One of the things about Moscow that is immediately apparent is its size. It took about an hour for the train to go through the suburbs and arrive at, surprisingly enough, Kazanskiy Station. (I should spend half this blog talking about Russian trains, and train etiquette but that is another story.) Having collected my bag, which wasn’t difficult because this was a train, not a plane, I went in search of the nearest Metro station, Komsomolskaya. As I’d slept poorly due to the heat, I strolled right past it in my hunt for a sign-board.
Looking at the station plane, I realised my mistake, walked back out onto the main platform and down into the Metro, with the intention of getting a ticket or ten. My Russian must have improved, because it only took two attempts to make myself understood – go me. Then came the hard part, finding the right platform. I wasn’t completely uninformed – I knew that Komsomolskaya was on the Circle Line and one other, but the platforms themselves are a fair distance underground. Anybody who has used The Tube knows the deepest station in London. It is shallow compared to Moscow (or St-P., which has the deepest average in the world). I descended into the bowels of the earth. Along with several thousand Muscovites on their morning commute.
Every Metro system around the world is the same: two quays, one up one down, at which trains arrive, people get off, people get on (usually at the same time) and after a short pause the train departs. And of course, newcomers will suffer from Murphy’s Law and make their first journey the wrong way; which I did. I realised my mistake halfway between two following stations clockwise that I was going the wrong way, got out at Taganskaya, walked to the other quay and went back in the anti-clockwise to Novoslobodskaya, where I got out, changed to another line, changed station names, and continued on to Dmitrovskaya, where I got out, rode the escalator back up from the bowels of the earth and met my friend, Muscovy Alex.
He was waiting with his mum, and the three of us went to my cheap, by Moscow standards, hotel, where I checked in, filled in the ubiquitous police registration form, borrowed 4500RR off Alex to pay for the room (2 nights, breakfast included) and went to the bank to repay Alex. It was Friday, and the bank queue took longer than the hotel fluffing, but eventually I was armed with enough money to do some damage. We then went touring. Alex knows my hobbies, so after a Metro ride to Sokol’niki station, we found a very good model shop. Kaching, 500RR spent. Then to another suburb, where we did a quick tour of an outside exhibition at a military museum.
Alex had arranged to meet his girlfriend at another Metro station, before we all went to lunch, so we had a wee rest before going to Yolki Palki for smorgasbord lunch. Yolki Palki is a chain of restaurants specialising in Russian cuisine, and well worth the visit. Delicious – not just borsch and sour cream. During lunch somebody dragged out a bottle of cognac and insisted we drink. Alex’s mum insisted on paying for lunch, and after demolishing my fair share of food, we waddled out, caught the Metro to Dynamo Stadium and did some more shopping. One of the interesting things about Russia is you will find little markets anywhere, and discovering one outside Dynamo Stadium was a joy.
By now it was getting late and I was starting to flag, so we headed back to my hotel, all the while being reminded of personal safety on the Metro. Apparently pickpockets are a major problem, and reducing temptation is a good idea. As is not getting your trouser cuffs caught in the escalator (I didn’t) and a number of other warnings. I’d ridden the Metro enough times now to spot the best carriages to get a seat, first or last, as well as understand the announcements (doors closing, following station..., respected passengers don’t forget your stuff). Got back to the hotel and promptly fell asleep.
Saturday, I headed to the main military museum at Victory Park. Victory Park is also the deepest Metro station in the world. It cheats because it’s under a hill, but the escalator ride takes forever. Of course, the weather had changed and I had intermittent drizzle. Not a problem inside the museum, but a bit of a nuisance outside as I toured the machinery of war. The collection was smaller than I expected, but still impressive. Pity I didn’t have time to go to Kubinka, where there are sheds full of the stuff. Then on to Red Square.
How could I go to Russia, to Moscow, and not go to Red Square? Impossible. The weather had improved, and I was able to photograph many famous landmarks without getting wet. Red Square is a pedestrian precinct and you can stroll around, find the best spot to capture the moment and so forth without worrying about cars, buses or trams getting in the way. There is also GUM, which takes up most of one long side of the plaza, and is now expensive shopping boutiques in a very, very large but pretty building. Lenin’s Mausoleum is smaller than I imagined, and the walls of the Kremlin are higher than I expected. Go there!!!
My feet were saying enough, and I was kind of hungry, not having had anything to eat since breakfast, so I decided to go to the hotel and then search for dinner. Got back to my street, and changed plans. The hotel could wait. Alex had recommended Pancho Pizza, a Mexican-Italian restaurant nearby, and I got a table for one in the no smoking section. Halfway through my main and who walk in: Alex’s mum and dad. I’m recognised, and immediately I’m at a table for three and dinner is now being paid for by my new mum. I love that woman. I also had to eat another main. Once more I waddle around Moscow. Because now we are sight-seeing at night, on the monorail.
The monorail is the slowest part of the Metro system, with an average speed of not much. But it gives some great views of northern Moscow, and as it was dark, by night. Took some more photos, thanked my hosts, staggered home, fell asleep.
Sunday I decided to walk from Dmitrovskaya to Sokol’niki – it’s not that far on the map – and photograph interesting monuments, buildings, etc., on the way. Got off to a bad start by walking the wrong way for 5 minutes before I spotted my mistake. Cursed myself for not thinking about this the easy way: Stalin’s Wedding Cake is in the middle of Moscow. It’s one of the tallest buildings and I should have been aiming at, not away, from it. Mistake corrected, I passed several edifices worth shooting, and confirmed my progress on street maps displayed at the bus stops.
My Russian had improved to the point where I was able to give somebody else directions, ask directions and understand them on Saturday, and even get complimented at a shop on speaking good Russian (Friday). However, it was not up to, “rain, rain, go away, come again another day”. Drizzle started about halfway through my peregrinations, and came and went and came again the closer I got to Sokol’niki. I gave in and dragged out the umbrella Galina had lent me. Looked a bit poofy, but I wasn’t getting wet. Well, not from the rain. At one point, a street cleaner went passed and my legs got sprayed.
I’d spotted a nice old church at Sokol’niki, and by the time I got there, the drizzle had turned to rain. But the photographing continued. I was also somewhat tired, as I’d walked for 3 hours, and was carrying my bag. I was taking the scenic route to Kazanskiy Station. I rested a bit, then gave in and jumped on the Metro. I got to Komsomolskaya, and decided to tour the Metro. I remember that there was a track over the Moscow River. I went looking. Ha, bloody tracks got put underground sometime in the 50’s, but it helped kill a couple of hours. After inspecting a number of stations and finally remembering that bridge fact, I emerged at Kazanskiy station. 6 hours till my train back to Kazan. Outside the station, and inspect the scenery. It was worth the energy. And just before I took my last shot it started raining again. That’s why it was my last shot. I took refuge back in the station, read a bit, then back outside for some night shots. I read some more, got bored and decided I could wait on the platform; there was only an hour to go.
Next post: Trains.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Study
Before I arrived in Russia, I thought my Russian was adequate. A couple of days in Kaliningrad knocked that idea out of me. I knew I had been lazy before I left, not revising, but my hearing seemed to be completely shot. Words were only sounds, and I could only understand 10% of what was said, unless they spoke really slowly. It was the same the first few days in Kazan.
I ended up in group with one Finn, one Swede, one Swiss, one Korean, and me, the token Southern Hemisphere representative in Kazan. For some reason, I am in a group that is junior to my progress at UoA. Or rather, it was. We have now moved past where I left some of the subject in Auckland and I’m making far fewer basic mistakes. I’ve made progress, or I’m less basic. But in some areas we are behind where I was at UoA: verbs of motion and forming participles have yet to be touched.
Even from here I can some people going, “verbs of motion?!?” Yes, Russian differentiates between arriving by transport, foot, boat, etc., and whether this is a one off event or something regular. Mind you, what do you expect from a language where introducing yourself is an advanced philological discussion? Hello, my name is Stephen – zdrastuyte, menya zovut Stefan (Здрастуйте, меня зовут Стефан). The tongue-breaker is just greetings, or be greeted (formal version, or addressing a group), and then “me they call” followed by one’s name. The “me” is in genitive even though it is the direct subject and should be accusative; it’s just one of those rules to do with pronouns and grammar. And the “they” attached to “call” is discarded because it’s so obvious (and the verb is in the "they" form anyway) that Russians don’t bother saying it. Confused? I chose to learn this language, so I won’t complain. Much. Today. Need vodka now.
Official, university study takes three hours a day, Monday to Friday. I heard about a singing class and joined that, so have an extra one and a half hours on Thursdays, and they show films on a Saturday for us foreigners, and sometimes I go to them. To begin with, classes focused on grammar, with one noun case at a time being presented, followed by phonetics. The latter is important in a language where the nominative plural, e.g. houses, is spelt the same way as the genitive singular, house’s. Okay, this example doesn’t work in English, but Russian has six noun cases, and some of the endings are repeated between singular and plural. So they differentiate by changing the stressed syllable within the word – words only have one stressed syllable. And stress, as in English, falls on the vowel. This affects how unstressed vowels are pronounced, as only stressed vowels get their full “book value”, and the unstressed ones are pronounced differently. Stressed “o” is similar to “o” in “coat”, and unstressed “o” is similar to “a” or even weaker. Understood? Want some vodka?
All this is very important and correct pronunciation helps with being understood; the same as with English. And it all takes a while to master, especially as Slavonic languages have black belts in consonant clusters. Not too bad if these lurk in the middle of the word, but at the beginning of a sentence is a challenge. The eyes read, the brain says can do, and the tongue says need vodka now! Any fluency I have goes right out the window the moment I trip over a consonant cluster. They either come out right first time or not at all.
But study ain’t only at the university. When you’re learning another language, study is anything that helps you acquire it. Standing around, listening to people, watching telly, listening to the announcements at the local GUM (Gorodski Univeralniy Magazin – Town universal shop). Yep, telly watching is study, ma. I’ve found a couple of programmes that I like, aside from the News channel. One is Intuition, where contestants try and guess the occupation or special behaviour of each of 12 people from a list, with the possibility of winning up 1 000 000RR. The other is Наша Russia (Nasha Russia – it rhymes), a comedy show that takes the mickey out of several Russian stereotypes mercilessly. If my Russian was better, I might be rolling on the floor wetting myself, as opposed to just laughing out loud.
And study is talking to people, chatting with the locals, not being scared to make a mistake with one of the harder Indo-European languages. If you thought French was hard, with only two genders and some silent letters, suck it up and keep shovelling the manure. In the classroom, I have time to compose short conversations – there are five of us and so I’m only going to be called on 20% of the time. On the street, in the train, wherever, suddenly I’m Johnny on the spot and have to remember the correct endings, stress, pronunciation. And for some strange reason I like it.
Next: Moscow – The Big M
I ended up in group with one Finn, one Swede, one Swiss, one Korean, and me, the token Southern Hemisphere representative in Kazan. For some reason, I am in a group that is junior to my progress at UoA. Or rather, it was. We have now moved past where I left some of the subject in Auckland and I’m making far fewer basic mistakes. I’ve made progress, or I’m less basic. But in some areas we are behind where I was at UoA: verbs of motion and forming participles have yet to be touched.
Even from here I can some people going, “verbs of motion?!?” Yes, Russian differentiates between arriving by transport, foot, boat, etc., and whether this is a one off event or something regular. Mind you, what do you expect from a language where introducing yourself is an advanced philological discussion? Hello, my name is Stephen – zdrastuyte, menya zovut Stefan (Здрастуйте, меня зовут Стефан). The tongue-breaker is just greetings, or be greeted (formal version, or addressing a group), and then “me they call” followed by one’s name. The “me” is in genitive even though it is the direct subject and should be accusative; it’s just one of those rules to do with pronouns and grammar. And the “they” attached to “call” is discarded because it’s so obvious (and the verb is in the "they" form anyway) that Russians don’t bother saying it. Confused? I chose to learn this language, so I won’t complain. Much. Today. Need vodka now.
Official, university study takes three hours a day, Monday to Friday. I heard about a singing class and joined that, so have an extra one and a half hours on Thursdays, and they show films on a Saturday for us foreigners, and sometimes I go to them. To begin with, classes focused on grammar, with one noun case at a time being presented, followed by phonetics. The latter is important in a language where the nominative plural, e.g. houses, is spelt the same way as the genitive singular, house’s. Okay, this example doesn’t work in English, but Russian has six noun cases, and some of the endings are repeated between singular and plural. So they differentiate by changing the stressed syllable within the word – words only have one stressed syllable. And stress, as in English, falls on the vowel. This affects how unstressed vowels are pronounced, as only stressed vowels get their full “book value”, and the unstressed ones are pronounced differently. Stressed “o” is similar to “o” in “coat”, and unstressed “o” is similar to “a” or even weaker. Understood? Want some vodka?
All this is very important and correct pronunciation helps with being understood; the same as with English. And it all takes a while to master, especially as Slavonic languages have black belts in consonant clusters. Not too bad if these lurk in the middle of the word, but at the beginning of a sentence is a challenge. The eyes read, the brain says can do, and the tongue says need vodka now! Any fluency I have goes right out the window the moment I trip over a consonant cluster. They either come out right first time or not at all.
But study ain’t only at the university. When you’re learning another language, study is anything that helps you acquire it. Standing around, listening to people, watching telly, listening to the announcements at the local GUM (Gorodski Univeralniy Magazin – Town universal shop). Yep, telly watching is study, ma. I’ve found a couple of programmes that I like, aside from the News channel. One is Intuition, where contestants try and guess the occupation or special behaviour of each of 12 people from a list, with the possibility of winning up 1 000 000RR. The other is Наша Russia (Nasha Russia – it rhymes), a comedy show that takes the mickey out of several Russian stereotypes mercilessly. If my Russian was better, I might be rolling on the floor wetting myself, as opposed to just laughing out loud.
And study is talking to people, chatting with the locals, not being scared to make a mistake with one of the harder Indo-European languages. If you thought French was hard, with only two genders and some silent letters, suck it up and keep shovelling the manure. In the classroom, I have time to compose short conversations – there are five of us and so I’m only going to be called on 20% of the time. On the street, in the train, wherever, suddenly I’m Johnny on the spot and have to remember the correct endings, stress, pronunciation. And for some strange reason I like it.
Next: Moscow – The Big M
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The Man Shortage
One of the things that becomes rapidly apparent is that young Russian ladies tend to dress for the hunt. This is because there is a shortage of men in Russia: the competition for possible mates is intense. Conversely, even gorillas can get a date. This doesn’t mean the girls have lowered their standards: you still have to behave like a gentleman. And the girls expect it. So if the lads haven’t learnt by their mid-teens that they should hold the door open, pay for everything, give flowers and so forth, they’re either thick or completely uncouth.
For their part, the girls try to look their best. Short skirts and high heels are the uniform in warm weather (anything above 0C). There’s also a fair amount of cleavage on display. As one of the US students said, “Welcome to Russia, land of legs and tits.” The short skirts are self explanatory. The high heels are worn for two reasons; firstly, they accentuate the shape and length of the legs. Secondly, most Russian young ladies are midgets: the average height is about 5’, in the heels.
Not that they are all short, or all wear heels. Only 90% of the girlies wear heels, the rest are in sneakers of some sort. Even the tall girls wear heels, but not as often. Meeting tall girls is a bit of a surprise: midget, midget, midget, midget, basketball player, midget. And the tall ones loom over me by quite a bit. Mind you, if Russian women are short, so are Russian men. While I’m not tall, being of average height for a Kiwi, I’m about 5cm over the Russian average for guys. This means I have a better chance of seeing things in a crowd.
Russian girls also use mirrors. Constantly. They are forever checking their hair, make-up, clothes. Deprive them of a mirror (or a cosmetic pack) and they are either completely helpless, or forced into displacement activity. One of the foreign students here said she saw a lass in Moscow applying lip gloss and making sure it was perfect for 5 minutes. Mind you, Moscow is somewhat different. More on the Big M in another post.
The other thing about the girls (and Russians in general), there seems to be a weight limit. There are very few really fat people in Russia. It’s as though there is a sign at the border: Welcome to Russia, fat bastards need not apply. Indeed, the biggest girl I know here is a German, and she’s not huge neither.
For their part, Russian men are expected (and do) open the door, pay for the meal, give flowers, chocolates, at so on. Women’s liberation may have arrived here, but the girls are treated as ladies. Or else the gorilla gets dumped. One of the American lasses studying here commented on her Facebook page about the charming manners of Russian males, and her wish that American men should copy this. Started a bit of a slagging match.
For my part, I try and behave like a gentleman, help the neighbours, etc... So far I’ve had to buy a chance acquaintance early dinner and got a free dinner (and 3 hours of conversation practice) out of one of the neighbours. So it balances out.
Next post: Study!!
For their part, the girls try to look their best. Short skirts and high heels are the uniform in warm weather (anything above 0C). There’s also a fair amount of cleavage on display. As one of the US students said, “Welcome to Russia, land of legs and tits.” The short skirts are self explanatory. The high heels are worn for two reasons; firstly, they accentuate the shape and length of the legs. Secondly, most Russian young ladies are midgets: the average height is about 5’, in the heels.
Not that they are all short, or all wear heels. Only 90% of the girlies wear heels, the rest are in sneakers of some sort. Even the tall girls wear heels, but not as often. Meeting tall girls is a bit of a surprise: midget, midget, midget, midget, basketball player, midget. And the tall ones loom over me by quite a bit. Mind you, if Russian women are short, so are Russian men. While I’m not tall, being of average height for a Kiwi, I’m about 5cm over the Russian average for guys. This means I have a better chance of seeing things in a crowd.
Russian girls also use mirrors. Constantly. They are forever checking their hair, make-up, clothes. Deprive them of a mirror (or a cosmetic pack) and they are either completely helpless, or forced into displacement activity. One of the foreign students here said she saw a lass in Moscow applying lip gloss and making sure it was perfect for 5 minutes. Mind you, Moscow is somewhat different. More on the Big M in another post.
The other thing about the girls (and Russians in general), there seems to be a weight limit. There are very few really fat people in Russia. It’s as though there is a sign at the border: Welcome to Russia, fat bastards need not apply. Indeed, the biggest girl I know here is a German, and she’s not huge neither.
For their part, Russian men are expected (and do) open the door, pay for the meal, give flowers, chocolates, at so on. Women’s liberation may have arrived here, but the girls are treated as ladies. Or else the gorilla gets dumped. One of the American lasses studying here commented on her Facebook page about the charming manners of Russian males, and her wish that American men should copy this. Started a bit of a slagging match.
For my part, I try and behave like a gentleman, help the neighbours, etc... So far I’ve had to buy a chance acquaintance early dinner and got a free dinner (and 3 hours of conversation practice) out of one of the neighbours. So it balances out.
Next post: Study!!
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Bureaucracy or Bust!
Galina bustled around, not worrying that it was almost midnight. She was in a dressing gown and God knows what else. She explained how to use the shower, in Russian, and insisted I swap my shoes for slippers. Sensible idea, as it saves the floor from mud, dirt and slush if it’s been snowing. Not that it was, or had been for at least six months. The number of seemingly intelligent people who assume that Russia has one season, deepest winter, amaze me. It was still +20C. I fell asleep then lay down. On a bed.
I woke to a cooked breakfast, all part of the board I was paying, and Galina tried to fatten me up for winter. But before that I took a shower. Part of me was still asleep because I could only get cold water, even though the gas was lit. Yep, there should have been an inferno inches from my body. But there wasn’t. It was going to be a long 15 weeks if I couldn’t figure out the shower. She then walked me to the main road, via a short cut, decided the wind was a bit nippy (it was 15C and threatening rain) and I headed up to the Kazan State University or KGU. I live in the centre of Kazan, and am only 10-15 minutes’ walk from the University. It’s on the top of a small hill (this is European Russia, all hills are small) not far from the Kazan Kremlin.
First port of call was the International Office, where they would process us, give us the necessary I.D.s and so on. But before I could get there, I had to negotiate my way past the security guard. Simplicity itself: get a pass from the office over there. So I joined the queue and waited. The queue moved quickly; give your name and person you want to see and they write it out. I saved a lot of time by showing the passport and the letter of introduction. Voom, and I was in.
Found the right office and then the confusion and bureaucracy began. First, they needed to know who we, the foreigners, were. So hand over the passport, and some photos of myself I brought with me. Only the photos are no good. KGU want them in black and white, and mine are in colour. By now, there is a small horde of us foreigners in the office, dealing with each other in a combination of English, Russian, and German. We were all in same boat, so one of the office ladies led us to a nearby photographer, who did the business for 90RR/person. Then back to the office to start more paperwork.
It was going to take a while for our various documents to be made, so once we were all admitted, the day was ours. It was now 11am. So one of my new friends and I went in search of culture and art. We stuck our heads in the Kremlin, walked the pedestrian mall, and had a light lunch in one of the cafes. Then back to KGU to collect our paperwork. Once again, we had to get a hall pass, which I was ready for, and got to the front of the queue. One of my cohort was a young Swede, and was rather impressed by the fact I knew the drill. He’d somehow managed to by-pass security and had wandered the halls of KGU looking for the International Office for hours before he’d finally found it. Which wasn’t ready. Well, mine wasn’t. I had to come back the next day. So I strolled around the town with my new Swedish friend, popped into the local mall, The Kol’tso (Ring) and do some window shopping. Not a bad little mall; naturally, over half the shops are fashion related. There is a supermarket and a bookshop too. Bookshop is pretty good, and I decided I’d found a second home. No toy shops though.
Tuesday arrived, and I woke to another cooked breakfast. I could get used to this. I figured out how to use the water heater and had a hot shower, and strolled up to KGU in the drizzle. Where I once again queued for a hall pass, went to the International Office and collected my papers, which were know ready, and then off to the Languages department. Where we again waited while somebody consulted with somebody else and the rest sat around drinking tea. Eventually, they decided we should sit a test, which we did. They then had a look at the results, and said everybody come back tomorrow at 11 and we’ll sort out the groups. At least, that’s what I finally figured out. I was still hearing only sounds, not words, so was relying on a chap from Hawaii, via California, to translate for me. Then off to spend more money.
We hit the mobile phone company. Rumour had it Beeline was giving the best deal, so everybody headed there. I’d left my phone at home – why carry something that didn’t work? Offer money, produce passport and police registration and sooner or later you get a Russian SIM card, which was going in the phone the moment I got home. Oh yes, and a booklet on the benefits of Beeline, in Russian. It was raining, and I went home to play with my new SIM card. Which didn’t work.
Well, it did, but for some reason, my account said I had 0RR, when the deal was buy a SIM card and get 50RR opening balance. Off to Beeline to sort it out. Which they did – your phone is blocked, they said. Try and find a Nokia agent, or Vodaphone partner to unblock it. One customer suggested a rival company might be able to help. As they were just over the street, it sounded like a plan.
Into their office and explain the situation. “I bought the SIM card at Beeline, and my phone isn’t working. Can you help?” “You bought the card at Beeline not here?” “Yes, it seems to be blocked.” Repeat lines 2 & 3 until finished. Which took about 5 minutes. Finally, the young lady called my phone from an office line, and it rang. She hung up and called back from my phone. It worked. Amazing. Thank you, I said. Russia is wonderful and strange, but the people are great.
Next: The Man Shortage
I woke to a cooked breakfast, all part of the board I was paying, and Galina tried to fatten me up for winter. But before that I took a shower. Part of me was still asleep because I could only get cold water, even though the gas was lit. Yep, there should have been an inferno inches from my body. But there wasn’t. It was going to be a long 15 weeks if I couldn’t figure out the shower. She then walked me to the main road, via a short cut, decided the wind was a bit nippy (it was 15C and threatening rain) and I headed up to the Kazan State University or KGU. I live in the centre of Kazan, and am only 10-15 minutes’ walk from the University. It’s on the top of a small hill (this is European Russia, all hills are small) not far from the Kazan Kremlin.
First port of call was the International Office, where they would process us, give us the necessary I.D.s and so on. But before I could get there, I had to negotiate my way past the security guard. Simplicity itself: get a pass from the office over there. So I joined the queue and waited. The queue moved quickly; give your name and person you want to see and they write it out. I saved a lot of time by showing the passport and the letter of introduction. Voom, and I was in.
Found the right office and then the confusion and bureaucracy began. First, they needed to know who we, the foreigners, were. So hand over the passport, and some photos of myself I brought with me. Only the photos are no good. KGU want them in black and white, and mine are in colour. By now, there is a small horde of us foreigners in the office, dealing with each other in a combination of English, Russian, and German. We were all in same boat, so one of the office ladies led us to a nearby photographer, who did the business for 90RR/person. Then back to the office to start more paperwork.
It was going to take a while for our various documents to be made, so once we were all admitted, the day was ours. It was now 11am. So one of my new friends and I went in search of culture and art. We stuck our heads in the Kremlin, walked the pedestrian mall, and had a light lunch in one of the cafes. Then back to KGU to collect our paperwork. Once again, we had to get a hall pass, which I was ready for, and got to the front of the queue. One of my cohort was a young Swede, and was rather impressed by the fact I knew the drill. He’d somehow managed to by-pass security and had wandered the halls of KGU looking for the International Office for hours before he’d finally found it. Which wasn’t ready. Well, mine wasn’t. I had to come back the next day. So I strolled around the town with my new Swedish friend, popped into the local mall, The Kol’tso (Ring) and do some window shopping. Not a bad little mall; naturally, over half the shops are fashion related. There is a supermarket and a bookshop too. Bookshop is pretty good, and I decided I’d found a second home. No toy shops though.
Tuesday arrived, and I woke to another cooked breakfast. I could get used to this. I figured out how to use the water heater and had a hot shower, and strolled up to KGU in the drizzle. Where I once again queued for a hall pass, went to the International Office and collected my papers, which were know ready, and then off to the Languages department. Where we again waited while somebody consulted with somebody else and the rest sat around drinking tea. Eventually, they decided we should sit a test, which we did. They then had a look at the results, and said everybody come back tomorrow at 11 and we’ll sort out the groups. At least, that’s what I finally figured out. I was still hearing only sounds, not words, so was relying on a chap from Hawaii, via California, to translate for me. Then off to spend more money.
We hit the mobile phone company. Rumour had it Beeline was giving the best deal, so everybody headed there. I’d left my phone at home – why carry something that didn’t work? Offer money, produce passport and police registration and sooner or later you get a Russian SIM card, which was going in the phone the moment I got home. Oh yes, and a booklet on the benefits of Beeline, in Russian. It was raining, and I went home to play with my new SIM card. Which didn’t work.
Well, it did, but for some reason, my account said I had 0RR, when the deal was buy a SIM card and get 50RR opening balance. Off to Beeline to sort it out. Which they did – your phone is blocked, they said. Try and find a Nokia agent, or Vodaphone partner to unblock it. One customer suggested a rival company might be able to help. As they were just over the street, it sounded like a plan.
Into their office and explain the situation. “I bought the SIM card at Beeline, and my phone isn’t working. Can you help?” “You bought the card at Beeline not here?” “Yes, it seems to be blocked.” Repeat lines 2 & 3 until finished. Which took about 5 minutes. Finally, the young lady called my phone from an office line, and it rang. She hung up and called back from my phone. It worked. Amazing. Thank you, I said. Russia is wonderful and strange, but the people are great.
Next: The Man Shortage
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Kaliningrad
On my walks up and down the main street, I’d noticed how bad the footpath was. Potholes everywhere and the street looked like it wanted some maintenance too. I hoped this wasn’t indicative of Russia in general. After cashing a cheque, I went in search of food, and found it in the nearby mall, conveniently opposite the hotel. I ordered by pointing and holding up fingers. Actually, I first tried my Russian, but my accent and memory were rubbish. I ended up with something cheap and tasty. And something caffeinated to drink.
I felt comfortable in Kaliningrad, but the weather decided it was time for a change. For the first time in my trip, it rained. Not on the first day in Russia, but the next, after I had rested, found some food for breakfast and started on a tour of the historic city. Koenigsburg used to be the capital of Prussia, then East Prussia and is a city ripe for historic tours. Unfortunately, when the Russians were chasing the Third Reich back to Berlin, Hitler decided that every major city became a fortress, and Koenigsburg had to be taken by storm after a bit of a siege. The result was a developer’s dream.
Stalin decided that redevelopment would take a certain form: the Germans would move out and the Russians move in. End of story. A few major landmarks survived the ravages of war. Immanuel Kant’s church is intact and quite pretty, as are several of the old gates from when K’burg was a fortress city at the end of the 19th century. There is still one gate from the time of Frederick the Great, but it is rather tatty. All the old gates are made of brick, and artillery is not brick-friendly. One is now a museum dedicated to the history of the (now demolished) fortress and gates. Some of the gates have had quite a chequered history, serving as warehouses, workshops, and so forth.
The Communist regime decided that K’burg would suffer for being a “fascist city”, and restorative maintenance was kept to a minimum. Consequently, a number of interesting landmarks are in appalling condition. The former palace of the elector of Brandenburg is an archaeological dig. It was almost completely destroyed. The regional government, freed from shackles of doctrinal thought, is hoping to reconstruct it, but don’t hold your breath. Kaliningrad is now an enterprise zone, so there are plenty of Euros and dollars floating around, but most of these are going toward infrastructure development.
Actually, this is the second time East Prussia has been under Russian rule. First time was during the Seven Year War, when Frederick the Great decided to snatch Silesia from Austria. While he was able to keep the Austrians at arm’s length, the Russians prodded buttock, and were camped in Berlin for several years. They would have won the war if Tsarina Elizabeth hadn’t died and been followed by the idiot, Peter III. Peter gave back everything in a vain and useless bid to reclaim some of his patrimony, Holstein.
East Prussia was and still is a source of amber. It financed the Teutonic knights. That and tourism: go to Prussia, beat up a few pagans, spend up large and have your sins remitted. Medieval tourism at its finest. There is a thriving amber market here, as well as an amber museum. As it was raining when I was taking my excursion, I declined to get thoroughly soaked and missed it.
Watched a few hours of telly in the hope of recovering some language, but no joy. Sunday, 31 August, I had to be at the airport. This was either going to be an expensive taxi or take the bus. I found a taxi outside the hotel (surprise, surprise) and spent 100RR getting to the bus station about 2km away. Bought a ticket for the 20km bus ride: 30RR. Had a bit of a wait at the airport, as I prefer to arrive early rather than try and make an undignified run for the gate after panicking at check-in. Everything went smoothly.
Flew Aeroflot Nord to Moscow Sheremetyevo on a Boeing. A fortnight later, they parked one into the railway tracks near Perm and 88 people died. Then waited about 5 days for my connecting flight to Kazan (or Казань in Russian). I knew there had to be a better combination of flights, but the travel agent hadn’t been able to find them. So I was due to arrive in Kazan at 10pm. Later found out there is a direct flight that takes about 3-4 hours. Flew in my first Tupolov, a Tu-154, operated by Tatarstan Airlines. They made the effort to be friendlier than Aeroflot. And in-flight announcements were in three languages: Russian, Tatar, and English.
Arrived earlier than advertised, and then had a short wait while my bag, which was slowly shedding handles, to arrive. Met the taxi driver, who spoke acceptable English, and was soon whisked into Kazan. Arrived at my home for the next 15 weeks and met my host family, a pensioner called Galina. It was still before midnight, I was knackered, and now I was in Russia, miles from any border. Tomorrow, I started learning Russian for real. Gulp.
Next: Bureaucracy or Bust!
I felt comfortable in Kaliningrad, but the weather decided it was time for a change. For the first time in my trip, it rained. Not on the first day in Russia, but the next, after I had rested, found some food for breakfast and started on a tour of the historic city. Koenigsburg used to be the capital of Prussia, then East Prussia and is a city ripe for historic tours. Unfortunately, when the Russians were chasing the Third Reich back to Berlin, Hitler decided that every major city became a fortress, and Koenigsburg had to be taken by storm after a bit of a siege. The result was a developer’s dream.
Stalin decided that redevelopment would take a certain form: the Germans would move out and the Russians move in. End of story. A few major landmarks survived the ravages of war. Immanuel Kant’s church is intact and quite pretty, as are several of the old gates from when K’burg was a fortress city at the end of the 19th century. There is still one gate from the time of Frederick the Great, but it is rather tatty. All the old gates are made of brick, and artillery is not brick-friendly. One is now a museum dedicated to the history of the (now demolished) fortress and gates. Some of the gates have had quite a chequered history, serving as warehouses, workshops, and so forth.
The Communist regime decided that K’burg would suffer for being a “fascist city”, and restorative maintenance was kept to a minimum. Consequently, a number of interesting landmarks are in appalling condition. The former palace of the elector of Brandenburg is an archaeological dig. It was almost completely destroyed. The regional government, freed from shackles of doctrinal thought, is hoping to reconstruct it, but don’t hold your breath. Kaliningrad is now an enterprise zone, so there are plenty of Euros and dollars floating around, but most of these are going toward infrastructure development.
Actually, this is the second time East Prussia has been under Russian rule. First time was during the Seven Year War, when Frederick the Great decided to snatch Silesia from Austria. While he was able to keep the Austrians at arm’s length, the Russians prodded buttock, and were camped in Berlin for several years. They would have won the war if Tsarina Elizabeth hadn’t died and been followed by the idiot, Peter III. Peter gave back everything in a vain and useless bid to reclaim some of his patrimony, Holstein.
East Prussia was and still is a source of amber. It financed the Teutonic knights. That and tourism: go to Prussia, beat up a few pagans, spend up large and have your sins remitted. Medieval tourism at its finest. There is a thriving amber market here, as well as an amber museum. As it was raining when I was taking my excursion, I declined to get thoroughly soaked and missed it.
Watched a few hours of telly in the hope of recovering some language, but no joy. Sunday, 31 August, I had to be at the airport. This was either going to be an expensive taxi or take the bus. I found a taxi outside the hotel (surprise, surprise) and spent 100RR getting to the bus station about 2km away. Bought a ticket for the 20km bus ride: 30RR. Had a bit of a wait at the airport, as I prefer to arrive early rather than try and make an undignified run for the gate after panicking at check-in. Everything went smoothly.
Flew Aeroflot Nord to Moscow Sheremetyevo on a Boeing. A fortnight later, they parked one into the railway tracks near Perm and 88 people died. Then waited about 5 days for my connecting flight to Kazan (or Казань in Russian). I knew there had to be a better combination of flights, but the travel agent hadn’t been able to find them. So I was due to arrive in Kazan at 10pm. Later found out there is a direct flight that takes about 3-4 hours. Flew in my first Tupolov, a Tu-154, operated by Tatarstan Airlines. They made the effort to be friendlier than Aeroflot. And in-flight announcements were in three languages: Russian, Tatar, and English.
Arrived earlier than advertised, and then had a short wait while my bag, which was slowly shedding handles, to arrive. Met the taxi driver, who spoke acceptable English, and was soon whisked into Kazan. Arrived at my home for the next 15 weeks and met my host family, a pensioner called Galina. It was still before midnight, I was knackered, and now I was in Russia, miles from any border. Tomorrow, I started learning Russian for real. Gulp.
Next: Bureaucracy or Bust!
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Free Travel
Having spent a wonderful few days in my new favourite city, it was time to head for Kaliningrad in Russia. Getting to Frederic Chopin International (Warsaw) airport is possible by public transport. It was a short walk to the tram-stop. Climbing several flights of steps, while carrying a heavy suitcase was another thing entirely. I’m positive I didn’t put bricks in it. Having looked at the timetable and route guide, and watched a possible ride disappear into central Warsaw, I waited for my tram. The electronic info board told me I had about 10minutes to wait. It arrived early. I struggled my way onto the almost empty tram, found a seat, balanced the suitcase on its end and rode the 2km to the bus stop. Nobody asked me for money. I was ready and willing to pay.
I departed the tram, and hunted for my bus stop. My map said I need either a #175 or a #188 bus. It took a moment to find the right stop, as there were several nearby, but the confusion was soon resolved. I joined a crowd of Varsovians and we all piled into the #175 that quickly arrived. Fr much of the bus ride, I had to stand and keep an eye on the suitcase. Not that anyone was trying to steal it, but it had a nasty tendency of attacking small children, dogs, and anything else smaller than itself. Once again, nobody asked for money.
I found out later, talking to fellow students, I should have bought a city travel pass at one of the many kiosks dotted around Warsaw. Oh well, it was a few zloty saved. The only payment I made was when the suitcase, in a fit of pique, decided to attack my leg when I got off the bus at the airport. I gave it a sound thrashing, which kept it quiet for the rest of the day’s travels.
Check-in was a breeze. I passed through border control and into the international concourse – the expensive part of any airport. With several hours to kill, I did some Sudoku’s and had a hot chocolate with chilli. Definitely different from the normal airport fare. Tasty, spicy, and thoroughly refreshing. The flight to Kaliningrad (or Koenigsberg as it was when East Prussia existed and was part of Germany) was uneventful. I had a window seat with a wonderful view of the wing. I sat beside a young Russian chap, and though we didn’t say much, seemed to understand each other.
Getting into Russia went smoothly: show the passport, grunt, and thank the Border Guard when he’s finished inspecting the visa. Apparently mine is of the old variety. Maybe they don’t get many Kiwis going to Russia, and the Russian Embassy got a hundred year’s supply. My bag arrived promptly, and I walked out of the airport to look for a bus. Or a train. Or some form of public transport. And a bank to change my zlotys to roubles. Nothing in sight. There was my seat mate loading his bags into a Lexus.
“Would you like a ride into town?” he asks in good English, once he finds out where I’m going. Love one. So I score a free ride into Kaliningrad. I even get dropped at hotel in the middle of town. Saved me a 20km walk. The bus does go to the airport, but cycles between the arrival and departure terminals and town every half hour. In Kazan, I met Henryk from Sweden, who had to pay the taxi 200RR to get from the arrival to the departure terminal, a distance of 2km.
Negotiating a room at the Kaliningrad Hotel (there is more than one hotel in Kaliningrad, but I was in the one of that ilk) was a strong test of my Russian. Most people were paying cash. I wanted to be difficult and pay with a credit card. So I had to wait. The wait was all of 10 minutes. I filled in a form, handed over my passport, which they kept and got a key. I found myself on the second floor, with a nice room and a very handy toilet. I then went to change some money.
The hotel had its own Bureau de Change (or Обмен Валюты (Obmen Valyuti) in Russian). This is because Kaliningrad, having been more or less ignored under Soviet rule, is now an investment zone and attracts a number of foreign businessmen. But they don’t cash traveller’s cheques. For that I needed to find Cberbank. The hunt was on. I tried in the shopping mall opposite. Nope. They had a branch, but it was only tiny, and only handed customer enquiries. Try down the street. I walk down the street a distance. No sign of Cberbank. I try on the other side of the road, heading back to the hotel. Not there either. So I try another bank. “Go to Cberbank! It’s that way! Idiot foreigner.”
Finally I find Cberbank, and the right window, and then go through the usual long-winded process of changing traveller’s cheques into spendable currency. Of course, they want to see the passport. I had planned ahead and stole it back from hotel reception before this excursion into deepest Kaliningrad. They were used to TC’s here and it took about 5 minutes to get a decent wedge of roubles. Dinner beckoned.
Next time: Historic Kaliningrad: Some repairs needed.
I departed the tram, and hunted for my bus stop. My map said I need either a #175 or a #188 bus. It took a moment to find the right stop, as there were several nearby, but the confusion was soon resolved. I joined a crowd of Varsovians and we all piled into the #175 that quickly arrived. Fr much of the bus ride, I had to stand and keep an eye on the suitcase. Not that anyone was trying to steal it, but it had a nasty tendency of attacking small children, dogs, and anything else smaller than itself. Once again, nobody asked for money.
I found out later, talking to fellow students, I should have bought a city travel pass at one of the many kiosks dotted around Warsaw. Oh well, it was a few zloty saved. The only payment I made was when the suitcase, in a fit of pique, decided to attack my leg when I got off the bus at the airport. I gave it a sound thrashing, which kept it quiet for the rest of the day’s travels.
Check-in was a breeze. I passed through border control and into the international concourse – the expensive part of any airport. With several hours to kill, I did some Sudoku’s and had a hot chocolate with chilli. Definitely different from the normal airport fare. Tasty, spicy, and thoroughly refreshing. The flight to Kaliningrad (or Koenigsberg as it was when East Prussia existed and was part of Germany) was uneventful. I had a window seat with a wonderful view of the wing. I sat beside a young Russian chap, and though we didn’t say much, seemed to understand each other.
Getting into Russia went smoothly: show the passport, grunt, and thank the Border Guard when he’s finished inspecting the visa. Apparently mine is of the old variety. Maybe they don’t get many Kiwis going to Russia, and the Russian Embassy got a hundred year’s supply. My bag arrived promptly, and I walked out of the airport to look for a bus. Or a train. Or some form of public transport. And a bank to change my zlotys to roubles. Nothing in sight. There was my seat mate loading his bags into a Lexus.
“Would you like a ride into town?” he asks in good English, once he finds out where I’m going. Love one. So I score a free ride into Kaliningrad. I even get dropped at hotel in the middle of town. Saved me a 20km walk. The bus does go to the airport, but cycles between the arrival and departure terminals and town every half hour. In Kazan, I met Henryk from Sweden, who had to pay the taxi 200RR to get from the arrival to the departure terminal, a distance of 2km.
Negotiating a room at the Kaliningrad Hotel (there is more than one hotel in Kaliningrad, but I was in the one of that ilk) was a strong test of my Russian. Most people were paying cash. I wanted to be difficult and pay with a credit card. So I had to wait. The wait was all of 10 minutes. I filled in a form, handed over my passport, which they kept and got a key. I found myself on the second floor, with a nice room and a very handy toilet. I then went to change some money.
The hotel had its own Bureau de Change (or Обмен Валюты (Obmen Valyuti) in Russian). This is because Kaliningrad, having been more or less ignored under Soviet rule, is now an investment zone and attracts a number of foreign businessmen. But they don’t cash traveller’s cheques. For that I needed to find Cberbank. The hunt was on. I tried in the shopping mall opposite. Nope. They had a branch, but it was only tiny, and only handed customer enquiries. Try down the street. I walk down the street a distance. No sign of Cberbank. I try on the other side of the road, heading back to the hotel. Not there either. So I try another bank. “Go to Cberbank! It’s that way! Idiot foreigner.”
Finally I find Cberbank, and the right window, and then go through the usual long-winded process of changing traveller’s cheques into spendable currency. Of course, they want to see the passport. I had planned ahead and stole it back from hotel reception before this excursion into deepest Kaliningrad. They were used to TC’s here and it took about 5 minutes to get a decent wedge of roubles. Dinner beckoned.
Next time: Historic Kaliningrad: Some repairs needed.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
How Long is this Street?
The plan – go to the Fuji shop and buy a replacement USB cable. I needed to see a Fuji dealer because that was the brand of digicam I had. Luckily, the user manual gave the address of the main office in Warsaw. The street it was on, Aleja Jerozolimski, was close by and it couldn’t be that far up as the number was 178. It was an excellent plan and, as the Poles had a tendency to start work late (most shops don’t open until after 10), I set off at about 11.
I found my street really easily and started along it from the bottom. I expected to find 178 just past the Palace of Culture and Science. I was dealing with city blocks and the number streets in any city tend to be a little haphazard. A quick check opposite confirmed my hypothesis. Number 55 found, 123 to go. It was a warm day, and I carried the camera and my jacket. I’d grab some fluid on the way back. No point arriving at Fuji busting to use the loo.
I started to have doubts about the plan when the tram-tracks diverged from Aleja Jerozolimski and I was only up to #80 on my side of the street. The Palace of C&S was also blurring behind me in the heat haze. I decided a tram ride would be a pleasant treat on the way back. I’d been walking for about 20 minutes. Then the road forked. There was a small amount of confusion as I tried to decide which one was my street – follow the trams or keep going straight ahead? My map ran out about here, but a simple question of a passing pedestrian confirmed my fears. I had to follow the black asphalt road.
On I walked. The sun beat down. I was entering suburbia. Sometime later, I crossed some rail tracks. I was up to 120. The Palace of C&S had disappeared, courtesy of the curvature of the earth. A billboard advertised Bosch power tools at 176. I must be getting close. Nope. The next number was 124. The vultures circled. Tumbleweeds rolled across the broad boulevard. Ahead loomed a shopping complex – #146. By now I’d figured the numbering system – every building is worth one: a bit like hotels in Monopoly. Shacks, bungalows and small palaces were dignified with 124A or 68B.
The last suburb on the back of the mini-map was Ursus, a sort of industrial area. It was further out than Frederic Chopin International airport. I think I passed through it and on to another city. I was rapidly approaching the German border. Considering I was going SW, this was further than you might think. Certainly it was further than I thought. Finally, after a week of steady plodding, I came up to a complex of high-rise offices. The fourth tower was 178. There was also a decided lack of shops. I had a horrible sinking feeling.
I entered the foyer and, in a truly appalling mix of Polish and Russian, asked the guard on reception, “Fuji only has an office here, no shop?” He grunted an affirmative. I thanked him, said “excuse me” and then swore violently in English. He laughed. Some words are truly international. Time to head back to Warsaw. I wondered if my hotel was still there. Time had melted due to the heat and dehydration. I wanted a drink; water, beer, McDonald’s coffee, more than I wanted the toilet.
Naturally, a bus left the stop opposite as I considered crossing the road. Even if I’d sprinted, I’d have missed it. The street was so wide you had to be born on the other side to reach it. I started walking. My thighs were chaffing. I looked like a cowboy minus the horse. The jacket weighed a ton and there wasn’t a hint of a breeze. It took less time to reach the trams than I thought. The ride was a welcome relief for my thighs. On the bright side, my shoes were still comfortable.
Having spent half a day hunting for something I couldn’t find, I celebrated by having a beer. And another beer. Then I tried Polish mead: miod pitnij (Gene Pitney’s brother). Fabulous. It was served warm, and was about the strength of sherry. Unfortunately, when I asked for another, they’d run out. I’d drunk them dry. Fortified, I strolled through the Old City, took some night shots and had dinner in a small cafe specialising in traditional Polish food. So I had something that tasted excellent with mulled miod pitnij. Ever better. The chaffing ceased to hurt. I was so strong and brave I helped translate the menu for a young English couple. Magnificent. I even fell in love with Warsaw all over again.
Next: Free travel.
I found my street really easily and started along it from the bottom. I expected to find 178 just past the Palace of Culture and Science. I was dealing with city blocks and the number streets in any city tend to be a little haphazard. A quick check opposite confirmed my hypothesis. Number 55 found, 123 to go. It was a warm day, and I carried the camera and my jacket. I’d grab some fluid on the way back. No point arriving at Fuji busting to use the loo.
I started to have doubts about the plan when the tram-tracks diverged from Aleja Jerozolimski and I was only up to #80 on my side of the street. The Palace of C&S was also blurring behind me in the heat haze. I decided a tram ride would be a pleasant treat on the way back. I’d been walking for about 20 minutes. Then the road forked. There was a small amount of confusion as I tried to decide which one was my street – follow the trams or keep going straight ahead? My map ran out about here, but a simple question of a passing pedestrian confirmed my fears. I had to follow the black asphalt road.
On I walked. The sun beat down. I was entering suburbia. Sometime later, I crossed some rail tracks. I was up to 120. The Palace of C&S had disappeared, courtesy of the curvature of the earth. A billboard advertised Bosch power tools at 176. I must be getting close. Nope. The next number was 124. The vultures circled. Tumbleweeds rolled across the broad boulevard. Ahead loomed a shopping complex – #146. By now I’d figured the numbering system – every building is worth one: a bit like hotels in Monopoly. Shacks, bungalows and small palaces were dignified with 124A or 68B.
The last suburb on the back of the mini-map was Ursus, a sort of industrial area. It was further out than Frederic Chopin International airport. I think I passed through it and on to another city. I was rapidly approaching the German border. Considering I was going SW, this was further than you might think. Certainly it was further than I thought. Finally, after a week of steady plodding, I came up to a complex of high-rise offices. The fourth tower was 178. There was also a decided lack of shops. I had a horrible sinking feeling.
I entered the foyer and, in a truly appalling mix of Polish and Russian, asked the guard on reception, “Fuji only has an office here, no shop?” He grunted an affirmative. I thanked him, said “excuse me” and then swore violently in English. He laughed. Some words are truly international. Time to head back to Warsaw. I wondered if my hotel was still there. Time had melted due to the heat and dehydration. I wanted a drink; water, beer, McDonald’s coffee, more than I wanted the toilet.
Naturally, a bus left the stop opposite as I considered crossing the road. Even if I’d sprinted, I’d have missed it. The street was so wide you had to be born on the other side to reach it. I started walking. My thighs were chaffing. I looked like a cowboy minus the horse. The jacket weighed a ton and there wasn’t a hint of a breeze. It took less time to reach the trams than I thought. The ride was a welcome relief for my thighs. On the bright side, my shoes were still comfortable.
Having spent half a day hunting for something I couldn’t find, I celebrated by having a beer. And another beer. Then I tried Polish mead: miod pitnij (Gene Pitney’s brother). Fabulous. It was served warm, and was about the strength of sherry. Unfortunately, when I asked for another, they’d run out. I’d drunk them dry. Fortified, I strolled through the Old City, took some night shots and had dinner in a small cafe specialising in traditional Polish food. So I had something that tasted excellent with mulled miod pitnij. Ever better. The chaffing ceased to hurt. I was so strong and brave I helped translate the menu for a young English couple. Magnificent. I even fell in love with Warsaw all over again.
Next: Free travel.
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