Kazan station was quiet when I left Moscow, my compartment only had two of us in it, me and a woman called Tanya who was also travelling to Samara. She wasRussian, lived in Frankfurt, but had a cafe business in Samara, so the whole of the conversation for the next 24 hours was done in German, with the occasional Russian word thrown in. It made the journey pleasant and was a contrast to the one from Samara to Volgograd, which was spent in the company of two laddish lads and a narky older woman.
Samara train station is a sleek and modern affair, clean and tidy with no dogs. Unfortunately, when you get outside, the scene goes back to dusty streets, crumbling buildings and screeching Ladas - the main factory where they make them is just up the road in Togliatti. We had travelled over 600 miles and the scenery hadn't changed. The only difference being that the rain from Moscow had given way to bright sunshine and beautifully warm days. I was so looking forward to getting to the beach and having a paddle that I raced to find a hotel, had a quick shower and headed out.
This enthusiasm was short-lived, however, when I found out that the extra large snowfall that had come in over the winter had now melted and increased the depth of the river by at least six or eight feet. The beaches were there, but you needed a snorkel and mask to get to them. A basketball hoop poked up through the lapping water and a volleyball net was just visible in the current. I suppose water polo was more in keeping... As the days went along, the water receded slightly. exposing bits of sand covered in all manner of rubbish: driftwood, plastic bags, beer bottles and cans, full trees and, on one part, the remains of a petrol tanker. The water was full of other bits of flotsam and jetsam drifting past in the current and I don't think I'd have put someone else's toe into the water, never mind my own.
This just left the prom, and I was happy to wander up and down there in the evening, pausing to watch skinny Russian girls butchering popular songs of the 1980s in the numerous karaoke bars set up along the way. In each there was only one girl singing - i.e. the only person in there - so maybe this gives you an idea of how dreadful they were, screeching banshee-like in the balmy evening sunlight. At the end of the prom is Samara's favourite hangout: the Zhiguli brewery. Here you can take your own bottle and fill up for half the price of buying in the shops. And everybody does. In the days I was there, I can count on one hand the number of people I saw who were not carrying a labelless plastic bottle full of warm beer. As an alternative, it was possible to buy kvas from roadside vendors - usually bitter-faced old women - who sat all day by the side of a small tank, dispensing this 'drink' made from fermented rye bread. I'll leave it to your imagination to think about how this tastes.
The hotel I stayed in was quite nice, right in the centre of town and it came with a buffet breakfast! That might not sound like any reason to jump for joy, but believe me, it was like manna from heaven to be able to stuff my face with bread, cheese and yoghurt every morning, and to have a brew to start the day. One morning, a very tall, very thin man came in, wearing shorts, sandals - no socks, so obviously not German - and with a big camera round his neck. He proceeded to fill at least three plates from the buffet and then, when he'd finished, got one of the waitresses to take his photo. That same morning I was brought a plate of fried eggs for no reason, although I suspect this was more of a kitchen mistake than any attempt to be nice to me.
On the day of leaving, I forgot that while Samara is ahead of Moscow by one hour, the trains and stations all run on Moscow time. So when it was 12 o'clock by the bus stop, it was only 11 o'clock ten yards further on in the station. This does confuse me, with the result that I turned up two hours early for the train instead of one. And then it was late.
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