Irkutsk is a city of nearly 600,000 people, about the same as my hometown of Oslo. Irkutsk does not feel like a city of nearly 600,000 people. As a city, it is relatively sprawling, with no definite city centre, and little to no street life.

Our hostel, “The Baikaler”, was located near the intersection of Karl Marx- and Lenin Street, what the hostel manager half-jokingly pointed out was the “natural epicentre of any soviet-built town”. The hostel itself was run out of an apartment and had brightly painted walls and a friendly staff. They all spoke excellent English, a truly rare commodity in Russia.

In hindsight, our first night in Irkutsk was a kneejerk response to being trapped on the train for so long. We went to meet a British couple, Joe and Laura, as well as Chinese-American Joe and Uzbek Artur. Eventually, we met at Domino’s, a 24-hour pizza place conveniently located in the “epicentre” of Irkutsk. Our plan was to go from there and find a place to eat. We decided on what was, by Russian standards, a modestly tacky restaurant. It turned out to have spectacularly mediocre food, in minuscule servings.

After eating, we grudgingly decided to head back to Domino’s to have another beer and some more food, as we were all still hungry and it was close to our hostel. One beer turned into many, and before you knew it, we were pretty much sloshed, eating pancakes with condensed milk (decent), fried chicken (meh) and pizza (a horrendous half-breed of pizza and a grilled cheese sandwich, devoid of any redeeming feature whatsoever).

At one point during the night, we were approached by table of Irkutskian youth, and we started chatting haltingly, as there was precious little language overlap. Michael saved the day, but was increasingly too preoccupied by actual conversation to translate for us.

Joe was told by one of them that there was an animosity towards English being spoken in Irkutsk, which I found odd. Russians by and large, seemed to me completely uninterested in anything English. Maybe they just found the sounds of it annoying (as Russian is far more low-key)?

Trainlagged as we were, we didn’t get back to the hostel until 5 am, and had no idea at the time that it was so late. Our frequent naps during the train trip had completely decimated any sleeping cycle we might have had. By the time we woke up, in what must’ve at the time been the stuffiest non-sauna room in the world, my throat was sore and we both had the oddly nauseating hangover that is the hallmark of “chemical” beers (hard to explain, but think Stella Artois).

The weather was nice, so we decided to head down to Listvyanka, the village closest to Lake Baikal. Listvyanka itself is comprised of the old village(s), that stretch into valleys perpendicular to Lake Baikal, consisting mostly of wooden houses and barking dogs. New Listvyanka, on the other hand, is a hodgepodge of some of the worst architecture I’ve ever seen, stretched alongside one side of the road that follows the Baikal shore.

Apparently, New Listvyanka (and the road there from Irkutsk) was built in the 60s, as Eisenhower was expected to make a state visit there. Unfortunately, as the road had been laid and Listvyanka freshened up, a U2 spy plane was shot down over their territory, and a US president making a state visit became as likely as … something very unlikely. We were, however, left with the most conspicuously straight, isolated road I’ve ever been on.

If you go to Lake Baikal, visit the Olkhon island, about 5 hours further up the road.

We met Laura and Joe, who had left for Listvyanka much earlier than us, right at the bus stop. Joining forces, we headed for somewhere we could try the local specialty Omul. Omul is a fish native to Lake Baikal, so we had to try it. That’s pretty much the most interesting thing I can say about the fish. We ate it at a restaurant that can only be described as Space Age Chinese, where we also ran into Joe, the Chinese-American.

For the lack of anything (at all) to do in New Listvyanka, we decided to climb one of the hills behind it. The nature would’ve been stunning if the town wasn’t in the way. The climb itself was great, and we had a wonderful view of the sheer expanse of water that is Lake Baikal (famously: 20% of the world’s liquid fresh water - though globally, something like 97% of the total supply is frozen). The amount of atmospheric haze in front of the mountains on the far side of the lake underlined a simple fact: it’s big. Really, really big.

After climbing down, we went over to the shore and had a Shashlik(sp?), a pork skewer in the Buryat fashion. It was awesome. I love me some barbecued meat on a stick.

The beach had an interesting range of personalities we took in as we gorged ourself on meat.

Slut Dog, a smallish dog with a crimped tail that insisted on sidling up in front of every living thing on the beach with more than two legs, enticing them to have a go; the mangiest dog I’ve ever seen, with fur falling off in clumps and large areas of schmutz on the skin even had repeated goes.

Drunk Girls, two Russian women that started fighting and pushing each other into the lake (which is frigid at this time of year). It was around 4pm and they were drunker than I’ve been in years. They must’ve been on vacation. Huge amounts of both vodka and drama were witnessed.

Drunk Sea Captain, a Baikal native with a shoddy looking boat trying to get tourists to have a ride along the shore with him. Stylish Sea Captain, in his hot yellow boat got all the tourists, though. Poor Drunk Sea Captain.

The following day, at the latest possible moment, we decided to get our Mongolian visas. Had we not been able to get them, we would have to take the Trans-Manchurian train into Beijing, which would mean another long, boringly uninterrupted train trip. But, it all worked out.

At the Mongolian consulate, we met Erik and Daniel, who were couchsurfing with what must’ve been the only openly gay couple in Irkutsk. Erik was Swedish, Daniel from Cameroon. In other words, you had the only black guy living with the only gay guys in Irkutsk, a city paradoxically in to “White Power”. If Erik were transsexual, it would’ve been perfect. Alas, he was just a great guy, and we ended up travelling to Mongolia with him.

Daniel though, was in quite a predicament. Having originally gone to Russia to land a teaching gig (English), he had run out of money, and was more or less trapped in Irkutsk. He had a job waiting in Mongolia, but no funds to get a visa or to travel there. With his Russian visa nearing expiration, he was about to be well and truly fucked. We felt obliged to help him out, and the three of us provided him with enough to make it to Mongolia. Leave no man behind, particularly not in Irkutsk. I hope his job came through in Mongolia.

On our last proper day in Irkutsk, we went out to eat with Joe and Laura. We ended up in a strange place (seeing a pattern forming?). The restaurant was in a vaulted brick cellar, itself fairly impressive. Unfortunately, there were tacky lights everywhere, and a “disco” in the far end of the cellar. Russian dance music filled the room, and the antics of what I can only assume was a Russian hen party dominated the dance floor. We met X and Y (sorry, bad with names) by coincidence, Londoners we had stayed in the same hostel as in Moscow.

The menu at this restaurant (Pervach) kept us all entertained for a long time. The translations were pure gold. We were informed that “in bar there is a device for definition authenticity of special excise mark” and that the bar does not bear a liability for safety of outer clothing and other things of the visitor. The menu had dishes that ranged from the inscrutable “Richard”, featuring hen, cheese, crackers, sauce to the very graphic Rabbit in own juice. As side dishes, they had salads unusual - delicacies various and to finish the feast, you could opt for coffee in the Turk.

The “Rabbit in own juice” was so dry they must’ve juiced the rabbit in a centrifuge, but the sauce made from said juice was great.

After the meal, we decided to go for a drink. The 6 of us walked around what must have been most of downtown Irkutsk. On a Thursday. At 11pm. Everything was closed, and the only place we could find that was open was a pan-asian restaurant that was so Noveau Riche we couldn’t even justify spending the amount of money they wanted for a small bottle of beer.

The final straw was when we found a nightclub with a name that roughly sounds like Cocks. The interior was the type of overly ambitious mess (floor lights, etc) you get when you try to recreate interior scenes from The Matrix with a £200 budget. When we asked if they served beer, they said “No.” - despite there being people obviously drinking beer there.

Feeling dejected, walking up Karl Marx Street toward Lenin Street, unable to find somewhere to have a beer, being passed by drunk Russian girls on big horses (?!), we decided to forgo all dignity and head back to that most wondrous of places, the 24-hour pizza place. Domino’s.

When you spend 3 out of 4 days at a place you don’t really want to go to for lack of a better - any - choice, something is wrong. Especially in a city of almost 600,000 people. I can’t see why they call themselves the Paris of Siberia. Great architecture? The old wooden houses, if restored, would give it much more personality than the bland modern/soviet architecture that dominates now has. Great food? Not by a long stretch. Lights? Love? Not so much.

Mongolia however, delivered.

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