The Tupelov looked all engine from the outside, like a drag racing plane. Whilst I had the novel experience of sitting eye level with a jet engine and though it looked like an aeronautical hotrod - it took a while to get off the ground. Whether to save fuel or in a wrestle with gravity I do not nor want to know.
I have to note, following the no show for a couple of hours of the airport shuttle and an unsuccessful last ditch $80, 15 minute cab ride (the most expensive of my life thus far), that Aeroflot were very good in providing me with a free replacement flight when they could have legitimately not done so.
Due to the latitude and the season (white nights) I was able to take the above photo at around 1130pm, without flash. I didn't get any pictures of the interior but it was so kitsch and the music so cheesy that I wanted to take it all home, minus the unsmiling hostesses of course. There were some other minor dramas that night that nearly resulted in me sleeping in a stairwell but a few hours after landing I was able fall gratefully and safely into a bed.
One of the things that struck me most about St Petersburg was how dramatic and simply brooding and moody the sky was. This view from my hostel could have been rendered in oil .
Having not been to Europe, I would have blissfully believed that the Russians were solely responsible for the beautiful city that St Petersburg is. 
Fortuitously for my ignorance I met an American architect who explained between beers that the architectural and sculptural work were the labors of predominately Italian and French artists hired by the Tsar to create buildings echoing the styles in Europe. Given the huge class divide of the times he clearly had an abundance of money but a dearth of conscience.
Like a heavily iced cake, at times it could all be a little too sweet and I understand how the locals could wander around in seeming ignorance of their surroundings
Horses. More reliable and better smelling than a Lada.
The more Soviet style monoliths I had expected were really only visible in the outer parts of the city, they had a knack of seeming to loom over you even though they probably didn't really angle forward. There were however still some impressively sternly, yet ornately styled buildings in the historical centre, proving conclusively that Russians have always been cranky. If Boris had ever met his hangover World War III was on.
In addition to the beautiful buildings there were also some remarkable statues, so finely sculptured as to project a regal, almost human defiance of the elements.
Or at least a willingness to robustly debate such matters with you.
This is the very stark image of Alexanders column looking down at the scrums that eventuate on a busy day at the Hermitage. Everybody has elbows. Old ladies have 9.
The Hermitage is an amazing collection of human brilliance and creativity housed inside a former palace and is the city's major attraction. 
Part Louvre, part Better Homes and Garden.
The opulence of the interior rooms makes for a unique museum experience but the maze of rooms makes navigation and finding a bathroom difficult. Turn left at the Van Gogh, go straight past the Gauguin and hang a sharp impressionist right at the Cezanne...try not to pee in the 1000 year old vase, even if it smells like someone else already did.
I think if I was a political prisoner during the Stalin years I would happily do time in the gulag rather than be the housekeeper for the Hermitage.
In fact this is what they did to their last housekeeper after he missed a spot.
Fresco paintings and metalwork were all the rage as well.
The following may look like some bizarre anti-commercial music video on high rotation on PhlegmTV but the audio is worth a listen. I wasn't allowed to take pictures but I recorded the audio and some poor saps butt. With no amplification except as provided by the design of the church and natural voices it made the hairs on my neck stand up. The singing that is.
be well.
