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| That is, in fact, a monkey in a sweater. |
We arrived in St. Petersburg (henceforth, Peter, as it is referred to in Russian) on Thursday after a rather enjoyable train ride where all the Russians stared at the loud Americans for seven hours straight. We, of course, felt very flattered that others thought us so fascinating as to pay so much attention to us. We were supposed to stay at a hostel that night, which, if we had been in Western Europe, would have meant we spent the night with a bunch of backpackers, young tourists, and generally interesting people. Unfortunately, Peter didn't get the memo or something, because we walked in and it was fully of forty-five-year-old ex-cons in wife-beaters. We had joked before arriving that we would end up in some hole-in-the-wall place, one where there's a creepy guy in the corner who just stares at you and doesn't ever say a word. We coined the phrase "Kyrgyzstanian in the corner" based on its alliterative quality rather than as any statement about Kyrgyzstanians, who are some of the nicest people ever. Anyway, we didn't exactly have the "Kyrg in the corner" in mind when we got there, but it soon became much more relevant. Most of our new ex-con friends were pretty inebriated and didn't give us much of a problem, but there was one excessively friendly one who insisted on telling us that the Kyrgyzstanian in the other room had stabbed someone the week before, and the Kyrgyzstanian in the other room insisted on yelling at us. So, we decided that there wasn't reason to find out whether the rumor about the "knife fight" (as the friendly one put it) was true and ventured out to find somewhere else to stay.
