With no broadcast TV, no social media accounts, no
newspapers and trying to ween myself off Google News, I was, as the lyrics say,
“Happy in the haze of a drunken hour …”, until, that is, our neighbour asked my
wife, in the context of coronavirus, whether I was still frequenting
Kaliningrad’s bars. I came down to earth with a jolt.
I have no problem with self-isolating or social distancing, I have always been anti-social, but after all these years, a lifetime in fact, of shunning at-home drinking for the unparalleled joy of the pub or bar, it is more than one can bear.
As far as I am aware, to date we have five cases of coro in Kaliningrad, and about 450 self-isolating, some at home some under observation. Many schools here have switched from attendance-learning to distance-learning. The Polish and Lithuanian borders are closed, except for freight*, and there will be ‘no entry for foreigners from 18 March to 1 May’ . So, apart from a transit corridor through Lithuania, allowing people to return to their homes, which is scheduled to close on 19 March**, this small tract of land will be virtually cut off from the rest of the world.
Whilst there seems to be less people on the streets and on public transport, I have yet to hear of anything akin to the bizarre events unfolding in the UK, namely hordes of people descending on shops like locusts on laxatives to devour the shelves of toilet paper. I can only imagine how these people’s mind’s work. Perhaps they are thinking, he who laughs last laughs longest, and when the dire moments comes (let’s hope it is not the diarrhoea moment!), when the rest of the nation is down to its last piece of tissue, begging and imploring them to sell at any cost a 2-inch square, they will turn the other cheek. What an absolute bummer!
We have two small supermarkets in our locale, which I usually let my wife use, as I would not want to impinge on her leisure time, but, out of curiosity, I accompanied her recently. And when I got there the shelves were not bare (I feel a touch of poetry coming on.).
I have noticed, however, a funny thing. Your
reflection in the window, you all cry. Well, that too, but more unprecedented is
that whenever I go to these shops (which, as I have said, I don’t do very often
because it’s a woman’s job, isn’t it), security always sidle off to form a
cordon around the bog-roll shelves. Hmmm, they must know I am from England.
This blockade was unnecessary, however, as my only
purchase interest was in medicine, which I was able to snap up, using my 25%
discount sticker+, for the bargain price of two quid.
Self-isolating First Aid kit
Prevention is better than cure, as they say, but just in case I bought some beats as well, as Russian borsch is highly recommended as an effective ‘morning after’ pill.
Note +Some supermarkets in Kaliningrad present you at checkout with a little slip of paper on which are adhered reusable sticky labels. These are discount stickers, each sticker marked with varying percentage discounts. Off you go with your stickers and the next time you visit the shop, you can run round and stick these on the items of your choice, thus cutting the cost of your favourite drinks, I mean products. Promotions don’t usually work on me, but this one does!
Has the outbreak and relentless progression of coronavirus
changed your routine?
It has changed mine.
I sit here in Kaliningrad, Russia, and every morning
first thing I flick through Google News to see what is happening COVID-19 wise
in the UK.
So far, we have had two confirmed cases of coronavirus
in the Kaliningrad region and, as far as I can tell, everyone appears to be
going about their daily life much the same as usual. Of course, all that could
change…
The one exception I noted was during a recent visit to
the London Pub ~ a bar/restaurant/nightclub the theme of which as the name
suggests is London pub oriented.
For the first time in Kaliningrad, I was witness to
the peculiar spectacle of people wearing face masks. The London Pub is under
new management and all the waiters and
waitresses, every one equipped with a face mask, are uniformly dressed in black
trousers (short black skirt if you are female), white evening shirt with winged
collar, black bow tie and a black bowler hat. Add the face mask and the effect
is even more surreal. The more I drank the more convinced I became that I was
on the set of the 1960s’ TV series The Avengers, or was it Clockwork
Orange?
Wollocks: ‘We’re all in the same boat, but some are travelling first class!’
Panic buying empty shelves in the UK
The very next day I telephoned an old chum of mine,
Lord Aristotle Wollocks, founder and Chairman of Wollocks & Co (Supermarket
Consultants), former heir to a newspaper magnate’s empire, to see what his
reaction was to the ongoing coronavirus situation in my native country. I was
particularly interested in what he had to say about the sudden onset of panic
buying and the alarming phenomenon of empty shelves in supermarkets.
Aristotle (as his name suggests) is a trifle
eccentric. We first met during my time as an antique dealer; we were both
bidding on the same item, a portfolio of letters by Ronnie Kray. Needless to
say, Wealth won the day, as it always does.
Aristotle’s house is a cornucopia of antiques, vintage curios and relics. He is a man who has everything but cannot find anything, which is difficult whenever you telephone him because his 1920s’ candlestick phone is often not always to hand.
As usual, it took several attempts before he could
find the phone to answer it, but eventually there he was.
“Wollocks here!”
We had not spoken for several months, so there were a
few platitudes to attend to, such as how is Putin and have you sat down with
him for a glass of vodka in the Kremlin yet, before we got down to business.
I wanted to know, primarily, if things were as bad in
the UK as posts on social media made out, specifically whether there was any
truth in the rumours that panic buying had decimate offerings in our
supermarkets and that UK citizens as a result were having to go without
sausages and were using The Guardian in place of bog rolls.
“The Guardian,” snorted Wollocks, “I wouldn’t
use that on your a..e let alone mine!”
You must remember that Wollocks went to Eton.
I pushed him once again for a sensible answer on the
alleged deprivation in the UK as a consequence of panic buying and empty
supermarket shelves.
Said he, emphatically: “Now look here …” He invariable
starts his sentences this way.
“Now look here. Whether it is true that supermarket
shelves are empty or not is hardly relevant. Of course, in a climate of panic
such as this you must expect a certain level of exploitation in every sphere of
influence, be it political, economic, commercial …” He droned on. “Naturally,
the less scrupulous but more entrepreneurial will make gains at others’
expense, and you have to make allowances for captains of commerce taking full
advantage of any commercial opportunity that the wind of misfortune ~ that is,
of course, the misfortune of others ~ blow their way.”
“You mean profiteering?” I ventured.
“Ahh, well,” Wollocks guffawed, “profiteering to you
perhaps, but for the sake of argument ~ and please, Michael (he always calls me
that; Mick is too working class for him) don’t argue with me ~ let’s say good
business sense.”
“So, what you are saying is that the supermarkets are
emptying the shelves themselves, in effect creating the illusion of shortage,
and with the help of the media and the Twitterartie, catalysing panic buying?”
“What I am saying is that the bods that run the large
supermarket chains are businessmen, Michael, monied people, people who are
versed in the strategies to drive meaningful and profitable sales growth …”
He paused, waiting for me to comment, but when I
refrained from doing so, carried on.
Panic buying in UK shelves empty
“If supermarket shelves are being emptied then the
government must impose rationing, as it did in the Second World War. It won’t
be easy, especially for the young generation to accept because they have not
experienced the hardships that our fathers and grandfathers suffered, but it
would certainly cure the pig-trough mentality.”
“But what about Rights?” I protested.
“Now look here, Michael, don’t try goading me. There
are no such things as ‘rights’, you know that, and had there ever been they
certainly have no place here and neither does entitlement.”
“Entitlement? No one is entitled to anything.
Coronavirus doesn’t care who or what you are. You just are and it just is!”
“Unless you are one of the privileged wealthy and then
you either head to your disaster bunker or use the antidote.”
“So, it’s true what they say about it being
person-made!”
“Don’t get PC with me Michael! Man-made? Ha! Just
checking to see if you are a conspiracy theorist as well as a defector!”
He paused whilst he lit a cigar. Aristotle never
smoked in his life until, he said, the non-smoking zealots banned it. Now he
smokes religiously, especially when he is fox hunting.
“By the way,” he continued, “I’m not saying that there
is an antidote but you could do worse than eat a giant bowl of muesli soaked in
apple juice with half a grape fruit ~ yellow grapefruit, mind ~ each and every
morning.”
“Hmm, don’t you have substantial shares in the muesli,
apple juice and grapefruit markets —”
He cut me short: “Yellow grapefruit, Michael, yellow.”
“But what of entitlement?” I asked impatiently.
“Ahh, yes. Well to understand that you must about turn
to postwar Britain and the we’ve ‘never had it so good’ slogan. You could say,
and I do, that we’ve had it too good, and certainly too easy. Take the
present generation, for example, dubbed by the media the ‘Entitled Generation’.
Not that I trust anything the UK media says. Dammit, I should know, my family
owned most of it, but the fact remains that today’s generation knows as much
about reality as a Liberal ~ which most
of them are, God help them!”
“Please go on.” He did not need encouraging.
“Computer games, mobile phones, obsessing with Twatter
and Arsebook, this isn’t life. Life is red in tooth and claw.”
“Well, crises like these always bring out the bad in
some —” I conciliated.
“And the good in others,” he concluded. “The ‘every
man for himself siege mentality’ has to be discouraged and the ‘coming together
to help each other’ sense of camaraderie encouraged.”
“A backs-to-the-wall philosophy.”
“Don’t be facetious, Michael. Hmmm. Backs to the wall,
I remember when I was at Eton …”
“[cough] You were saying?”
“I am saying that this would be a great opportunity
for people, especially young people, to stop worrying about how to disinfect
their mobile phones and look to the spade and trowel …”
“The Spade & Trowel,” I interrupted, “is that a
pub?”
“No, Michael it is not. I mean, of course, that they should take up gardening. The government should implement a drive towards self-sufficiency, reviving the posters of old, not only the much-exploited Keep Calm & Carry on, but Dig for Victory, Allotments for the Unemployed ~ especially Allotments for the Unemployed ~ and Make Do & Mend.”
“Make Do & Mend, so you think that Coronavirus may
wear out our clothes?”
“Well, it’s certainly putting a lot of strain on
underpants! Ha! Ha! Did I say stain? Ha! Ha! No, but a home course whilst
self-isolating on how to repair your face mask or making do with two sides of
toilet roll instead of one would be inspirational, not to mention useful for
the masses whilst in lockdown.”
“Your last word on the topic is, then?”
Silly expression for me to use. Wollocks, after all,
is a member of the House of Lords (which he fondly refers to as the House of
Whores), perhaps one of the few True Blues remaining.
“Times of national crisis ~ we can forget about what
is happening elsewhere ~ brings out both the good and bad in people in equal
measure, and a little deprivation at supermarket level is just the thing that
is needed to replace selfishness with selflessness. It can work to bring back a
much-needed sense of propriety, to rebuild the national character morally
demolished by seventy years or more of so-called liberal progressiveness. It
is, in short, a wonderful opportunity for the current generation to earn the
entitlement to which they feel so entitled.”
Panic buying shelves empty
More views on empty supermarket shelves and panic buying in the UK can be found in chapter 7 ‘Coping with Coronavirus’ in Sir Aristotle Wollocks’ book, We are fighting a war on human nature, available at all fire stations, police stations and post offices, which are now somewhere else, such as in chemists, book and pet shops.
Kaliningrad 20 Years Ago (or Russian Hospitality part 2)
28 December 2000
Andrew’s and Ina’s flat was located in a newer and higher apartment block than the one we had just left. It was situated on an estate of high-rise flats, access to each building being controlled by intercom. This was a more than satisfactory security measure as there was little chance of breaching the heavy metal outer door without the lock being triggered.
Up three or
four flights of steps we went until we reached the door to their flat. We rang
the bell. There was the sound of a dog barking, the sound of a dog being told
to stop barking, the sound of a dog ignoring what it had been told and the door
opened. Standing there was Andrew, whom we had met briefly a few hours ago, and
his wife, Ina. “Hello! Welcome!” she intoned, welcoming us literally with open
arms. Andrew looked on, smiling amiably; the disobedient dog barked and barked
and barked and, whilst Olga and Ina launched into excited conversation, Joss
and I honed our skills in the art of the one-legged boot hop.
Russian Hospitality
It did not
take me long to realise that if Andrew and Ina had been a double act, Andrew would
have been the silent partner and Ina the live wire. Ebullient, expansive ~ both in speech and body language ~ Ina was
a dynamo of questions, curiosity and inquisitiveness. She was also a natural
organiser, a multitasker before the word acquired cult status, delegating
roles, assembling guests and playing the role of the perfect host as if she had
been born to it, which I had no doubt she had. Her social skills and
extroverted flair enabled her to introduce the other people present: her
friends Helen (whom I had met in Svetlogorsk) and husband Valordia and her,
Ina’s, son, whilst transacting other important hostess functions, such as seat
placements, finishing touches to the table arrangements and the all-important
consideration of who wanted what to drink. I did not know at that particular
time that at parties and social gatherings, Ina was often called upon to fill
the role of master of ceremonies, which she did comfortably and with
confidence, but had I have been made aware of this fact it certainly would not
have surprised me.
Of Helen I
have already written, but what of her husband Valordia? Like Andrew, he was another big man. Tall and
broad, with a receding hairline and big, thick, black moustache, he reminded me
of more muscular version of John Cleese and, as he had less English language at
his disposal than Andrew, who only spoke the odd word or two, but did so to
humorous effect, by relying on facial expression as his principal means of
communication Valordia’s John Cleese attributes became finely tuned and
compounded as the night went on, or perhaps, as the vodka went down.
One other person who was in our company that evening, whom I have not mentioned yet was Olga’s daughter, Polina. She was a tall, slim, 16-year-old, so I was not at all surprised when we took our seats at the table that brother Joss was occupying the chair next to her.
Out came
the vodka and before you could say ‘Bugger, that’s a big glass full!’, the
party was underway.
In between toasts
Food aplenty
The table
was already groaning under the weight of several large platters of different
salad mixes, umpteen bowls of pickles, large salvers of meats and fish, plates
of bread of various types and colour, bowls of spuds and other vegetables, and
it just kept on coming. I cast a rueful glance across the battlefield, hoping
that the aggregate diners were supporting an appetite equal to the gargantuan
volumes, and would have been quite content with my little plate of salad to
which Olga, urged on by Ina, kept adding. One thing I could rely on and that
was Joss: his first plate runneth over, and he was having no difficulty in whapping
back the vodka.
Conversation around the table was competing with the rattle of knives and forks on plates and with background music. Russian and English was spoken in sporadic bursts. Ina was keen to know ~ that is, keen to know everything about the British way of life: our customs, traditions, what we valued, how we socialised, our political views. There was no end to her curiosity, and whenever she could not think of the English word she wanted, she would briefly revert to Russian, as she asked Olga or Helen for clarification. All three ~ my wife, Ina and Helen are English language teachers ~ and as this was one of the few occasions when Helen and Ina would get to converse with native English speakers, amongst their other questions were ones which were language related: did we say it this way, was this word correct in this context, and what other idioms did we know? Andrew, who could understand a little English and also speak a few words, would throw in the odd phrase here and there, with humorous intent, whilst Valordia would breathe in with surprise, shake his head wisely, purse his lips when comments got saucy and chuckle whenever appropriate.
Soviet helmet? ~ no, that’s my brother
Kaliningrad Russian Hospitality
It was in
the midst of such frivolity, just as I completed my second course, that ‘the
boys’ jumped up, the lights went down, the background rock music found a new
high level and within seconds everyone had stopped eating and were leaping
around the room. This impromptu dancing spell lasted all of five minutes, after
which ‘the boys’ and some of ‘the girls’ made their way to the large covered
balcony for a smoke.
Before and after this eating interlude, many toasts, some very long and meaningful, soulful and sincere had been made, necessitating the quick downing of a large glass of vodka followed by an immediate refill.
Smoking over and it was back to the grub. I was just deluding myself into believing that I was doing rather well, when out on a huge plate came Ina’s pièce de résistance ~ a monolithic cabbage pie baked entirely with me in mind.
“It’s all
for you,” Olga beamed.
England expects every man to do his duty and I tried, believe me, I tried. But although I had three helpings, and must admit that it was rather good, my blighted guts had by now reached saturation point.
The boys
were up on their feet again; the rock music was blaring; the floor of the flat
was shaking ~ as was the pendant ceiling light ~ as those who had the energy,
not to mention the inclination, strutted their stuff on the ‘dance floor’. And
then it was off to the balcony for yet another smoke.
The evening
continued much in this same manner until no more food, no more dancing, no more
smokes and no more energy was left ~ only the vodka remained, and that we kept
on drinking.
Improving his looks
Relics of the Soviet era
Between times, we somehow made space to consider some nostalgic relics from the Soviet era. A visor cap was produced, of police origin complete with badge; two pairs of shoulder boards ~ one army and the other marine; and, Joss’s favourite, which he could not resist but wear, a rubber gas mask with a long respirator pipe. I mention this last item specifically, since having included the photograph I would not want you to get the wrong idea about what sort of occasion our evening had been.
Both Joss and I came away from this evening well fed and watered. Our hosts could not have looked after us better. We had experienced our first taste of Russian hospitality and in the process had learnt something of each other’s culture on a personal level, beyond the headlines and stereotypical dross bandied around by the media. Years later I came to understand the true significance of this first encounter with real Russian people. It was the first step in the direction my life would take me. I had no knowledge then that the adventure had already begun, but the good and open nature of the people I had met, the glimpse into a cultural world that I never knew existed, and the first faint, barely noticeable but deeply perceived singularity of this strangely magnetic city and region, so structurally imperfect but spiritually complete, had already begun to pull me in.
6 March 2020 ~ International Women’s Day Kaliningrad
Travelling across Kaliningrad today on our way to the garden centre, we marveled at how the city had swung into action in readiness for International Women’s Day on Sunday.
The city was festooned with flower-selling stalls, ranging from one person with literally a handful of flowers to stalls of two and three tables profusely bedecked with all manner of blooms.
Tulips Rule OK!!
The flower-selling booths, which are there on a permanent
basis, were, of course, also in full swing, turning the city into an early
spring festival of refreshing and natural bright colours.
To Kaliningradiens, International Women’s Day is an important date in the yearly calendar. It is a celebration of femininity, a time to show appreciation for the love, devotion, work and commitment that women invest in relationships and the value they impart to motherhood and family. I remember last year, even with the sleet and snow, how many men of all ages were out on the streets of Kaliningrad purchasing flowers to present to their wives and girlfriends.
I tried to compare the Kaliningrad experience with International Women’s Day in the UK but, try as I might, I could not recall anything. Perhaps I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time or, then again, perhaps buying flowers for one’s other half is frowned upon in the UK as an unforgivable act of sexism.
Hmmm, well, the last thing that I would want to be
accused of was sexism. Perish the thought.
So, I refrained from purchasing my wife flowers this year (makes it sound as if I bought her flowers last year) and instead I bought her a shovel and trowel so that she could plant her own in the garden.
Which just goes to show that leading your wife up the garden path does not have to be a gender war!
My wife has been nagging (they do, don’t they) for the
past couple of days for me to leave the house and go outside, but the weather
has been so awful that I have used it as an excuse to stay indoors and not get
the fresh air that is so good for me.
Today, however, the sun came out and with my excuse rendered null and void I was forced to give in. We were off to the central market, and I had been told that it would be very beneficial for me if we walked, and besides I would enjoy it.
As it happens I did, but you don’t tell them that in a
hurry.
On the way we took some photographs of some
interesting bas relief work to some of the buildings close to the market.
We were off shopping for vegetables, and I must say
that Kaliningrad’s covered market is such a joy to shop in (more of that later)
that by the time we got there I had stopped complaining.
Loaded with all sorts of edibles that are not meat, we
then decided to stop off somewhere for a spot of lunch.
We chose Mama Mia’s, a restaurant on the edge of
Victory Square opposite the cathedral.
Mama Mia is a rather modern affair, certainly not the sort of place that I could wear my 1940s’ clothes in, but it is bright, comfortable and above all relaxing. On one side, the side we were in, you can look out of the windows and watch the world go by ~ I spotted a van with a large hammer and sickle motif stuck to it ~ or, for a slightly more reclusive experience, you can turn left where the room is divided up into larger seating areas favourable for group dining.
Mama Mia Restaurant
Mick Hart drinking sensibly at Mama Mia’s Restaurant, Kaliningrad, Russia
In here there are two rather interesting things: one,
a wall-mounted water feature, which resembles a mirror but has water cascading
down the inside of it; and two, a display of giant piano keys overlaid with outsized
wooden portholes.
I was content to be in our little seats, seeing vans
go by with hammers and sickles on them at a table where it is possible to flag
the waiter’s attention literally at the press of a button.
We did not have the chance to use this communication
mechanism, as we were straight in and ordering two ‘business lunches’. These
are preset lunches at a very good price. I had Greek salad, soup and pizza
accompanied by cranberry juice. My wife had chicken soup and chicken cutlets
with brown rice, and between us, in a see-through teapot, we had freshly made
ginger tea. The meals cost us £2.50 apiece and the speciality tea £1.70.
Comfortable and competitively priced: Mama Mia Restaurant, Kaliningrad, Russia
Shame on me, I did not partake of beer this lunchtime
as I had a workout scheduled. But perhaps tomorrow night…
We snapped a few pictures whilst we were in there, caught a taxi home and I left one bag behind, had to go back for it and got nagged at for being дурак (silly)
That’s a nice thing to say to your husband, I’m sure.
Essential Details:
Mama Mia Klover Siti Tsentr Ploschtschad Pobedy 10, Kaliningrad Kaliningrad Oblast, 236006
Continuing with our theme of Kaliningrad City of Contrasts, I was out walking the other day and I came across this rather splendiferous example.
On one side of the road you have this spanking new
block of flats; on the other, this rather sad and sorry ruined Königsberg
cottage.
This side
That side
Kaliningrad City of Contrasts
Could the latter be restored, I hear you say? Or, is
that just the sound of my own Romanticist fantasy ringing inside my head?
If I had a flat which faced the street in the new
apartment block pictured here, every day I looked out of my window and beheld
this ruined abode, I would be confronted with the question, is this building
restorable?
I would need you there to laugh at me.
But something has to be built on this site at some
time. So, let us rephrase the question: would it be possible to salvage
something from this former home and integrate it into a new build as a historic
feature?
You are laughing at me again!
But look at those marvelous chimney stacks, and is that an enamel sign peeping through the trees on the right-hand side? And who knows what may still be lurking on the inside under the debris? Perhaps one of those remarkable tiled Königsberg stoves; 1920s’ door handles; additions and renovations from the Soviet era. If nothing else, the red bricks have to be a reusable, recyclable commodity?
What’s that you say?
It would be easier to keep the curtains shut or buy a flat on the other side of the building.
Kaliningrad 20 Years Ago (or Russian Hospitality part 1)
Diary entry dated 28 December 2000
From our brief excursion to Königsberg Cathedral we were off at last to Olga’s mothers. I wrote in my diary of rattling over roughshod cobbles, dodging one pothole to land in another, of dimly lit streets, an old metal railway bridge overlooking a huge rolling-stock marshalling yard crammed with lines of open wagons and tankers, of winding streets clung onto by tired old German flats and overlooked impersonally by more modern chunks of concrete that looked more tired and shabby than the ones they sought to usurp. I wrote of the street onto which Andrew let us out of his car. (It was the approach road to Olga’s flat, the flat she shared with her son, her mother, daughter and Marsha the cat.) ‘Mean Street’ I wrote, on account of what the road was: a narrow lane that ran along the side of two or three groups of flats, which taken together formed open-ended quadrangles. On our right there was a small shop in a low-level shed-like building, with a thick wooden entrance made of two doors bolted together. We were going to get in there, once we had braved the terrain: an adventurous combination of savaged concrete interlaced with sinews of ice.
It was warm inside the shop; very little, very basic but altogether very warm. Here, I could chalk up another first, my first time in a Russian shop. The fish and meat counter was enough to give a vegetarian a fit of the flying ab dabs, so I focused elsewhere and found that that every packet, every box and every wrapped item, no matter how small it was, had a little bit of paper stuck to it on which the price was clearly written in hand. The shop keeper, a stout and formidable-looking lady, was dressed in an apron of broad stripes, reminiscent of ticking material used in pre-war British deck chairs.
Whilst I
was taking in the ambience and generalities, brother Joss was concerning
himself with the relative prices of things, particularly those things to which he
was most partial, ie meaty things, such as sausages, big chunks of meat on the
bone, plus large cheeses and pickles.
Olga purchased some items to take with us to her flat, and on the way we stopped at another shop, this one built into the end of the block of flats immediately preceding hers. This shop was slightly larger and more enticing owing to its ample stock of alcohol. I remember that the brand selection was impressive, whilst the generic composition was limited primarily to a choice of vodka or beer.
As it was about
5pm, I was surprised to discover that we would not be taking wine with our
afternoon tea but vodka. “It is cranberry flavour,” Olga emphasised, so that
was alright then!
Kaliningrad 20 years ago
It was not
far now to Olga’s flat. The street lighting was worse here than it had been on
our approach and, as we turned into the open-ended quadrangle, our best guide
was the light filtering out from an open door at ground level. The beams of
light seeping out from the hinge side, threw a thin and lurid glow across a
large mound heaped up at the front of the flats. Some of its composition had
spilled out across the path and, as it crunched beneath our feet, we realised
it was coke (ie, the sort you put in the stove to heat your house!).
We passed
through the external door, a big, old wooden affair, blistered, warped,
incapable of being closed that night as it had been, no doubt, for years. We
were now in the stairwell. This was my introduction to the average Kaliningrad
stairwell, typical in its design and appearance to thousands across the city.
The Balham flat
In looking
back on the way I reacted to and described these communal areas, I feel both
reticent and awkward. In England, I had
been brought up in a rural community. My family home was an 18th century thatched
cottage. My closest friend’s father, a farmer, had a large 18th
century hunting lodge set in the most rural and sequestered piece of English
countryside that you could possibly imagine.
It is true that on moving to London, as a postgraduate student and later in my first job, that my flat in Balham was so notorious, I mean in the sense of basic and humble, that it earnt itself the sobriquet of The Balham Flat. But as shabby, disheveled and wanting as it most certainly was, this flat occupied an old Victorian house, the type that in the early 80s was, like numerous other residential Cinderellas, waiting for Thatcher’s golden slipper. These hangbacks from the 1950s, with their garish red and yellow wallpaper, threadbare carpets, doors overpainted in rivulets of gloss, antiquated electric fires, mouse-eaten skirting boards, rising damp, yellowing net curtains and a kitchen and bathroom that looked as if they should have been consigned long ago either to the scrapheap or social history museum, were known and tolerated, loved to some extent, in that quaint way, with reservations, that you might compassionately look upon a gentleman of the road. Such flats were held in affectionate dislike, reviled but revered as home.
Kaliningrad 20 years ago: the flat
For all I
know the residents of Kaliningrad back in the year 2000 may have felt exactly
the same about their flats as we did about our bedsits, but for we westerners,
particularly those who had tasted comparative privilege, no matter how lowly or
secondhand, it was one of the most challenging moments of coming to Kaliningrad
~ how to react to the flat.
I could tell that Olga, who had travelled and stayed in London on at least two occasions and observed such differences as there were, was embarrassed about what we might think or say. We thought, oh dear, this place could do with a coat of paint, the metal stair rails could do with fixing, the concrete steps could do with some attention and the tangled mass of electric wires protruding dustily from every orifice like an old man found in the nude, well, we did not think much of that and, of course, we said even less.
Unlike some flat complexes in Kaliningrad, the block containing Olga’s flat was a mere three storeys, and her flat was on the third floor. We had already passed some of the biggest, burliest doors I have ever seen not standing outside of a nightclub wearing a dinner jacket, and now we were standing outside yet another which did not fit with the rest whilst none of the rest fitted with any.
As with the stairwell, Olga’s flat premiered yet another phenomenon ~ the two-door combination security system. The first door, which was made of metal and looked secure enough to resist yet another revolution, was immediately backed with another, this one as solid as the first but having a button-down padded interior. It crossed my mind that I must have missed the KGB plaque as we entered. However, the ritual awaiting us was surely a special test (as challenging and bizarre as anything that the Masons could have thrown at us).
In Russia shoes must be removed
As is the custom in Russia, and the custom remains today, all visitors must give up their shoes as soon as they cross the threshold of the flat, the assumption being that the streets, in this instance the streets of Kaliningrad, are so bad that …
Anyway, I
had on a large pair of clod-hopping lace-up boots, difficult from which to extricate
myself even in normal circumstances but very near impossible whilst dancing
around on one foot. Being winter, and a harsh winter at that, hopping around wearing
a full complement of heavy clothing in an attempt to connect with your lace,
whilst it may have been good for Jane Fonda, was hardly conducive to dignified
composure and still to this very day leaves you all sweaty and flustered.
Advice for
all of you who are visiting Russia in winter, invest in a pair of winter boots
but make sure that they are zip-fastening.
It did not
take long for us to get acquainted with the Soviet flat, even in a pair of
slippers that were two sizes too big for me. The flat comprised a small
bathroom, two short corridors, one extending from the front door to bedroom and the other to the right, a small
kitchen at the end of this second corridor and before that, to the left, a
medium-sized bed-sitting room. This room opened out onto a balcony typical for
flats in this region: it was narrow, but of a size sufficient to accommodate
two to three people, together with two small chairs and a table. Incipiently,
such balconies were open to the elements, but a trend for boxing them in had
developed, as was the case in this instance. The inclusion of glazed casement
windows converted the humble balcony into an extension of the living space,
giving the occupants somewhere to sit and smoke whilst offering additional
insulation in winter and a semi-open area in which to relax in summer.
The little
kitchen was truly thus, allowing, with cooker and fridge, no more than a small
table in front of the window along with a chair and stool.
The bathroom was likewise space-conscious, the bath, unboxed, having a long-reach, combination-tap fitted with a shower rose and, of course, there was a toilet.
Kaliningrad 20 years ago: the toilet
The toilet
itself, or rather pan system, was a somewhat curious affair, and I must confess
that I had never seen the like in the UK. Looking into the bowl, it consisted
of two parts. At the front there was a small water chamber and to the back a
shaped platform. Without wanting to go into too much technical detail, how this
worked was that one answered the call of nature, turned the handle, a jet of
water shot out of a conduit at the back of the platform and, if luck was with
you, the water chamber did the rest. For young children I suppose it must have
been a far more exciting model than our boring British bog, more of a
successful launch than, to use the vernacular, dump.
Russian hospitality
Moving swiftly
on, two to three sociable hours were spent at the flat.
Whilst feeding Joss presented no gastronomical difficulty, Olga’s mum had solved the vegetarian issues by augmenting various salads with traditional Russian blinee: savoury pancakes with three different fillings ~ cabbage, potato and mushroom. These went down very well with the cranberry vodka purchased earlier.
I have
never asked Olga’s mother what her first impressions were of the two visiting
Englishmen ~ perhaps it is best not to know!! We found her very open,
interesting, sociable and hospitable, and for me, as I was going out with her
daughter, it was nice to know on this cold Kaliningrad evening that the ice, as
they say, had been broken.
Back out
into the cold, we were now to go by taxi to Olga’s friends’ flat, Andrew and Inna’s.
Being a person of moderate food consumption, I was more than a little concerned to learn that Russian social tradition places great store upon the provision and demonstrable enjoyment of a hearty meal and that any show of reluctance or inability to eat what is laid down in front of you could engender serious offence. I cushioned my concern with the self-assurance that a degree of exaggeration may be expected regarding accounts of the size of the meals and the reaction to reasonable restraint from those who had prepared the meals to those about to receive them.
Very soon, I would find out.
Kaliningrad flats: a communal area (this photograph taken 2004)
When my wife suggested to me that I should take my tooth that needed to be filled to the Russian dentist, here in Kaliningrad, I thought twice about it.
It was my
wife who suggested that I put an end to my griping and take myself and my tooth
with a hole in it to one of the dentists here in Kaliningrad. “The [dentist]
service here is very good; very professional,” she told me. Well, she would say
that, wouldn’t she. She’s Russian.
It was December 2018. We had just arrived in Kaliningrad having moved from England. Being at that age when everything falls to bits [Cohen: “Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey, I ache in the places where I used to play.”], especially teeth, I knew I had to do something and that was either go to a Russian dentist, travel back home to England or take my brother’s advice and use one of his Do It Yourself dental filling kits.
Flying to
the pub is good, but flying through the air is not and DIY dental kits conjure
up images of something that Del Boy would peddle, so, tempted with the
conciliatory carrot that we could go to the local bar afterwards, the Russian
dentist it was.
UK dental experiences
Now I am not one for ‘telling tales out of school’ but recently both my and my wife’s experiences of UK dentistry had left much to be desired. I was struck off the patient list by one practice because I did not attend for two appointments, even though I contacted them and explained that I was unwell, and was immediately and suspiciously recommended to their sister practice up the road, which was, quite frankly, awful. In 12 months of registering there I had two fillings: one was so oversized that it felt as if I had a piece of Stonehenge in my mouth, and I breathed a sigh of relief when it fell out six months later, and the other disintegrated three times in a similar period. My wife was registered with Charlie Chan Inscrutable Dentist Man. Alright, admittedly that was not the real name of his practice; it was Charlie Chan Inexcusable Dentist Man. He worked on my wife’s teeth, charged her a bundle and when she was forced to go for a second opinion because the tooth was still giving her pain, she discovered that apart from the anesthetic he had not done anything! To add insult to injury, he had cancelled two appointments in a row, month on month, the only excuse being that he had other patients to see. Yes, we should have reported him, which we threatened to do, but this did not get the tegs seen too, and we all know how difficult it is in overcrowded Britain to find an NHS dentist that is willing to take you on. We did, after a lot of ‘Googling’ and ‘word of mouthing’ locate a dentist 15 miles away. He had a nice old-fashioned English name, ‘Harry’, and seemed to have a severe case of x-ray phobia, as he kept dancing out of the room before he had quite determined how the apparatus went together. You instinctively know things are not quite right when the x-ray plate is lodged behind your ear!
These incidents went a long way in persuading me that the Russian option was worth a try.
Kaliningrad Dentist Russia
There is no shortage of dentists in Kaliningrad and, as it is pay as you go, there is no ‘will you, won’t you’ register me. Our dentist practice of choice came from personal recommendation. It was, and still is, Centrodent. The recommending friend explained that Centrodent was not the cheapest practice in Kaliningrad but, in her opinion, it was the best.
Now, where is that dentist’s clinic?
In recent years, since leaving London, I have been used to small dental practices operating from all sorts of converted houses, so I was surprised to find that not only was the Centrodent clinic purpose-built but very large.
Water feature and Neoclassicism ~ Centrodent dentists, Kaliningrad, Russia
Inside it
is spacious, light and airy. The dominant colour is a mellow green, the walls
made from a green marble substance containing white ripples (a sort of soothing
toothpaste effect). A combination of design embellishments, favouring both Art
Deco and Neoclassical elements, work surprisingly well together and form a
harmonic partnership with the general modernity.
My first impression was one of tranquility, which was surprising as the place is busy, busy. Patients and white-uniformed staff criss-cross the wide reception area, ascend and descend the curved staircase to the upper quarter, mill around the reception desk, congregate in front of the cloakroom, appear and disappear from the central passage and from the glass-fronted rooms to the left of the planters and water feature. It is all go and yet no stress. It is Waterloo Station on quiescent medication. It works and whoever designed it did well, as he took the dread out of dentistry.
Spacious, clean and relaxing ~ Centrodent dentist clinic, Kaliningrad, Russia
As with many public establishments in Kaliningrad, the cloakroom, with its lady cloakroom attendants, is a nice, civilised and practical touch. This one is open-fronted, built into the main foyer/waiting room, and allows you to divest yourself of your coats so you can worry about your treatment wholeheartedly and without encumbrance.
Swimming caps on shoes
In exchange for your coat you are given a small numbered tag, appropriately made in the form of a tooth. Before you can proceed further, in the interests of feet hygiene, it is mandatory to cover your shoes with a pair of polythene shoe protectors. These ubiquitous items are found in all medical institutions here. I suppose they are a good idea, especially as they make everyone look rather silly. It is extremely difficult, if not impossible, to indulge yourself in pre-dental stress whilst wearing a pair of these. First off it amused me, as in trying to put them on I nearly went arse over head, but once content that no one had seen me, I settled into a game of spot who looks the silliest walking in bright blue plastic elastic.
When it was time to advance to go, I looked down at my bright blue shoes and decided that it was me.
‘Don’t step on my blue suede shoes!’
My good
lady wife led me along a corridor, the doors and arches of which were edged
with classical pillars or curved adornments surmounted by pediments. This brief
walk brought us into a smaller waiting room of suntan and honey tangerine
colours, hollow curves to some of the doorways, beige highlighting and, at one
end, a row of blind arches fronted by a small stone-wall garden of tall cacti
and succulents. Activity was no less restrained here than it had been in the
main entrance hall but, as before, the colour scheme and sense of open space
made it less of a waiting room and more of a transit area.
A tooth bush?
I was not
kept transiting long, but during my brief stay I did notice that the majority,
if not all, of the dentists were female, as was mine. She was dressed in a
smart two-piece medical uniform and wearing a surgical mask when she called me
into the surgery. I remember thinking to myself, she had very nice eyes: kind
and sincere.
Kaliningrad Dentist Russia 🤍
It probably was not advisable of me to tell my wife later that I had fallen in love with my dentist as she promptly told the dentist, thus making me very self-conscious when it came to return appointments, but how could I not be so enamoured: pain-free dentistry, a palpable professionalism, a dental surgery equipped with the most sophisticated appliances and stuff to fill your teeth with claimed to be top of the range, not to mention those kindly eyes and gentle but accomplished hands. What was there not to like? There was even a garden and shrubbery just outside the window.
In short, as dentists go this one was one that you would want to go back to time and time again, though propriety dictates that only your teeth should decide.
I came away smiling. Our recommendee is decidedly recommended. She told us that this was one of the best dentist outfits in Kaliningrad, and she warned us not the cheapest. On this occasion my filling cost me just under £45, but before making comparisons with British NHS prices I should clarify that the service here and the techniques and dental composites used match British private dentistry practices. Cheaper alternatives abound in Kaliningrad but when you consider the cost, 45 quid is nothing really for a tooth that you can be proud of and a dentist to whom you would willingly return time and time again.
The dentist’s: No place for the legendary stiff upper lip
Essential Details:
CentraDent Kaliningrad St Kaluga Building 40 Kaliningrad, Russia
February 8th 2020 was a big day in Kaliningrad, to be more precise, it was Big Sausage Day*. Reputedly, it is the day that the ladies of Kaliningrad walk around with smiles upon their faces and quite a lot of the men most sensibly stay at home (source: anonymous). But not me. Unfazed by the reports of a giant object of cylindrical length being disported on the open streets, I set out, in defiance of the Vegetarian Society, one day late as usual.
The Big Sausage fest has become so popular here in
recent years that it has undergone an extension, turning it effectively from a
Big Sausage Day into a Big Sausage Weekend. Unfortunately, the huge and
eponymous object makes its debut on Saturday morning. This year we had been
invited to attend on Sunday and last year both I and our invitee were too
hungover to attend. So, instead of reviewing how the Big Sausage went and where
it went, I am going to make a few comments instead on the much-vaunted subject
of ‘Kaliningrad: a place of contrasts’.
This expression is a stock-in-trade of most
travelogues where Kaliningrad is concerned, and why not? It is a good one. The
term is often applied to the striking and very often incongruous juxtaposition
of architectural forms here in Kaliningrad.
Kaliningrad architectural contrasts
The connection between a whopping great sausage and
architecture is not as obtuse as first it may seem. On the second day of this
weekend’s event, the Big Sausage, understandably exhausted from Saturday’s
exertions, goes into hiding, allowing the festivities to continue in a more
circumscribed place. The venue this year was in the paved area surrounding one
of Konigsberg’s restored monuments, the King’s Gate (more of which at another
time).
Königsberg ‘s KIng’s Gate & Kaliningrad’s Soviet flats ~ a City of contrasts. Notice the old tram tracks!
Kaliningrad King’s Gate
You can see from the photograph supplied, the red-brick Gothic structure of the King’s Gate in the foreground (photographed from the back) and there in the background a long row of 1970s’ Soviet-built flats. Needless to say, the world’s most renowned architects eschew these rather than applaud them, but, like them or not, they are all part and parcel of Königsberg-Kaliningrad’s diverse and rich history.
In my humble vegetarianskee opinion, these flats could be employed to good purpose this time next year. By attaching a giant inflatable sausage from the rooftops, running from one end to the other, the venue for Second Sausage Day would be unmissable and the advertising potential for certain types of products phenomenal. Food for thought?
A view of the King’s Gate from the rear surrounded by Big Sausage Day event stalls
*The Long Sausage holiday has a long tradition. The medieval holiday was first held in Königsberg in 1520. Königsberg’s butchers cooked 16 metre’s of sausage and carried it around the city. The participants then ate the sausage, drank beer and danced. Today, the people of Kaliningrad continue the old tradition and enjoy the holiday of old Königsberg .
Sadly, Plyushkin is now as deceased as it’s fictional namesake😥
It is not called ‘Lampshades’ but why not is anybody’s guess. Plyushkin (which is the name of a fictional character in Gogol’s novel Dead Souls) is a bar/restaurant located on a busy intersection in Kaliningrad opposite the Amber Museum. It is nice and central, and situated as it is on a bustling traffic hub, easy to get to by bus, mini-bus or tram. From the outside, it is deceptive, especially at night, when all that can be seen is a small foyer and the neon sign above it, but the bar/restaurant is below ground and once inside the place is truly TARDISial.
Plyushkin bar & restaurant, Kaliningrad, where lampshades abound
Be that as it may, the furnishings, décor and lighting make for a very comfortable, cozy and inviting feel. When you stop marveling at the oversized lampshades, you are rendered agog by the seating arrangements. Where would you like to sit? It is not an easy choice. In Plyushkin no dining suite is the same as the next, although we narrowed down the selection from traditional table and dining-room chairs to low-slung settees and tables to match.
Lampshades galore at the Plyushkin bar & restaurant, Kaliningrad
Plyushkin Bar & Restaurant Kaliningrad
The accent is upon old-world charm ~ reproduction
antique furniture ~ but non-conformist enough to find walnut-veneer-framed divans sharing the same
space as 1960s’ designs and Avant Garde spectaculars, such as one table which
has a coiled rope columnar support, not dissimilar to a cat’s gigantic
scratching post.
Along the side of one wall runs an eclectic series of
mismatching sideboards and tallboys, both parodies from and originals to
disparate eras. The walls and lateral
ceiling supports are profusely covered in framed vintage photographs and
prints, including one of a young Queen Elizabeth II (G’ord Bless yu Maam!),
although one wall of painted brick has been left relatively clear with respect
to the current industrial look.
Queen Elizabeth II in Plyushkin, Kaliningrad ~ that’s her on the wall by the way …
Pigs’ Snouts
The menu is deliberately ‘old style’ Russian, and
whilst pig snouts in mustard sauce may not be everyone’s idea of culinary
heaven, just think it could be worse, and there might have been a photograph in
the menu.
Nevertheless, we have dined here four or five times,
and my carnivore associates assure me that their choice of meals has been very
tasty and value for money.
The bar is well stocked, leaving nothing to the
imagination, and I can vouch for the beer. The cheapest is about 112 rubles
(which is about £1.36), whilst the premium, which weighs in at around 7%
gravity, is about 275 rubles (£3.33).
Service is spot-on, unlike some places I could mention
~ and no doubt will, as we get around.
Live music
All in all, Plyushkin is extremely atmospheric, and on Saturday evenings live music adds to the ambience. The pendant lampshades, of which there are many, are huge, creatively different and pose a curious question, if not ‘Lampshades’ why not ‘Not One the Same’? ~ both would make super alternative names.
The bar area at the Plyushkin, Kaliningrad
Lenin says, “I’m always at the Plyushkin!”
Essential details:
Plyushkin Restuarant Kaliningrad, pl. Marshal Vasilevsky, 2
