Perils of ice and love socks.

Last week contained a Tuesday. That Tuesday was an incredible day.

After my early morning class with SOVCOMFLOT, which ended at 9:00, I hurried through the wind to the metro, past the streams of early morning commuters, and took the metro north to the VDNKH stop. I was to meet Dmitry and his friends as soon as possible in order to visit the Ostankino Tower. The Moscow Metro Map website clocked the journey at 20 minutes. In reality it took around 40. Lying bastards.

At the required metro stop there was a rather long walk down a rather long street to the little ticket office where I could enter into the Ostankino complex. Leaving the metro I began trotting along as fast as I could. It quickly materialised that I wouldn't make it by the 10 o'clock tour by mere wayfaring. Already sweating from the metro in my four layers, fleece scarf, gloves and hat I began to jog. Jogging at 9:45, in full winter kit, in my boots, through Moscow. I was breathing heavy and soggy under my clothes. I turned a corner, crossing a busy road, full of early-morning, steaming Ladas and BMWs and pressed on, crunching the snow and bamboozling pedestrians. Dmitry then called,

'Hey man, where are you?'

Heavy breathing

'I'm...'

Heavy breathing

'I'm running...'

Cough, heavy breathing

'There shortly...'

'Ok man, sorry to disturb you. Keep running! See you soon'

With only a few minutes left before our tour was to start I pounded up to the Ostankino entrance where Dima met me.

The building stands at 540m. It is the tallest building in Europe, and the fourth tallest in the world behind the CN Tower in Toronto, the Canton Tower in China and the ridiculous Burj Khalifa in Dubai. It's primary function is to be a television and radio tower and, like other buildings of the same type, it spears up from a wide base and tapers into a tip, bulging out at certain points with viewing platforms or maintenance levels.

After the usual bureaucratic rigmarole of Russia - go to this window, then that window, show your passport and this one again - we got to security. There, in the tiny hall with the metal detector machines, was one of the most embarrassing moments I had had in a long time.

'Come in' said the officious lady holding a detector wand 'put your items on the table and walk through with your coat on'

I didn't quite catch what she said the first time, but after a slapstick routine with my coat I got the picture and walked through; my keys, phone and wallet on the table. She swiped the detector over me.

'Schto eto?'

'Oops, da, eto moi ipod' I placed it on the table

She swiped my other breast pocket, it beeped. But there was nothing in there metal.

'Please take it out of your pocket'

But it wasn't metal...

'Just put it on the table'

Had I known it was the metal button for the external breast pockets I could have avoided embarrassment. I put my hand inside my coat and felt around.

'Oh no' I said under my breath and looked up to Dima who was being patted down at the other security point. I mouthed my problem to him and he laughed.

'Please take it out sir' said the lady again.

I reached in further and pulled out the offending item. Dima snorted under his breath and I flushed red. The little chocolate flavoured condom looked so pathetic and absurd lying there on the table. The lady smiled ever so slightly and then found the button that beeped.

At around 360m the high speed lift spat us out and we were granted impossibly vast and vertigo-inducing views to Moscow. Almost all was white and grey as the sun continued its morning ascent. Industry trails hung low in the air and a morning pollution haze, usually horrid in the centre, added a magical eeriness to the scene. Cars like ants, skyscrapers like tall black grass. It was magnificent but all too short and we were quickly sucked back down into Moscow to take the monorail system back to the metro. No more jogging for me.

* * * *

But a few hours after that I met up with Sarah, a girl who had done Russian with me at university. She was attempting to return to Moscow to live and work. She had the same russophile urges as me. We met at the Oktyabrskaya metro stop and skidded down the road to Gorky Park. I was disinclined to comment on the sweat-ruined state of my clothes but, for some reason, more than happy to share my folly concerning the comical preservative.

In winter Gorky Park is flooded. The walkways, as a result, become frozen channels so that the visitor may skate through the area. It's a strange feeling. I'm used to rinks, or a frozen pond at best, but to skate through a park as if one were walking is, for want of a better word, cool. It's just a shame that my skates weren't very tight. I had trouble walking on my left foot for the days that followed. It's hot and thirsty work skating so, with burning thighs, we sidled up to one of the kiosks that lined the ice-ways. To make the episode that little bit more Russian we drank hot tea that fumed in the chilled air and munched on warm, slithery blinis. Almost as soon as we had met we parted. Sarah had some interviews and I had to teach, in vain, a small five-year old child how to say 'I am good'.

I was, a couple of weeks ago, made 'single', due to incompatibility. This amazing day was rounded off by meeting a quite delightful creature who I am currently seeing. Olga. Beautiful and artistic with Lily Allen hair and eyes that would show up a doe. Fingers crossed I don't screw this one up.

* * * *

EXTRA: As if I thought the trials and tribulations caused by the humorous chocolate willy warmer were over I was wrong. It reared its ugly head - perhaps the wrong use of the phrase - again on the Thursday of that week. I was at SBERBANK. My student arrived and we went up to the main desk to get my pass. I handed the girl my passport, realising only at the last moment that Mr. Prevention had wrapped himself round some of its pages. She took the passport, removed the little brown salami sling, emitted the tiniest 'oop' on noticing what it was, typed in my details, popped it back in the passport and let me through. Nobody spoke of it.

I've since relegated the little bastard to a dusty drawer in my room.

Hello Mr Winter, how's your wife?

'Young man, don't whistle indoors or you'll have no money!'

I was having a good day and was tooting along to my ipod as I walked around a little underground supermarket. I looked at the shelf-stacking woman and slapped my hand to my mouth with a shocked expression.

'I forgot! Fantastic!' I said

The lady started laughing that middle-aged 'hoo hoo hoo hee hee hee' endearing laugh that so many Russians have as the other shop assistants joined in around her. I thanked her for the advice and bought my tomatoes and biscuits leaving her smiling. I was smiling. These moments weren't overly common in Moscow.

****

Up until recently the soundtrack of the city has been dripping. Moscow went through a warm patch of low minus numbers and some zeros. This was enough to slush up the paths and roads and encourage the vast icicles to melt and glisten. Standing on my balcony, away from the main road, 'drip, drip, drip' echoed around the courtyard. It's a dangerous period. A dripping icicle can turn quite quickly into a falling spear of frozen pain. Many scores of people die every year from ice related incidents. The Moscow authorities do their 'best' by putting up bands of red and white stripy tape to force people away from the building walls, and by having armies of men up on the roofs knocking down pack ice and icicles before they have the opportunity to fall. The roads were like snowy rivers as the slush covered everything urban.

This changed a few days ago. We've descended back into winter proper. Day after day of gloriously blue, but shockingly cold, weather. At the time of writing we are at -22 and it shows no signs of letting up. Breath hangs solidly on the air and puffed up pigeons hide in underpasses. The street babushkas who all flooded onto the streets during the 'warm' period have retreated to whichever primordial factory it is they come from and our hands crack and splinter from the dry winds. The slush has refrozen and formed rivulets and ridges and bumps all solid and sheen. Walking is a joy again...

****

Before the return to this wintry pummelling I visited, with Sara, a FoodEXPO in the business district. Actually, saying the 'business district' in Moscow is like saying 'yeah, we visited the bit of the park with trees'. It's all business here. This part, however, had the skyscrapers: the three tallest there are the three tallest in Europe. It was a typical commercial expo affair. Companies, local and foreign, had stalls with samples and posters and presentations, all looking for either buyers or sellers. The EXPOCENTRE is a giant area comprising 8 gargantuan hanger-like halls and another, even more massive, 'Atrium' hall. Whole rooms dedicated to drinks, to alcohol, to sweets and snacks, to food industry machinery, to labelling and stickers. There was even one stall dedicated to a company that produces the shiny sticker-like foil that wraps around the necks of bottles of wine and beer and suchlike.

We found the Spanish area and Fernando, in his suit, at the help desk. Foreign countries got special designated areas where anything typical of their country could be peddled. The Spain area was all wine, olives, oil and ham. Italy was wine and cheese. Germany was beer and sausages. It was a riot of stereotypes. Sara and I filled up on samples as we walked around; parmesan, soy sauce with cucumbers, pastries, hams, cheeses, coffee, red wine, biscuits, even ice cream. I, via Fernando, swapped a business card with an attractive girl who was working for a Spanish winery and had been in Moscow only a day. A way into the industry perhaps?

****

Visiting the Tsaritsino park was probably a stupid idea. It was about -17, but immensely windy. So probably more like -25. Katya kept saying 'this was a bad idea'. There was a blizzard and my hands were going numb. Tsaritsino is an estate, about 30 mins south from the centre, bought by Catherine the Great in 1775. She ordered an enormous palace complex to be built there, but then less than two decades later commanded that it be stopped and partly pulled down. What remains today is a red and white fairytale jumble of random pseudo-Gothic buildings. Fortunately the effect is still beautiful and quite magical. The palace especially, though never finished internally, is a giant wonder to behold from the parks that surround it. We hid in a museum while we warmed up before high-tailing it back to the metro past snowed over ponds, wind-beaten trees and other hardy, moaning, visitors.

****

That's more or less the extent of my grand New Year adventures as it stands. What I like about living in Moscow, as I did in Madrid, is that, if you choose it, and if you're not scared, every weekend, or every day, can be completely different and unique. Say yes to everything even if you're pretty sure it's not usually your cup of tea.

I played football the other day, in goal of course. Four Spaniards and one Englishman versus five Russians. It was an entertaining massacre. The Spanish were too strong. 25-5 I think was the final score.

'I think we've found the goalie for our team boys!' laughed Miguel

Shit, I thought, now I have to start liking football...