestingly, the ones that do so most often are non-fiction, which some snobs might say are less creative than fiction. But I beg to differ.

In my favor is the old saw that truth is stranger than fiction. But beyond that, the fact that I often opt for histories of arcane subjects (The Toothpick; The Phone Book (not the actual phone book, but a book about the phone book); The Yugo; White Bread) ups the quirk quotient.

Before this post becomes a novella, let me list the three lovely books that kept me entertained through coughing fits, running noses (well, one runny nose), and various aches and pains.

1. CrossWorld: One Man's Journey into Americans Crossword Obsession, by Marc Romano (a history of crossword puzzles and profiles of some famous--and not-so-famous--fanatics)
2. The Banana: The Fate of the Fruit that Changed the World, by Dan Koeppel (a worldwide romp covering the sexless banana from the time of Adam and Eve through today) and
3. Just My Type, by Simon Garfield

Both CrossWorld and Banana are less than 300 pages, which make them appeeling (sic) for coast-to-coast flights. Just My Type is a little longer, but it contains more pictures (although the images in ? are mostly font types).

In case you think I am crazy in recommending Just My Type, let me offer up a brief serving of what you will learn.  Do you know what an interrobang is‽‽‽ Did you know that the & combines the letters E & T (from et, which paired with per se & and = ampersand). Want to learn what's underneath the iconic typography of the London Underground? Curious as to why Gotham (see below) was selected as Obama's campaign type? Then you are just the type to read this book. A full review to come.