My 2019 began unconventionally: exploring Vladivostok and Khabarovsk right after New Year’s Day. It wasn’t a quest for profound epiphanies or a deep dive into the aesthetics of a sub-zero world. The simple truth? While holiday airfares elsewhere soared, a roundtrip ticket from Tokyo Narita to Russia’s Far East was being sold direct for a startlingly low price – around $300 USD. The distance was just over 600 miles each way. Sometimes, the best reason to travel is simply because you can. This is the story of a winter journey born from that pure, uncomplicated wanderlust, a trip into the severe cold of the Russian Far East.
Aboard the S7 Airlines A320, cruising peacefully north over the Sea of Japan, the atmosphere felt remarkably like a domestic flight within Japan. A drink and sandwich were served, but the cabin crew seemed unhurried. Bright winter afternoon light streamed through the windows. With a flight time under two and a half hours, passengers seemed less settled in for a long haul and more quietly expectant of our imminent arrival.
Still, it was surprising to find the New Year’s Day flight nearly full. Most passengers appeared to be Russians, likely heading home after enjoying year-end holidays in Japan, their faces radiating the contentment of a journey’s end.
The few passengers who looked Japanese were mostly younger, perhaps in their 20s or 30s. I initially wondered if they felt a pang of loneliness amidst the utterly non-festive atmosphere of the Narita gate and the plane itself. But a closer look revealed many clutching copies of the “Earth Walkers: Far East Russia, Siberia, Sakhalin” guidebook. Their restless energy wasn’t sadness, but the familiar blend of anticipation and nervousness that precedes stepping onto unknown soil.
We touched down at Vladivostok International Airport. Though geographically west of Tokyo (by about 8 degrees longitude), Vladivostok is an hour ahead. Local time was 7 PM, yet the lingering twilight seemed a touch brighter than Tokyo’s at the same hour.
The terminal, a large, modern structure built for the 2012 APEC Russia summit, featured signs and announcements in both Russian and English – befitting the premier international gateway to the Russian Far East. Yet, it retained a distinct local flavor: a large display case prominently showcasing caviar, salmon roe, king crab, and spot prawns dominated the arrivals lobby. The buzz of Korean tourists suggested frequent flights from South Korea. It was hard to imagine that until 1993, this vibrant airport was closed to civilian air traffic.
The city center lay about 25 miles away. The public transport option, the Aeroexpress airport train, ran to an adjacent station, but its limited schedule meant service had already ended for the day. Taxis were the only choice, and a queue had formed at the prepaid taxi counter.
Joining the line, I overheard the female staff telling travelers ahead of me that there was a severe shortage of drivers; they should come back in 20 to 40 minutes. She explained this basic point in English, but not enough for detailed questions. Was the delay due to New Year’s Day? The time of night? Or just a daily occurrence? Impossible to know. When my turn came, I received the same instructions. She didn’t take my name or give me a number, simply gesturing “Next!” to the person behind me.
Returning 20 minutes later, the staffer recognized me with an “Ah, you’re back” expression and pointed to a driver waiting nearby. Apparently, she’d secured a car. Did she memorize the face and appearance of everyone in the queue? Quite a few people were waiting like me, but no one seemed disgruntled, suggesting the system, however arcane, worked. It felt like witnessing some long-forgotten, innate human skill for recognition.
I spotted some of the young Japanese travelers from the flight now grouped together mid-queue. Strangers united by circumstance, deciding to share a ride into Vladivostok – the classic “travelers find solace in companionship” scenario. One suddenly asked me in Japanese, “So, if we wait here, we will get a taxi, right?” I replied, “Yeah, probably helps if you make sure the staff remembers your face.” Good luck, youngsters, may your journey be a good one! I muttered inwardly.
Stepping outside the terminal with the driver was like walking into a deep freezer. The air felt colder than -4°F. Everything – the pavement, my breath, the roofs of cars – was frozen solid, glistening white. The exposed skin on my face stung, yet strangely, seeing no one else react made the cold seem… normal, somehow bearable.
The taxi looked suspiciously like an unlicensed cab, but I decided not to dwell on it. My taciturn driver sped silently onto the icy highway. It didn’t take long to pinpoint the source of my disorientation: we were driving on the right side of the road, but the car had right-hand drive. The vast majority of vehicles here, it turns out, are used Japanese imports.
Entering Vladivostok proper revealed a hilly city, its streets quickly leading down to the sea and harbor. Buildings were generally large, avenues broad – an impressive, three-dimensional urban landscape with a commercially vibrant core. Occasionally, a segment of the massive, illuminated Zolotoy Rog Bridge (Golden Horn Bridge) peeked into view.
Suddenly, my gruff driver broke his silence. Pointing out the window with a broad grin, he began an impromptu tour: “Bridge!” “Railway Terminal!” Was it hospitality towards a visitor, or civic pride? Slightly taken aback by the abrupt shift, I chose to interpret it as a welcome, however unexpected, from a resident of this unfamiliar city.
My hotel perched on a hill overlooking Amur Bay, on the edge of town. By the time I arrived, the surroundings were pitch black. The wind howled off the bay, whipping ice particles like a blizzard, signaling a plummeting temperature. Outside, the air was frozen solid, but inside the hotel, it was warm enough to wear a T-shirt – a testament to cold-climate living. As I gratefully soaked in a hot shower, relieved by the infrastructure designed for such extremes, a sobering thought intruded: what if the fuel, the energy, powering this warmth suddenly vanished? It was a harsh reflection for so early in the trip.
The next morning dawned crisp and brilliantly clear. Yet, the bottom half of my window was coated in a thick layer of ice, intricate fractal patterns visible to the naked eye. Gazing out at Amur Bay, frozen solid far into the distance, I felt a sense of awe bordering on fear before the power of nature. Then I noticed countless dark specks on the ice, where water should have been. Squinting, expecting sea birds braving the cold, I realized they were people. Standing almost perfectly still, maintaining a respectful distance like Antarctic penguins, they were bundled head-to-toe in heavy winter gear.
I immediately layered up and headed down towards the ice myself. The air felt well below -4°F. Stepping from the quay onto the frozen bay, the temperature seemed to drop even further. The ice underfoot was thick, but its surface was uneven, sculpted with frozen waves and pressure ridges reminiscent of Lake Suwa’s famous “Omiwatari” phenomenon in Japan. Though Vladivostok is renowned as Russia’s vital ice-free military port, the inner Amur Bay freezes completely in the depths of winter.
Those “Antarctic penguins” were, indeed, ice fishers. Pursuing a hobby that likely supplemented their pantries, they had drilled holes about six inches in diameter through the ice and were patiently dangling lines. The catch seemed to be smelt and similar small fish. When I approached one fisherman with a “Nice fishing!” expression, he returned a look that said, “You bet.” Our mutual silence wasn’t unfriendliness; it was simply too cold to comfortably open our mouths. It was a world that spoke volumes about the resilience and richness of human life thriving amidst a harsh environment.
Walking through Vladivostok, the city felt orderly, yet possessed a commercial vibrancy distinct from typical Russian provincial cities. This was, after all, the home of the primary Pacific Fleet base, a city closed not just to foreigners but to most Soviet citizens until 1991. The lively streetscape I saw was largely a product of the free economy that emerged afterward. Abundant parks and public spaces, characteristic of Russian urban planning, were legacies of an earlier era.
Locals – children, adults, the elderly – went about their daily lives, thoroughly bundled against the cold, of course, but otherwise normally. People used buses and walked the streets, not just relying on cars. Watching them, though I still felt the cold, the minus-four-degree air gradually began to feel less remarkable, almost routine. It’s fascinating how adaptable we are.
The city center, while vibrant, is compact enough to explore largely on foot, and the public bus system is cheap and relatively easy to navigate. Key sights include the Pokrovsky Cathedral (St. Nicholas Cathedral associated with the Pokrovsky Park) and the central square. A climb to the Eagle’s Nest viewpoint offers a panoramic grasp of Vladivostok’s layout. Don’t miss the European-style Admiral Fokin Street, the impressively renovated GUM department store, and the surprisingly chic cafes and restaurants tucked away on the street behind it. (A bonus: free Wi-Fi is surprisingly common in commercial establishments.)
Days flew by in Vladivostok. Encouraged by friendly staff, I indulged daily in Russian cuisine and incredibly fresh seafood. Before I knew it, the first three days of the New Year had passed. While the festive spirit was muted, the journey was deeply satisfying, free of any real trouble.
Evening found me at the famed, beautiful Vladivostok Railway Station. I was catching the 8:30 PM Okean (Ocean) overnight train to Khabarovsk. While the Okean specifically links these two cities, Vladivostok station is also the eastern terminus of the legendary Trans-Siberian Railway; trains departing from these very platforms embark on the epic journey to Moscow.
The carriage containing the Okean’s highest-class compartments was relatively new. Ushered aboard from the freezing platform by the conductor (strikingly beautiful, I might add), I stepped into a bright, warm private room. Awaiting me were welcome fruit, sweets, and an amenity kit. It boasted ample storage, a private toilet, and a shower – reminiscent of a first-class suite on a long-haul flight. The sofa converted into a wide, comfortable bed. A young female attendant (also quite stunning) checked in, offering tea, asking about breakfast drink preferences in English. The train pulled out smoothly on schedule, the ride surprisingly stable. If the Trans-Siberian journey is this comfortable, I mused, perhaps traversing its 5,772 miles over seven nights to Moscow wouldn’t be hardship, but a genuine pleasure… Lost in such fantasies, I drifted off to sleep.
I awoke to dawn light filling the window. Outside, a stunning winter landscape unfolded. The inside of the window frame was coated white with frost, evidence of the extreme pre-dawn cold. A check on my phone showed we were nearing Khabarovsk. The roughly 500-mile, 12-hour journey north had largely skirted the Chinese border, a stark reminder that I was on a vast continent connected to China and the Korean Peninsula.
Khabarovsk Station exuded grandeur and elegance. If Vladivostok Station represented the newly opened gateway (post-1991), Khabarovsk was the long-established linchpin of the Far Eastern Trans-Siberian, vital throughout the Soviet era and into the present. Historically, the railway terminated here, connecting onwards to the port city of Nakhodka on the Sea of Japan.
Khabarovsk felt more like a traditional Russian provincial capital. Vast squares, lush forested parks, enormous shopping centers – history and stature were palpable. And being inland, the cold was even more biting than in Vladivostok. My phone registered the “feels like” temperature at a staggering minus 22 degrees Fahrenheit (-30°C).
While the city has its share of sights, the real joy was glimpsing the ordinary lives of people in the Russian Far East. During the sunniest part of the day (though still around -4°F, with occasional, furious flurries of ice crystals), people were out jogging on snow-covered streets or walking large dogs whose breath plumed white in the air. It was a powerful reminder of the importance of finding resilience and richness within whatever environment one is given.
Cafes were plentiful. Staff often spoke English and were generally cheerful and welcoming. The menus, commonly featuring Chinese and Central Asian dishes alongside Russian staples, offered a taste of the city’s history and cross-cultural currents.
As you head down Muravyov-Amursky Street, the city’s bustling main thoroughfare, you’ll reach the Uspensky Cathedral, striking with its vivid blue domes. Just beyond it, you’ll come out to the banks of the Amur River, one of Far Eastern Russia’s greatest rivers. The sight of its surface completely frozen over during the harsh winter is truly spectacular, and one could say it’s a must-see if you visit Khabarovsk in winter. It’s astonishing to realize that the enormous amount of ice from this great river’s estuary slowly flows out to sea, heads south through the Sea of Okhotsk, and that this is what creates the “drift ice” (ryuhyo) found off the coast of Abashiri and the Shiretoko Peninsula in Japan. Gazing out at the Amur’s surface, where nothing but endless ice can be seen, I feel a warmth in my chest, thinking about the grand workings of nature in this frigid land and its not insignificant connection to Japan.
It was time to head home. At Khabarovsk Airport (as of January 2019), only four international flights operated daily: S7 to Narita, Aurora Airlines to Seoul (Korea) and Fuyuan (China), and NordStar to Sanya (China). The current international terminal was old and small, but a massive new one was under construction, promising future expansion.
Checking in for the Narita flight, I wasn’t surprised to see a fair number of Japanese travelers and businesspeople. Outside, on the frozen apron, snowplows meticulously shaved the thin layer of ice and snow off the tarmac, like giant planes smoothing wood. The vast airfield held few aircraft; the surrounding landscape was an almost empty expanse of pure white wilderness. Against this dazzling backdrop, the bright lime green of the S7 aircraft stood out vividly. It seemed surreal that the hustle and bustle of Narita Airport and Japan lay just over two and a half hours away. Apparently, in just six days, I had thoroughly acclimated to the air and the chill of the Russian Far East.
This journey to a land both near and far, cold and warm, proved incredibly enriching. It was a chance to rediscover a fundamental truth of travel: that the joy found in new places and the lives of the people who inhabit them often exist on a plane separate from complex histories or shifting political tides. Easily accessible even over a short holiday, this neighboring land, brimming with curiosities, might just become an increasingly popular, convenient destination for Japanese travelers. Mulling this over, I began my southward journey home, back across the Sea of Japan.
(Traveler’s Note) As of April 2019, passport holders from Japan (and potentially other countries – check current regulations) could utilize electronic visas (E-Visas) for tourist travel to certain regions in the Russian Far East, including Vladivostok, Khabarovsk, and Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk (Sakhalin). However, be aware that these E-Visas typically restrict entry/exit points and stays to a single designated city. Multi-city itineraries like the one described here, or trips involving different arrival and departure airports, usually required a standard tourist visa obtained in advance. Always verify the latest visa requirements before planning your trip.
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