Too many Natalyas

2008-02-14T14:27:00.000-08:00

I add a little note as preparations continue for my next trip to mother Russia.

Once again I am running a plethora of errands. I have the phone number of a lady called Maria. I will meet her in Moscow next week and she will give me the equivalent of £200/300 in roubles. I will then buy circa eighty books from the book market at Olimpiiskiy. These are to be sent from Moscow to London wrapped in five kilo parcels. Any books published pre-1951 to be carefully concealed and separated if I have not declared them at the Ministry of Culture.

So, collecting money from a mystery lady, five kilo parcels to London.... My question is: Am I a spy yet?

Next weekend is a national holiday - Festival of the Defence of the Motherland. I shall be travelling between Moscow and Kazan at this time and I am curious as to what the mood might be on the sleeper train. Will people be drinking and singing? Or will they be sleeping? (I guess it's important to remark on the social nature of train travel in Russia: people don't simply ignore a stranger like might happen on the sleeper from London to Edinburgh).

I've also been watching the weather. Minus 14 degrees on Saturday. Brrrr!

2007-10-23T11:48:00.000-07:00

Check my website at www.paulhansbury.co.uk for more Russophilia.

2007-07-29T02:03:00.000-07:00

The final night - we went and saw a ska band playing in a basement bar. Very energetic, a little boistorous, very good fun. Then on to a nightclub to say goodbye to Moscow life.

I didn't mention this a couple of weeks back but I applied for a job on the Moscow Times. I received a reply mid-week. "Thank you for your interest, we will keep your c.v. on file." I am content with that. I've long claimed there's no such thing as being ready for a big change; you simply dive in and get on with it. But maybe I'm not quite ready to relocate to here.

Back to the pages of www.natalya.ru. ;)

Blog closed. When I originally conceived of this adventure I didn't contemplate how many people would help me and make it so damned brilliant. Thanks to Svetlana in London, Natalya and Marina in Kyiv, Masha in Moscow, and all at Extreme Travel in Omsk (Nina, Sveta, Yevgeny, Irina; & their friends Aleksey and Denis).

2007-07-26T23:27:00.001-07:00

(Exit notes) Yesterday afternoon was pleasantly filled walking round an art gallery. I was thinking about Gaugain with an odd sort of respect. Not his art, you understand, because he was undoubtedly a terrible artist - he merely shows and utterly fails to make me feel - but he brought something exotic into people's lives and his commitment was enviable. Abandoning everything except the desire to do what he wanted. Sadly my own commitment is less brilliant. I placed my ad on slando.ru seking Natalyas but to no avail. A single response might have been sufficient to make me feel I'd achieved something.

Instead the evening was spent drinking wine in M's flat and talking about what I'd learned about Russians. There is a major division between generations in this country. The generations who grew up in the Soviet era are much more paranoid than the younger generations. When I ask them how they are the most common response is "Normalna." Normal. Not good, not excellent, simply normal and getting on with it. The younger Russians are much more confident and outgoing. I want to cheat and use a Ukrainian example: the traffic cop (the D.P.S. in Russia, not sure how they are called in Ukraine) blew his whistle and held out his black and white striped baton and M. pulled over, she brazenly showed her documents and sped away, high-fiving Natalya #3 in the front seat beside her. It was an flash of carefree independence.

Comparing the people in Omsk to Muscovites was interesting too. Residents of the former would typically remark, "I went to Moscow once and I didn't like it. Too busy and too noisy." These are people who don't imagine ever travelling outside of their country and many don't have the desire to. Omsk is the magnet that drew them from nearby villages and Omsk is the bright lights. Probably many Britons don't know where Omsk is.

I learned some other things too. I wrote a list of all the people I've met while travelling in Russia and Ukraine. There are over thirty names on the list and you know how many Natalyas. My GCSE maths is invaluable. I can conclude that more than twenty per cent of people living in Russia and Ukraine are called Natalya. Nineteen of the names are female and I therefore also confirm there are more women than men in this country.

I've withheld from commenting on diplomatic relations between the U.K. and Russia, which have been strained over the past couple of weeks. It has been discussed though, at the kitchen table in the small hours, and there is a sense of pride here among Russians about how their country has reacted. Russia is perhaps a country still finding its identity after the chaos of the past - but there is a coming generation of young adults, presently skateboarding on Arbat ulitsa, who were born Russian and not Soviet and maybe it is for them to define what it means to be Russian today.

Final blog entry will be tomorrow. For now I am getting ready for my final night. I've bought a bottle of Veda vodka to get things going. This is a pricey brand but I am told it's good.

2007-07-26T02:19:00.000-07:00

The fat lady had sung but all is not over yet. I have one more trick up my sleeve when it comes to Natalyas. 'La Traviata' at the Moscow Musical Theatre was wonderful. I loved the stage set and Violetta was played with exemplary gusto. There was an odd gratuitous display of skin midway through act II but I'm not complaining. Masha and I took a cab home. This is the "stand at the roadside and stick your hand out and see who pulls up" style of taking a cab. A moustachioed man in a brown Lada was who. Briefly I thought of asking if he was named Natalya. Then I saw his biceps.

People in Russia are all trying to make extra money here or there. As impromptu cabbies, or the retired ladies maintaining portable toilets for 10R a pee. Well - we all have things to do in life - and I have Natalyas to find. One final push before departure Saturday. I placed my ad on slando.ru. "Are you Natalya? Man with mission seeks to meet with someone called Natalya. Rechnoi Voksal, Moscow, tomorrow." Is there to be a Natalya #9 and if so who exactly will Fate place in my path. http://znakomstva.slando.ru/moscow/1127295.html

The ad was placed at about 4pm yesterday afternoon. It's now 1.30pm the next day and I have no replies. It is not looking good. Plans between now and departure are limited; Friday night is free for Moscow nightlife with M. and friends. I need to scratch my head a bit and not lose focus!

2007-07-24T06:18:00.000-07:00

(Москва, снова) For the first time during this adventure I'm missing London. Everything seems behind me now. Ukraine, Siberia. Done and dusted. I'm back in Moscow for five more days and it feels a little like playing out time. Then it's back to the smoke. Except there might be less smoke now. There are things I love and things I hate about Russia - and one of the things I dislike is the smoke. The country reeks of tobacco. I'm wondering about the smoking ban in England and Wales because it came into effect after I left.

Will fill in the blanks on this blog later. I'm not sure anyone is reading it. It will be updated for my own satisfaction. I've fallen off the scent of Natalyas.... arghh. Off to see La Traviata tonight. That promises to be wonderful.

2007-07-22T02:11:00.000-07:00

Domestic flight -- Skinny-dipping for God -- Siberian village life -- My brush with the law -- Hunting the bolota -- Exit pursued by a bear (PART III)

I head out onto the Tara River with Volodya and his son. V. places a square of dirty red carpet down for me to sit on. I'm being treated like a Prince! V. rows and his son sits at the front pulling nets out of the water to remove caught fish. V. shows me how to remove the fish from the nets so as they slip flapping into the boat and not back into the water. The evening ended with a Russian banya - too hot and too long for my liking, plus slapping naked bodies with pine branches felt far too 'Venus in Furs.'

The izba was comfortable enough. Morning dawned and the hunter's wife brought us freshly-drawn milk and eggs for breakfast. Then the V. tookme to feed the boars. We rode through the forest on his decrepit motorbike, with the sacks of boar-feed in a sidecar. My interpreter meanwhile had been driven to Tara and was on the marshrutka back to Omsk where he would endeavour to solve my sticky visa registration problems. I was not registered and overdue so being.

With A. on his way back to Omsk I was left walking through the taiga with the hunter's wife seeking the 'bolota.' I had no idea what this mythical creature was. "Big!" exclaimed Galyna and I gestured at a size with my hands. "Bigger, bigger," she implored. Every fallen tree seemed to be the work of the bolota. Were we to see this mythical beast? (to be continued...)

We broke for lunch. Mushroom soup prepared by the daughter, Ina, washed down with comport. The mushrooms Galyna and I had gathered earlier. I ran the standard gamut of questions about life in the UK. No protection rackets aren't usual. Yes many crimes really do get solved. No we don't have mosquitos like you do. No we don't all brush our teeth after breakfast. Actually I was beginning to doubt the effectiveness of my mosquito repellant when I found a mosquito sunbathing on its roll-head. Still I continued to cake my face and body and clothes in the stuff. The search for the bolota continued.

As G. began to talk about tree stumps and bridging the water I began to form an idea. We were looking for a beaver. Later I would consult my pcoket Russian-English dictionary.
Boloto (-a) cp. marsh, bog
Hey! Hang on there! What? I was confused and bemused as I remembered myself asking the size of the boloto by gesturing with my hands. What must G. have thought of me!

Come evening and this time we WERE seeking beavers. Volodya took me out onto the river in his rowing boat once more. If coming up to the taiga talking to the locals in villages I had felt like Michael Palin, now I felt like David Attenborough. We had rowed for a while and seen many markings on the riverbank but no beavers and Volodya decided to call it a day. I hoped there was to be a happy ending and that as we rowed back the beavers would suddenly show up. Unfortunately there was to be no happy ending because it started to rain which was guaranteed to push the beavers into hiding. This was a shame.

Before leaving the hunters' lodge G. gave me a volume of poetry by Sergey Yesenin. In the front is inscribed "To Paul - From Siberia, from Medvedev family - Bobrovskaya Dacha, July 2007." I was touched and sad to be leaving the isolation of this mid-nowhere.

Then Y. and I hit the road again. Despite being in the middle of nowhere we picked up a hitchhiker. She was going to Tara as would anyone be on the road. I can't quite work out what she was doing standing so far from anywhere on her own. The tears, smeared mascara and torn clothes only added to the mystery. (This is not true, obviously). I was too tired to ask her name and so instead - as we came toward Tara and I had mobile reception for the first time in four days and read the incoming text - I asked her if she knew the date. She didn't. Nor did Yevgeny. Nor did I. I didn't ask her name but let's call her Natalya #8; who knows - maybe she was.

Tara is a tranquil town of wooden houses and wide tree-lined streets. 15 000 people live here. We ate lunch in a roadside canteen opposite the bus station. Okroshka followed by kolbassa for me, washed down with Baltika beer. Next stop was Borshecherche.

(Omsk, once more) I spent the night at Y's parents. He dropped me at their door and told me he'd collect me in the morning. His mother chose to talk to me in a raised voice and his father chose tightly-pursed lips and pointing. Then they realised we could actually have a conversation. Dinner began with an apology. "We've only returned from our dacha this afternoon. We haven't been to the shop yet. I can only offer you fried potatoes." It quickly becomes a stuff-Paul-until-he-bursts competition. There are also cucumbers from the dacha. And peppers. And spring onions. And lettuce. And raspberries. And marmalade cakes. And blueberries. And grass for tea.

I felt compelled to visit the city's literature museum. There is something wonderful about small town museums where the curator goes round ahead of you to turn on the lights. Omsk was the site of a labour camp and it was here Dostoevsky spent his exile in Siberia. The museum is naturally centred round his life and works.

Y. also took me to an arts studio. We drove through an industrial area of the city and pulled up in front of a derelict looking shack. Dimar came and met us at the metal gates and showed us inside. Ten students were gathered smoking and drinking tea, surrounded by their works-in-progress. I talked to them about their art. There were three girls but no Natalyas.

2007-07-21T02:58:00.000-07:00

Domestic flight -- Skinny-dipping for God -- Siberian village life -- My brush with the law -- Hunting the bolota -- Exit pursued by a bear (PART II)

(Okunyevo village) I was shown "the belly of the Earth" - there is a tree of wishes where people tie pieces of cloth round the branches to fulfill their dreams. Probably I had a wish to make; sadly I didn't have a piece of cloth I was willing to spare. I have packed light for this trip and I can't spare pants or t-shirts. See how weak my Faith is! Then it was back to the campfire for Russian folk songs My favourite goes, in rough translation,

Vodka - we drink, we drink, we drink,
And zakusky we eat, we eat, we eat,
And if there's little little vodka
Then we're really not that Russian.

In the morning Aleksey and I walked into the village. We had been told to ask for the House of Clouds. The wooden 'izba' house was painted with pictures of clouds. The resident Dima heard us and came to the window and invited us inside. He is a craftsman and he showed us his workshop; many many crafts spread out on the workbench. Lots of Hindu symbols and ancient Cyrillic writing. I bought an ocarina for 200R.

Yevgeny told me about the deportation of Germans to Omsk in the 1940s. All very interesting. Meanwhile I faced my own problems as news from Nina in Omsk was that they have been unable to register my visa. Uh-oh. I am supposed to be registered within three days of arriving in Omsk oblast and this was day three (and attempt number two to register me). Unfortunately I was 300 km north of Omsk and it was late in the day. The officials were demanding my original immigration card, which was safely in my wallet. Erm, shit. It does however get A. talking about his country and its beaurocracy for the first time. "In my country people don't protest. I've seen pictures on the news of protests in Europe and America but our people would not do this. So the Government does as it wants." (Later, standing beneath a statue of Karl Marx in Moscow calling workers to rise up, I would wonder about the historical truth of this statement).

(Hunters' lodge, 500km N of Omsk) It's been a long drive broken by the overnight camp. Long periods along the bumpy road without passing another car, without passing a turning, without passing a roadsign, without passing a building. There were a few small villages but I have never been so isolated. I am welcomed at the hunters' lodge with homemade kvas (wh. is disgusting). The hunter, Volodya, says I'm the first Englishman to visit. There's a romantic ideal in there somewhere. While there is no such place as the middle of nowhere this is the closest I've been. The hunter isn't particularly interested in where I'm from: it's simply, What on Earth are you doing HERE? We walked down to the river and the hunter's son cut a piece of juice from the hollow of a pine tree and I'm told to suck on it. Apparently kids used to enjoy it as a sweet; it's quite aniseedy.

The bolota, the law &c. will have to wait. My time here is up.

2007-07-21T02:24:00.000-07:00

Domestic flight -- Skinny-dipping for God -- Siberian village life -- My brush with the law -- Hunting the bolota -- Exit pursued by a bear (PART I)

(Moscow) I can't stop myself from commenting that I found a bottle of Hobgoblin ale on sale at a roadside kiosk on the outskirts of Moscow. Masha was away in the countryside for the weekend and so I had her flat to myself for a couple of days and emptied her fridge of pelmeni. I had to take a marshrutka (minibus) from the Metro station to her flat. They collect and set down anywhere on their route - although shouting "Stop, please!" doesn't come naturally to me. My first experience of a Russian domestic flight awaits me tonight. I arrive in Omsk at 3.40am.

(Night flight) I spent half-an-hour waiting in the wrong queue at the railweay station to buy a ticket for the express train to the airport. I got to the front only to be sent away. Then I found the right queue and bought a ticket. It was possible to check-in for my flight at the railway station and the kind girl - seeing the train ticket gripped between my teeth - explained I needn't have bought a ticket; it was complimentary. So she went and got me a refund. Her name was... well, let's say it's unimportant.

A minor hiccough at Vnukovo airport. Going through passport control the woman looked at her colleague and said "Foreigner, let's..!" Boarding pass, passport, immigration card were all fine. Then she asked for my visa registration document. Uh-oh. I had run a small risk and despite having been back in Moscow 4 days (wh. legally required re-registration of visa) I chose not to. I was due a hefty fine. I prevented her from calling her colleague by explaining I spoke Russian and understood and plucked the old registration document from my bag. I duped her. P-h-e-w!

It's rare to find somewhere in Russia you are not encouraged to smoke but that place is the airport. The toilets doubled as a smokers' lounge. There were 27 people on the Rossiya Airlines Tupolev-134: 6 women and 21 men - this was clearly man's territory and not the place to find Natalyas. There were no pre-flight safety instructions and no safety cards in the backs of seats. I departed Moscow (late) at 10.30pm and I watched the sunset over Moscow from the plane window. I landed in Omsk at 5am and watched the sunrise over western Siberia from the plane window. It's easy to forget that Moscow to Omsk is a greater distance than London to Moscow. Omsk airport was comparable to an auto-repairs garage without the facilities; garages usually have a Klix coffee machine and a calendar. And this is a city of over a million people.

(Omsk) My first couple of nights in Omsk I am staying with Denis and Sveta. Tonight Sveta cooked dinner and we drank wine and beer until late. There are a lot of German families here which goes back to the war (the history of the Germans in Omsk would be explained to me later). I also met my interpreter, Aleksey, for my trip into the taiga although I am tempted to say my Russian is better than his English.

(Serebryannaya village) I am picked up mid-morning by Aleksey and Yevgeny, our driver. About 70km north of Omsk and we turn off the road and head into a small village where we visit a small temple. The black-robed cleric shows us the icons and he is interested in having an Englishman come and visit. I am not a man with any religion but I can't not go along with all that follows. Each time he presents a new icon he crosses my forehead with wax and puts his crucifix to my mouth to kiss. Then we drive to the nearby holy spring and remove our clothes. I am told to submerge myself completely under the water. It is freezing and my heart is pounding as I quickly climb in and duck my head under the surface. I'm aware the imprecation that emits from my lips is not very holy.

The cleric blesses our car before we set off again. This is quite a ceremony and lasts about fifteen minutes. Incence and holy water is shaken into all the open doors, bonnet, boot as he mutters prayers. Then the cleric takes Aleksey's guitar from the front seat and plays a song. The women in headscarves and their children gather round.

(350 km N of Omsk) We set up camp on the edge of Okunyevo village. Y. wants me to taste some Russian cheese. I do not like cheese. Self-deprecatingly I say "If I do not like your cheese you will leave me here - English humour." Yevgeny smiles: "No, here there is a village and people. We leave you in the taiga - Russian humour."

2007-07-13T13:11:00.001-07:00

The next train journey. Twenty-four hours from Simferopol to Moscow. My cabin-colleague the whole distance was K. He is Kazakh and now lives in Moscow. He graduated from university three months back in metallurgy (here my Russian was a little fumbling, and initially I thought he had graduated in meterology and I really didn't understand why he was travelling around eastern Europe selling metals). He helped me with the names of the trees in Russian; there were many trees to be seen through the train windows. K. provided good conversation but he is not a Natalya.

Options for eating on the train were either the restaurant wagon or the vendors selling food on platforms at stops. I was pleasantly surprised by both the quantity and quality of the food in the restaurant wagon.

Back in Moscow and I decided to learn more about Natalya Nikolaevna Pushkina. Unfortunately the Pushkin House Museum is shit. Lonely Planet says it "provides SOME insight into the married couple's life." I have emphasised the key word. Still I am enjoying being back in Moscow and I feel very much at home here. I am staying at Masha's flat in the suburbs to the north of the city. Due to time restrictions I have bought return flights to Siberia; the train simply takes too long. I am probably now over-budget since the flights I bought this morning cost 14 500 roubles (nearly 300 pounds).

2007-07-13T12:48:00.000-07:00

(Back in Crimea) Although I wasn't staying in the sanatorium, I was eating my evening meals in the sanatorium canteen with Pasha. I remarked shyly to Natalya how this was so very "Soviet". She laughed and agreed. Pasha and I ate in canteen number 7, table number 95. The first course was waiting us on the table and when this was finished a dinner lady would promptly appear wheeling her trolley and set down the main course.

Meanwhile I had a vodka welcome to Ukraine. Natalya, M. and I sat on a balcony and drank a bottle of vodka. They taught me a lot of Ukrainian customs and superstitions. I felt a little drunk when I walked away but (in the nature of drunkenness) also a little bit wiser. I also went on a couple of organised excursions while in Crimea. This was alone and - as the only non Russian or Ukrainian in the tour groups - I raised a few eyebrows. One of the excursions included a cable car ride up into the mountains...

...my mistake was ordering a beer. The tour group sat down in a wooden canteen and I ordered a beer and some shashlik. Wine is produced in the Crimean mountains and we were obliged to taste eight wines, which they were endeavouring to sell. These came quickly and in various measures from "not very much" to "you call that a SAMPLE." Meanwhile Ruslan at my table had ordered a bottle of Ukrainian vodka and expected it to be shared. Beer and wine and vodka. I was glad when my chicken shashlik arrived.

As Ruslan tried to pour more vodka I put my hand over my glass. I know this is very rude but I was feeling a bit drunk again and it was still only mid-afternoon. An early night was in order.

The crucial fact is this: Ruslan's wife was Natalya #5. Unfortunately she didn't speak very much. She asked me why I didn't speak Ukrainian. I didn't have an answer to this question. Meanwhile I was inadvertently meeting Mashas. Masha #2 sold me the excursions and guided me to the relevant marshrutkas. I met Masha #3 on the beach at Alyushta. All those hours spent walking past the gym were paying off. Impressed by my physique she invited me to the sanatorium disco. This was an invitation I should have turned down. When we arrived a "slow song" was playing and Masha wasn't slow to tell me we had to dance "together" - wh. meant bodies pressed together and me continually finding excuses to avoid her attempts to kiss me. I.e. as she brought her face towards mine I would say something utterly inane. "So this is another Ukrainian pop song; it's a bit like the one that did well at Eurovision." "I do think that man is a terrible dancer, yes that one over there..." Masha quickly remarked that I was a good dancer. Such insincere flattery was frankly ridiculous.

The next Natalya was a waitress at a lunch stop. I asked for a menu and the devushka shouted to her colleague, "Natasha!" I endeavoured to talk to her but she was a little busy and so Natalya #6 goes into the records as a missed opportunity.

I also didn't talk to the Natalya on my excursion to Sevastopol. She was aged about 7. I didn't think I could interrogate a seven year old about Russian politics! Sevastopol is a town of flags and statues. Apparently the Russians were gutted to lose the town when the Soviet Union collapsed. The maverick Moscow mayor recently tried to reclaim the town and the Ukrainians responded by moving Government offices down to Sevastopol. It has become a flag-posting territory-marking competition. I think the yellow and blue flags are outnumbered by the Russian tricolour - but it's a close run competition.

2007-07-09T02:47:00.000-07:00

(Road to Crimea) It was a 3am start. Only an hour out of Kyiv and N. and friend M. stop to ask directions. The large man who gets out of his vehicle is also heading to Crimea. The race is now on; stopping only for a breakfast of borsch at a roadside canteen. N. and M. seemed a little embarrassed when I tried to pay. We were now racing between fields of wheat and fields crammed with sunflowers and burning cocaine fields - without much concern for hitting thr babushkas selling fruit at the roadside. There seems to be only one rule on Ukrainian roads, which is you drive on the right, and even this is flexible. We arrived near Yalta at 4pm where I am staying for the week. I've rented a flat. It's spacious if not exactly clean and I'm doing my best to ignore the leak in the bathroom. I'm also a little confused by the bedding and it is quite possible I'm sleeping under something that is supposed to be a tablecloth. But hey ho. I have more to write about vodka welcomes to Ukraine and too many Mashas appearing when I seek Natalyas. Howsoever there ars only two internet terminals and people are getting impatient behind me! Probably I will write from Moscow on Thursday.

2007-07-09T02:32:00.000-07:00

(Moscow) My phone rang a few days back in Moscow and a voice said "It's Natalya" and I had to think quickly. It was Natalya #3. We met beneath the statue of Alexander Pushkin in Puskinskaya Ploshad (Pushkin - famous for being the husband of Nayalta Nikolaevna) and went to a bar for a drink.

Natalya is young, attractive and a touch gopnik. She sells cosmetics by day and goes clubbing by night. She wants out of Russia; she wants to return to London. She had her visa application turned down and is not sure how she can get back to London and her Albanian boyfriend in Ilford. Lighting her fifth cigarette she explained she has friends who have friends in the Government and maybe they can help. But I don't know where she will find the money. She lives with her parents in a Moscow apartment and sold her car to fund her previous trip to London. She said, "My parents, they don't want me to go to London. My friends tell then\m there are many drugs in London and they think I will turn bad." I asked her what opportunites waited her in London. "It was hard to find a job," she concedes, "and it's more expensive than here." So...? "But I need to speak English properly."

I left Natalya to catch the sleeper train to Kviv. It is not the first time I have slept on a train; I did it on drunken occasions between Victoria and East Croydon a few times some years back only to be kicked awake by guards at East Grinstead. This time it meant being kicked awake by border guards at 4am to scrutinise passport and visa. As the books all promise, the Russian border guards are far more intractable than the Ukrainians.

(Kyiv) I couldn't get hold of Natalya #4 ion the phone and didn't know whether she'd be waiting for me on the platform. She was, thankfully. She and D. gave m,e a whirlwind tour of Kyiv in the sweaty heat. D. is a singer in a popular Ukrainian band. He won a TV talent contest two years' ago. He is also very modest. It was his 14 year old nephew Pasha who proudly played me the albums while we played computer games two evenings back. I asked D. about the forthcoming elections. "Elections won't change anything in this country," he said sadly. He told me how he had pitched a tent in Independence Square during the Orange Revolution of 2004 - and now he says "Politics is all theatre." This is dispiriting to hear because this is a man who adorns the front covers of magazines; he can speak to the younger generations. I've been thinking a lot about what independence meant to Ukraine.

Meanwhile my rucksack is filling up again. Dinner at Natalya's parents in Kyiv saw me come away with a box of cognac to take back to London.

2007-07-02T13:23:00.000-07:00

Masha met me at the airport. She doesn't drive and so her meeting me meant her bringing her friend as driver, and another friend for company, and so picking the Englishman up from the airport became a big feature on their Saturday night out. I learned of the welcoming committee during my stopover in Zurich and was soon imagining a group of raucous girls waiting for me at Domodedovo. The three of them were calm and civilised (thankfully).

After much turning round and arm gesturing we found the hostel. It was now 3.30am and Masha wanted to show me "something" at dawn. So I checked in, dropped my bag in the dormitory, and went directly on a walk through Moscow's streets. We were a little late but as Red Square (empty at 5am) opened up before us I understood. Then a welcome drink and finally to bed at 6.30 - as the early risers in the hostel were already stirring. Yesterday I was tired.

But - I have bought my train ticket for Kyiv tomorrow overnight, and I have bought a Russian simcard for my phone. The latter is an achievement since it required showing a Russian passport (thank you, M.; can I take off the disguise now?).

I almost choked on my dyushes (Soviet-era soda) in the Azerbaijani restaurant when I noticed our waitress' name badge indicated she was called Natalya. Masha was a little embarrassed by my wanting a photograph. Meanwhile Masha's sister A. found my Natalya quest hilarious. Nonetheless - as we discussed it over beer last night - she conceded to knowing several. I have vowed to find her Matthews in return for meeting Natalyas.

This afternoon I found a Matthieu. He is the 'Director of Operations' in the Marriot Hotel on Tvertskaya Ulitsa. The idea had been to lighten my load, but actually meant lumbering across the Moscow Metro network with multiple carrier bags. Firstly I met Nadia at Smolenskaya for lunch in an Armenian eatery; she struck me as outgoing, smart and sassy. Then I tried to deliver items to V's sister. We talked on the phone and agreed it would be easier to meet her husband at the hotel where he works and handover the bags to him. And he was Matthieu. It took me a while to find him since I found myself in the wrong Marriot Hotel enquiring away in my mealy-mouthed Russian - and refusing to speak English because I am stubborn sometimes.

No time for sightseeing. It was back to meet Masha fresh from her office for dinner, and then back to the hostel here to join the hubbub of travellers' tales. I am meeting Natalya #3 tomorrow evening before catching my train to Kyiv.

One final comment for today: Miss Moscow 2007 has been announced in the past couple of days: http://english.pravda.ru/photo/report/miss_moscow-2065/1/ Should I be trying to meet her?

2007-06-30T00:55:00.001-07:00

Natalya #3 emailed back. She has given me her mobile number and wants to meet up in Moscow. She writes, "I would [be] very happy to meet you." Is this a date?

Meanwhile I have discovered slando.ru, basically the Russian Gumtree. My addiction to posting ads on London Gumtree has been unhealthy. I am warning myself against using Slando. Then again. Maybe I can find some Natalyas here.

On my way to Heathrow now.

2007-06-27T13:14:00.000-07:00

Nina in Omsk has come back to me with another offer and I am tempted. At the end of the email she asks “If you don’t mind private question: May I ask your age and if you speak Russian.” She has evidently forgotten our introduction a few weeks back when I tentatively phoned Omsk and we had a fumbled conversation about my plans. But I want to be forced to speak Russian.

I’ve also been emailing Natalya in Ukraine. She is going to meet me at the train station when I arrive from Moscow. Then I accompany her and her friends to Crimea for the week. We set off by car on the night of the 4th July. Very exciting!

She asked me to send a picture, which I have now done. I have asked for one in return. I wonder what she might look like! Our emailing has been exclusively in Russian and I have been told she speaks hardly any English. On the one hand this is what I want, to be forced to speak Russian; on the other hand, it is going to be mentally very tiring for me.

Meanwhile I have my Moscow errands to run. Val is coming round shortly with some things he wants me to take for his sister, and Svetlana wants me to take a present for her daughter Nadia. I'm not sure the wise men were so wise in carrying gifts; my rucksack is going to be half-filled before I've started with my own stuff. I don’t mind so long as I know what I’m carrying!

2007-06-26T17:05:00.000-07:00

Preparations are messy things. That Nina won’t reduce the price of the Siberian excursion may prove the kickstart to a new book. I was hopeful of hunting wild pigs and gathering mushrooms in the taiga and rafting back to Omsk - but Nina is not dropping the quoted price.

The impetus came in the pub on a Friday night. As a writer I’m always keen to seize on any contacts life throws in my direction. So when I found myself - after a few pints of stout - in conversation with a publisher, two weeks before heading off on my adventure to Russia and Ukraine, of course I told him I was going to write a book. Was I? This was news to me.

J. advised me to phone commissioning editors directly. “Few writers will have the nous to talk to someone before they set off,” he said. “I bet you, four times in five when you ask to speak to an editor you will be put through.” J. was correct. Even when I didn’t speak directly to the editor because they were “in a meeting” or “on holiday” - I still got replies to my emails. It has all been incredibly encouraging.

I’m still looking for my “guiding principle.” The question that is going to be with me throughout my travels. But I have ideas. Quirky is good. Dave Gorman, Louis Theroux: quirks aplenty. One editor advised “things in the news tend to be ‘old hat’ so far as the publishing industry is concerned.” The same editor, D., fired me up more than anything else when he suggested building an audience while I am travelling. The daydreamer in me imagines walking into the offices of radio stations in Krasnoyarsk and Novosibirsk and finding myself on air putting out some crazy appeal to the locals.

The situation is that with my original plans for Siberia cancelled, I have two weeks to spare. Two weeks to write my masterpiece. I have to be bold (courage is a great asset) and not be shy of asking awkward questions. Confidence. Confidence is the key to everything. This is my chance to do something memorable in my life. Travelling to Siberia is one thing, but the experience in itself isn’t enough. I’m going to write; it seems so obvious now!

+ + +

Henry leaving Arsenal didn’t help things either. This involves Masha who is picking me up at Domododevo airport at 2am Saturday night.

Friday night I agreed with Masha I would buy an Arsenal shirt for her son Vovka. There was only one name to be printed on the reverse, HENRY. It was lucky I turned on the radio Saturday morning before setting off. Henry exits Arsenal shock. A few quick texts and Van Persie was chosen instead. Apparently Vovka cried when he heard the news.

London’s 'E' shortage isn't merely depressing clubbers in Shoreditch. A seven year old kid in Moscow was also about to suffer. Shop after shop the same story. "We haven't got any Es in white" or "We can print but there's a lot of letters missing." Add: "The new Arsenal awat shirt comes out on the 5th July, we'll get home shirts in stock at the same time." This is no use: I'm due to be in Kyiv on the 5th.

Eventually I found a shop who had the right size and another shop who still had the letter E and could do the printing; I negotiated the second shop dropping their surcharge for printing on a shirt bought outside their store; I set off the security alarm in Sport Soccer because they didn’t remove the ink tag. Several hours later and I had achieved my aim!

2007-06-24T09:02:00.000-07:00

17.02pm on Sunday 24th June 2007. Paul decides it is time to give blogging a go. This is where I intend to keep notes on my travels next month. Only for those interested, of course. I'm engrossed in preparatory training: I've been swatting up on my grammar, practising with random Belorussians, Kazakhs and Russians I've met in London; and I've even given up green Smarties. This is serious.