Live, from Ulan Baatar!
Jul. 29th, 2007 12:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikistitchtiki's been off the intarnets for a couple of days kiddies, but we're logging in from Outer Mongolia right now. Yeah, really. Being finally free from Russia is like a weight off our soul. Our advice: if you visit Russia, by all means, try to avoid the Russians. Russian friend, no one likes you. I'm very sorry, by you're going to have to learn to stop spitting on the sidewalk. Oh, and the shouting thing. We've been hours in Mongolia, and no one yet has screamed at us. It's a joy here.
The Trans-Siberian express: imaging going through Montana. Then going through Montana again. And then again. And again. And again. And again. And again.....
It's like 3 or 4 thousand frickin' miles. The folks in the Russian dining car were typical Slavic lunatics, the saucy waitress, Svetlana's first words to me were "STATION!" Meaning, she's not a Bill and Ted fan, but they refused to work when the train was in the station. Or when it was too early. Or too late. Or when the car was too crowded. Or when they felt like it. Got pix of the menu, Engrish delights abound, like the one we liked best, "Bird in the Capital Way." What kind of bird? Hmmm. Tastes like chicken, as they say.
It was supremely odd when, at the border, they switched over to the Mongolian dining car. Suddenly, instead of a greasy spoon, the car resembled a spiffy Thai place. And the genial cook was willing to seat people at 2 am. And he had beer. And noodles.
Mr. Tiki and I shared a couchette shower with Paris and Nicole wannabees. The delighted in wearing not many clothes and chatting up other plummy-accented British boys, who they would lure to to their compartment, and then evidently NOT sleep with, much to the confusion of the boys. The girls actually brought along pictures of themselves, which they POSTED on their cabin door. One night, I heard our cabin door handle rattling. I checked outside for Mr. Tiki, only to see some more hapless British boys going to visit Britney and Lindsay. Yes, the girls had pasted their PICTURE on their door, and the boys were still too stupid to find them.
Had a bit of last minute excitement during the endless Russian border crossing last night. Remember, this is just to get *out* of fucking Russia. Which forever after will be known as Fucking Russia. About six hours into our pleasant stay at a 90-degree border town, during which all train bathrooms were locked, Wombat Mark suddenly realized that Aussies needed a visa for stays in Mongolia. We sweated until the train at last moved on to the Mongolian side, the bathrooms STILL locked, and the no nonesense Mongolian gendarmes boarded the train and saw the passport bearing a kangaroo. They assured our Ozzie buddy that the problem could be solved for merely 50 American dollars, and escorted him off the train. At once, the train began to move. Back TOWARDS Russia! When the genial conductors joked that were were going BACK to Russia, they nearly provoked a riot. Unbeknownst to us at the time, the train started to move BEFORE Wombat Mark could debark, leaving him to leap from the door Indy Jones like. He contemplated a life of Russian exile, working beside Svetlana in the dining car, yelling at tourists, when the only words of non-Russian he knew were a corruption of the word for "four," "placibo," which he'd been using for thankyou, and "finish," an injoke. But, despite a couple of hairy moments at the visa office, our Ozzie was returned to us, nearly intact, and we finally got to alight Hell Train.
Some memories of Russia: there is only ONE of everything in Russia. We were amused to see the dining car menu, translated, refer to dishes like "the ham." Actually, this explains much of the mother country. When you sit down to dine, you are never given enough menus, and must pass them around the table. That is because, in Russia, there is The Menu. When you are through, they *immediately* snatch away all dining implements, because of course, there is only the fork, the knife, and the plate. Future tourists, I think, would benefit from having the option of ordering things minus the drama--the Russians afford drama to everyday kinks one would expect on a latin American novela where Juan Garcia turns out to be the cousin of Mariel Esteban. Perhaps, we mused, Russia would be better served if the Russians were all relocated in favor of a friendlier race of people, maybe Greeks, or Brazilians would be our suggestion?
It turns out, we hadn't the worst of times, as we learned from a couple of boys at the hostel that they were literally *deported* from Belarus. "It's a totally different country [from Russia]," they marveled, "Who knew?"
Oh, and the marvelous Mr. Tikistitch found us Stitchie Russian crossword puzzles at the Moscow train station, and we hear Duncan found more Stitchies in Estonia, so it's been a good Stitchie trip. Now that we've gotten our bus/train tickets for Beijing, found a bank that will take our ATM cards (they only take Visa in Mongolia, who knew?) fortified by a visit to a Mongolian Czech restaurant (who knew???) featuring espresso AND a beer for breakfast, we proceed to the museum of natural history (supposed to be good) and maybe the black market (which makes us sound very sexy and not nerdy at all). Also, happy to be off the train. And, did we mention, out of Fucking Russia?
The Trans-Siberian express: imaging going through Montana. Then going through Montana again. And then again. And again. And again. And again. And again.....
It's like 3 or 4 thousand frickin' miles. The folks in the Russian dining car were typical Slavic lunatics, the saucy waitress, Svetlana's first words to me were "STATION!" Meaning, she's not a Bill and Ted fan, but they refused to work when the train was in the station. Or when it was too early. Or too late. Or when the car was too crowded. Or when they felt like it. Got pix of the menu, Engrish delights abound, like the one we liked best, "Bird in the Capital Way." What kind of bird? Hmmm. Tastes like chicken, as they say.
It was supremely odd when, at the border, they switched over to the Mongolian dining car. Suddenly, instead of a greasy spoon, the car resembled a spiffy Thai place. And the genial cook was willing to seat people at 2 am. And he had beer. And noodles.
Mr. Tiki and I shared a couchette shower with Paris and Nicole wannabees. The delighted in wearing not many clothes and chatting up other plummy-accented British boys, who they would lure to to their compartment, and then evidently NOT sleep with, much to the confusion of the boys. The girls actually brought along pictures of themselves, which they POSTED on their cabin door. One night, I heard our cabin door handle rattling. I checked outside for Mr. Tiki, only to see some more hapless British boys going to visit Britney and Lindsay. Yes, the girls had pasted their PICTURE on their door, and the boys were still too stupid to find them.
Had a bit of last minute excitement during the endless Russian border crossing last night. Remember, this is just to get *out* of fucking Russia. Which forever after will be known as Fucking Russia. About six hours into our pleasant stay at a 90-degree border town, during which all train bathrooms were locked, Wombat Mark suddenly realized that Aussies needed a visa for stays in Mongolia. We sweated until the train at last moved on to the Mongolian side, the bathrooms STILL locked, and the no nonesense Mongolian gendarmes boarded the train and saw the passport bearing a kangaroo. They assured our Ozzie buddy that the problem could be solved for merely 50 American dollars, and escorted him off the train. At once, the train began to move. Back TOWARDS Russia! When the genial conductors joked that were were going BACK to Russia, they nearly provoked a riot. Unbeknownst to us at the time, the train started to move BEFORE Wombat Mark could debark, leaving him to leap from the door Indy Jones like. He contemplated a life of Russian exile, working beside Svetlana in the dining car, yelling at tourists, when the only words of non-Russian he knew were a corruption of the word for "four," "placibo," which he'd been using for thankyou, and "finish," an injoke. But, despite a couple of hairy moments at the visa office, our Ozzie was returned to us, nearly intact, and we finally got to alight Hell Train.
Some memories of Russia: there is only ONE of everything in Russia. We were amused to see the dining car menu, translated, refer to dishes like "the ham." Actually, this explains much of the mother country. When you sit down to dine, you are never given enough menus, and must pass them around the table. That is because, in Russia, there is The Menu. When you are through, they *immediately* snatch away all dining implements, because of course, there is only the fork, the knife, and the plate. Future tourists, I think, would benefit from having the option of ordering things minus the drama--the Russians afford drama to everyday kinks one would expect on a latin American novela where Juan Garcia turns out to be the cousin of Mariel Esteban. Perhaps, we mused, Russia would be better served if the Russians were all relocated in favor of a friendlier race of people, maybe Greeks, or Brazilians would be our suggestion?
It turns out, we hadn't the worst of times, as we learned from a couple of boys at the hostel that they were literally *deported* from Belarus. "It's a totally different country [from Russia]," they marveled, "Who knew?"
Oh, and the marvelous Mr. Tikistitch found us Stitchie Russian crossword puzzles at the Moscow train station, and we hear Duncan found more Stitchies in Estonia, so it's been a good Stitchie trip. Now that we've gotten our bus/train tickets for Beijing, found a bank that will take our ATM cards (they only take Visa in Mongolia, who knew?) fortified by a visit to a Mongolian Czech restaurant (who knew???) featuring espresso AND a beer for breakfast, we proceed to the museum of natural history (supposed to be good) and maybe the black market (which makes us sound very sexy and not nerdy at all). Also, happy to be off the train. And, did we mention, out of Fucking Russia?
