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We awoke around 11am, hung over, after a night of beer, Ukrainian pancakes and honey vodka. Our first mission was to check out of Godzillas, our hostel, and get to the airport by 2pm to collect the hire car, with the subsequent task of driving East out of Moscow to the ancient Russian capital of Vladimir, where we had a hotel room booked for that evening.
Godzillas, like much of Russia, is in the process of being redeveloped. It appeared to be owned by a posh looking Englishman and run by a coterie of fierce, attractive Russian females. The one bathroom on our floor provided for 300 euro-travellers, and looked like something that had been recently shelled in South Ossetia. After waiting in line for 255 euro-travellers, we clambered through the rubble, had a shower, and dragged ourselves and our cases out into the searing heat.
There is a recently opened rail link to Sheremetyevo airport at Savelonsky, just two stops away on the tube. We plunged into middle-earth, where the Moscow tube is located, and arrived at the rail-link for midday. Only to be informed by a stroppy woman in the ticket office that the next train wasn’t until 2pm.
Undaunted, Mr Collins lead us back into the Stygian depths of the Metro. He’d taken the long
way round to come and meet me off the plane the day before, and was sure we could get to the airport within two hours. After changing twice, travelling for forty minutes, we arrived at Planernaya, the end of the purple line. Outside, it looked, as Mr Collins observed, a bit like Cairo. There were no signs for the airport bus, but he knew what he was doing and after 15 minutes it arrived and we were on our way.Moscow traffic is unfriendly at the best of times, but despite the stop-start progress, in part caused by having to briefly join the notorious MKAD, (the Moscow equivalent of the M25), it looked like we’d make it for 2pm. Mr Collins pointed out the 2nd World War Tank Trap memorial, and we stuttered past many a challenging housing development. Mr C observed that it might be the long way round, but the trip cost less than a pound, whereas a taxi ride to the airport could be as much as £40.
We got off the bus as 13.45. Mr Collins had hired the car via Easy Drive, whose supplier had the evocative Russian name of Dollar Thrifty. We went to find the Dollar Thrifty booth. Avis, Hertz, and all the other usual suspects had booths on the ground floor, but there was no sign of Dollar Thrifty. We went upstairs to departures, and there was still no sign of Dollar Thrifty. We came downstairs again and explored the furthest recesses of Sheremetyevo Terminal 2, but no matter how hard we searched, Dollar Thrifty remained elusive. Finally we went over to someone at Hertz, who told us that Dollar Thrifty used to have a presence at the airport, but not any more. Not for a month or so at least.
We sat down to weigh up the situation. Various taxi drivers approached us, hoping for a fare, asking where we were going. When we said Vladimir, they laughed, asking if we realised it was over 250 km away. To which Mr Collins replied that that was why we’d hired a car…
Finally, a woman at one of the other car hire booths studied our scrappy computer print-out. She decreed that Dollar Thrifty did, in fact, exist. Only its offices, as written in the small print, were not at the airport, but at 22 Leningrad Street, one of the main avenues headed back into Moscow.
It was now mid-afternoon. Detailed negotiations revealed that 22 Leningrad St was nowhere near any convenient metro. If we were to have any chance of getting to Vladimir that evening, we would have to get to our car by taxi. The woman at the car-hire booth called a taxi driver over. The man was happy to take us to our destination. At a cost of around £40.
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Moscow traffic is unfriendly at the best of times. Mr Collins and I sat in the back seat of the cab, as it inched its way along the six lane highway also known as Leningrad Street. The cab driver occasionally peered to his right to see if he could spot the number of the latest industrial estate, as we headed into town. The traffic slowed to a crawl. We passed 81 Leningrad Street. Then passed no more buildings for another fifteen minutes. The crawl, which I had speculated was down to weight of traffic, turned out to be caused by a Lada that had broken down in the middle lane. If you’re ever stuck in Moscow traffic, the chances are that somewhere up ahead, another decrepit Lada has bitten the dust. Once we got past this obstacle, the traffic loosened up. After nearly an hour, the cab driver turned off the six lane highway and came to a stop in front of 22 Leningradsky Prospekt.
The address was a Jeep showroom. It contained dozens of pristine Jeeps. But not a single hire car. And no-one who worked there had ever heard of Dollar Thrifty.
We handed over 2000 roubles to the driver, ready to concede defeat. There was no way we were going to get to Vladimir that evening. It seemed probable that Dollar Thrifty did not exist, and Mr Collins had lost a considerable amount of money hiring a car from a fictional company. Then the taxi driver had an idea. He consulted the computer print-out again. Scratched his head. And informed us that we could well be at the wrong 22 Leningrad Street.
It turns out that major roads leading out of Moscow are split into sections. The inner section is called the ‘Prospekt’, and the outer section is called the ‘Schosse’. The taxi driver had brought us to 22 Leningradsky Prospekt, when we needed to be at 22 Leningradsky Schosse. As it was on his way back to the airport, he said he’d take us there. We plunged back onto the maelstrom of the six lane super-highway, heading back in the direction we’d just come from.
It was at this point that Mr Collins realised there was a contact number for Dollar Thrifty, concealed in the small print. He called it and miraculously got through, explaining that we were running late, but were now on our way. There was only one problem. As far as he could make out, the man on the phone at Dollar Thrifty had no record of any booking in the name of Collins, and no available car. Mr Collins’ Russian is good, but conducting high level negotiations about his non-existence after four hours of seemingly pointless motion was a bit much. He handed the phone to the taxi driver, who was pleased to confirm the existence of Dollar Thrifty at 22 Leningradsky Prospekt. The cab driver handed the phone back to Mr Collins who was told he would be called back in 5 minutes regarding the possibility of hiring a car.
By now completely confused, we pulled over to the side of the highway, and waited. Traffic thundered past. Mr Collins and I began to take in the fact it was now getting on for 4pm and we were attempting to recover from our hangovers without the assistance of fluids or food. The phone didn’t ring. The traffic continued to thunder past. The day grew hotter.
Mr Collins called back. He was connected to someone who spoke English. The man who spoke English confirmed the non-existence of any booking in the name of Collins, but said he had a car available, at an additional cost of £60. For a while we vacillated, unsure what to do. Finally we decided to bite the bullet. We set off again, in pursuit of Dollar Thrifty.
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The taxi dropped us on the side of the road beside a small industrial estate containing a selection of car showrooms. The man on the other side of the phone had mentioned Audi. We dragged our cases into the estate, going past a Hyundai showroom, before turning a corner. The Leningradsky superhighway continued its thundering to our right. Once again there was no shortage of vehicles. Hyundais, Fords, Daewoos, and more, but not an Audi in sight. When we asked someone for the Audi showroom, they suggested we go to the reception desk in the Ford showroom.
Dwindling oil reserves do not appear to be of great concern to the newly affluent Russians. At half past four of a Wednesday afternoon, the Ford showroom was full of young couples gazing lovingly at sleek new models. Mr Collins went to the woman on reception. She had never heard of Dollar Thrifty. The car-hunters took no notice of the oddballs carting their luggage around with them. Mr C continued to enquire. Eventually a bespectacled young man who spoke English appeared and said he’d see what he could do, before disappearing, telling us to stay put.
Thrusting young car salesmen and women eyed us with curiosity. The helpful man showed no sign of coming back. Dollar Thrifty, Vladimir, even a bed for the night – all of these things seemed further away than ever. We contemplated changing tack and asking if we could take a Ford for a test drive, one way of getting a car, but the chances of the salespeople letting us get behind the wheel of one of their Fords did not seem high.
Suddenly the bespectacled man re-appeared, telling us to follow him to the lower level of the showroom. There, tucked away in an inauspicious corner, was a small, freestanding booth, the kind of thing which is set up at train stations to market credit cards. Behind the booth stood a young man in a white shirt, with a pony tail. Printed on the front of the booth, in bright green letters, were the English words: Dollar Thrifty.The sense of exhilaration which engulfed Mr Collins and myself at the sight of these two words was only marginally punctured by the fact that the man with the pony tail had no idea who we were, and possessed neither any spare cars for hire, nor any knowledge of a reservation in the name of Collins. By now, obstacles like these seemed like nothing more than glitches, small Russian tests of our endurance. Sure enough, the man with the pony tail got on the phone to the head office of Dollar Thrifty, and spoke to the man who spoke English, discovering that there was a car for us, if we could only find our way to this other office.
The man with a pony tail put the phone down. He gathered up some papers and carefully placed them in a leather briefcase, which he zipped up. Then he lead the way out of the car showroom. He walked towards the six lane highway, across a muddied verge. We trailed behind him, dragging our bags behind us. The man with the pony tail stood by the side of the super-highway, and thrust out his thumb.
If the man with the ponytail had decided to hitchhike with us to the Siberian Dollar Thrifty offices, we would have accepted this as a necessary detour. In fact, he was hoping to flag down a taxi. The sun beat down. Lorries, buses, four by fours and Ladas streamed past. The man with the pony tail did not seem like a natural communicator. However, he had untapped reserves of patience, something we were coming to learn came in handy when dealing with Russian hire-car operations, and after a while a cab pulled over. The man with the pony-tail did a bit of negotiation, Mr Collins and I got in, and twenty-five minutes and £3 later, we arrived at the Audi showroom, beside which was located the promised land of the main Dollar Thrifty offices.+++
Mr Dollar Thrifty turned out to be an avuncular, white-haired man, who spoke good English. He had been the one who Mr Collins had spoken to on the phone. He offered us fresh water and tea, and explained that although there was no reservation, there was a car, and he would be happy to redeem the internet voucher, which Mr Collins downloaded. After the best part of an hour of bureaucratic activity, our Mitsubishi Chevrolet was ready. It was now gone 6pm, with the Moscow rush hour in full swing. Mr Dollar Thrifty strongly advised against trying to get to Vladimir that evening, and recommended a hotel near to the motorway we’d have to take in the morning. He was even kind enough to print out a map, which he carefully marked, showing the hotel’s location.
Moscow traffic is, as is well known, unfriendly at the best of times. Rush hour is not the best of times. During rush hour, Moscow traffic verges on the psychopathic. We had to get to the MKAD, and drive about twenty miles round it in a clockwise direction. Russians have an engagingly anarchic approach to the art of driving. The MKAD is never less than ten lanes wide. There is, presumably, a theoretical speed limit, but in practise everyone just goes as fast as they can. Overtaking can take place on the outside, the inside, or, if you possess the technology, over the top. Lorries see it as their duty to pull out without warning, and indicators are for wimps. Ladas break down randomly, and every now and again, just to make it more fun, all lane markings are removed, encouraging a kind of free-jazz driving experience.
Mr Dollar Thrifty had explained procedure if we had an accident. He said that of course this was unlikely, but his eyes told a different story, implying it was just a question of time, and if we were lucky it wouldn’t be fatal, as though he’d already accepted the car was a write-off. Nevertheless, we somehow made if off the MKAD, and headed for the spot which he’d marked on his map. We arrived there sometime after seven. There was no sign of a hotel at the marked spot. A medium sized shopping centre, but not a hint of a hotel.
The last forty minutes of the first day of our road trip remains something of a blur. Mr Collins nobly leaped from the car at least a dozen times to ask directions, as Muscovites dispatched us from suburban back streets to super-highways; down dead ends, wrong turnings, black holes.
Finally the high rise towers of the Beta Gamma hotel loomed out of the dusk. The hotel is part of the largest hotel complex in Europe, which has been converted from the athletes village of the 1980 Moscow Olympics. Its rooms are neat and serviceable, with a reassuringly dated feel. The beer we drank at one of the various hotel bars was vastly over-priced, but so hard-earned we couldn’t have cared less. When Wednesday 13th April finally came to a close, and I settled down to sleep in a room that might have once have been Thompson, Coe or Ovett’s, it felt as though I had acquired, over the course of that long day, an understanding of the satisfying sense of complete exhaustion which comes from securing a great victory against improbable odds.+++
Travelling is a strange business. It’s easy to visit places, feel as though you have in some way got to know them, and yet come away with no idea what it’s like to live there. The curious events of that opening day of the road trip seemed, perhaps, to give more of an insight into Moscow, its chaotic scale and complexity, than I should ever have got if things had gone according to plan.
The following morning Mr Collins and I headed East on our voyage to the heart of old mother Russia (or at least one variation of it). Something we perhaps encountered in Suzdal’s marketplace, where we bought redcurrants and cucumbers from one of the little old ladies who lay out their wares on a cloth on the low market wall.
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1 comment:
Peter Elliot?
Or was that Seoul?
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