Dasvidaniya, Russia!
As the World Cup in Russia drew to a close, bad mapreading skills plus poor hotel choices and lots of drunkenness (not Diary, of course!) made for some interesting trips.
The English were finally in a World Cup semifinal and Diary, no fan of the Premier League, was not mightily pleased. Sleepdeprived and groggy, as you already know, his queue at the otherwise sleepy Samara airport refused to move as beerguzzling, very tipsy Brits decided to serenade everybody around, including the matronly Russian airport security personnel.
They, too, had had enough and some goodnatured threatening finally got the Brits on board. But that completely ruined Diary’s plans to get a good few hours of sleep on his flight to St. Petersburg. Russian airlines crew do let you sleep — no pesky nudges to force you buy a cola or a dayold sandwich that our Indian air crew specialise in. They will let you doze; snore even if you have a fivecourse meal booked for you. But be careful — they are sticklers for time, and don’t you dare ask them for your missing meal later because they don’t take your request too kindly and you don’t want a scolding to start your day.
Diary and his friend decided to take the airport shuttle and then the metro to get to their hotel in the middle of Nevsky Prospect, the social hub in the city. Their calculations, and their mapreading skills, though, went horribly wrong and the two frail journalists were left dragging their brickfilled suitcases (if only they knew how to pack light — do you really need two pairs of sweatpants?) for a couple of miles. It’s easy being in the line of duty, said no one.
More moments of despair were to come their way. Their hotel, on the fourth floor of a very old and tall building, had no elevators. After another round of jostling, they were finally there, then were promptly asked if they wanted a massage. That came as a bit of a surprise, though their aching limbs could really do with one. They checked in, and Diary’s overworked body gave up as he immediately dozed off. He woke up from his slumber startled at the sight of an unshaven, dishevelled, very outofshape man staring back at him. Who the hell was he sharing his bed with? As wakefulness dawned, he realised it was a room full of mirrors and the man in his bed his own reflection. Internet sleuthing revealed this was one of the many “love hotels” in St. Petersburg. Don’t ask Diary what love they spread, as he was too scared to ask.
Thankfully, the weather was cold, the food was good and the stadium was just a few train stations away. Belgium, after a tactical master class against Brazil, got its bearing horribly wrong and the muddled thinking of Roberto Martinez robbed it of a spot in the final.
It was a long train ride back to Moscow with much drinking with the already dis