Bleak Omsk

The Russian riviera.

I thought I'd made friends with a taxi driver at Omsk airport. If there's a rule of travel, it's that you've never made friends with a taxi driver at an airport; you just occasionally think that you have. He agreed to help me find an apartment and if that failed, to find a hotel. We agreed on 200 rubles ($6).

He called a friend who arranged to meet us in a reasonable part of town and show me an apartment. It was over priced but it was 'elitnayar' according the esteemed salesman. It wasn't where they said it was; it was dark and gloomy; I didn't think I'd leave there alive. I told the driver what I thought, and he said we should look anyway, and then move along. The esteemed salesman never arrived, so off we went to the hotel. 'Elitnayar', we joked. What a cowboy!

After some entertaining stories about his time in the KGB alpha group in Angola (lots of machine gun impressions) the driver delivered me to the hotel.

      'Here we are. 7,600 rubles please' ($250).

I expressed my shock.

       'forget about the 600, let's go with 7,000',  he said.

       'Who's the cowboy now?' I asked!

After some steely patience, including opening the door as he tried to drive us to the 'police station' to help mediate (he wasn't happy to use the hotel as a mediator), and resisting his friend's efforts on the phone to be a 'dispatcher' and confirm that the price should be precisely 7,600 rubles, I bargained him down to 500 rubles and we parted ways.

       'Can I have another 200 ... pleeeease' he asked.

The trees add character to the already beautiful view.

Nevermind, I thought, I'll take a walk along the riverside. Another epic fail as I found myself thigh deep in powder and a biting wind cut straight through me. I was the only one who fancied a promenade, it seemed.

Welcome to Omsk!