Thank you, danke, and: Спасибо!

___Don't fool yourself. You may catch the train to Paris or the flight to London, you may chill out in Goa or indulge in some Shopping Therapy in Manhattan, but those are just places you go to. Your real travel destination is always the same. Wherever you go, you always travel to yourself.
___Psychologists say that your identity is defined by the relationships you have with other people, not just the romantic ones but any relationships, with friends, family, colleagues. When I went to Moscow, I didn't actually expect to make many friends there. All in all, I just wanted to improve my Russian a bit (and I did, a bit), and then, see what happens. Maybe take a look at some museums or a bit of architecture. Some clubbing, sure.
___No, I did not expect to meet so many lovely, warm-hearted, open-minded people, and at the end of the day, they made my Moscow, made it a trip to myself, showing me sides of me that I never thought I had. I feel very grateful for that, and so I want to begin with Alla who was one of the first friends I made in Moscow. We spent many lunch breaks together, watched Wall-e in that theatre on Pushkin Square and had dinner at an Italian restaurant after Alla took me to a hairdresser to keep me from walking the streets like a furry ball with a receding hairline. I did not manage to accept her invitation for dinner during my last week, but I hope there will be a second chance. Thanks for being there, Alla.
___In Propaganda, one of the best clubs in Moscow, I met Max, a man with an amazing energy – he is to the Moscow gay scence what the Duracell Bunny is to batteries, and I thank him for being such a friendly and positive person. But more than that, I thank Max for introducing me to Alex with whom I shared so many beautiful experiences in Moscow. Alex again introduced me to Armenian cognac and Ukrainian food, we strolled through Tsaritsino and slammed down countless glasses of Ballantine's in Molly Gwynn's pub, we smoked far too much and never had enough time. I learned a lot from him, and I had many unforgettable moments with him. Danke für alles, Alex.
___And now, Irina. I thank her for showing up as a Project Manager in that charming madhouse on Shmitovskiy Proyesd: More than once, I felt like she was sent from God to guide me through my months in Moscow, and I will never forget the moment she patted my arm during one particularly long smoking session in the staircase on one particularly grey day in Moscow, as far as my soul was concerned. Irina introduced me to all her friends so I was able to meet Galya, Vanya, Dasha, Lena and many more; she invited me to her Wednesday Parties, and they were among those events I enjoyed most im Moscow. Thank you so much, Irina.
___So, how will it all go on? The good news is: It will go on. In times like these, staying connected is so easy, and we will do just that. As I keep saying, I was happy to go back to Hamburg, but I was sad to leave Moscow. To comfort myself in advance, I bought this t-shirt on Arbat Ulitza with the map of the Moscow Metro on it so I can wear this city close to my heart which is where it belongs. All in all, this blog is now pretty much done. But we'll all keep travelling, through life, around this planet, and if we keep our minds open, we'll learn so much as we go. I'm ready, and so is my new blog where you will find new stories about my everyday life and where you can post your comments. Let's keep in touch! Lots of love, Burkhard :-)

St. Petersburg: Saving The West For Last

___I took the last week of my stay off, heading west to St. Petersburg – after three months in Moscow, it felt like a cozy little seaside resort. These are some of the last pictures I made in Russia this year.


___In this case, Russia really lives up to the cliché: Buying train tickets is quite a challenge. The notoriously unfriendly clerks sit behind a thick window pane, so you shout through the tiny opening at the bottom where money and tickets go through, and you rather shout in Russian, because they don't speak English – well, why should they, we're talking about tourism here, which is probably one of the reasons why they don't accept credit cards. On top of that, every traveller (including Russians) going from Moscow to St. Petersburg by train must bring his or her passport. Don't ask.


___Still, it's not about those Russians: Staff at the All Seasons Hostel in St. Petersburg was very friendly and efficient. The hostel is part of the International Youth Hostel Foundation whose mission it is to bring people from all over the world together, offering cheap, safe and friendly accomodation. I love hostels, and I recommend them to every traveller: You really meet lots of nice people there and the staff are usually very helpful, providing precious advice and information, plus you can book any hostel in advance through their website which is very convenient. If you never stayed in a hostel, give it a try!




___From time to time, people wonder about the Youth in Youth Hostel: Some travellers fear that hostels are full of marauding teenagers who spend their nights drinking and the early hours of their mornings puking their brains out, but this is just another prejudice. Youth Hostels are for the young at heart of any biological age, e. g. Arthur from Perth, Australia, who I met in St. Petersburg. We spent one day visiting the Hermitage together, he is a really nice chap, and at 76, he is in a very impressive shape. He also managed to prepare himself some fresh and healthy food every day on his trip – that is more than you can say about me.


___View from Nevskiy Prospekt over Canal Griboedova to the Church on Spilled Blood, marking the spot where Tsar Alexander II was assassinated in 1881.







___Graceful arches on the former General Staff Building of the Russian Army, opposite to the Winter Palace.








___The façade of the Winter Palace which holds part of the Hermitage: The abundance of works of art in this museum is overwhelming, you should definitely plan a whole day to see it – and that will only get you a first impression. Arthur and me stood in line for two and a half hours, and I would do it again right away. (Well, Christoph, looks like I will actually do it again in 2010, and I'm looking forward to it!)







___The Singer Building once contained the headquarters of Singer, the American manufacturer of sewing machines, and is one of the most beautiful buildings on Nevskiy Prospekt; before WWI, it also housed the American consulate for a couple of years. (Funny enough, I just noticed that the current Russian headquarter of Singer is just six houses down the road from where I lived in Moscow, namely on Shmitovskiy Proezd 27.)







___Today, the first two floors of the Singer Building consist of a huge book store with a café of Shokoladniza, the Russian answer to Starbucks. Here you can sit under a painting of Dostoyevskiy, sip your latte and enjoy the view of St. Petersburg's architecture while you ponder about your credit card bills or the future of the country.





___Heading back to Moscow – even day trains have bunks that are quite comfy. At 1 PM these young ladies started washing down their candy bars with chilled beer, just to be slumbering peacefully soon after.






___It's not a trip on a Russian train without a glass of tea, served for some 20 Rubles (60 Cents) in a traditional metal holder. Cozy and tasty.

Birds, Clouds And The Hallway Of Horror

___My nephew Christoph visited me for a weekend, checking in at Home From Home Hostel in Arbat Street which was my first stop in Moscow. As expected, the place was terribly unorganized, but still: It was safe, clean, cheap and friendly. Christoph had to stay there because my flatmate A. had vetoed my inquiry if he could sleep in my room – when she gets grilled in hell one day, Lucifer will throw another briquette into her fire for that. Oh, come on, Luke, make it two. Global warming is not one of your most pressing worries, right? See.

___The Hall of Sorrow in the Museum of the Great Patriotic War (aka WWII) where I went with Christoph on a Sunday. The monument with the woman mourning a dead man symbolizes all the mothers, sisters and wives who lost their sons, brothers and husbands in the war. Dangling from the ceiling are 2.600.000 bronze pendants with little glas pearls, giving you the impression of walking under a rain of tears.


___One floor up, the Hall of Glory with the monument of the Soldier of Liberation, 10 meters high. Above the statue at the top of the cupola you see a huge replica of the most prestigous medal of honour of the Soviet Union, sparkling with red and white glass.







___Christoph in front of long lists of soldiers who got awards of honour in World War II.







___But now for something more cheerful: A party at Irina's place – she introduced me to so many lovely people. Me and Dasha, the lady in the brown sweater, clicked right away: She got herself a very nice British accent, and in my mind's eye, I can easily see Irina, Dasha and myself slurping Gin and Tonic in a Bar in Soho or munching some fresh seafood in Brighton ...



___Someone used a string hanging from a balloon to revive a traditional Russian children's game: Using a certain scheme, you pick up the loop from your friend and having him pick it up again with ever new variations: The shapes that you get may look very complex, bearing names like Cat's Cradle, Bridge or Fish. People can do that over and over again, just for the fun of it.



___Sims is picking up a bigger challenge, showing some tricky movie title in a charade. I think it was The Cook, The Thief, His Wife And Her Lover, but maybe it was just Rain Man. I'm not quite sure.








___Moscow is a great place to party, but sooner or later you need some sleep. One night I wanted to get home quickly to wash some laundry and go to bed early, but the beauty of the evening sky over Shmitovsky Proyezd stopped me in my tracks. Tell me what you will, the sky's different in Russia: Wider, higher, deeper, creating in you a yearning to travel further and further. After I made this picture, I sat down on a fence for half an hour, listening to Jack Johnson and Madonna, smoking cigarettes, drinking a bottle of Baltika Cooler and enjoying God's Own Widescreen. Ah!

___Back in the place I am obliged to call home these days. What kind of drugs do you have to take to clad walls, floor and ceiling of your hallway with wood and put a closet with mirror doors in one corner? An interior designer's nightmare, a pyromaniac's dream.






___Saving the worst for last! If you thought Stephen King's Pet Semetary was terrifying, just take a little glimpse at this horrible collection of stuffed animals in my flatmate's room. You have to hand it to her that her flat pretty much reflects her view on the world: Sitting in self-induced gloom, she desperately clings to an illusion of sticky pre-pubescent sweetness, waiting for better days that will never occur if you spend every day watching TV or listening to recorded bird songs on CD while live birds are chirping in front of your open window. (I didn't make this up, it happened some three weeks ago. Really.)
___Or maybe I am getting it all wrong. It looks like A. found herself a lover lately, so maybe she spends all day at her computer, ready to shoot to the top of the bestseller charts this fall with a book called The Vertical Smile – How To Get Laid And Stay Grumpy. Looks like I should subscribe to that Amazon newsletter again, just to get an early warning.

When In Rome, Don't Do As The Russians Do

___Complaints about the behaviour of Russian travellers are on the rise, possibly for a reason. (I'll go to Bodrum in September to make a travel report for a German magazine; for the first time ever, there were more Russian than German tourists in Turkey this year. I can't wait.)
___Still, CNN reminds us that visitors from Britain are not for the faint of heart, either: Click here for fresh footage presenting shirtless morons, daring miniskirts and some stinky stuff that was cheap Paella only two hours ago. Hilarious!

Rude Oil or Ain't That A Witch

___I am giving serious thought to emptying my full tank of dark yellow morning urine into the conditioner compartment of my flatmate's washing machine on the day of my departure. For weeks, she has been treating me like I am only walking on this earth because Ivan the Terrible forgot to have me decapitated; this morning she slammed doors because I had forgotten to refill the container with the water filter after taking out enough water to make myself a cup of coffee. Having pondered a while about her motives, one possible reason for her grumpyness came to my mind today. There was an evening when we actually socialized a bit, having beer and dried fish in the kitchen, and that was when she claimed to be – a witch. I didn't act too surprised, so, to make her point, she took some coins and stuck them to her forehead. "Well," I said, having rediscovered my knack for good old Positivism lately, "maybe you just have an oily skin. Why not let me give it a try." And there was the ruble, sitting comfy on my forehead like it just belonged there. She claimed that her body radiated a strong magnetism, so that coin was magnetized now, hence the affection of this little peace of metal for my brain box. Still, I couldn't help finding that she seemed a bit miffed. (I didn't want to push the boat out too far, so I refrained from noting that I can also tremble with my eyeballs, wiggle my ears and fart that famous guitar lick from Smoke On The Water. Back in my high school days, I could even intone the first bars of Schubert's Moments Musicaux, but I'm lacking some practice these days.)

___With a nuisance like her in the house, I'm always happy to goof around town, and I even left Moscow for a bit of recreation: Some new pictures.

___You get a feeling for the amazing size of this country when you look at the timetable in Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal where you can take trains to Beijing, Ulan Bator and all the way down to Vladivostok at the Pacific Coast (first three lines). Amazing.





___Are we not all passengers in time? As this board in Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal reminds you, Beijing is six time zones away from Moscow, Vladivostok seven.









___For the time being, I 'm taking baby steps, so I started exploring the country with a 90 minute ride to Sergiev Posad, a nice little town in the green. This is a typical scene from a Russian train: A vodka wreck dozing away while someone tries to make a living out of selling some cheap stuff. This strong lady offers plastic covers for documents, I already saw people on the train sell women's stockings, medicine pills, history books and glasses. Even orthodox monks travel the aisles, asking for money in exchange for a blessing.




___Colourful dachas close to the monastery in Sergiev Posad.











___Many old dachas show traditional carvings like these.








___Back in town: Nelly and Dima are rockin' the house.








___Punks waiting for trouble in Prospekt Mira Metro station.











___The Pushkin monument on Tverskaya Street. (Hey Caspar David Friedrich, you better put a book on your lap or a napkin or something. One can tell how you like these clouds.)






___Since you get really dirty shoes when you creep around in the sewers to play with rats, more and more tourists turn to cuddling with pigeons – the World Health Organization now recommends to evict those bastards (the pigeons, that is) by playing the audiobook version of Cecilia Aherns PS, I love you in infested areas. First tests in Venice, Oslo and Stratford-upon-Avon showed promising results: Within 90 seconds, the pigeons flew in terror and, losing their sense of orientation, broke their necks when they hit walls, billboards and church domes in full flight. Collecting them is a bit of an inconvenience for a day, after that, the issue is settled.


___Why?








___Hotel Ukraina and Moskva River at night. When I pressed the shutter button, my Kodak C613 gave a little sigh.

The Vomit Comet

___Bislang glaubte ich, dabei handle es sich um das Unterhaltungsressort der P____, doch hier wurde ich eines Besseren belehrt: Ich moechte diesen Film jedem ans Herz legen, denn er steckt voller Wissen, Lebensklugheit und Witz. Als Professor Randy Pausch von der Carnegie Mellon University im September 2007 diese Vorlesung hielt, wusste er, dass er an Bauchspeicheldruesenkrebs litt und nur noch einige Monate zu leben hatte; er starb am 25. Juli.
___Achtung, Sie betreten jetzt den larmoyanzfreien Sektor.

Frontschweine

___Soldaten der US-Streitkraefte sollen kuenftig an lebenden Schweinen die Wundversorgung ueben. Versuche mit Doktorfischen, Schafschuetzen und Einschusshunden hatten keine befriedigenden Ergebnisse gebracht.

Hoemma, wenn den Russen mal das Oel ausgeht, ne.

___Ja? Was ist dann?

Einen Banana Split und einen Hair Flip, bitte

___Besonders schoen an diesem Blog ist, dass ich jede noch so krude Headline verwursten kann, ohne dass irgendeine spassbefreite Kackstelze mir einen Knueppel zwischen die Beine wirft. Ehemalige Mitarbeiterinnen eines Hamburger Frauenmagazins, dessen Name mir entfallen ist, werden sich an das Mantra aus dem siebten Stock erinnern, welches die damalige stellvertretende Chefredakteurin uns immer wieder entgegenhielt: "Das versteht die Leserin nicht. Das versteht die Leserin nicht. Das ..." Eines Tages baute ich mich vor ihr auf und bruellte: "NATUERLICH VERSTEHT DIE LESERIN DAS IRGENDWANN NICHT MEHR, WENN DU SIE MIT DEINER BANALEN WICHSE IMMER WEITER IN DIE OFFENEN ARME DER VERBLOEDUNG TREIBST!" Darauf laechelte sie mich mit muetterlicher Strenge an und frug mich mit erhobenem Zeigefinger, ob es nicht an der Zeit sei, auf entkoffeinierten Kaffee umzusteigen.
___Mittlerweile haben in jener Zeitschrift andere Menschen das Sagen, und manchmal sieht man die Redakteurinnen bei Budnikowsky am Muehlenkamp mit panisch flackerndem Blick zwischen den Regalen herumhetzen, auf der verzweifelten Suche nach einem Sunblocker, der UF-Strahlen abwehrt.
___Vergebens.
___Doch nun einige neue Bilder aus meinem Alltag.

___Zynischer DDR-Humor: "Ikarus ist grosser Mist, wenn er schlecht gefedert ist." Das war er meistens. Die Dinger fahren immer noch.










___Wir sind im Auftrag des Herrn unterwegs: Ikone auf dem Armaturenbrett eines Busses der Linie 54, mit der ich morgens vor der Arbeit zum McCafe fahre, um mir einen Milchkaffee zu holen ...









___... den ich bei schoenem Wetter im Park gegenueber unseren Bueros trinke.










___Flair Condition: Der Ventilator einer Klimaanlage an unserem Verlagsgebaeude – begreiflicherweise steht der Name York auf dem ganzen Erdenrund fuer Coolness, Kraft und eine kurze Leitung. (Yorki, bald komme ich zurueck, und dann zeigen wir unseren Entgiftungsorganen mal wieder, wo die Dame den Pelz traegt!)







___Ein Samstagnachmittag im Cafe Coffee Bean an der Tverskaya. Kuerzlich spielte man hier What's Up? von den Four Non Blondes, und da die Hintergrundgeraeusche von klapperndem Geschirr, roechelnden Kaffeemaschinen und plaudernden Menschen den groessten Teil des Gesangs schluckten, wurde mir hier zum ersten Mal klar, dass das Lied auf den Akkordbewegungen von Don't Worry, Be Happy von Bobby McFerrin steht. Ich fand ja immer, die Four Non Blondes hatten so eine aggressive Grundquengeligkeit, und mir waere es lieber gewesen, sie haetten sie durch Malerei zum Ausdruck gebracht. Die macht keinen Laerm.
___(Fussnote fuer Redakteurinnen der Ressorts Gefuehle bzw. Sex & Liebe: Es ist mir gelungen, hier einen typischen Hair Flip im Bild festzuhalten, ein deutliches nonverbales Signal, mit dem das Weibchen unbewusst seine Paarungsbereitschaft anzeigt. Wenn Ihr mit einem Ohr ganz nah an den Bildschirm herangeht, koennt Ihr das leise Ploepp! des Eisprungs hoeren.)

___Schwulst und Gemuese im Eliseevskiy Magazin, einem Kaufhaus an der Tverskaja mit mehr als 100 Jahren Tradition.







___Fuer dieses Glas Kaviar habe ich 65 Rubel bezahlt, das sind knapp 1,80 Euro. Vegetarismus? Welcher Vegetarismus?







___Meine Metrostation.








___Kippen, Bier, Waerme, Glueck: Ein Sommerabend hinter dem Revolutionsdenkmal an der Metrostation Ulitza 1905 Goda.







___Der Benetton-Store an der Ulitza Krasnaja Presnja gegenueber der Metrostation Ulitza 1905 Goda; an der Fassade ist noch der Schriftzug Мосторг Универсальный Магазин zu erkennen (Mostorg-Universalkaufhaus). Das Gebaeude wurde in den Zwanzigerjahren nach Entwuerfen von Leonid Aleksandrovič Vesnin errichtet, beim Umbau blieb die Fassade fast unveraendert.

Milchkaffee auf der Parkbank mit Gott

___Ich hatte mir Zeit genommen. Es war Freitagmorgen, um zehn sollte ein Workshop ueber das neue Onlineprojekt anfangen, und ich hetze nicht gern. Gegen zwanzig nach neun sass ich auf einer Bank in dem Park nahe unseren Bueros, neben mir einen heissen Milchkaffee im Pappbecher, und ich holte gerade das Feuerzeug aus der Zigarettenschachtel, als sie auf mich zukam.
___Sie setzte sich links auf das andere Ende der Bank und schaute mich an. Klein mit schmaler Statur, um die 30 Jahre alt, dunkle Haare, von einem Gummiband im Nacken zusammengehalten. Vorn fehlten ein paar Zaehne, ihre Kleidung war sauber, bis auf die staubigen Sandalen, in denen schmutzige Fuesse steckten. "Do you know me?" Natuerlich erinnerte ich mich. Vor einer Woche hatte sie M. angesprochen, mit dem ich hier meine Mittagspause verbrachte. Sie hatte ihm Naehe angeboten, er lehnte ab und gab ihr etwas Geld.
___Um meine Ruhe zu haben, reichte ich ihr unaufgefordert hundert Rubel und bot ihr eine Zigarette an. Sie nahm den Schein, rauchte aber lieber ihre eigenen Zigaretten, und schon kam sie auf den Punkt – sie sei zwar arm, doch gleichzeitig besitze sie alles, was existiert. Denn, auch wenn ich sie vielleicht nicht verstehen wuerde: Ihr gehoere der Kosmos. Ich verstand sie, sie sprach etwas Deutsch und konnte sehr gut Englisch, besser als viele andere, die hier einem geregelten Beruf nachgehen. Sie sagte, ich habe ein gutes Herz, und bot mir ihre Nummer an, falls ich Hilfe brauchen sollte. Ihr Name war Ludmilla.
___Ludmilla erklaerte mir, dass sie die Deutschen mochte, denn die seien freundlich und umsichtig; dass es wichtig sei, gute Dinge zu tun, denn dadurch werde die Welt besser; dass sie einmal jemanden kennengelernt habe, der fast nichts besass, ihr aber trotzdem etwas gegeben habe, und dann sei er Millionaer geworden. Irgendwann erklaerte ich ihr, ich wolle nicht unhoeflich sein, aber ich muesse jetzt los, es stimmte wirklich. Sie nickte, wuenschte mir "a nice day", und dann, nachdenklich, "and a nice life". Ich dankte ihr, nahm meine Sachen und ging. Ich musste annehmen, dass Ludmilla nicht alle Nadeln an der Tanne hatte, aber ich hatte ihre Nummer trotzdem in meinem Handy gespeichert, fuer unser Human Resources Department. Die stellen ja laufend solche Leute ein.
___Obwohl, man weiss es nicht. Einige halten Gott fuer einen Herrn in der zweiten Lebenshaelfte mit weissem Bart und verdaechtig dichtem Haupthaar, andere glauben, Gott sei ein DJ oder Gott sei schwarz und lesbisch, wieder andere erkennen ihn in der Gestalt von Milla Jovovich oder Lukas Podolski oder Morgan Freeman. Und dann sass ich am Sonntagvormittag im Coffee Bean, meinem Lieblingscafe. Die Sonne schien, die Tverskaja wurde gerade erst wach, ich war ungeduscht und meine Kleider rochen nach Rauch und Liebe. Wieder trank ich Milchkaffe, und ich fand mein Leben ueberaus nice, als die ersten Takte von What If God Was One Of Us erklangen, und nichts von all dem habe ich mir nicht ausgedacht.