A short tale of failed expectations.

Irkutsk

Yet again my prejudice got the better of me. As I stepped off the Trans Siberian Express, I assumed that the shabby shacks, faded advertising boards and rusty old Lada’s were tantamount to the rest of Irkutsk’s grandeur.

At 7 in the morning with the temperature being 17 degrees below, I hope it is forgivable to not be a bottomless well of positivity.

After sorting out the address to the hostel via text and gmail trickery, I hitched a cab that was held together by nicotine stains, odour-vacuum and sheer stubbornness. The driver was lovely though.

I slept away far too many hours and wasted much of my precious Irkutsk time, but got to skype the girlfriend and the family, which was good.

That evening, I wandered around town and man, Irkutsk is really something. With the light hanging from every lamppost, it reminded me of Norway during christmas, but the amount of decorations are quite different. This is clearly a city that is used to searching out the light and happiness during their long, cold winter months.

Almost within metres of each other I find beautiful Siberian driftwood cabins roughing it with carved hangings and sculptured pillars. The lights, the people and the heavy traffic reminded me that I was in a major city, but one could be fooled by some of the buildings. Especially in the market streets.

I found an Irish pub and devoured a burger, then felt a bit ashamed that I’d go to another country just wind up seeking the comforts of familiarity. Oh well, the burger was good and it gave me time to reflect on my surroundings.

There is not too much to tell about Irkutsk. I spent both days wandering around the city, picking up knick-knacks and remembering I couldn’t carry them around. Anxious for another book to fill the hours on the train, I trawled the city for a book store.

Finally, with only minutes to spare, I found an art shop that sold post cards and books. There, hidden on a little shelf, I found Terry Pratchett and a book called Hyperion. Sold.

The lovely people at Baikal Hostel called a cab for me and I arrived with time to spare at the train station. Luckily, I had found a poster at the hostel that explained the Russian timetable to me.

I got on the train, met a Welsh girl and a Geordie. Pleased to have someone speaking the Queen’s, I went to sleep as the train whisked us off towards the Mongolian border where we met black marketeers, smugglers, a town gone to the dogs and celebrated Stu the Geordie’s birthday.

That, however, I’ll have to write tomorrow.

Stay safe, (if you can be bothered.)

Eg reise ålaina.