Tag Archives: Russia

Living it up at the Hotel Tsentralnaya


Posted by Patrick Okens

Dec. 7 – Novosibirsk

"Eight feet across"

No pink champagne, no mirrors on the ceiling. Instead, decrepit elevators and shared (not co-ed) toilets and shower rooms. But if it’s possible to feel nostalgia for a Soviet era I never knew, I’m feeling it here in room 617. It’s tidy but dingy and has a smoked-in smell. There’s beige floral print wallpaper, wood tile floors, small bed, desk, and a cracked sink. Some of the paint has been scratched off the door, which can be opened with an old-fashioned key. Out the window, a view of Novosibirsk’s skyline and central park. In the red-carpeted corridor, where the light is dim but somehow glaring, the cleaner has permanently parked her cart. The shower has no head, just a stream of water. On the staircase landings, lonely potted plants and posters advertising hairdressing services. All for $50/night. I could go to a modern hotel in Novosibirsk, but why would I want to miss out on this? After all, it has Wifi.

 

"After the show. Note the statues of Lenin and his merry band of workers and soldiers."

I spent today walking the length of Novosibirsk’s two main streets; Voksalnaya magistral and Krasny prospekt. There’s lots of concrete to go with the gray skies, none of it particularly attractive. I saw some new buildings being built, but many more that were tired, like the Tsentralnaya where I’m staying. There were many Novosibirniks out shopping. The usual assortment of elegant women in long coats, men dragging on cigarettes, mothers out with prams and snowsuited children. The city looks better at night, when lights strung on buildings can work magic and the darkness can hide its plainer features. There’s plenty of night to go around. The sun didn’t rise until 0900, and was gone again before 1800.

The colossal Opera and Ballet Theatre is Novosibirsk’s focal point. Bigger than Moscow’s Bolshoi Theatre, it’s on Lenin Square within 200m of my hotel. “Spartacus” by Aram Khatchaturian was playing tonight, and I went to see my first ballet.

"During intermission"

The hall, a sea of red velvet seats, was full – and not just with old ladies. It seemed as if Novosibirsk people of all ages go to the ballet the way people in North America go to the movies. I do not have my iPod with me and it was nice to hear music again – kinetic, percussive, syncopated. The action on stage was all gladiators and centurions, orgies and death. To my novice eyes, Spartacus’s dramatic and gruesome end, impaled by a dozen spears and hoisted in the air, was impressive choreography.

A very early train tomorrow to Kazan. 2400 kilometres (equivalent to Toronto-Miami or Vancouver-Denver), 37 hours, three time zones. As usual, no “live” post, but some thoughts on travel photography tomorrow.


Walking a fish along Lake Baikal


Posted by Patrick Okens

Dec. 4 – Irkutsk

Lake Baikal is a 600km long, crescent shaped gouge a mile deep. It is 30 million years old, has more water than all the Great Lakes combined (20 per cent of the world’s fresh water). It has about a thousand unique species. I simply had to see it.

Lake Baikal and mountains from the train, through grimy windows.

I had first glimpsed the lake as the train approached Irkutsk, tracks running along its shore. We had a grand view of its dark blue waters, steam rising into the cold air. That day, I was in an impressionable mood. To me, the lake wasn’t merely deep, but profoundly wise. “Gather round”, its calm surface seemed to say, “I have many tales to tell.”

The minibus took about seventy minutes to cover the 60 kilometres to the village of Listyanka. The bus was full, a dozen of us crammed in, all furs, leathers, woolens. We had to scratch the frost off the windows to see trees and snow as we bounced along the road. Once arrived, I immediately bought my return ticket. Two hours lakeside would be enough. It was noon and sunny, but also -15C, and I still had to arrange my Novosibirsk rail ticket for tomorrow. If I missed that next bus, I’d have to wait a further two hours. Travel doesn’t free you from timetables.

Listyanka is a small collection of waterfront hotels, cottages, abandoned/unfinished buildings and camping spots on the edge of the lake. It is not particularly pretty, as if it knows people come there for nature, not civilization.

Polar bear? Not a chance!

As I walked along the pebbly shore, a couple of stray dogs trotted at my heels, hoping for scraps. The light wind sent gentle waves towards the frozen pebbly beach, steam rising in the middle distance. I saw perhaps two-dozen tourists, bundled up, taking pictures. A group of young men videoed each other stepping barefoot into the water, laughing painfully. My beard was frosting over again. Even handling a camera with bare hands was unmanageable after a minute. And the locals say it’s one of the warmest winters in Baikal in a long time. Usually, the lake is frozen over by now.

Despite the lack of tourist traffic, there were many vendors, selling the usual array of trinkets and tee shirts. I only wanted one thing; a smoked Omul for lunch. The Omul is a troutlike fish found in Lake Baikal, which the locals sell from roadside stands. I approached one of these booths, paid about one dollar for a freshly-smoked fish, and headed down the road. I eyed my meal.

Pleased to eat you. Making friends with my Omul.

Warm, plump, banana-sized, with head and tail still attached, his smoked fish eyes stared back at me. I briefly considered giving him a name, but then realized I should get eating before he got completely cold. Thus began a memorable culinary experience. I had no fork, no knife, no plate, no table, no shelter from the elements. Fish in one gloved hand, other ungloved hand picking away at the flesh under the skin, I walked along the shore. My fingers stinging from the cold, I pulled white meat away from the bones easily, first one side, then the other. The smoky, sweet-salty flavor was fantastic. Seasoned with frostbite, it’s a meal I’ll never forget.

A kindly retired Swiss teacher, now married to a Russian and living in Irkutsk, helped me get my ticket to Novosibirsk. We had met briefly when I arrived, as he and his wife are friends of the lady at whose place I am staying. He invited me back to their flat for tea and some meat stew. In German and Russian, we discussed my trip, life in Irkutsk, today’s Russian election. As if the Omul wasn’t enough, I was even fed homemade strawberry cheesecake.

I’m off to Novosibirsk tomorrow (1500m, like Toronto-Winnipeg). That means one sleep on the train and arriving on Tuesday afternoon. Tomorrow, a post on the railway dining experience.