Updated: 11 February 2022 | First published: 5 October 2019 ~ Christmas in Gdansk
Christmas in Gdansk is the fourth article in a series of posts that recount my first visit to Kaliningrad in 2000, and my first impressions of the land, the people and its culture.
The idea to celebrate Christmas in Gdansk, Poland, and not Kaliningrad, Russia, was taken because Christmas according to the Russian Orthodox Church takes place on the 7 January. This meant that the 25 of December would be just another day. In Russia, New Year’s Eve is the main event of the festive season and Olga had forewarned us that for Russians this was the big one!
Unwrapping the presents that we had bought for one another in the Gdansk hotel was a first, but after that, followed by a cold meats and cheeses breakfast, the novelty of Christmas quickly wore off. It turned out that being in Poland was no different from being in England: there was nothing to do and nowhere to go. At least in England you can stuff yourself on the much-vaunted Christmas dinner and then collapse in a heap in front of the good old goggle box, but our dinner was another round of exciting meats and cheeses ~ left under towels by the hotel staff who had all gone home ~ and the good old goggle box with its three different channels was broadcasting only in Polish. I couldn’t understand why?
Bored stiff, we did venture out into the city in between
meats and cheeses, but the closest bar was closed and the next and the next and
the next …
Fortunately, we were old enough to have experienced a good many English Christmases, so we hunkered down for the evening with hooch we had stockpiled earlier and nibbled our boredom away on the meats and cheeses left over from lunch.
Kaliningrad via Gdansk My first visit to Kaliningrad: left UK 23 December 2000
Kaliningrad via Gdansk is one in a series of posts that recount my first visit to Kaliningrad in 2000, and my first impressions of the land, the people and its culture.
Updated: 18 January 2022 | First published: 16 August 2019
It’s 7pm, 23rd December 2000, and I am sitting nervously on a British Airways’ plane bound for Warsaw, Poland. I am one of those peculiar types that believes sitting in an aluminium tube with thousands of gallons of highly inflammable fuel at 35,000 feet is perfect insanity. Never mind about the well-meaning ‘statistically safest form of travel’.
But was it a nice place where I was hopefully going to get
to?
As I said in my previous blog post, I hadn’t flown since 1971, but here I was jetting off to Warsaw. From Warsaw, we would take a bus to Gdansk and then, after a night or two there, a train to Kaliningrad, Russia.
For a non-flyer I took a perverse almost masochistic delight in the journey, overcoming much of my fear with the aid of three or four vodkas and a very complacent brother, who grinned like a jackanapes all the way.
For my own part, arriving at Warsaw Airport was not only novel in that we had arrived but also for the officialdom that greeted us. Here we were in the East, where it pleased my literary and cinematographic prejudices to discover a far more officious and militaristic reception. In London, Heathrow, it had been all suits, ties and ‘ladies and gentleman’; here, in the East, it was visor caps, uniforms, side-arms and cold stares. Passing through passport control was a stereotypical dream come true: the steely eyed and expressionless face of the man inside his little glass booth, glancing first at my passport photo and then searchingly back at me.
Somewhat disappointed that I had not been mistaken for the spy that they had been waiting for, I was then treated to what for most people I should imagine is a dull and onerous routine ~ retrieving one’s luggage ~ but which for us, thanks to a certain bag in our entourage, proved to be most entertaining.
The bag in question was a cylindrical-shaped canvas hold-all with a rubberised waterproof base. In theory it was a great piece of kit, capable of holding, well, anything really, and, when empty, folding away into nothing. Problem was, however, that when full it was very bulky, extremely heavy and extraordinarily long and, although it was well-catered-for with various handles and straps, those little wheels, which are such an indispensable feature of today’s large travel bags, were conspicuously non-existent.
So there we were with the rest of them waiting patiently at the side of the carousel for our luggage to emerge. One by one our cases appeared, and we duly retrieved them. But where was that last, that special bag?
With about six people left around the carousel excluding ourselves, we began to grow concerned. But just as we began to fear that we may have lost our exclusive bag, we caught sight of it, coming out of the luggage hold from behind the rubber flaps ~ only it didn’t. It sort of popped out, sat there for a while and then nipped back in again.
Two or three large heavy cases then came tumbling out in a kind of jumbled confusion, quickly followed by another sighting of our long and lost bag. For some odd reason, it was making its exit and entrance at a compromising angle.
Moving closer to the exit point, we could clearly hear lots of huffing, puffing and cursing from behind the rubber curtains. Our bag was now sandwiched sideways across the gap, forming a blockade with the remaining cases caught on top and behind it. From what we could make out, a lot of frustrated energy was being expended out of sight behind the scenes and then, with a thump and a cry, our obstinate bag and the others that it had bullied came tumbling into view.
Whether our long bag didn’t think much of Poland or was simply a petulant creature, this we will never know, but It was evident from the large boot prints on either side of the bag that our ‘Sausage’, as it became to be known, had put up a hell of a fight!
By bus to Gdansk
After this trauma, we no doubt took a quick snifter or two of vodka from the hip flask that I had brought with us. It was now time to lug our luggage, including our recalcitrant Sausage, from the warmth of the airport to the snowy wastes outside.
The plan was to bus it to Gdansk. We were both looking forward to the journey, to relaxing on the bus, that is until we saw what it was that we would be travelling in. Being English, we can be forgiven for believing that we would be going by luxury coach when, in fact, the carriage awaiting us was a rusting, clapped-out minibus with mustard lace curtains that once no doubt had been white.
I don’t recall being too perturbed by the fact that almost everyone was smoking on the way; my brother was a smoker and I was prone now and then to indulge in the odd cigar. Looking back on it, it must have been a right old stinker ~ the curtains weren’t yellow for nothing, although my smell memory retains a distinct essence of diesel fumes more than it does tobacco.
It was a long journey, and we were very tired. It was snowing continuously and sometimes quite heavily, but this merely added to the stereotypical image that I had nurtured, and it pleased me for its novelty as much if not more than for the differences I noted as we trundled on our way: shops and road signage, all written, of course, in Polish; the filling stations whose names I did not recognise; and, when it was possible to see through the steamed-up windows, the distinctive change in architecture.
As the open road gave way to increasingly built-up areas we knew we were travelling through the outskirts of Gdansk.
We had in our possession a computer printout identifying the hotel where we would be staying and, according to the bus driver, we were close to where we wanted to be. We alighted from the bus, cramped and stiff, on the side of a dual carriageway teaming with traffic, shell shocked from travel fatigue but anaesthetized by vodka.
My wife to be, Olga, had arrived there some hours before us and, as luck would have it, I spotted her having a cigarette in the window of the hotel restaurant across the busy street from where we were standing. Remember those wonderful days? Having a cigarette in the restaurant! {Post-normal days’ comment: Remember those days before coronavirus, ie sitting in a pub or a restaurant!}
Thus, the first stage of the journey into Russia was complete. We would stay for three days in Gdansk, which included Christmas Day, and then, on the 27th December, leave Poland by train for Kaliningrad.
My first visit to Kaliningrad in 2000: 23 December 2000
See you in Kaliningrad Russia! is one in a series of posts that recount my first visit to Kaliningrad in 2000, and my first impressions of the land, the people and its culture.
Updated: 11 January 2021 | First published: 8 July 2019
I am not, and have never been, a traveller, so my first trip to Russia was as much a surprise to me as it was to everybody else.
The story of my first trip to Russia has been told so many times that it is almost legendary, but for the uninitiated it goes something like this. From my unlimited knowledge of the country, having grown up in the late 60s early 70s on Len Deighton’s and John le Carré’s Cold War thrillers, Michael Caine spy films and Callan, and having been force fed Solzhenitsyn’s novel, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, at school, as far as I was concerned Russia was the USSR and in deciding to go there I was off behind the Iron Curtain.
In the weeks leading up to my departure I took advantage of the internet, using computers in the offices of the publishing company where I was supposed to be working to research my travel arrangements and Russia in general. In those days I was not particularly switched on to the British establishment’s trashing of everything Russian, so I took all of the warnings and don’ts very seriously. Admittedly, it was not all fabrication. This was the year 2000 and the catastrophic after effects of perestroika were still ricocheting throughout Russia.
It was my intention to access Kaliningrad, Russia, via Gdansk, Poland, about which the Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO) warnings were also dire. At this time Poland was independent. It had its own sovereignty and had not yet become a vassal state of the European Union.
The end result of my internet research was that I ended up with a hulking great Lever Arch folder bursting at the seams with the scariest stuff imaginable ~ not a reassuring read for a novice and nervous traveller.
Why Go?
My decision to fly to Russia had not been made on the basis that I wanted to discover Russia or anywhere, for that matter. As I said earlier, I was no traveller. The thought of flying was anathema to me. I had not flown since a school trip to Switzerland in 1971. But, in the summer of 2000, all that was to change.
I met a woman who was later to be my wife. Her name was Olga. Olga was an English language teacher. She was spending a month in London, having brought a group of Russian students on a cultural trip to England. We met, I showed her around London ~ mostly around the pubs of London ~ a relationship developed, and when she had to return to Russia as her visa had expired, and I was faced with the unthinkable prospect of never seeing her again, I decided that if she could not come back to England then I would go to Russia. That this decision was taken after several pints in Clerkenwell’s Wetherspoon’s pub in London is immaterial. I had made a promise, and I had to stick to it!
But I would not be going alone. My fear of flying was so ingrained that I needed a co-pilot. I found one in my younger brother, whose flippant, frivolous and devil-may-care attitude was exactly what was needed on a dangerous mission like this.
See you in Kaliningrad Russia!
What Brits don’t know about Russia you could write on a postage stamp ~ billions of them ~ but one thing we do know is that it snows out there: Russia is very cold.
I cannot recall a single Russian spy film or television series made in the West where there is not a surplus of snow and furry hats, so you can be certain that we spent the weeks leading up to the trip equipping ourselves for Siberia, filling our oversized bags with woolly jumpers, great thick socks, big hulking overcoats, thermal shirts and the must-have cotton long johns. As it happened, even though we were travelling to Russia’s westernmost point, where the climate is not dissimilar to England’s, on this occasion we had been wise to take precautions, as the temperature sank whilst we were there to minus 29C.
In addition to clothing baggage, there was another type, the kind that comes with security. Having read over and over again that we were likely to be robbed at knife point or, at the very least, succumb to spates of pickpocketing, we had taken every precaution and more.
Credit cards were stashed away in various places; credit card company emergency numbers had been written down in at least two pocket books; the names of family, friends and close associates, all of whom could help us if we found ourselves in a jam, were meticulously listed along with contact numbers and emails (where they existed!); and money? ~ we were taking US dollars, some of which I had cunningly concealed in a money belt.
The money belt that I would be using to keep my dollars safe was no ordinary, bog-standard traveller’s belt. Having read somewhere that savvy robbers went straight for the type of belt that you buy from travel-clothes shops, I had acquired from an old army friend an ordinary leather belt which had a zipped liner at the back into which notes could be threaded. This belt wasn’t additional; it was the one that held your trousers up; the notes were very tightly stashed in a thin threaded line, so you can imagine the difficulty of paying for something, especially in somewhere busy such as a supermarket! Still, the currency that I had stuffed inside the leg of one of my socks was not such a difficult enterprise.
After a
month of fretting and dwelling masochistically on what it would be like to be
plummeting earthwards in a doomed airliner, I was ready to say goodbye.
Before departing (I was inclined to say ‘leaving’), a close friend of mine did all he could to reassure me: “After all,” he said philosophically, “it’s not the flying you have to worry about, just the crashing.”
First Day in Gdansk is the third in a series of posts that recount my first visit to Kaliningrad in 2000, and my first impressions of the land, the people and its culture.
Published: 1 September 2019 | Updated: 9 January 2022 ~ Kaliningrad 2000: First Day in Gdansk
My brother likes breakfasts. He does not like getting up for breakfast, or, to be more precise, he would rather breakfast was at half-past-three in the afternoon, which for him it often is. For him breakfast is, de rigueur, a full fatty fry, otherwise known as a Full English, aka an overfull Englishman. So, when he emerged from his room this morning, impelled to do so by the fact that breakfast was included within the hotel tariff, the absence of three whopping great sausages, a load of greasy bacon, a fried slice or two, two fried eggs, beans, tomatoes and a loaf of toasted bread was not so easily digested. He soon cheered up, however, when he discovered the as ‘much as you can eat’ Polish buffet, a culinary experience typical in this part of the world and one which through its familiarity over the coming days would induce him to coin the catchphrase ‘cold meats and cheeses’ whenever the words Poland and breakfast were brought into close proximity.
We were only
in Gdansk for a couple of days, in transit, so to speak, so any sight-seeing
that we hoped to do would be at the very best fleeting. Apart from exploring
English breakfasts, my brother was a keen tourist, but he was not convinced
that cold meats and cheeses were nutritionally sufficient to ward off the worst
effects of the ever-sinking ambient temperature, so before heading off into the
great outdoors we bulked out our bodies with as much winter clothing as we could
and succeeded in looking dafter than we usually did.
Needless to say, our urban excursion took us into what today are well-known tourist destinations: Ulica Długa (Long Street) and Długi Targ (Long Market). Then, we knew nothing of these places. As I have said before, I am no globe trotter, but I am, and always have been, more than just a little fascinated by my mysterious fascination with time, with my love for history and need for the past.
Trip to Kaliningrad, Russia. Poland, Gdansk in 2000.
Of the history of Gdansk, I was sadly lacking, but I did know enough about architecture to understand that the great proportion of the 17th century buildings in the ‘old’ quarter, with their Flemish (Dutch), Italian and French influences, were predominantly reconstructions. Adolf Hitler and Co had made certain sweeping changes back in the 1940s and subsequent generations of architects, designers and town planners had embarked upon an adventurous and inspirational programme of rebuilding with (oddly enough) minimum attention to Germanic influences.
To what extent a reconstructed building, street, district can be said to embody the cultural-historic significance of its predecessor is a moot point. I personally prefer not to erase the patina from original antique furniture, but when it does happen the piece concerned can still retain historical value and suffer no detraction in its aesthetic appeal. Admittedly, it may no longer be the complete genuine article, but as long as it possesses something of its past it cannot be discounted, and on this day back in the year 2000 my novice traveller status, love for the past and for architecture left me with an impression of Gdansk’s historic district that was and is distinctly memorable.
My memory of atmosphere is possibly only challenged by the recollection of how cold it was on that day but also how wonderful it felt to leave the outside chill for the warmth, comfort and cosy interior of a welcoming café-bar and then, having fortified ourselves with hot food and red wine, to return enthusiastically to the crisp and snow-flurried streets.
St Mary’s Church Gdansk
Olga, who had visited Gdansk on three or four occasions prior to our visit, was eager to visit again the large ~ very large ~ church which was located in the district that we were visiting. The building to which I refer is, of course, the world-renowned St Mary’s Church, believed to be the largest brick-built church in the world, dating back to the mid-to-late 14th century. As with most of Gdansk’s buildings, this, too, was severely damaged during WWII and extensive renovation and rebuilding had been required to return it to its former glory. Fortunately, most of the ancient and valuable artworks contained within the church were removed for safekeeping early in the war and many have since been returned.
If a small English parish church can entrance me with its age and history, you can imagine how intensely mesmerised I was by St Mary’s Church, Gdansk.
Guide books would be doing St Mary’s Church a great disservice if they failed to mention the clock and the great views of the city afforded from the 78-metre tower (they always do mention these things, mind), but as one time traveller to another my advice to you is simply visit the church yourself and feel the history.
Time is fascinating and time was ticking on; we were getting peckish; the cold meats and cheeses were definitely wearing off and, apart from that, we all agreed that it was time to sup some ale. Until now, we had been drinking vodka, but only because of the difficulty of fitting an appreciable amount of beer into a hip flask, and having renounced grim lager many years hence, we were none too keen to start again now.
Vodka was not a beverage that appealed to me either. I had had a bad experience with it many years ago, when I was nine years old to be precise. One nice sunny day I had raided my mother’s drink cupboard, filled a bottle with vodka and undiluted orange squash and, together with a friend, had taken it on a picnic. Between us, we consumed the entire bottle. That evening I was at church, singing in the choir. Gothic churches are great places to commune with history, but they take on an altogether different aspect when they are spinning like a top. The hangover was also magnificent!
On the subject of bars (which we mostly are), whilst our Polish hotel had no such facility, on our return from wherever it was we had been, we happened on one but a short walk away, and this is where we ended our evening.
Tomorrow would be Christmas Day in Gdansk.
Gdansk 2000. On our way to Kaliningrad, Russia. Mick Hart & brother Joss …
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.
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)
There are a plethora of travel guides out there on the internet that like to make sweeping statements about Russian people, as if the people of the largest country in the world can be whittled down to fit ~ like a misconceived square peg into the round hole of consolation. After much negative stereotyping, these articles tend to intimate that in spite of what you have heard, when you meet them Russian people are not so bad after all. It is suggested that they come across as brusque, even rude, but, guess what! ~ when you get to know them they are just as superb and wonderful as any English, German or American person. And what is more, despite having been brought up cooking behind an Iron Curtain, their food is no less delicious.
Armed then
with this image of a bear with sandwiches, we had not the slightest misgiving
or uncharitable apprehension that later today we would have the extraordinary
experience of meeting and dining with Olga’s mum.
First, we
had to get to Kaliningrad, because remember, Dear Reader, Olga had been so
concerned that her English visitors would baulk at the imperfections there that
she had taken the precaution of squirreling them away in the coastal resort of
Svetlogorsk, had installed them in the Hotel Russ, where everything was obvious
and the fitness centre was minus its wheel.
Yesterday,
we had travelled by taxi from Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk, but today, whether to
save money or merely to be brave, Olga suggested that we go by train.
We had
returned to the Russ from our afternoon drink in the bar, which had no toilet,
got changed ~ rugged ourselves up ~ trudged our way back through the new fall
of snow, it was snowing as we did so, to arrive at Svetlogorsk’s railway
station just as dusk was gathering. We were right on time: a big, old solid
lump of a train was making its way ponderously along the track to where we
stood at the end of the line.
Trains waiting at Svetlogorsk Station, December 2000
Quickly ~
as quick as it was possible with conditions as they were ~ we hurried along the
length of the platform, passing this beast of a train’s bull-nose front until
we reached the first carriage door. Unlike British trains where, in getting on
and off, you are constantly advised to ‘mind the gap’, here it was a case of
mind the small, narrow, rusty iron steps up which you have to teeter if you
want to get inside. As the doors were shut when we arrived, there was no small
amount of dexterity involved in ascending, balancing and opening them, but
teamwork won the day, and before you could say ‘arse over head’ we were on
board and, a few seconds later, on boards. Through no fault of a
well-illuminated carriage we could have been forgiven for believing that
British vandalism had arrived in Russia at last, but it soon dawned on me, with
the cold comfort of a Cold War documentary, that Western decadence would simply not be
countenanced, that there really were not any cushions or padding upon the
seats, just two long rows of slat-back wooden benches.
I ignored
what I thought was my brother saying something like “who’s going to pick the
splinters out” and made my way to the seat at the other end of the carriage.
There may not have been neon lights above our heads saying ‘Look at us, we’re
foreigners’, but the inhabitants of the carriage were gawping at us all the
same.
They
continued to gawp, as if all were one, even though it necessitated some
backward craning on their part, whilst we found that we could not hear each
other speak below the sound of our peculiar whispering. Fortunately, unlike Max
Bygraves, the train never lingered longer, for, with a sickening, unannounced
jolt, which took the audience as much by surprise as it had us, wrenching their
heads in the other direction, we and the hulking train lurched clumsily out of
the station.
Within a
few moments of rolling along we had to admit to each other that although the
seats had looked hard, cold, hostile and uninviting they were all that and more
besides. There was no heat in the carriage; a couple of young scruffy looking
blokes were taking it in turns to drain a bottle of vodka; two old babushkas,
who simply could not refrain from turning their heads every now and then, gave us a withering stare; a gnarled
old man, his coat pulled up over his
ears, rocked back and forth with the rhythm of the train, one minute asleep,
one minute not; and almost everyone without exception was dragging on a fag, ~
not that this bothered us, tobacco smoking had not quite yet become the
wretched victim of self-proclaimed health zealots. I cannot remember whether we
lit up or not, but we most likely did. Brother Joss always had a packet of
roll-ups with him in those days, and besides, the complete and utter absence of
any detectable heating system made striking the match appealing.
Svetlogorsk to Kaliningrad by Train: Tickets Pashalsta!
I was just
wondering when and how we would pay for this magic carpet ride, when a
fierce-looking babushka armed with a large leather handbag waved that secret
weapon menacingly in our direction and snarled something at us, which might
have meant anything, such as ‘Hand over your roll-ups’. Such was her fierce
demeanour that we would have quite willingly handed over anything had not Olga,
taking money out of her purse and passing it to the handbag waver, received in
exchange three slips of paper. Ahhh, so these were our tickets to ride.
In spite of
the excitement, Kaliningrad seemed an age away. The old engine and its ‘ready
for retirement long ago’ rolling stock, rocked, swayed, groaned and complained
every snowbound inch of the way. The undernourished light cast a yellow shroud
over the carriage windows through which nothing could be seen except darkness
and small rivers of snow, which stretched out across the opaque expanse and
collected in miniature drifts along the lower edge of the sills. It was a long
journey; a hard-on-your bum journey; and a very cold journey; but we got there
in the end ~ we actually made it.
The No
Frills Travel Company operated from a station which was not in the least
different from what you would expect: it seemed that no expense had been spared
in reinforced concrete and metal struts.
We
alighted, a little undignified, from the steep, narrow and rickety steps, onto
a slab. A bitter wind was channeling through the yawning end of the station
canopy and what signs there were to tell us how to escape from it were all, of
course, in Russian. As this was Olga’s home town, she did know the way, and
although nothing softening or unremitting greeted us in the station’s concrete underside,
simply evading the wind’s cutting edge was consolation enough.
We were now
passing along the same subterranean passages that we had traversed yesterday
when we arrived in Kaliningrad, from which we would cross the vast rectangular
concourse, and out through one of a number of wonderfully arched Gothic doors.
We had done this, and were now standing, ankle deep in snow, on the perimeter
of that vast concrete plain where yesterday my senses had been so seductively
stimulated by a scene so typically Soviet.
This
evening, however, there were no shoveling soldiers and all but one lonely taxi
driver. All was quiet on the Eastern Front.
Fortunately,
we had done our bit with public transport for the time being and were now all
together looking out for Olga’s friend, the man who was going to meet us. We
did not have long to wait.
Antiques & collectables
Andrew was
a big man; you could not make out his features as he had a muffler over the
lower half of his face and a woolly hat pulled firmly down on his head. He
shook our hands warmly, exchanged a few short words with Olga, laughed and
embraced us and then beckoned for us to follow. Olga had confided my love of history
and antiques to him and he was now leading us to an antique and collectables
shop some few yards away on the edge of the station carpark.
The antique shop was located in a large room in one of the relatively few remaining original Königsberg buildings. Access was gained by passing through a large, heavy, metal studded door, on the other side of which was a veritable cornucopia of Soviet and pre-Soviet Königsberg relics ~ I’ve stopped short of claiming that it was Aladdin’s Cave, as Aladdin would most likely have found it difficult to get a visa here and is most likely on his way to England as we speak in the back of a Co-op lorry.
I shall not
dwell on all the goodies I was interested in here, or what I would have liked
to have bought. In a couple of days’, we would return to this shop and make
three or four purchases. Suffice it to say, that for someone who had spent a
lifetime involved with antiques and curios this was a place far beyond Aladdin
and his half-brother Ali Barber (since arrested in Rochdale).
We were
actually on our way to Olga’s mums, but our driver, Andrew, had been asked by
Olga to wheel us around via Königsberg Cathedral, at this time one of the few
historic buildings to have been given the green light for restoration.
Königsberg Cathedral
Königsberg Cathedral (this photo taken in winter 2004)
As we
drove, I remember passing by a great concrete monolith, softened by and
shrouded in snow, and thinking to myself, what on earth is that? (I was later
to learn it was the ‘House of the Soviets’). But the soon-to-hove-into view
Gothic turret, high perpendicular gables and broad sweeping roof of Königsberg
Cathedral erased all other sentiments, save for that inspired by the sublime
scene in front of me. Now when I look back on my first impression of Königsberg
Cathedral, its haunting profile sketched against a whiteboard of snow, I gain
some insight into the extent to which already the dark and troubled past of
this place had begun to draw me in. But whilst the vast silhouette stamped its
indelible mark, my recollections of the interior of Königsberg Cathedral in the
year 2000 are vague to say the least. I was entranced by my first view of the
external edifice but wrote very little in my diary about what lay behind the
great oak doors. I mention renovation work to various wall monuments and note
that it was not possible at that time to venture further than the ground floor,
but much more than this I did not register, although the impression I have is that unlike today
the doors opened into one very large rectangular room in which seating and
other appurtenances seemed to be at a minimum.
And that, strangely enough, is all that I can recall of Königsberg Cathedral on the inside; whilst the memory of its outside has never let go of me … and never let me go.
“… and
then, to top it all off, they passed the bill to me!” This was Joss recounting
his adventures the night before over breakfast, which was ~surprise, surprise ~
a Russian version of cold meats and cheeses.
“So,” I clarified,
“you all had plenty of food and the most expensive whisky and brandy and they
(his hosts) asked you to pay the bill?”
“No,” he
snorted, “They ordered what they wanted and then simply shoved the bill in my
direction. What could I do? I couldn’t say anything as I can’t speak the
lingo!”
“How about,
‘How much is a crash course in Russian?’”
There is something extremely satisfying about an inveterate bill dodger being caught out at his own game!
It had stopped
snowing, but the temperature had dropped. Some grit had been applied to the Russ
pathway but beyond that it was fairly treacherous underfoot. Across the road from the Russ the silver birch
woodland was as picturesque as one could wish for, the floor covered in a thick
bed of snow and the treetops artistically crystalised.
Joss Hart in the silver birch tree wood opposite the Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, year 2000. (Photo is blurred because of the quality of an old-world camera and a couple of hangovers.) Note the traditional Soviet hat!.
The walk into town took us on a route passed buildings of a most curious nature, each one different from the other. Immediately next to the Russ, on the same side of the road, there was another hotel, half-completed but with the front section, which was of concrete-block construction, yet windowless, over which a large crane hovered.
Svetlogorsk architecture
On the left
side of the road, there were three or four new-builds, the architectural style of
which varied immensely from building to building but all incorporating some or
mixed elements of Gothic, Baroque and
Neo-Classicism. The pastiche shouted conspicuous affluence, the contrasting
styles sitting uneasily with each other but rendered plausible thanks to their salutary
regard for the East Prussian influence from which they had sprung.
Grand house, Svetlogorsk, December 2000
On the right side of the road, the majority of houses were older and much more simple and humble. These were small one-storey buildings, possibly dating to the early 20th century, but with small windows in the gable end suggesting attic space above and most, if not all, having (shock and alarm in England!!) corrugated asbestos roofs. There was a shanty-town down-at-heel honesty about these dwellings, with their hotchpotch of wooden porches built on during the Soviet era and lean-tos in various states of semi-collapse. On the corner of this road, same side and opposite to an as of yet incomplete new-build with Gothic tower, stood a large, unseemly concrete and brick block of flats, each floor equipped with integral and continuous open balcony. It may have been the middle of winter, but this had not prevented someone from stringing up a line, from which their washing hung stiff and frozen in the rapidly descending temperature.
Acclimatised
to the never-ending sameness of British weather, where seasons meld into one, we
were intrigued to learn that today the temperature had dropped to -10 degrees.
The snow was very crisp under foot and treacherous ice patches kept us ever vigilant
in our quest to avoid one of those embarrassing arse-over-head experiences. As
we turned into the long road to the town, the pavement was the proverbial
accident waiting to happen.
New Russian House c.2000. No longer in existence c.2020??
This road contained few houses on the left; on the right there were some beautiful, genuine old houses, small, set back inside woodland groves. What houses there were on the left were extravagant in every sense ~ large, out of proportion with their neighbours, bristling with different-sized windows on every conceivable level and surrounded by high, black wrought-iron fences. These were the properties of New Rich Russians, a term which in those times was used pejoratively. I was to encounter this label often over the next few days, and it would be used in a tone that was as cold as the ambient temperature. It seemed to me that the inherent contempt was a hang-back to the Soviet-era’s emphasis on a level society in which any hierarchical structure, as defined by wealth or class, was frowned upon as being dangerously bourgeoisie, smacked of Capitalist individualism and was tainted by the trappings of conspicuous consumption.
Exploring Svetlogorsk ~ Commemorative Chapel
We continued to walk. This road was a long one, with no deviation. By and by we stopped beside a small clearing in which an unassuming white chapel set in grounds away from the road could be seen. This building had a sad and tragic history to it, as it marked the spot where a Soviet plane crashed into a school building back in 1972.
Mick Hart & Olga outside the Commemorative Chapel in Svetlogorsk , year 2000
Now on the
left, we were walking past a large open square which had what looked to be a
makeshift stage on one side and on the other the little café-bar which we had
frequented the night before. A few yards down from this we passed a couple more
historic Svetlogorsk houses, fronted by snow-filled gardens adjacent to the
road, and here we were in the centre of Svetlogorsk.
The centre
was basically a wider, more open area situated or build around a crossroads. On
our right there was a café-bar, across the road on our left a shop, on the
opposite side of the road in front of us a small, modern (glass and
steel-framed) snack bar and, on the opposite side of the road, a large, non-descript,
uniform municipal building.
Olga steered us off to the right, where we passed a glass-fronted restaurant. On the opposite side of the road stood two Prussian blocks of wooden-framed buildings, shutters on either sides of the windows and pretty carved fascia boards above, the latter festooned with rows and clusters of icicles.
We were now
heading towards the ‘front’, and to do this we would have to descend along a broad
pathway that snaked its way down the steep banks to the promenade. The wind
whipped across this section of coastline and, although buffered by the woodland
on either side of us and in spite of our extra layers of clothing, was
inhospitable enough to force us to take shelter in the nearest place dispensing
warmth, hot food and beverages.
At this
time, Svetlogorsk promenade was serviced by one café only (a far cry from
today!). According to my diary, what I liked best about this cafe was the coat
and hat-check facility. This was not something that we were used to in the
provincial part of England where we hailed from, and the elegant formality of
it seemed to belong to an altogether more refined and bygone era. My ‘second
first’ in this café was an introduction to the Russian menu. Unlike in England,
where the fare is typed on the front and
back of a piece of card, the average Russian menu was so extensive that it was
presented to you in the form of a large book, covered in simulated leather
~ a weighty tome, indeed, which would
not look out of place should Eamon Andrews be handing it to you (showing my age
again). Every page of this wonderful book was rammed with meaty delights,
cooked and served in every way imaginable; salivating stuff indeed if you happened
to be a carnivore, but if it so happened that you had renounced consumption of
animal flesh, as I had, then this great big book was woefully short of grub.
Englishmen & Vegetarians
At this
time vegetarianskee options were a long
way from catching on in Russia and, whilst most people in this western
extremity of the country no longer react with amazement when you reveal that
you do not eat meat, your strange preference is still met with a visible degree
of perplexity whether dining at someone’s house or eating out in café or
restaurant. On this occasion, long ago, Olga did manage to organise something
akin to borsch, the most traditional of Russian dishes, but very few places
other than this would be willing to make me borsch with the essential
ingredient, meat, excluded.
The next rift with tradition was trying to get a cup of tea with milk. The problem here was the inverse of meat: with meat dishes it was necessary to exclude, whilst with tea, it was all a matter of remembering to include. To this day, whenever we order tea (chi) in a café , restaurant or hotel, the milk is always forgotten, and it is not altogether unknown to be asked with a puzzled expression ‘skolka?’, how much?, and even then you can sometimes end up with a tumbler full.
Hurdles are there to be overcome, hoops are there to be jumped through and the cold outside was waiting for us. Wrapped up and back outside, we continued along the prom, our attention and progress arrested by the sight of a rather peculiar tower, rectangular of shape and clad entirely in large sheets of corrugated tin. This, Olga explained, was a lift shaft, the lift within ready to transport you to the elevated ground above, only today it was not working. That was a shame, I thought, as it looked well dodgy and dangerous. We also passed another means of aerial transport, this time in the form of small bucket-shaped cable cars, the wire on which they were suspended following the slope of the bank. A note in my 2000 diary refers to rust and a certain degree of lopsidedness, the implication being that I had been rather pleased to discover that these were not working either, even if it did mean walking up the steep incline. And very steep it was and very slippery.
Exploring Svetlogorsk ~ Bar No Toilet
Approximately
three-quarters of the way up this hill, the urge for a pint kicked in and when
it did we were fortunate enough to be a snowballs throw away from a neon sign
with ‘Bar’ written on it. The old-fashioned red neon tube was a sight for sore
eyes, frozen hands and almost unfeeling toes. From the outside this bar looked
exceptionally basic and the inside did not disappoint me: half-a-dozen round
tables with four plain chairs around each, a high, short counter, two beer
engines and an electric fire ~ my kind of place. Olga had a vodka and Joss and
I had two ice cold lagers ~ just the ticket for this sort of weather!
We must
have spent at least forty minutes in this humble but gratifying establishment,
during which we were watched by the bar staff as if we had just landed from
Pluto. We soon learnt that our presence in the Kaliningrad region was
singularly astonishing; we tended to be regarded somewhere between exotic and
alien, or exotic aliens, with an oscillating reaction which swung back and
forth from amused curiosity to highly suspicious caution. At first it was
unnerving, but, as we became accustomed to it and realised it was par for the
course, the attention we received appealed to our sense of the exciting and
comic. Besides, if we knew nothing else, we had armed ourselves with one very
important and versatile Russian phrase, which was Ya nee penymio (I
don’t understand).
This phrase came into its own when we enquired Gdye
toylete? And the answer came back, “We haven’t got one.” I had often used
this response when I was younger to guests who were visiting our family home;
their confusion was delightful. But now with the tables turned it did not seem
quite so funny. Further enquiry, with our legs crossed, revealed that although
they really did not have a toilet, patrons were welcome to use the toilet block
outside that belonged to an establishment on the opposite side of the street.
In normal circumstances, ie normal being when the steeply sloping road outside was not covered by a glacier, such an excursion may have been a considerably less arduous and adventurous undertaking, but even with my brother and I providing more than moral support to each other we ended up sliding this way and that in a helpless fit of the giggles. Fortunately, no accidents accrued, in any place where they might have done when one is dying for a pee whilst inadvertently ice skating, and having mastered this peculiarly Russian ritual, we downed another pint and headed back to the Russ where, ‘isn’t it obvious’, we had returned for a short respite and a snack before travelling into Kaliningrad for our first experience of Russian hospitality.
I recently visited the Hotel Russ (August 2019). It is interesting to observe what has changed in the past 20 years and what has not. The following description is taken from my notes of the Hotel Russ as it was on that celebrated day in 2000 when we first arrived in Russia, almost 20 years ago. Later, we hope to write a review of what it is like to stay in the Russ today. Meanwhile, this was our first experience …
Having passed through the main gate of the Hotel Russ in Svetlogorsk, we followed the path along the side of the building to the entrance. Two large glass doors opened up into a wide, airy and spacious foyer. You could not miss the reception area as it was elevated and had the word ‘Reception’ emblazoned across it, surprisingly in English.
Reception area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000
To get there necessitated climbing up two or three steps
onto a wider platform and then approaching the bar. I do not mean the sort you
get in pubs; this experience was rather more similar to approaching the bar in
court (as far as I am aware).
The two young ladies behind the counter were, well,
beautiful springs to mind, but it was a cold, unsmiling kind of beauty; the
next word that sprung to mind was ‘’officious and, after that, ‘very’. Olga did
the talking; we did the looking and the walking.
From our elevated position we could see that on one side of
us there was, indeed, a bar. We both felt instantly better ~ who said ‘at
home’?
Bar area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000
The bar area contained the usual outcrops of tables and chairs, which extended down one side to the end of the building. The chairs were chromium backed and the round tables marbled topped. Indeed, marble ~ or simulated marble ~appeared to be the material of the day within the Hotel Russ. To the left of us, in front of the bar, stood a row of tall, square-section pillars, which fanned out in vaulted form before folding into the ceiling. One of the pillars was decorated with artificial shrubs and climbing plants and beneath it we could hear a water feature bubbling
The area beyond the pillars was effectively the hotel lounge. It was well appointed, with a bank of windows which extended along the entire side of the room and soared up into the heavens above. The ceiling was very high, and if you stood in this lavish area, with its reproduction antique furniture and comfy, cushioned divans, and looked up at the ceiling it was evident they had designed the Russ to look like an ocean liner, complete with curving staircase that took you up majestically onto the upper deck.
Lounge area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000
As grand as they were, we did not take the steps. Our
luggage was extremely heavy and bulky, even discounting the Sausage, so we took
the lift instead.
A tall, thin man, with a face he had purchased from Serious
& Co, was summoned to help us with our luggage. He came across the room in
a most peculiar way, but it was not until he turned back again towards the lift
with a couple of bags, including the Sausage, which were far too heavy for him
to manage, that my brother, with an alacrity of mind that was so atypical that
he must have borrowed it for the occasion, identified the gait as ‘mincing’.
From that moment on, our tall assistant would be known to us as Mincer and
Mincer he became.
From left to right: Joss Hart, a man from the Hotel Russ and Mick Hart , December 2000
For a big hotel the lift was little. It was also not very
wide. Certainly not wide enough for Olga, Joss, myself, two hefty cases, the
Sausage and Mr Mincer. We got in and were all squashed up, something like Dad’s
Army when they all crowd into the vicar’s office. There was nothing for it,
something would have to give. So Olga got out and walked upstairs. There goes
another myth, ‘the typical English gentlemen’.
It was a small lift and it was also a very slow lift. It did
not start moving straightaway. Titter ye not, I thought, but it was hard not to
all cramped up like that with Mincer looking so serious. But we knew better
than to laugh in Russia ~ thank heavens for the stiff upper lip.
Ping, went the lift, at last. I felt as if we had travelled
to the top of the Empire State Building not just to the first floor. Joss and I
squeezed out and Mincer followed, or he would have done had not the mischievous
Sausage found another small door to straddle. We helped our hapless baggage boy
out and relieved him of the obnoxious case.
We were now standing in a wide area overlooking the bar, three
or four tables and chairs around the perimeter and a pool table in the centre.
The rooms on this floor were arranged around an oblong balcony with the
centrepiece open and from which you could look down onto the floor below.
The first room that we entered was the one reserved for my
brother, Joss. It was not bad at all. A little formal, perhaps, by British
standards, I mean not at all like Mrs Musson’s Guest House at number six No-Beach
Brightlingsea, but lacking nothing in the clean, neat, tidy and comfortable
department.
In addition to the usual appurtenances, Joss had a large,
three-quarter size bed and a rubber plant.
Next it was our room, which was on the other side of the
balcony facing the Rus garden. In we went, all excited, only to discover that
our double room was smaller than Joss’ single and that whilst he had a double
bed ~ of sorts ~ we had two singles?
My brother has always been a true gentleman, mostly by
accident, and today was one of those, because he surprised us all, including
himself (and that doesn’t happen very often) by making the supreme sacrifice:
he was willing to give his room up for ours ~ to swap rooms.
Isn’t it obvious!?
Feeling altogether sensible Olga went downstairs to
reception to request the transfer. She was back almost quicker than she went
with the intelligence that we could not change rooms as Joss had a single room
and we had a double, so any change was impossible. The exact response from the
ladies at reception had been, “Isn’t it obvious: the single room is for the
single person and the double for two people”.
To say that we were not perplexed would be an understatement
and Olga, perceiving that her two English associates had been skittled, left
them sitting on the bed in Joss’ room, to which we had retreated, sipping vodka
thoughtfully out of a hip flask, whilst she went off ‘to see what could be
done’.
Ten minutes later she returned. “It’s OK, they are taking
care of it,” she assured us.
And they were, sure enough, but not in the way they might
have done it back home. As we walked past the open door to our bedroom, we
caught sight of the solution to the problem, in the shape of two burly Russian
gentleman moving the single beds together and securing the legs at either end
with two thick pieces of rope. This made us chuckle; Olga was not amused. She
was also not very amused as in passing the upper extremities of the Christmas
tree, which extended from the ground floor up through the oval aperture almost
to the roof, Joss noted that there was no adorning fairy or star on the top.
His suggestion to hang an old pair of underpants on it was a step too far in
the smutty English humour direction for Olga, and she went from feeling annoyed
to visibly irritated.
To take the wind out of her sails (my brother was also suffering from wind, and she was not too amused about that, either), I suggested a tour around the hotel to get ourselves familiarised with it. At such a time when many companies were still in the embryonic stage of website development, surprisingly enough the Russ was ahead of itself, and we had been able to appraise the quality of this 4-Star hotel by consulting its site ahead of our trip.
As we descended, this time by the grand staircase, we met
Mincer on the ground floor, and Olga asked him if we could see the sports
centre. “It’s broken,” he replied.
Joss and I shot a glance at each other: perhaps something
was lost in translation?
Broken or not our guide continued. We followed him down a
short flight of stairs into what appeared to be a typical sports centre
changing room, wide and open with slatted bench seats around the wall. We then
turned right into a passageway. Against the wall stood an exercise bike, its
front wheel hanging off. Mincer said something. Olga translated: “Broken,” she
said.
There was little point in arguing. But what about the swimming pool, surely the wheel could not have fallen off that.
It had not. But it had shrunk. On the photographs it
appeared to be a full-size pool, whereas, in real life, it was a large, deep bathtub
into which one plunged after vacating the sauna. Was the sauna working? Er …
Fully refreshed after our workout, we returned to our
respective rooms. Olga had made arrangements to meet with her friend, Helen,
the plan being that we would venture into Svetlogorsk for a drink, but what was
needed now was a cup of tea and a refreshing bath.
Don’t drink the water
Spoilt by literally having drinking water on tap in England,
Olga had alerted us to the fact that in the Kaliningrad region it was strictly
a case of ‘don’t drink the water’. I wondered whether it could be as bad as we
had been led to believe. The answer came when I began to fill the bathtub. To
say that the water was black may well be an overstatement, but it was certainly
getting that way. We called Joss in from his room to witness this hitherto
unseen spectacle, and then we had Olga ring to reception to report the anomaly.
Her reply was, “Isn’t it obvious? You must let the water run!” So, we did
exactly that, until we feared that we had dissipated half of Svetlogorsk’s
water reserves. Oh, well, we would have to forgo the bath. But what about
something to eat? Something simple, such as a cheese and tomato sandwich prior
to going out on the town? Our request, by phone to reception, was met with some
confusion. The person who took the call had to consult with somebody else.
Eventually we were informed that we could have two slices of bread, some cheese
and tomatoes on the side of the plate, but they could not do a sandwich. Well,
I thought, isn’t it obvious!
It was around this time that we received a phone call to
reception from another of Olga’s friends. Olga telephoned the friend in return
and was invited to go out somewhere for a drink. As we had a prior engagement,
we declined, but Joss solved the double commitment by electing to meet up with
the second party whilst we went ahead with our original plans.
Joss’ company arrived first. They were a couple, both
persons of which were, I thought, most refined in dress and in manner. What
would they make of my brother, I mused, as they whisked him away for the evening?
Olga’s friend, Helen, arrived a few minutes later:
attractive, very sweet natured but, I thought, rather, and unduly, concerned
about my first impressions of Svetlogorsk. I had no idea as to why this apprehension
should constitute the status quo in these parts, although I realised later that
in the year 2000, apart from Germans returning to the region to see where their
family once lived, foreigners were quite a rare species and English men
perfectly alien.
Out into the cold ~ very cold ~ and snow-laden night we
ventured, retracing the route that our taxi had taken. We had difficulty walking,
the snow was that thick and, where it was not, it was that icy. Also, as I had
observed earlier, there were little or no streetlights of which to speak.
Sundial sculpture on Svetlogorsk promenade during the winter, December 2000
Our pedestrianisation seemed to go on forever, until we took a right turn in the direction of the sea. We eventually reached the top of a steep bank of steps. I could hear the sea in the near distance and feel the sea air ~ it was as sharp as the proverbial razor blade! Carefully, very carefully, we picked our way down the gallery of steps until we reached the promenade. Directly in front of us stood a man-made and man height (sorry about the lack of PCism) sundial, the wedge-shaped blade reflecting what light there was as it cut its way upwards from the ground. I took hold of this blade, and, in listening to the rolling sound of the tide, thought to myself, “I’m actually here!” (Do not forget, dear reader, that having read or heard nothing positive about Russia since I was a child and, more recent to the time of my trip, having been the recipient of negative media coverage from, without exception, every UK media source available and, in particular official channels (no change there, then!) make no mistake that being in Russia was a truly awesome thought!)
It used to be
The icy blast across the Baltics rendered any further deliberation
untenable, and we cut a hasty retreat. It had been somewhat easier descending
than ascending, and we stopped at the top of the steps to catch our breath. To
our left there were a couple of derelict buildings, about which Helen
volunteered some information as to what they used to be. By the time we had
reached our destination, a café-bar close to Svetlogorsk centre, ‘this used to
be’ had developed into a catchphrase. We passed several collapsing or deserted
structures all of which had been ‘Used to Bees’.
A welcome sight was a little neon sign marking the spot
where a café-bar stood. As we drew closer, I could make out a single-storey
building with a glass door. There was nothing else around the building. Today,
as with most of Svetlogorsk, this area has been developed, but the little café
into which I first took refuge on 27 December 2000 is, I am pleased to say,
still there and still functioning and nothing much, if anything, has changed!
Inside, the café was a simple rectangular room, tables
ranged down either side and in the far corner to the right a small semi-circular
or curved bar. The establishment was neither grand nor overtly plain. The
lighting was just right ~ not too bright, not too dim ~ and the walls were
conservatively decorated with framed pictures of the Svetlogorsk coastline and
town. Most importantly, on a night like this, it was cosy, comfortable and warm
~ and, of course, it was also licensed.
I cannot remember what lager I drank that evening. I did not
really bother. As a seasoned real-ale drinker, I had made my mind up in advance
that anything lagerish would be poor, but I drank it all the same.
My one abiding memory of this establishment, and one that
would stay with me for a long time, was that there was only one toilet, and it
was unisex. This perplexed me a little. There were only three other people
apart from us in the bar, but, when the establishment was full, how did a
one-toilet system work? The other thing that surprised me about this odd
Russian toilet arrangement was that you were unable to use the facility unless
you asked for a key from the bar. I would learn later that this inconvenient
convenience was by no means a one-off and in some places today the tradition has
not moved on much!
I also learnt this evening that whenever I spoke English in
a café or a restuarant I would be looked at ~ and I do not mean in the sense of
a casual glance! As I noted earlier, foreigners were a rare thing in ‘these
‘ere parts’ and when you were looked at you were really looked at. I believe
that throughout the 45 minutes we were in this bar, the other inhabitants, bar
staff included, never took their eyes off me, not for a single moment.
We moved on, not because of this, but to pastures anew. If
anything, our brief sojourn and the comfort afforded by it, had rendered the
great outdoors even more hostile, or perhaps the temperature was dropping even
further.
Café Mozart , Svetlogorsk
Luckily, we had only walked a short distance before another
neon sign glowed its way into our vision: in a purple-red flowing script, it identified
the building on which it was erected as the Café Mozart.
I will never forget that first encounter with the Mozart.
The building was well lit on this extremely murky but atmospheric evening, a
large picture window flooding the ground with light outside, whilst other lit
windows and external lamps threw patches of light onto this and that aspect of
the building and wove shadows above and around, picking out and hiding at will
the nooks, crannies, decor and detail of what was unequivocally a fine example
of the Gothic Revival style. As we approached, the wooden slatted and clad
exterior put me in mind of early 20th century American Romanticist
architecture, but it was far too chilly a night to bring this contemplation to a
proper conclusion.
Inside the building, large and spacious as it was, there was
a traditional dance floor to the right, complete with revolving glitter ball,
and to the left a good-sized lounge with a welcoming fire. Although this was
not a real log fire but a gas-fired replica, it made the interior very cosy
indeed. Comfortable bench seats lined the window, with armchairs and sofas
scattered here and there inviting you to sink into them, an over-mantle mirror
hung above the fireplace, which may or may not have been authentic antique, and
various framed pictures adorned the wallpapered walls, the mood lighting from a
combination of pendant and wall-mounted lamps making this habitat the perfect
choice for reasonable refreshment and good conversation.
As for the latter, most of that revolved around what it was
like to live in England and the English way of life. I would soon learn that
the Russian vision of Merry England was as quaintly outdated as our authorised
version of what it was like to live in Russia today.
Sad to say, the Mozart, which had affected me with such appealing and positive vibes, closed shortly after this visit ~ at least it was closed when I returned a year later, never to re-open in the same style. Six months ago, the building was up for sale. It has been on the market for a long while and may still be for sale today.
Strangely enough, there is nothing in my year 2000 diary regarding our first glimpse of Kaliningrad by train. Later, in 2001, when I returned to Kaliningrad via Vilnius, I did refer to the maze of concrete jutting out and across the horizon which asserted itself as our train drew near and the daunting prospect that this presented compared to the quaint medieval streets of the city from which we had departed, and which now was a long way behind us.
This omission in my 2000 diary may have been due to the fact that the scene on my arrival had such a potent effect. For we had passed through the exit of Kaliningrad station onto a Spielberg film set.
Outside the door was snow ~ a wide plateau of it. It was still snowing heavily and fall upon fall had covered melted snow that had since turned to ice. Directly outside the railway station’s door stood two old army trucks, both open backed. From one spilled a group of young Russian soldiers, the other was being filled with snow by a second group of soldiers attempting to clear a path through the drifts. The engines of the trucks were running, and the strong smell of diesel fumes wafted across the wasteland. The shovel blades beat an erratic tattoo, thumping against the snow, cracking at the ice and scraping across the concrete. Spielberg’s costume department had spared no expense. Each soldier was garbed in smart regulation great coat, thick woollen trousers, high canvas boots and those distinctive furry Russian hats with flaps (ushankas).
Nearby, two or three comrades (for that is what they looked like) squashed inside big heavy coats, black peaked caps with folding side flaps stuck upon their heads, all bewhiskered and dragging on fags, huddled around a big old oil drum that had been requisitioned as a source of warmth. Another of these makeshift braziers burned a few feet away. Red and orange flames funnelled from their tops together with bright little firework sparks, which danced, crackled and exploded loudly in the frozen atmosphere.
In front of us, across the expanse of white, stood a three or four storey procession of grey concrete flats. This was not Kaliningrad 2022, so our view was virtually unimpeded, the only large object being the statue of Kalinin, his arm and hand outstretched as if commanding the heavens to stop dropping snow. Behind him, along the top of the not-so venerable buildings, giant metal letters spread out along parallel bars, the imposing Cyrillic script traversing the entire block in a wonderful piece of letter spacing. At one end sat a large Soviet star, at the other, I was thrilled to observe, a gigantic hammer and sickle. And then it actually struck me: “Oh dear,” I thought, “we’re here!”
Three big, old, Mercs, battered and rusting, with little
white ‘Taxi’ signs strapped to their roof-racks, stood idly by, waiting for
instructions.
The little band of
men, which I had observed earlier, were taxi drivers.
Don’t let them know you are British!
Olga whispered to me that she was off to negotiate a price
with them. She instructed Joss and I to stand away and not to speak, warning us
that should they, the taxi drivers, get
the slightest inclination that we were foreigners the taxi fare would double.
Five minutes of negotiating later, a fare had been agreed, and
we were off. But where to? The plan was to ferry us off to the nearby (about 44
kilometres away) coastal resort of Svetlogorsk. Olga was very conscious of the
rundown condition of Kaliningrad, and she had made plans for us to stay in what
was then the only 4-star hotel in the region, which was Svletogorsk’s Hotel
Rus. Nothing else would be good enough for two well-to-do Englishmen like us!
The journey by taxi was an interesting one. The big old
Merc, coughed, belched and spluttered almost as much as its driver did. We
roared through the snowbound streets of the city, a combination of abject fear
and snow working in Olga’s favour, as we were much to alarmed to take anything
in and even had we wanted to all we could see was snow.
Out on the open road the conditions were worse, but it was
OK because no one had told our taxi driver. For a while, whilst we were stuck
behind a truck with a snow blade on the front, our confidence returned, but it
soon took a hit, for in overtaking the truck, as the driver pressed his foot
down hard, the car slewed erratically on the snow and ice beneath. From that
moment our knuckles were destined to be as white as the pure-driven. Relentless
snow, drifting snow and an old German road lined on either side with trees ~
big, gnarled trunks perfect for colliding with ~ dismayed the driver not a jot.
On and on we sped, as though Danger had taken a holiday.
To be fair, give or take one or two slippery moments of
panic, our chain-smoking driver seemed to know what he was doing, and I do
believe that had not the road surface changed beneath the wheels without us realising,
we could have boasted later that by the time we arrived in Svetlogorsk the
journey had been a piece of cake. The cake collapsed, however, when tarmac
changed to cobbles. We were not endangered in any way, well no more than we had
been, but the sudden rumbling and jolting gave us the right old KGBs. In
hindsight, I actually believe that it brought back nerves to our nerveless driver,
for he slammed on the anchors a little too hard, swinging the car to the right
and then back again to the left before bringing the vehicle under control.
“Ah, we’ve arrived in Svletogorsk,” Olga announced.
Svetlogorsk by night
At this time (before
Svetlogorsk became commercially exploited) it was designated a health resort, a
place where people went to take the air and rehabilitate. This meant that cars could only be taken into
Svetlogorsk if drivers were willing to pay a tariff, the ostensible logic being
that it would reduce the numbers of cars entering Svetlogorsk and by limiting
exhaust emissions keep the atmosphere pure. You know the routine, that nice Mr
Sadiq Khan has done something similar in London, to help with congestion and
massage our lungs ~ shame about our pockets!
Thus, we stopped, and money was handed over to someone
sitting in a little concrete building at the side of a pull-in just off the
road. Boy was it good to have stopped! This must be what they meant when they
said Svletogorsk was good for your health!
Dusk had begun to fall as we continued our journey. We were now travelling through the streets of Svetlogorsk. Once again, with the snow still falling and much of the little coastal resort enveloped by it, and with deterioriating light and travel-weary minds, we could not make much out. The streets in the town itself were very poorly lit, and what light there was peeped out timidly, but cosily from little orange-hued windows in houses set back from the road tucked within pine-tree glades. Indeed, no sooner were we in the town than we seemed to be travelling out of it. I distinctly remember a long, dark road lit by one lonely streetlamp and, shortly after that, a sensor-activated light coming on as we approached a crossroads or junction. At this point we swung left, the lights of the houses on either side comprising the only illumination, apart from our headlights, of course.
The Hotel Rus, Svetlogorsk
We had travelled along this road but a short distance when darkness was dispelled by two floodlights pointing at and exposing what appeared to be a steep, broad ski slope from which multiple shards of light stabbed out through the whirling snow into the night sky. It was, in fact, Svletogorsk’s, and indeed the region’s, much-celebrated Hotel Rus.
As the taxi drew to a halt ~ a happy halt as far as we were concerned ~ a better view of the Rus was afforded. We were parked adjacent the gable end of the building. It was a tall perpendicular invested with large windows. The ski slope was its roof. In fact, that might have been a better name, Hotel Roof, because there was far more roof than walls. Roof, walls, what did we care! All we wanted to do was wave farewell to our driver and say hello to our 4-star luxury.
