DISCLAIMER:  I understand that Lenin was a very bad man at times. Stalin gets the lion's share of notoriety in the history books thanks to his ruthless purges and war tactics; but Lenin bumped off a few people too. Perhaps his rallying speeches, cute little goatee and the general romance surrounding the revolution often distracts us from the evil.

Still, I am obsessed with the old fella.

It all began in high school when Hobbo, my Modern History teacher, told us Lenin got pickled when he died in 1924. A crack team of embalmers removed his innards, pumped him full of chemicals, dressed him up in a suit then popped him into a tomb on Red Square. Millions of Russians queued to see his body, and continued to do so for decades. After the fall of communism the crowds dropped off and it became the realm of curious tourists.

I was gobsmacked. I found it so bizarre, exciting and deliciously wrong that anyone could just rock up to Russia and see this man, dead for eighty years, who had sparked such monumental events in history.

It became my obsession for the next ten years. This whole moving to the UK thing was really just a convoluted stopover on my way to Red Square. All the frantic saving, all the weekend jobs, it was all done with Lenin in mind. Enduring a three-week Contiki tour was just the final stroke in the master plan.

On the first night in Copenhagen, our Tour Manager outlined the itinerary. He mentioned the words "Red Square" and "Kremlin" but I didn't hear any "Dead Revolutionary In A Box". So Rhi and I bailed him up in a corner afterwards.

"Hello."
"Hello there girls!"
"Enough of the banter. Do we get to see Lenin or what?"

Thus began two weeks of harassment, much like The Simpsons episode where Bart and Lisa want to go to Mount Splashmore. Can we go to Mount Splashmore? Can we go to Mount Splashmore? Can we go to Mount Splashmore?

Tour Manager couldn't guarantee we'd see Lenin. Our time in Moscow happen to fall on days where the Mausoleum was either closed or we were scheduled elsewhere when it was open. All the way through Scandinavia and St Petersburg we worried that we'd miss him, consequently never quite enjoying the journey as much as we should have.

I'll never forget that first glimpse of Red Square. We approached in the Contiki bus; orange and obnoxious amongst the local black Mercedes and crumbly Ladas. We rounded past the stern walls of the Kremlin then finally the multi-coloured domes of St Basils Cathedral came into view. While the rest of the group were still fumbling for their cameras, Rhi and I were off the bus and running to the Square.

Have you got some little thing that you always wanted to do? Some place you always wanted to see? The Pyramids, The Great Wall, The Big Banana? Your obsession may sound so stupid to someone else, but it's your dumb little dream and it means a lot to you. So when you're finally literally standing in it, it's so exciting you think you're going to explode.

I opened my mouth to say something but could only manage a squeak. I was overwhelmed by all the things that had happened there, the military parades, the demonstrations, the Paul McCartney concerts.

And there was the mausoleum, L E N I N spelled out over the door in red, the first word I'd learned to read in Cyrillic. I nudged my sister. "Holy fucking SHIT! Lenin is right over there!"

The next morning we got the news that the schedule had been shuffled. We would attempt to fit in Lenin that day between our Moscow Metro tour and the Museum of the Revolution. Woohoo!

The Metro tour was a whirlwind. Our local guide Galina took us to a half dozen different stops to show us the few remaining Metro stations with Soviet decor. It was fascinating stuff, hammer and sickles ahoy, I must post my photos sometime. But soon Rhi and I were antsy. Take us to the leader!

The queue for Lenin was long when we arrived at 11 o'clock. We had to be at the Revolution Museum by 1. We left Galina standing in her cloud of cigarette smoke and ran, barging past our undeserving comrades who thought Lenin was a dead Beatle. An anxious hour of queuing followed, with much clock watching and swearing as local groups arrived and were allowed in ahead of us. Finally we were herded through the metal detectors and we skipped across the Square.

I developed a slightly hysterical giggle as we entered the Mausoleum, but the monobrowed guard soon shhhhhed me into submission. Lenin literally is six feet under, you walk down a sloping hallway into the tomb, it's all black marble and dimly lit to give a beautifully creepy atmosphere.

There's been idle talk for years about removing the ol' boy from Red Square and burying him with his family, which is what he wanted all along. But for now we can still experience this very surreal slab of history. No talking is allowed; even a smile earns you a glare from the guards. You have to shuffle past Lenin in single file without stopping.

And there he was. Finally. The great leader of the revolution, the idol of misguided university students, the yellow wax-like creature in the glass box. I felt that giggle fly up my throat and lodge somewhere behind my teeth. I clamped my mouth shut so only a faint eeeeee! eeeee! could escape, like a dying mosquito.

I tried to focus, reminding myself that this was The Moment I'd been waiting for, that I'd never see Lenin again. I took in the blue/black of his fingers, the fine hairs of his little beard, the sickly pallor of his skin. He looked so small and sad, trapped beneath glass and fluorescent light.

It was all over in under a minute. Back out in the Moscow sunshine, we walked behind the Mausoleum to look at the graves of departed Soviet leaders. Each had his own bust: a pompous Brezhnev, a truly evil Stalin. Hats off to Josef's sculptor, the evil eyes seemed to follow you as you tiptoed around the corner. It was the most terrifying lump of concrete since The Big Merino.

I expected to feel euphoric after finally fulfilling my lame ambition, but instead I was unsettled. I'd been in Russia over a week at that point and had seen such beauty and grimness, poverty and riches; a country that has weathered a shoddy monarchy, communism and now the confusion of democracy. Did Lenin's body have a place in a country trying to move forward?

Opinion is always divided when the topic comes up in Russia as to whether it's a grim or glorious reminder of the Communist legacy. Watching scores of fat tourists shuffle in the queue, it seemed like a tacky, real-life Madame Tussauds. All week I'd been feeling guilty for the romanticised view of Russia I'd had for all those years, and now my whole Lenin obsession seemed embarrassing.

And yet, just when I thought my Bolshi bubble had completely burst, I heard two of my tour mates yapping behind me.

"That was, like, so creepy. That guy was totally fake!"

My eyes narrowed and I snarled, "His name is Lenin and he's the real deal, dammit!"

That is when it all finally sank in and I starting cheering. I was in Red Square and I'd just seen Lenin. Whether it's right or wrong, there's no denying it was the coolest bloody thing I'll ever see. And I don't care what people say, that's Lenin there in that box. I saw that revolutionary glint in his eyes, even though his eyelids were sewn shut.

Can this intercontinental relationship really ever work? A recent encounter:

THE AUSSIE:  So I'm really missing Weet-Bix with brown sugar...

THE SCOTSMAN:  Weet-Bix? Weet-Bix!?!

A:  Yeah, you heard me. Weet-Bix!

S:  It's WeetAbix!

A:  Not where I'm from, buddy.

S:  That's just pish! It sounds wrong!

A:  It does not. It's streamlined.

S:  You Aussies are just too lazy to say the A. Just like you say "arvo" coz you cannae be arsed with "afternoon"!

A:  Nooo! We say WEET-BIX coz we're sleek and efficient with no time for superfluous vowels -- we have to get on with the business of wrestling crocodiles and being a sporting powerhouse. While ever you're mucking about with your Weetabix, we shall remain the superior nation!

S:  Weetabix! Weetabix!

   

"Christ it's hot."

Two crumbly old blokes on the bus were complaining about the weather. It was a sultry 18 degrees and they bemoaned their lack of ventilated footwear.

"Only yesterday we were moaning about the rain and the landslides."

"Ha!" I love when old men laugh in short, wheezy bursts. "HA! HA!"

And there's one reason I adore Scotland. People constantly whinge about things, but they can laugh about the fact they're whinging.

They went on to complain about tardy buses, football, the Olympics, and how one of them's bathroom has been prone to flooding since the war. He didn't specify which one.

Then they started asking after mutual accquaintances. This involved one of the more baffling phrases of the Scots language. When I first arrived off the boat I noticed some people referring to Ken a lot. "Ken what I mean?" they'd say. Who the fuck was Ken and why did everyone in Edinburgh know him? Thank goodness for the Scots Dictionary.

To ken is to know. The word is in frequent everyday use everywhere in Scotland, with the exception of the Glasgow area.

"D'ye ken Mary?"
"Aye."
"Her bathroom leaks too. D'ye ken Ken?"
"Which Ken?"
"Eh?"
"Well I dinnae ken which Ken."
"Ken fae Leith."
"Oh aye. I ken Ken."
"D'ye ken Filthy Fred?"

I'm regretting not going a few stops further to find out who Filthy Fred was.

Forget the Brandenburg Gate, the Wall or the big sausages. The most spectacular moment of my Berlin jaunt was seeing That Hotel Where Michael Jackson Dangled His Baby.

Cross-posted to Lost In Transit.

You're no longer a stranger in a strange land when the local numbers start to feel natural.

When it makes sense that postcodes consist of numbers and letters, not four digits.

When you've forgotten your Tax File Number but can rattle off your National Insurance by heart.

When your fingers stray to 077-something something when dialling a mobile, not 04-something something.

When you wouldn't dream of dialling 000 in an emergency.. call 999, the chip pan is on fire!

Freephone is 0800, coz 1800 just sounds stupid now.

And if you wanted a dirty phone call you'd call me NOW on 0909, not 00555... big boy.

Everything seemed so organised and sensible in the Scandinavian countries. For someone like me with a Vitamin Logic deficiency, all I could do was press my nose to the bus window and marvel at it all.

First up in Copenhagen I loved the bike lanes. You have the road for the cars, the footpath for the pedestrians, then a whole seperate two-lane deal for the cyclists. They even had their own traffic lights. What a masterpiece of urban planning! And then on the drive from Helsinborg to Stockholm, while possibly The Most Boring Drive On Earth, was another dazzling example of cleanliness and organisation. Windfarms everywhere, row upon row of manicured forests. Even the wildflowers exploding along the road were all cylindrical and spiky like toilet brushes. The innocent eye may have thought they were plain old wildflowers, but I know they were thinking about cleaning; wishing they really were toilet brushes, aching to help keep Sweden clean.

The only thing more logical and organised than Scandinavia was my sister. Rhiannon quickly established a reputation on tour for being the Master of the Backpack. We were staying in a poky little campsite out of Stockholm , four people wedged into each cabin, not big enough to swing a bed bug. On our last morning Rhi and I sat calmly on the porch, the Swedish sunlight squeezing through the trees, feeling rather smug as we watched our cabinmates frantically packing their bags.

"How come you two are always so bloody organised?"
"Ahh. I have a system," Rhiannon said sagely.
"And I copy off her."

Granted, we didn't have as much luggage as our comrades. The night before the trip I had what one might call a Spaz Attack, in which we couldn't find the bathroom scales therefore had to guesstimate the weight of our bags. I became convinced we were over the 20 kilo limit and sqwarked and panicked and convinced Rhi to throw out half our stuff, including the Travel Vegemite that we would really fucking miss when malnourished in Russia. Our bags ended up being only 8.9 and 9.2 kilos respectively. Whoops.

Anyway, Rhiannon's System was so beautifully simple. "It's all about containerizing," she would tell our tour mates as they stood enthralled, watching her in action. When living out of a backpack for three weeks, it's easy to become confused - a new home every couple of nights, trying to separate skanky clothes from clean, the ever-growing stash of souvenirs. Rhiannon controlled the chaos with an assortment of plastic shopping bags. She simply divided up her stuff - a different coloured bag for underwear, another for t-shirts, one each for dirty clothes, shoes, toiletries, towel, snacks and Miscellaneous (phone charger, toilet paper, film), and so on.

Of course you have spare bags, you never know when you'll need to add another category. One for dirty clothes. One for souvenirs. One bag for The Shower Run. This is when you put your Toiletry bag inside a bigger bag that contains your Towel bag, a change of clothes and a pre-purchased shower token, so in the morning you can spring out of your uncomforable bed, grab the Shower Run bag, slide into your shoes that are strategically placed at the foot of the bed and RUN RUN RUN for the showers. This may seem anally retentive but you have to remember one is competing with 40 other Contiki-ers plus dozens of golden Swedes on summer holiday. It is rather satisfying to be bathed and all ready for the day while everyone else is still scrambling for shower token change.

So, once everything is neatly containerized it must be placed into the backpack in the right order. Shoes are heaviest so naturally they're at the bottom. Everything else goes in from least likely to be needed to most likely, so at the top there'll be your toiletries and food. Then in the front pocket of the backpack you can put in essential items that you frequently need to access without having to deal with the main body of the pack. I must admit I didn't not notice there even was a front pocket until Rhiannon pointed it out, nor did I realise the backpack had THINGIES that slide down the straps so they stay flat and don't flap around while you walk. Incredible. Anyway, the front pocket is for the essential stuff - usually your jacket and travel guides. And maybe more food.

The travel guides were my humble contribution to The System. I tightarse-dly photocopied relevant pages from Lonely Planet's Europe On A Shoestring and made a file on each country we visited. Why pay £20 to lug around a weighty tome when you can copy the bits you need for free? Thank you, unnamed employer. Whenever we reached a new city I would whip out the new information and transfer it to my day bag. Before long, confused friends would shout down the bus aisle and say, "What's the population of Finland?" or "How do I order a beer in Russian?" and I could roll my eyes and be smug yet informative.

Anyway, I felt so relaxed and on top of things in Scandinavia. We obsessively kept track of every kroner spent in our Moleskines, averaging our daily spend and preparing budget forecasts and pie charts for the remainder of the trip. It was so liberating to be organised for once in my life, Rhi's system really worked and I was considering dying my hair blonde and applying for a Norwegian Working Holiday Visa.

But alas, The System only works if you have the discipline to stay on top of it. My problem was I would leave my Backpack Maintenence to the late evening when I was too tired to be arsed putting things in the right place. Dirty socks starting mingling with the clean, my souvenirs got mixed up with my shoes, half a pack of almonds slowly dispersed throughout the undie bag.

This culminated in a Helsinki hissy fit. The problem with chucking a tantrum in a hostel dorm is that you have to wait until the room is cleared until you start screaming, because you don't want anyone on the tour to think you're a psycho (Rhi excluded, she already knew). Our two roomies were rather posh and not your usual grotty backpacker types, so I desperately wanted to create the illusion of calm and class so I had to do time my ranting and shoe-throwing between their trips to the hostel laundry.

– I've lost my bloody tickets.
– What tickets?
– My PLANE tickets, hello! What OTHER bloody tickets?
– Calm down!
– I CAN'T CALM -- Oh hi there girls. How's the washing machines in this place?
[Two minutes pass]
– As I was saying. I've looked EVERYWHERE!
– Did you look in your designated Travel Document Bag?
– YES I LOOKED - oh hi again. You forgot your socks? Bugger!
[Dum de dah]
– Now I will have to go through all these FUCKING bags AGAIN! How can I afford to get new tickets? They're non refundable! Non refundable, I tell you! And this has to happen right before we go to Russia, THE CRAZIEST COUNTRY ON EARTH!

Of course three hours later, after I have hyperventilated my way through dinner, I sheepishly retrieve the Travel Document Bag from behind the bed where I must have tossed it in the frenzy to reach find a clean pair of undies .

So yes, The System is valuable, The System works. But you must rule the plastic bags – don't let them rule you.