A Coeliac in Singapore





High tea at Raffles



And now the delicate moment: '...and, please, no soy sauce'.



 

The cashier / manager frowned at me. ‘No soy?’.

‘No soy. It makes me sick.’ I put on an anguished face and clutched my stomach but this only made her frown even more. ‘I’m really sorry’. (Why should I be sorry??)

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Oyster sauce?’

‘Mmmm... I’d better not risk it. No.’

‘No oyster sauce?’.

‘No.’ Firmly. Politely but firmly.

She shook her head a little and punched numbers into her till. Then she turned and shouted the order to the chef in a language I couldn’t understand. I’m pretty sure that conversation followed the same lines as our exchange but I suspect it was also laced with a little sarcasm and things like ‘she says it will make her sick’ and probably finished with something like ‘These bloody strange tourists’. I’m pretty sure she rolled her eyes.

I didn’t mind the drama at all – it was worth the delicious plate of fried rice topped with a fried egg, and laced with the mysteriously named chicken ham but sans soy sauce. It was the first decent meal I’d had in Singapore in three days. I was there for the Formula 1 Grand Prix and I wasn’t going to risk being sick and missing it after waiting so long and spending so much money.

For the first three days, while the race was on, I would scurry back to a corner of my tiny hotel room in downtown Little India munching nut bars, cracking open tins, and boiling water for my gluten free noodle cups. It was a little pathetic – tuna flecks on the sheets, rice cracker crumbs on the vanity, washing plastic cutlery in the tiny bathroom sink and hiding it in the back of my suitcase. I felt like a girl with a nasty fetish to hide.

At the Grand Prix I had to ask inane questions at food outlets that generally baffled the person being asked: ‘Do you fry your chips in the same oil as your battered fish?’ (at the recreated English pub), and ‘When you say cheese sauce, is it just melted cheese or is it cheese made into a sauce?’ (getting nachos at the Mexican outlet). I looked enviously over at the noodle bar, sniffed deeply and sighed. I watched kids shovelling hot, spicy, saucy battered morsels into their mouths and licked my lips.

Instead, I ordered another gin and tonic.

Day four,  Grand Prix over and I was ready to be unleashed! To hell with the risk of vomiting in public spaces, I was ready to give it a whirl. For the next few days it was a feeding frenzy. First stop was the cafe I mentioned above where I ordered the fried rice for breakfast (it was 11am!). The cranky fried rice lady was the only one to give me attitude. Everyone else in Singapore was so understanding, accommodating and willing to play. So, next I conquered Chinatown with the most delicious plate of pork chop with honey sauce I’ve ever had the good fortune to consume. I regretfully relapsed into colonialism for a rib eye steak smothered in pepper sauce and a very proper English high tea at Raffles.  But the next night I consumed a seven course Chinese banquet with the desperation and abandon of a rescued survivor. Salt and pepper crab! Taro battered scallops! Sago pudding! I waddled back to the hotel, sated, smug and happy.

Towards the end of my stay, I was taken to dinner by some new friends – Indochine on Clarke Quay. Hip understated waterfront restaurant, moody lighting, humid of course, but a cool breeze off the water. And then imagine my surprise and joy when I was presented with a gluten free menu.

Coeliac nirvana. I’d made it.

 

 

* A Coeliac cannot tolerate anything that contains gluten (including wheat amongst other things). Soy sauce is usually processed with wheat and other sauces sometimes contain wheat flour thickeners.

Things you just have to do when you travel. Or else?

The trouble with things you just have to do / see / eat is that you have exactly the same travel experience as everyone else. Or worse, you don’t have the same marvellous experience everyone told you about.

For example, Venice is a pretty magical city. Anyone who has been there will tell you that you have to go on a gondola ride. Grit your teeth, pay the exorbitant price and lower yourself into that gondola. The thing is, some people do love it – they cry from the joy of drifting on the canals of such an historic city. But others hate it. They forget that Venice is still a functioning (just) modern city with around 60 000 permanent inhabitants. The water does not smell sweet and fresh. The washing on the line hanging outside windows is sometimes colourful, but sometimes grey with giant underpants and drab singlets. The gondolier is a little seedy, his singing forced and off key. ‘Really?’, they cry. ‘This is a gondola ride in Venice? Why did I have to do this?’

Well-trodden holiday destinations can turn a little into ‘checkbox’ travel. Did you have Singapore Sling at the Raffles? Have you seen a flamenco show in Madrid? Did you ‘mind the gap’ on a tube ride in London? Surely you had pizza in Naples, right? (For the record, Neapolitan pizza is very flat and usually pretty plain. If you’re picturing a big fluffy base with five different meats and twelve different vegetables – you may or may not like it. Just saying. The gelato, on the other hand, stands a good chance of being everything you ever dreamed of.)

Sometimes you’re made to feel guilty if you didn’t do ‘the thing’ in a particular city. You’re confronted with little crestfallen faces, full of dismay: ‘You didn’t go to the catacombs in Rome? Oh. I see.’. Silence. ‘No time for the Vatican museums, you say? Oh.’ You’ve failed. You’ve failed them and you’ve certainly failed yourself. Never mind that you met a local and consequently ended up an authentic little restaurant for dinner. Never mind you had a personally guided tour of the Coliseum given by an art history PhD student. Never mind you lit candles at church and ended up participating in the local Saint’s Day celebrations. You’ve disappointed those that cannot go and you’ve been underestimated by those that have been.

You actually do have to see the waterfalls when
you go to Niagara Falls. Difficult to avoid. 

Ok, ok, I now confess that I too have been guilty of starting some sage travel advice with ‘you have to’. And perhaps this blog is actually about how I agree with those that urge you on to do what you’re ‘supposed to’. But I’m going to qualify my agreement by stating that I usually only use this statement for those that have researched the crap out of their holiday destination to the point that they can give you the dimensions of the Corcovado, the species of trees growing on the Sugarloaf, and the preferred waxing salons of Brazilians living in the Ipanema area.

If you (think) you know what you’re going to see, how you’re going to see it and how you’re going to feel about it you could, potentially, actually miss the point. There are some things your 72 inch LED HD television screen is simply not able to convey. I found Uluru spiritual and intense (not everyone does, see for example, my mother’s experience in Disappointments). And I found Port Arthur illuminating – it put me in touch with a sense of colonial Australia and connected me to history. Those are two places beautiful to look at pictures of, interesting to read about – I’ve certainly done both – but being there made me connect and flicked on the switch of understanding.

Travel, to me, is about witnessing. There’s something earnest and genuine about witnessing in person. It means engaging all five senses (six if you’re lucky enough!) and really connecting with a place or people. That’s when magic happens and that’s what I’m encouraging when I say ‘you have to’. That picture you’ve seen of the Amalfi Coast doesn’t do it justice – the picture can’t prepare you for the remarkable sunshine, for the glittery effect it has on the ocean, for the brisk breeze, for the lyrical background chatter, for the contrasting colours, and for the smell of food wafting out of restaurant doors. That’s why you ‘have to’. That’s why, despite all your research and your 3D virtual tour, you won’t know, really know, until you’ve witnessed. 

Quirky Italians and their unique driving habits

I think sometimes Italians are unjustifiably labelled ‘arrogant’.  (Ok, sometimes justifiably.) I prefer to call them quirky. (Perhaps because whilst Australian, I also hold an Italian passport). What might be arrogance could also be called charming, innovative or creative, especially when it comes to driving.

Let me explain.

On the streets of Formia I witnessed an alarming number of ‘quirky’ driving techniques (not to mention crazed, kamikaze, and downright dangerous).  This town’s streets were sometimes so narrow they were one-way and only wide enough for a single car. One sunny afternoon, my cousin was driving us around when she suddenly had to step on the brakes as the car in front of us came to a halt.  What’s this?

Oh, I see – it’s a warm day so the driver had to stop, put the car in neutral, climb out of the car, pull off his jumper, smooth his hair down, get back in the car and then set of on his merry way again.

See? Quirky. Utterly quirky.

Then, while I was catching a bus from town, the driver suddenly stopped (in the middle of the street – no cissy pulling over to the side), wound down his window and called out to a fellow in a car heading the opposite way, in the opposite lane. Yes, effectively both cars held up traffic in both directions. Their important conversation went something like this:

Break time at the Forum.

‘Hey! I’ve been trying to reach you. Where have you been?’

‘Oh I’ve been busy!’

‘Never mind. Listen, are you coming to the BBQ on Saturday?’

‘Sure I am! What do you want me to bring?’

‘Nothing! Just yourself.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, promise. Just yourself.’

‘Ok, no worries, see you then.’

Quirky. Charming.

What I love though, is that nobody on the bus batted an eyelid. People continued to stare out the window, totally unperturbed by the small pause in their bus journey. Sure, there was a half hearted horn toot but nothing abusive. True, it only took a minute, but can you picture that taking place in any other city quite like so?

Not that there isn’t a bit of road rage now and then.

While hanging around in Rome I witnessed a fellow walking towards his car, only to find that someone had double parked next to him and he was trapped. Mm... what was he going to do? Well, I couldn’t hear him from where I was standing but I’m pretty sure there were a few ‘Holy....’, ‘Your mother is a ......’ before he starting beeping his horn, continuously for about ten minutes. Eventually a tall thin man started walking towards him nonchalantly. With his hands he indicated that the first fellow should really calm down. I paraphrase:

‘Hey, what’s your problem?’

‘What the f....k do you mean, “what’s my problem”? Your car is my problem. I can’t bloody get out!’

No actual sorry. Instead: ‘Sure, but there’s no need to get so upset. It was only 10 minutes and here I am. I’ll get out of the way right now. That’s all.’ He smiled kindly, apologetically, calmly – only implying ‘mi scusi’.

Quirky, charming and charismatic.

But it was on the island of Ponza that I witnessed yet another bus driver who illustrated the very essence of quirky Italian driver, employing all the charm, charisma and creativity at his disposal. On a gorgeous summer day, halfway through our journey around the island, at a busstop, the bus door jammed itself halfway open. Its panelled doors were thoroughly wedged. The driver turned to the passengers and asked, ‘Does anyone have any string?’.

It turns out nobody had any string.

(What he was going to do with the string still baffles me.)

He nods his head, in a ‘what-are-you-going-to-do’ style, and starts whistling a happy tune and continues on his way. At the next stop an elderly lady frowns at him through the half open door. He stares her down: ‘What do you want me to do lady? Do you have any string? No? Well then!’. He shrugs apologetically but tells her, ‘breathe in and get on or don’t. It’s up to you’.

She humphs and struggles in sideways. ‘Do I still have to pay’. Affronted he answers, ‘Ha! Certo!’. Certainly!

Humph… grumble, grumble. But she gets on. And she pays.

To pack or not to pack...(or The case of the cheese)

I’m not sure if I’m getting better or worse at packing. Sometimes I’ve gone away for a fortnight with five items of clothing and a pair of sneakers. Sometimes I’ve gone away for a weekend with twelve items of clothing, hairdryer and curling wand, hair mousse, hairspray, books, snacks and three pairs of shoes (flat, high heels, higher high heels). Of course, the key to packing smart is to adapt Chanel’s advice to take one thing off before you leave the house – take one thing out. In fact, take two or three.

But never mind the volume of packing, the content is always more important. Especially if you’re keen on getting through Customs without getting arrested. When we came back from Italy, the Customs officer took one look at me, my mum and dad, narrowed her eyes and said, ‘Have you brought back any salami or sausage?’. I shook my head and glared at her, mortally offended, ‘Of course not! What are we? Peasants?!’. I pursed my lips and carried on. Pft! Stereotyping!

Ok, I confess – although we wouldn’t dream of carrying smallgoods, we were carrying about a kilo of undeclared gold jewellery and an illegal amount of cigarettes.

I later learned my mother also snuck in some of my Aunt’s tomato plant seeds.

But really! Talk about stereotyping!

My uncle is exceedingly fond of Provolone, that lovely Italian cheese, often found on antipasto platters. My uncle lives in Carlisle, Northern UK, and despite his proximity to Italy, Provolone is (allegedly) difficult for him to source. So, when my father and I were preparing to visit for my cousin’s wedding, we smiled knowingly at each other when the subject of gifts came up – what else but a good hunk of cheese. Not as a wedding present mind, just as ‘here we are’ gift.

So we buy 4 kilos of cheese. Not a discrete wedge, not a subtle wodge but a whole 4 kilos. We had it cut in half and vacuum sealed. Done.

Then the doubts set in. Is it ok to carry cheese into the UK? Suddenly, all those episodes of Border Control came flooding back. Perhaps I’d better check. I scribble off an email to UK Customs. I paraphrase our exchange:

‘Good sir/madam, I’d like to carry 4 kilos of cheese into your country. It’s Italian.’

‘Well, you can’t. We don’t accept cheese from Australia. Only Europe.’

‘Oh, but it is European. The Provolone is Italian, exported to  Australia. We’re just returning it to its homeland. It’s going to be quite well travelled, as far as cheese goes.’

‘No. It’s still technically from Australia.’

‘But only technically.’

‘No.’

(I might add, I used a vague email address/name in case I was electronically tagged in some secret customs file.....)

So do we risk it? Is there jail time for illegal cheese? We plot and plan. We’re flying through Zurich – let’s say we bought it at the airport. Really? You think they’ll buy that? We don’t have receipts! Do they sell cheese at the airport?? Should we declare it? A couple of hundred dollars worth of cheese – perhaps they’ll think we’re going to sell it on some epicurean black market. Maybe let’s just bring 2 kilos – it won’t hurt so much if they confiscate it (the pain being caused by a) the idea of this lovely expensive cheese being unceremoniously binned, and b) the idea of it being scoffed by (admittedly unlikely) thieving, stereotyping Customs officers). If we only bring half, what are we going to do with the other 2 kilos of cheese? Let’s not bring any! Let’s bring it all!

On and on. Every day we grew more and more anxious about the blessed cheese.

We make the call – 2 kilos. That should keep my uncle going for a while anyway. We pack it my father’s suitcase (yes, that’s right – if we had to, we were planning to pull the ‘I’m sorry. I’m old and foreign. I didn’t realise you couldn’t bring cheese into the UK. No, my daughter didn’t know I packed it!’ card).

We land at Manchester Airport. We head towards a surprisingly sparse Customs area / exit and ... sail on through. No questions, no alarms, no X-Rays, and no sniffer dogs.

We should have brought the whole 4 kilos.

Was it worth it? Yes. My uncle grinned happily when we presented him with his unlikely gift.

‘Ha!’, he laughed. ‘Provolone! Thanks!’

No problem at all.

Canberra – the little city that could

Canberra is not for me. Now remember, this is my personal opinion and perspective – not a mindless criticism. I’m all about connection and Canberra and I just didn’t connect. We didn’t fall in love. We didn’t even want to go out on a second date.

To me Canberra feels odd and perplexing. It’s as though someone designed a great city, built a great city but forgot to populate it sufficiently to fulfil its potential. The motorways and multi-lane freeways crossings chasms of empty space in such an effectively tiny city just seem like a mockery. I couldn’t fathom why everything was so spread out and far apart. The National Gallery, the Portrait Gallery and the National Library sit alongside each other – with about a kilometre of parking space and lawned area between each. Why? At the very least they could have installed a travelator between them.

War Memorial

There are wonderful things to see and do in Canberra – the War Memorial is sensitive and moving, the Botanic Gardens are charming and beautiful, and the galleries and museums are tremendous. I just couldn’t find the heart of Canberra. I couldn’t find its city heart. I like my city to behave like a city – but how do I define that? Its mall was like every other mall. Its shopping complex was like every other shopping complex. The people that wandered the mall and shopping complex were sophisticated, stylish people. But those qualities [deficiencies?] are not exclusive to Canberra. There’s nothing disparaging to say about Canberrians because they are regular people – some cool, some artistic, some fit and healthy jogging on a Saturday morning, others drunk and out on the town on Friday night.

But in the mall on Sunday two skateboarders zoomed past me…. both at least in their 30s. One was sadly balding, the other had a cap with greasy lank hair poking out, both had oversized t-shirts and baggy pants. No one but me gave them a second look.

While standing at a city pedestrian crossing on a Sunday afternoon, I waited for the only car within miles of sight to pass by and then stepped out against the little red ‘don’t walk’ sign. The guy driving by me in his van looked at me askance, incredulous – as though I were trying to cross a seven lane freeway on roller skates, with a small pig clutched under my arm. He shook his head, I imagine muttering something like, ‘these damn kids of today’.

There’s a laid back country feel to Canberra that is in contrast with its city status. To me, Canberra was perfectly illustrated by the following. Angela, my travelling companion – a highly successful, highly pressured partner in a high profile Sydney law firm ­– almost lost the plot when a McDonald’s cashier took my payment for a bottle of water, diligently printed out a service receipt and laid it down carefully in the appropriate place, ready for the service person to attend to. The fridge was behind the cashier. It wasn’t particularly busy. Angela started tapping her foot and crossing her arms, frowning. I confirmed, politely, that it was just the bottle of water I wanted. ‘Yep,’ the cashier said, ‘won’t be long’. And stared into the middle distance. Angela started muttering under her breath and rolling her eyes. I tried to smile gently at the cashier who was starting to get nervous. Another minute passed and Angela bursts out, spluttering, ‘Oh for fucks sake, it’s right behind you, just get the fucking bottle of water’, just as the service person trundled up to study my little receipt and fetch my bottle of water. Thank you.

But perhaps I’ve missed the point. Perhaps some of those quirky things are Canberra – a city/country hybrid with its own unique charm. It’s a lovely, lovely place to visit. But only if you don’t mind your city on the mild side. 

Hong Kong Karaoke or be damned!

(A slightly fictionalised composite account of a true story....all memory is fiction anyway.)

The taxi driver screwed up his face as he looked at us through his rear view mirror. ‘No idea’, he said. Impossible. Hong Kong has thousands of karaoke bars. My friend Michelle employed the dreadful act of speaking louder to make herself understood, ‘We’d like to go to a KARAOKE bar. Can you take us to one?’, she shouted, ‘you know, singing’. As she cleared her throat, ready to launch into ‘Girls just wanna have fun’, the driver’s face suddenly lit up, ‘Ah yes!’. He nodded enthusiastically as he negotiated traffic like a kart driver. We didn’t realise that he literally meant a bar called Yes. Yes 11th to be exact. An improbable name for a bar in an improbable location – a fifteen story office building. We were in the middle of the Kowloon district, karaoke central, and I was about to confront my greatest fear – singing in public.

In Yes 11th, no one was singing anything yet. The concrete flooring and black décor made it a little foreboding. There were café style tables and wrought iron chairs in the centre, but we chose one of the comfy lounges along the side wall. There were private rooms, like most mainstream karaoke bars, but since we didn’t really know how it worked, we thought we’d make some observations first. Plus, you had to pay for private rooms by the hour, per person. We ordered the first round of drinks and waited to see what would happen. A great pile of steaming meat landed on our table, compliments of the manager. We eyed them warily and decided to call the dish ‘BBQ chicken wings’ even though there was no mention of it on the menu. Indeed, it tasted like chicken. The manager came over, shouting incomprehensibly at us in a menacing way but then broke into jolly laughter and wandered away. We couldn’t tell if he was pleased or cross that there were Westerners in his bar – we discovered later that Westerners normally headed to Neway or Red Box; Hong Kong karaoke institutions.

Neither the manager nor the “chicken” helped calm my nerves. I didn’t yet understand why people would put themselves through this.

A large group of young men and women came in and started fiddling around with the microphone, chatting to the owner and scrolling through song lists. Finally, they started to sing. They were having a great time, singing harmonies and duets. Romantic looking young men crooned love ballads – a performance complete with wringing hands, tortured expressions and dramatic arm waving. A girl with bright blue eye shadow at the next table told me Hong Kong people work so hard and are so reserved in behaviour, but at karaoke, it was their chance to shine, to stand out from the crowd and become famous for a moment. Those who really wanted to live the dream could even enter competitions, hire fantastic themed rooms, and generally pretend they were a rock star.

Eventually, one of the girls in the big group walked over to us smiling and, rather shyly, handed over the mike. This was it. Sing or leave. Michelle took the mike. We scrolled nervously through the list of songs available and settled on a Shakira number. ‘I don’t think I can do this’, I told her. Already my voice was wobbly, my throat dry. There was a little encouraging applause and then the music started. With tiny tiny voices, Michelle and I started to sing together. I saw smiling, encouraging faces. People were nodding quietly, not covering their ears in distress. We got a little louder, started smiling and relaxing instead of focusing intently on the written lyrics, and even finished with a vocal flourish.

The mojitos had done their job. Our last notes sung, we beamed happily when the whole bar, by now half full, erupted into loud cheers and clapping. I could breathe again. And perhaps I discovered that elusive element that made karaoke strangely intoxicating. The smiles were infectious, there was a sense of joyful camaraderie, and shared (sometimes traumatic!) experience. It was the perfect opportunity to step out of ordinary life and be someone else, even if only for three and a half minutes. Certainly there was no other place where strangers would listen patiently while I wrung the life out of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

Five songs later the pretty girl who brought over the mike came back to prise it gently from our hands, smiling and nodding, but firm. 

For copyright purposes, I think I need to let you know that an edited version of this blog first appeared in The Weekend Australian, October 2010 (http://www.theaustralian.com.au/travel/theres-no-stopping-the-karaoke-queens/story-e6frg8rf-1225941028931).

Sunny St Petersburg

Catherine Palace

Perspective is important, especially when it comes to travel. I’m not talking about necessarily positioning myself as a white female Westerner living in an easy materialistic world. I’m bringing it a lot closer than that. I’m talking about what was going on in my head before heading off for a day in St Petersburg. I was homesick. I was travelling alone, on a seniors cruise when I wasn’t a senior (I’m still not). I’d found a lump behind my ear – the ship doctor told me it might be necessary to have an X-ray in Russia. In a Russian hospital, with Russian speaking medical staff. I was fed up, grumpy, out of enthusiasm and anxious for the whole damn thing to be over so I could bloody well go home.

                                                                                                       

Despite all of this, but more likely because of it, St Petersburg was one of the most surreal and affecting places I’ve ever been to.

A tour bus came to collect us from the port to take us to Pushkin Town and Catherine Palace. Industrial ports are never the prettiest places but the bus was quiet as we left the relative safety of the ship. Decomposing buildings, dirty broken glass, but net curtains and shadows moving behind them. So what appeared derelict was somebody’s home. Art deco bars on all lower storey windows. Avenues of stark trees trying to look alive. Perhaps aware of the subdued atmosphere, the local tour guide kept saying ‘Don’t be frightened. We’re just like you’. Which made me afraid.

An American was perhaps trying to break the ice when he asked the guide whether Russians believed in animal rights, since everyone seemed to wear fur. She berated him mercilessly with a hoarse voice and heavy accent. ‘Sir if you lived here in minus 40 degree weather I’d like to see what you wear. What are your shoes made of? Leather? Where do you think that comes from, huh? Huh??’.

Undeterred, the same man tried to generate a discussion on democracy. The guide laughed snidely ‘Americans and democracy. So much freedom! But you can’t even have a drink on the street! What about your censorship laws, huh? Huh??’.

And the bus fell silent again.  

Catherine Palace was predictably spectacular and astonishing. Lavish, rich and sumptuous. I’ll tell you about the Amber Room another time.

Lunch then, was a disappointment. Something grey. With peas.

Long trestle tables – seats enough to accommodate everyone but me. I had to sit at an otherwise empty table (until another tour group arrived half an hour later) and the fact that no one made any effort to keep me company or make a little room to fit me in completely astonished and upset me. Human kindness failing miserably.

I keep touching the back of my ear [remember the suspicious lump]. The lump got bigger and smaller each time. I couldn’t wait to see the ship doctor again because I needed to involve someone else. I didn’t fully comprehend how stressed and anxious I was. A Russian folk group came to play and sing for us during lunch. Two women, two men. Peacock blue satin and crisp white shirts. They shouted out incomprehensible songs that were actually quite musical. They got me up to dance of course. I managed to laugh and shout and whoop but my heart wasn’t in it. I don’t know what had happened to my heart that day. It didn’t seem to be working in conjunction with anything else at that moment. All head, all thoughts.

Catherine Palace detail 

After lunch the Hermitage was a blur of impressions: white Carrera marble staircase, green malachite urns, luscious red velvet walls, Chinese silks, gold peacocks, mosaic floors. A French gardens, cupids and flowers, smiling angels, swans and doves. Granite. Then the Monets, Renoirs and da Vincis. Ceilings so high, so detailed, white domes, impossibly long halls. Bohemia crystal and gilded bronze chandeliers. Rich blue green Flemish tapestries. Mournful portraits.

Our guide told us that the dour looking man in the grey suit following us around the museum was KGB. Um..they don’t actually exist anymore right? But I didn’t know whether to laugh or clutch my officially expired Italian passport a little closer to my chest. Anything seemed possible!  

It hailed on the way back to the ship. Pedestrians caught out looked stoic – no flapping about with objects held over heads. Someone on our bus said (rudely) ‘they don’t bloody smile at you’. And I wondered if they had all that much to smile about.

I can’t claim to know anything about Russia. I met few Russian people. I was a misery guts and viewed the city through pathetically self-indulgent eyes. But if you asked me whether you should go to St Petersburg I would urge you to book your tickets at once because it was a fascinating and unlikely  creature. Never mind my memories.