Finding Old and New Friends in St. Petersburg

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We are some, when in St. Petersburg, we feel like hovering a bit over the ground as we go along the prospects. This was the idea of Chester (an IT-specialist at the Danish School of Journalism) and I have always felt exactly the same way.

Chester got married with a broad from here, and I certainly also made myself acquainted with some of the female half of the population when I once resided in ‘the Venice of the north’. Maybe this is what makes western men fly along the canals. As for me this stop would be about finding some of these old good-looking friends, whom I first met seven years ago.
I have two good friends from back in the days - both women, both very attractive. But I had lost both their contacts as I have been throwing my cells about at different drunk moments in Copenhagen, so I was to do some detective work in order to hook up with either of them.
First target was Veronika. She had been my guide at my first visit and despite my romantic gestures towards her at my second visit, we had remained friends. Now she had become a mother to a child with the same birthday as mine. Few of my friends have children, so I was eager to meet the offspring of one, whom I shared birthday with.
Russia has its own Facebook called VKontakte, which means ‘in contact’, and all young people have one. If you ask someone if they have it, they say ‘of course!’ as if I asked them if they love their mothers. But in order to find someone in there you need data. All I had for Veronika was her first name, an approximate day of birth and an approximate way of spelling her last name.
One night in Murmansk, Sasha decided to give it a go. He was just as excited as I was about finding her and we spent one hour trying different searches. The fact that Veronika is a somewhat rare name in Russia helped a lot. There are only about 100 Veronikas living in St. Petersburg who were born in April 1985. One of them once had the last name Glady, but is now called Semerovna due to the name she took when she married her husband.
Glady was the last name of my Veronika and luckily parentheses after her current name told about her past. But the profile picture showed only some baby feet, which could of course be those of her offspring. We wrote this Veronika and hoped for an answer. Sasha left as it was late, but 20 minutes later he called me to tell that Veronika had replied. It was her. And I got her number back.
So the one person in my mind as I strolled down a sunny Nevsky Prospect was Oksana, my other hot St. Petersburg friend. At our first meeting (I was 19, she was 17) in the cheesy Revolution club we could not really communicate so I decided to take up smoking after a five month pause, just to have something in common with her. When I came back to St. Petersburg two years later in 2006, I had her number, which she by then had given to her younger brother. Even though we were still not able to communicate in a common language, we found each other, and for the next six months, she became the sole reason why I learned Russian at the relatively fast pace I did. First rule of learning a new language: Make friends with someone, who doesn’t speak the language you are trying to learn. If she’s hot it is an extra motivation factor.
I was very optimistic to find her as I so easily found Veronika. Trying the VKontakte way would be a sure dead end. All I had was a first name and a city. If you search with those parameters, the engine will ask you to refine the search, as nearly one in every fifth woman is called Oksana (I guess). But I knew where she lived back then, and that was where I was heading.
I decided to find my host first, so I could drop off my bike. My host lives on Nevsky Prospekt, so it was easy to find his place. He was another Sasha and a very cool and friendly one. There was an improvised brunch buffet starting up outside as I reached the place. There was other couchsurfers present and one had lived in Denmark. In total a mighty fine crew, which I got along well with.

After this recognition, I scanned the streets to find my way to Oksana's back then residence. My internal navigation system did not fail on me and soon I found myself in front of the targeted apartment block. I dialed some different buttons but no-one gave a reply. The door facing the street opened up and I was in.

The receptionist, which is common to have even in non-posh residences were not in her box, so I could walk right up and knock on all the doors. I could not quite remember which floor she lived on, only that it was the middle apartment of the three on either of the floors.

But there were no buzzards on two out of the three middle doors, so I had to slam hard to get through to the other side. Still no replies. A young man got into the elevator and I faced him as he came out on the top floor. With my poor Russian that I could remember from my time here, I let him know of my whereabouts, but he knew no Oksana. He helped me to meet the receptionist, who after working there for half a year never met a 24-year-old Oksana. She asked all the people who entered the hall, but noone knew about my old friend. Some English speakers arrived, but even though I could now explain myself more concisely, nobody knew her. If they had seen her, they should remember her, as she has the looks and measurements of a class-a model, but I had only a photo of her on my computer in Copenhagen.

I often let her know that she could use those looks of her to gain money and fame, but she never had the confidence or the will to become a model. I felt those looks, I was longing to see again, slide away from my hope of a future reality.

I left the place, with my head between my shoulders. A visit at my old favorite hangout should help out. I went to Datscha, the favorite pick for bohemians and libertarians any night. The words of a february day in 2006 on Petrogradskaya in my new lodgings from my host Kirill still rings clearly: "You've got to find a place and come there two or three times every week."

The goal would be to find some friends and a presence in the city. I came to Datscha about three times every week. It was never boring. Many colorfull people did what I did. This way I became part of a family. I never spent one night there with Veronika or Oksana and rarely did I invite the crew from St. Petersburg Times to go. Datscha was a dirty, hedonistic hideout where we tried to forget the cold winter and waiting for the bridges to descend on the Neva in the summer.

So weird it was to be back. I no longer know anyone who came here like I did back then. Sitting in an empty couch were silhouettes of frighty acquantances and in the bar I could feel 70-year-old mind-like Michail Michailovic introduce everyone to eachother with his flypaper skill of remembering names. But the bar was empty, except for a couple at a table and the owner and his friends outside. It was 17 o'clock on a damp August day, so I was the fool sitting inside sobbing over a victorious life in the night long forgotten. I left and I never went back to see what the later hours could offer me. I did not want to be disappointed

Back in the Nevsky apartment (so cool to live on Nevsky Prospekt) Sasha was waiting with a friend for the entertainment this evening, which was a bike ride around the Neva. We fared out with a slight buzz from some herbal stash Sasha had arranged. With us we had a portable mp3 carrying some groovy sounds. Sasha is apparently an expert of leasure bike disciplines, something I rarely attend to. My bike is a slave horse, which get me where I need and never gets showed off on banks and city squares.

The funniest moment on this stopover happened in one of those small stores, where three lady clercks get you the things you point at. I asked for three beers, but the clerk made no move to get them. She gazed at me sanguinely and told me that I was not being very classy right now. She made a slight nod down towards my swimming trunks, which was hanging so low in my hips that a chuck of pubic hair was out in the open. When I understood this, I exclaimed a surprized 'Oh!', pulled up and asked again for three beers, got 'em, paid and went out on the street bursting out in laughter. Epic moment.

We enjoyed the beers in a park where a duo ensemble had - obviously themselves - put up a soundsystem to give a singer-songwriter performance of the less talented kind, so vice versa, it was funny.

Beating the bridges opening, we had to depart from Sasha's friend to head home around one in the night. At home we saw a mindblowing movie I forgot the name of though. Timelessness or endlessness... was it? Limitless!!! Thank you imdb.com

The next day I just cruised around on my bike and visited old localities to see if they were still there. How happy I was to be back. It will not be five years before I return again.

Monday was dedicated to Veronika and her new family. I took the metro to the last stop on the red line going south, Prospekt Veteranov. The metro is another favorite in St. Petersburg. After descending into a 500 meters hole in the ground, the platforms are decorated for royalty.

Getting out I had decided to try to find the apartment myself. I had been there three times before, so I managed after some walking about in the rain. I was thrilled when I found the right place and I was thrilled to see my dear friend again after all those years. Her baby is of course very cute but at the same time she likes to break stuff and to scream. Not cry-scream, but scream the same word (she knew six) 20 times in a row at an enormous volume.

For seven years Veronika had told me about her family's datscha (summer residence), and promised me at numerous occasions that I would be allowed a visit and meet her grandmother. "Really Martin, you have to meet my grandmother!" Nika had told me a dozen times. Now was the time it would actually happen.

After a 30 minutes drive south I was stunned to see a small farm with crops and animals surrounding a luxurious house. This family is loaded and the father is crazy about homemade organic food, so that is the answer to my wondering. We had a banquet of delicious homemade food. Veronika's mother made me an omelet and there was smetana (Russian creme fraiche), cheese, honey, bread and different vegetables. Once again I struggled to explain, why I do not eat meat, but babushka told me she understood.

Not to forget, there was homemade vodka. Like at my first meeting with Veronika's family six years ago her father told me that it is a tradition to drink three times. This is normal for a Danish Christmas celebration, but for an everyday late-night dinner, I am not costumed to drink three five-centiliter shots to the bottom. But Russian vodka is good, so this discipline can be done even without cutting a frown in your face and tell your host that his homemade vodka tastes great.

Veronika's grandmother is the dearest old lady. She had as well been told about the Danish friend and we greeted like we had anticipated this meeting for a long time. We chatted for a long time with the Russian I could bring back, and I enjoyed myself in her company.

Later Nika showed me around the place. There were besides the huge kitchen, living room and entrance also a party hall, a kids game room, eight bedrooms, two saunas and an indoor swimming pool. I could not even count the bathrooms there. It was almost too much. "This is my dream," the mother told in a proud but controlled voice. "It is a dream for sure," I answered.

I got a bedroom for my self of course and I felt like being in a hotel, but then again so much better, as I had met a good friend after five years and seen another part of her world. Not awesome, but fantastic.

Last day in St. Petersburg, I had arranged with Sasha to attend his local Banja (Russian sauna), as this was one of my favorite rituals of my stay five years back. My apartment did not provide hot showers, so this was the way it worked in my case as well as many other in the area. Sacha's Banja was of the uptown kind and I was used to social banjas, where it costs one euro to get in and you share the place with 50 people. This banja, where Lenin and Dostoievski accordingly had sweaty times, costed eight euros and we had it more or less to our selves. There was an ice pool and I went in and out of the relentlessly hot banja to dip in the icy cold water. When this is done to your body, your heart starts beating violently and your head begins to swirl so it can become difficult to stand up straight. I was high.

After a banja trip, I always feel lighter and skip along the streets with a fresh view on the world. I was ready for a four days train ride.

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