Chapter the Second: Of Stout and Shawarma

I spent most of my Saturday in bed. Went to sleep at about 3:30 AM, woke up at 2 in the afternoon or thereabouts, and then spent the rest of the day blogging, Redditing and generally screwing around online for lack of a desire to do much of anything else. Round about 10:30, Alex announces that she's meeting some friends at a bar across town to watch a rugby match and opens the invitation to the rest of us; all five of us decide to go, calling it a roommate bonding experience.

So we all get bundled up and head out the door. I'm glad I had the foresight to cram my doubly-sockéd feet into my tennis shoes instead of trying to keep up with everyone in my 3-inch heeled boots; I lagged behind anyway, not quite having got the hang of this whole "walking on slippery sidewalks" thing. I'll get my ice-legs soon, I hope. In any case, we head down to the metro station together and Jorge, nice guy that he is, pays my fare, just so we don't have to wait for me to buy a token. Down we go, riding from Mayakovskaya to Gostiny Dvor (a shopping mall with a metro stop in it), then switching to another line and riding to Sennaya Ploshchad.

We emerge into the frigid night air hastily pulling on gloves and hats, and then follow Liz and Alex as they strike off in a direction that turned out to be wrong. We walked in the snow, in subzero weather, for 25 minutes trying to find this place, and eventually we find it; Dickens Pub, tucked away around a corner in a part of town that's clearly more geared toward tourists (an observation based, perhaps, on the existence of an English pub in the middle of [swear word] St. Petersburg). Alex's friends are nice enough; one's an American guy, and the other is British. We get to talking about all kinds of stuff; I was only half paying attention at any given time, as the decor around the pub was rather distracting - scarves and tiny banners of various football teams were hung everywhere, and they were very colorful. Also, Russia evidently has no laws about smoking in public places, so Liz and Jorge smoked at the table and that, coupled with the smoke from all the other smoking patrons, kind of made my head hurt.

I'm old enough to drink in this country, so I did. I decided to try a Welsh stout, just because I know I like bitter drinks, and with a name like Brains Stout, what can go wrong? I mean, honestly. It was actually not bad (as if I know absolutely jack [swear word] about beer and related fermented beverages). Definitely bitter, but not in an unpleasant way. I liked it, in any case; Corinne tried the same thing and I don't think she was quite as much of a fan. Liz doesn't particularly like any of the beers she's come across in Russia, but then again, she grew up in Michigan, where there are a ton of microbreweries and the like, so she's kind of been spoiled for beer anywhere else. She was enthusiastic when someone pointed out that the pub served French fries, though, and we ended up getting two orders and nomming on them as we all finished our drinks. At that point, Alex's friends said they were going to a club a few blocks over called RadioBaby; after they left, we decided to meet up with them there.

RadioBaby itself was an interesting enough place, but first, I must relate the manner in which we got there. I don't know if this guy drove an actual taxicab and I just didn't see the rate information and stuff which would have marked his car as such, or if this was one of those informal "loose coalition of guys with vans" sort of deals, but Alex talked a guy into giving us a lift to the club, in any case. Four people crammed into the backseat of a tiny car is an adventure no matter where you're going; Corinne ended up on Liz's lap, and Liz ended up squeezed between myself and Jorge, as Alex took shotgun. Luckily, Corinne is tiny. We got to the club quickly enough; this was another place tucked away off the main road, and admission is free for foreigners.

The whole club is kind of geared toward foreigners, with a very "hipster" vibe. There's a bar at the back, and a tiny dance floor, and a few rooms with places to sit and yell at each other over the music. You know, just like any typical nightclub. Jorge insisted I get something to drink and convinced me by saying he'd pay for it; he and Corinne and I ended up getting White Russians. They're like chocolate milk for grownups, and, hell, I'm a grownup! That was the last drink for me; Liz had three beers while we were at the club, and Alex had a couple of mixed drinks (not sure what they were, I think one was a screwdriver). We sat and talked shouted at one another for a while; the combination of dehydration, the smoky atmosphere and this cold led to me becoming so hoarse that it became nearly impossible to hear me because I couldn't speak any louder. So we got up to leave and headed over to the coat check. By the time Corinne retrieved my and her coats, another group of people had arrived and inadvertently trapped us in the lobby; we had to fight our way through the crowd before we could put our coats on, which we had to do outside. On the way back to the main drag, I slipped on a large patch of ice and fell hard on my butt; luckily, I've still got a considerable amount of padding, so I was OK. It hurt for a little while, but I'm fine now.

At this point, it was getting close to 3 AM and the metros were closed, so our options for getting home were "walk" or "take another cab." Jorge declared that tonight would be the night Corinne and I experienced shawarma, so we ended up walking to this little продукти/cafe that served it. A shawarma is kind of like a gyro; it's meat and vegetables and sauce wrapped in a tortilla and grilled in a panini press. And it is delicious. I can understand why Jorge loves it so much. It's cheap, it's filling, and it's super-tasty. Then we headed home. Alex ran home, for some reason, but we just let her go because she's been here longer and knows her way around. Corinne and Liz followed her at a brisk pace; I went more slowly, in the interest of not falling again. I'd rather stay outside a little longer than keep slipping every three steps. Jorge stayed with me and pointed out landmarks and statues and stuff on the way home; the walk was about 4 or 5 blocks, not too far, but damn was it cold. I don't even want to think about how cold it was; by the time we got back into the apartment, I couldn't even feel my legs. Not wearing my boots meant that my lower legs didn't have that extra layer of warmth, and they were all tingly. Next time I decide to wear tennis shoes I'm putting on another pair of long johns under my jeans; this will probably be tomorrow, which is when the walking tour of the city is (I was mistaken in my last post).