To Have an End we Need a Beginning

Beginnings are always hard. Far trickier than endings and infinitely tougher than cruising along in the middle of things. Let us therefore begin with and end.

It was 5AM in Moscow and I was lying awake, listening to a gentleman from Ghana running a sawmill in the bunk beneath me. On the street outside, the night people had stopped hollering and the streetsweepers had tossed in their brooms and gone home.

It is safe to say that it was the end of the first day of my trip, although I am somewhat lax with my definition of day. The last 48 hours had been quite eventful, so I brazenly lump them all together to a single unit. The snoring from below provided ample backdrop for a bit of quiet reflection.

While on a softer hotel bed by Gardermoen Airport, it actually dawned on me that this is happening. This trip that I have been nagging and whining and saving for for nigh-on two years would be official. Dobby is a free elf. I am going on an adventure. Other quotes about freedom.

My backpack showed the strain of trying to contain my ambitions. Three months is a lot to try to squirrel away, and it is a little intimidating to imagine that most of what I need to have during the trip is squished inside that monster. It would suck to lose my malaria pills, but it would suck even more to lose the universal power adaptor. What? I’m a slave like the rest of you.

The flight to Russia was rather uneventful. Arlanda airport in Stockholm is beautiful and filled with lots of nooks for a belaboured traveler to catch some shuteye, so I was well rested when I step off the plane in Moscow. Slight clench of the sphincter when I went through passport control, but it seems my visa was genuine. As far as they know.

On the train journey into the city I felt old stereotypes about the Soviet Union creep into the back of my mind as one industrial wasteland passed into the next. Grey skies melded with dirty snow in the horizon and rugged old vehicles of labour did not have the time to gather their skirts and hide the rust as we rushed by in the express train. The only colour beyond green, grey, white and blue of notice was the sudden onslaught of urban art. Miles and miles of vividly coloured murals depicting everything from police women in bondage to orders for the masses to “Wake Up!” They  were a stunning contrast to the bleak surroundings.

Then I entered the city proper and had to swallow my presumptions. Worn in some places and unpolished in others, Moscow is nevertheless a beautiful city. Impressive architecture and intriguing alleys tempted me as I shuffled from one foot to the next outside the train station. Cyrillic letters screamed at me from every sign, poster and screen.

Where the hell was my hostel?

I shoved my way inside a metro-station and waved a note with the address on at the clerk, but she was none the wiser. A lovely lady leant over and gave me a hasty explanation of my route before she had to run for her train. It was clear what I had to do:

Screw this for a piece of toast and run to the nearest taxi.

By the power of Google Maps and no knowledge of the Russian language, my Kurd taxi driver was able to find the hostel after only two misses. This, however, provided me with a sightseeing tour of the Kremlin and the Red Square, in addition to an extensive sampling of his PussyCat Dolls pirated CDs. I can safely say that I do not wish that my girlfriend was a freak like you, Mr Taxi Driver.

At the hostel I met Anton and Lukas, two swedes who are up to no good in Russia, China and Thailand. This suited me perfectly, so we went straight to a corner store to buy shitty vodka and seal our friendship. As is the nordic custom.

When we woke up today I was introduced to Bright who had gotten lost and returned at 3 AM. He is a sweetheart and has promised me a bed in Ghana whenever I need to. Kick. Ass. He’s got such positive attitude towards life that within minutes of waking up he’s infected the rest of us with it.

We have traipsed around Moscow and acted like silly tourists to our hearts’ content, snapping pictures around the Kremlin and enjoyed some local cuisine. Personally, I also got to cross another thing off my bucket list and had my shoes shined by a professional. He was a craftsman, and these old boots of mine have never looked as fly as this. Hella fresh boots, is what I’m saying. Hopefully this will help them last the trip.

Here follows assorted touristy photos.

Nice hammer and sickle there, Moscow...

Red Square Tramp

Every stereotype in beautiful unison.

Allow me to point out Karate Putin roundhouse-kicking Obama in the face.
Propaganda can be fun too.

This evening the Scandinavians will board the trans Siberian railway and spend a week traveling by train to Irkutsk. Hopefully I will not have lost my passport, ticket, ticket to second train, immigration registration, migration registration, visa or any other of the incredibly important documents we need by then. In the immortal words of Jay-Z: “If I ain’t getting paper, bitch, I’m dyin.”

The Savvy Tramp will now sign off with another picture feast from this really cool Tea Parlor we found that I cannot pronounce the name of. They've got the same profound love for 80’s pop and ballads here that I’ve got. Spandau Ballet glides softly into Michael Jackson and it is warm syrup on my eardrums. Don’t we all sometimes really feel like we have bought a ticket to the world, and now we’ve come back again? That’s not the kicker, though. They make tea with science here, you guys. Tea with science.

TEA SIPHON!

Until next time: Stay safe, (or don’t.)

Eg reise ålaina.