Best Laid Schemes

My plan for this morning was to go food shopping. But the best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley, cf. Boris Johnson. At 10:00, I called Krasnoyarsk Airport to ask about my suitcases. The lady on the other end told me that, not only had they been found, they had also been flown out to Krasnoyarsk already. I have since been assured by three different people, that this was nothing short of a miracle. Apparently, when bags are lost on the way to Krasnoyarsk, they don’t tend to arrive at the airport until around three weeks after their estranged owner. To arrive just a day late was unprecedented. Smells fishy to me. It seems the bad press was damaging Mr Pence’s approval ratings too much, so he sent the bags back express. Cheers Mike!

How was I going to get to the airport to pick them up though? The taxi option was tempting, and also plainly a more sensible, quicker, and less stressful way than trying to navigate the bus system. I plumped for buses on this occasion though, because I’m stupid. The first bus was insultingly easy. I went to the nearest stop, waited for the bus which a nifty transport app told me to take, and took it. This made me happy. It was foolproof. I got off at busy T-junction – at a stop called ‘International Coach Station’. Next, I blithely followed my phone to the place where it assured me that my second bus, the 202 was going to leave from. To my consternation though, no buses emerged from the chain-link fence by which I was waiting. I’m not kidding, I really did stand by a chain link fence for a good ten minutes waiting for the appearance of my bus to the airport. It wasn’t my proudest moment, and I got a few weird looks.

When I realised that my phone had misled me, I decided to try the coach station, which was really smart thinking on my part. Well done me. At the entrance, there was a metal detector and a guard wearing khaki and looking menacing. I hesitated by the metal detector, and took my wallet, phone and keys out of my pockets and placed them, along with my bum bag (which I wear because you only have to point at it and people talk at you   r e a l l y     s l o w l y) on the table next to the metal detector. I walked through the metal detector and then collected my things from the table. The guard looked at me aghast, like I’d just pulled out one of his hairs and started flossing with it or something. He turned to his fellow citizens in the ticket hall, hoping perhaps that someone else could share his stupefaction, or else pinch him. But nobody seemed to have noticed my transgression. As I watched the shaken guard try to regain his composure, and wondered whether I should maybe offer him a lemon and honey or something, a loud beeping sound started behind me. It was the metal detector, protesting with all its might as a woman strolled through it nonchalantly with two shopping bags, a backpack, and a handbag. The corners of the guard’s mouth twitched slowly but surely back into the self-assured smirk he'd been wearing before I threatened the very foundations of his worldview, and he took a small step back to let the woman walk straight past him, carefully avoiding eye contact with her.

In the ticket hall, I walked purposefully up to one of the windows with an assistant in it, and said 

‘can I get a ticket for bus 202 to the airport, please?’

The woman behind the glass (Russians call these assistants babushkas, which also means grandmas) shook her head at me. 

‘They don’t go from the International Coach Station’, she said sternly. 'That’s a normal bus. You catch it from the street outside.'

She pointed behind her back, to the other side of the ticket hall from where I came in. I thanked her, feeling slightly discouraged, and headed for the exit on the far side of the room. This led out onto the road behind the station. I walked up and down it a few times, seeing no bus stop. Then I asked a passer-by if they knew where the 202 stopped, and they shrugged at me and walked on. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say that twenty minutes later, I was again standing by the same chain-link fence that I started at. Still no bus. So I went up to a guy sitting in a booth which controlled a rising barrier. 

‘Bus 202 to the airport?’ 

‘Нудаконечноутебяестьбилетилинет?’ 

I pointed to my bum bag and did the Bambi eyes, and he spoke at a pace I could understand 

‘got a ticket?’ 

‘Not yet.’ 

‘Well go into the International Coach Station and get one, then the babushka will tell you where to go.’

I sloped back to the entrance to the coach station. The security guard flinched when he saw me, and his breathing became laboured. I was in no mood for explanations, so I just barged through the metal detector, listening with dismay as it beeped at me. In my peripheral vision, I saw the guard’s shoulders relax as he exhaled deeply. I went to a different babushka this time. 

‘Bus 202?’ I asked, gruffly. 

‘Oh, to the airport?’ she said cheerily. ‘Of course dear, that’s eighty roubles. Will the 12:00 do?’ 

I felt like lashing out, but I took a deep breath instead, and said through clenched teeth 

‘where does it leave from?’ 

‘T h e      o t h e r    e n d     o f     t h e      h a l l’ she replied, smiling patronisingly down at my bum bag.

It was straightforward from then on. The bus left, as promised, from the parking lot outside the hall. When I got to the airport, a woman was waiting for me in arrivals with both of my bags. She took my name, number, passport details, immigration card, email, signature (twice) and, finally address. I told her my address in Krasnoyarsk, and she gave me a withering look. 

‘You live in Krasnoyarsk?’ she smirked. It took a couple of minutes for me to convince her of this. And then she just puffed her cheeks out and rolled her eyes as if to say ‘well now I’ve seen everything.’ This was the first indication I got that Krasnoyarsk isn’t very used to visitors from England. Or visitors whatsoever really. But I’ve since discovered that this novelty can be a huge plus, as you shall see.

Have you ever tried taking a selfie with two large suitcases in it? If not, why?

Fifty Shades of Suitcase

Being reunited with my bags was rather special. With retrospect, it was a mistake to wear my black Nike trainers,  grey baggy sweats, and black hoodie on the trip over. Firstly, because it was hot in Krasnoyarsk, and sweats aren’t an awfully versatile garment. Secondly, because first impressions matter, and I was very conscious with every new person I met that I looked, felt, and smelt awful. On the bus back from the airport, I calculated that I was going to be at least two hours late for my first day of work, and indulged my inner drama queen with a little face palm, which freaked out the guy next to me. Back at the flat, I doused myself with deodorant until my vision started going blurry, then changed my clothes and set off to go to work. My not-so-foolproof transport app told me to get the 68 bus, and my heart fell when I saw the very same bus pulling away from my nearest stop.

One thing I haven’t mentioned about the buses in Krasnoyarsk is that bus drivers sometimes get back in touch with their inner heist getaway driver, and open the doors while in motion to let foolhardy (and desperate) passengers jump aboard mid-ride, sometimes crashing onto the floor of the bus as the doors slam closed again. It sounds impressive, but it looks painful. Unfortunately, on this occasion, I was that foolhardy and desperate passenger, determined not to be more than two hours late for my first day at work. Only this time, as the bus trundled past me on the dual carriageway, the driver didn’t open the main doors, he opened the door to the driver’s compartment at the front. I faltered. He grinned at me with a kind of daredevil look, the glint in his eyes saying ‘how much do you need to make this bus?’ Then his smile softened (he probably saw my bum bag), and he slowed down almost to a halt, eliciting angry honks from the cars behind. I jumped in (without falling to the ground, which I think makes me a good candidate for next James Bond), and stood panting in the cramped compartment, thanking the driver with all the gratitude I could put into Russian, and leaving my 26 rouble fare on the dashboard. He smiled genially and batted away my thanks. Then he said 

‘where you from?’ 

‘London’, I replied, simply. 

‘WOAH. YOU’RE from LONDON?’ 

I assured him that it was true, showing him the Roman script on the bag of my University Dance Team backpack. 

‘Well I never.’ He shook his head, whistling. ‘An Englishman in Krasnoyarsk.’ 

And we had a really nice chat about Krasnoyarsk and London, about how he wanted to learn English, and how his dream was to go to America. Then his eyes widened and he turned to me suddenly; I fought off the urge to grab the steering wheel and stop us from crashing into something, thinking that he probably knew how to drive if he was a bus driver (an assumption which I have since revised). ‘You haven’t been to America before, have you?’ he leaned towards me surreptitiously. 

‘Yeah I have actually.’ 

His jaw dropped. ‘Tell me about New York.’

I didn’t have much to say about New York that was particularly good. I was only there for a few days, and frankly I wasn’t a big fan of the city. I liked Central Park, but Krasnoyarsk has two island parks, a national park, three climate belts, and an unpopulated area about a quarter of the size of Canada to play with, so there wasn’t much contest for me. Arman the bus driver gave me his number so we could practise English and Russian together and talk about America. He shook my hand as I got off at my stop (where he came completely to a halt), and I left feeling just as proud of my novelty status as I had been ashamed of it when the woman returning my suitcases didn’t believe that I lived in Krasnoyarsk.

Work was great. Nobody was too fussed that I was late. I met Nastya and Ira, who were both very welcoming, and helped me make my first step in Russian professional life by setting up a VKontakte account. VK is a necessity in Russia. It’s a sort of workplace social media, without which it’s easy to believe that nothing would get done. I made my first post on the INTERRA page, which already has a couple of hundred likes, and has earned me a steady stream of friend requests. Nastya briefed me on my duties, which include translations, running an English club, organising (and making) public speeches, and occasionally helping to organise big international projects. She also offered to help me find a choir here which is a challenge I will accept when the time comes.

Then Olga turned up at the office, and we went out for dinner. On the way to the Thai place that she wanted to show me, we walked past 'Fight Academy', a huge sports complex where people from Krasnoyarsk learn to wrestle. Outside was a row of portraits of the Olympic and World Champions of wrestling from Krasnoyarsk. There were 18, which is pretty darn good going for a city of one million people! I’ve also heard that boxing is very popular in Siberia. *Laughs nervously*

Oh that old thing? That's just a swing. In a bar.

After the Thai place, Olga took me to a fancy bar. It’s on the top floor of a building, but it didn’t have any windows as far as I could tell. It had a high, wooden, barrel vaulted ceiling, and clocks and pendulums hanging from rafters all over the place. There were beanbags and sofas strewn around the room, and the pièce de résistance, a huge turntable and speakers opposite the bar itself. A few minutes after we arrived, a guy went up to the turntable and invited people to bring their records forward and play them. The first track played belonged to a tall guy on one of the beanbags smoking shisha. It was Gershwin’s Summertime. I must admit, I was a bit taken aback. It was like in Year Eleven when I tried playing French rap in the common room. Surely trendy, youthy bars like this should be playing some mindless electronic music or drum and bass rather than opera arias. Olga seemed nonplussed. She just sighed. 

‘This vinyl evening is shit. Nobody cares.’ 

I was quite entertained by the whole thing. She was right, hardly anyone had turned up to the evening with the record player. But there was a small queue forming of people who wanted to have their records played, and it was enough to make you think that some people were behind the whole sitting on beanbags and listening to Gershwin on a Tuesday evening initiative, which I found rather heartening. 

‘It’s edgy.’ I announced, after some thought. 

‘Edgy?’ Olga asked. 

‘It’s when you’re trying to be cool or ahead of the curve, but you end up looking a bit try-hard. Maybe that’s why people don’t come to vinyl evening.' 

Olga pointed at her tracksuit jacket, which had a red stripe down each sleeve. 

‘So I’m edgy today?’ 

I nodded appreciatively, surveying my act of linguistic sabotage with pride. ‘Yes Olga, yes you are.’

Pure edj