Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 209 [9 October 2020]
Published: 11 October 2020
Coronavirus chaos has strengthened its grip on the UK, the focus having now switched away from London to the north of the country. There are so many different ideas, protocols and strategies proposed for or operating in so many different regions and towns that the British public have been propelled into a second wave of terminal confusion. ‘Traffic lights’, three-tier systems, pub curfews, the Rule of Six, social distancing, lockdown ~ this lexical explosion, perpetrated by political pundits and lobbed like grenades into the public arena by hack journalists, has not, as linguists would have us believe, helped a beleaguered public to communicate better the altered shape of their lives and collective state of mind as much as it has routed common sense.
Coronavirus language & the mask argument
The new speak is bandied around as something positive given to us by the New Normal in return for stealing our lives. It is a poor substitute, thrilling perhaps for linguists and for those who devote their lives to the pursuit of adding slang to dictionaries, but for the humble man on the street (now locked down in his home), it is just so much unnecessary verbiage.
As I sit here in Kaliningrad ~ sometimes Königsberg ~ I have, by slow and calculated degrees, weened myself off my daily habit of consulting UK Google News, because (a) it is depressing and (b) after five minutes of reading, I feel as if I am drowning in alphabetti spaghetti.
Alphabetti spaghetti
There are no such buzzwords in Kaliningrad as there are in the UK, not even, or very rarely, a mention of ‘second wave’, but the protection that this offers us from the contagion of new speak and from the ill-thought-through strategies, U-turns and excuses around which in the UK these catch-all words revolve, does not, as with the rest of the infected world, extend immunity to the real problem, coronavirus, or provide us with a way back to the life we have lost and for which we grieve.
I suppose that in the last analysis as long as you remember to step carefully through the media spaghetti, the semantics are irrelevant; they ‘don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world’; it is simply a case of whether or not you like your beans spiced or served as they come without relish.
Coronavirus language & the mask argument
Today, for example (9 October 2020), without a lot of fuss, I learn from consulting Kaliningrad news that 67 new cases of coronavirus have been confirmed, bringing the total number of infected to 4,970 in this region. A total of 3,521 people have recovered, and the total number of deaths since the onset of the pandemic stands at 891.
Whilst this should come as no surprise to anybody, as governments around the world, the WHO, scientists and health practitioners have been telling us all along to regard summer as little more than a seasonal respite, because this virus, like most respiratory viruses, favours a romp in the autumn and winter months, some critics here have inferred that a contributory factor to the increased number of Covid-19 cases has been “a decrease in the vigilance of the population”2.
This mainly, but non-specifically, I assume refers to the controversial subject of mask-wearing in confined public spaces. It is quite astonishing that 12 months into the pandemic, the world’s health gurus, scientists, governments and the public are still at serious odds about how efficacious face masks are as a preventative measure against Covid-19, and that this one issue alone illustrates not only how polarised opinion has become on how best to protect oneself against the virus but also serves to remind us of how fallible our knowledge is and how vulnerable we are when the science community on which we rely are unable to reach consensus on something so fundamental.
In the UK, here and elsewhere in the Covid-19 world, the division and opposition between maskers and anti-maskers defines the ambiguities of the ‘New Normal’ as well as its extremes, and allegiance and loyalty to one or the other is breeding the kind of resentment and partisan hostility usually reserved for, as Leonard Cohen describes it, “the war between the black and white and … left and right”, not to mention the rancour between the leave and remain camps of Brexit. Indeed, the line drawn in the sand between pro- and anti-maskers is as deep as any encountered and has a universal reach.
Coronavirus language & the mask argument
In Kaliningrad to mask or not to mask has led to altercations on public transport and recently, it was reported, that a fight broke out on a bus between a pro-masker and an anti-masker3. There is no doubt that throughout the infected world feelings are running high, but is this the result of fear or bigotry, frustration, ignorance or ambiguity, or a little bit of everything and a little more besides? Whatever is stoking it, as with all last stands on the moral high ground, since both opposing parties are convinced that the cause which they espouse has right upon its side, unless someone steps up to the plate and passes final judgement on the mask vs no mask case, the heat can only go up and the situation can only deteriorate.
As with all arguments of this nature ~ inconclusive ones ~ there is no flexibility, no ground to give. The pro-maskers believe unquestionably that face masks can prevent or at least protect against the spread of the disease, whilst the anti-maskers argue that not only are masks ineffective but that wearing them incorrectly can actually increase one’s chances of catching coronavirus, particularly if masks are carried, handled and worn in ways that contradict and confound the science by which their usefulness, and by default their limitations, are defined.
Consider the following, which was emailed to the comments section of the article cited above3 [Note that this has been reproduced verbatim using an automated translation service]:
‘Who among those who like to wear masks observes these rules? How to Wear a Medical Mask: Important Recommendations A disposable medical mask is only used once. The mask is placed on the face so that it covers the nose, mouth and chin. If the mask has strings, they must be tied tightly. If a plastic fastener is sewn into the mask in the area of the nose, it is tightly fitted with your fingers to the bridge of the nose. Many masks have special folds. They are unfolded to give the garment a more functional shape for a snug fit to the face. While wearing the mask, it is not recommended to touch its protective field with your hands. After touching the mask, hands are washed with soap and then treated with a special antiseptic. It is better not to take breaks in the process of wearing the mask: after removing the product from the face, a person, as a rule, touches it with his hands, shifts to the chin and neck, or even puts it in his pocket, and this is strictly prohibited. Dispose of the wet mask immediately and put on another, dry and clean. On average, the medical mask is changed every 2 hours. Removing the used mask, you must not touch the protective layer of the product, where pathogens have already accumulated. The mask is gently pulled off the face by grasping the ear loops or strings. Knowing how to properly wear a medical face mask is very important. Otherwise, the protective effect of the product will be minimized, and the risk of “catching” the virus, on the contrary, increases significantly.’
In the early days of coronavirus a friend of ours, who, incidentally, is a confirmed anti-masker who wears a mask begrudgingly, reminded someone on public transport that they were not wearing a mask. She was promptly informed by the non-mask wearer that there was no need for her to wear a mask because she was not infected. Our friend replied, that she was not thinking of her infecting others but being infected herself. When the bus conductress came along, who also was not wearing a mask, our friend asked if she challenged passengers who were not wearing masks and asked them to put them on. She replied: “Of course not!”
Two week ago I travelled by tram across the city, whereupon I observed some people wearing masks and some not. My maths have always left a lot to be desired, but in my humble opinion I would estimate that the split was equal at 50:50. In the article quoted above3, interviews with public transport staff conclude that since the onset of coronavirus and the early days of the mask-wearing rule the uptake has improved and is improving, even if the grumbling has not.
Coronavirus language & the mask argument
And what about me? For my own part, I am a reformed anti-masker/reluctant masker, but my gut feeling echoes the sentiments of the commentator whose words I quoted earlier in this post, namely that knowledge of and adherence to the art and science of mask wearing is, firstly, not well understood, and secondly, even if it was, is difficult if not impossible to transact under normal societal conditions. And under New Normal conditions? Well, I will try to answer that when somebody tells me in plain English or in simple Russian what the New Normal is.
In the meantime, no more spaghetti for me, thanks, I have signed myself up for a detox diet.
How do you spell ‘NOT SURE’? Coronavirus Language & the Mask Argument (*Photo credit)
Note: The opinions expressed in this article are exactly that, opinions. The current rules, as I understand them, are that the wearing of masks is mandatory on public transport and in other enclosed public places, ie shops, chemists, etc …
Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 189 [19 September 2020] The thin dividing line between caution and common sense
Published: 19 September 2020
Reckless, lax, less cautious, or a simple case of resumed normalcy? How should I describe the shift in my attitude to coronavirus, having, at the time of writing, completed my 189th day of ‘self-isolation’?
When self-isolation first started it was as it sounds, exactly that. My wife and I stayed put, only venturing out into the great beyond when necessity dictated, ie to go shopping. One hundred and eighty nine days into the isolating regimen, and we are not so punctilious. We still proceed with caution but have ceased to follow the caution-code to the letter.
For example, in our early self-isolating days before going to the shops, we underwent a countdown checklist as rigorous as any practised by Lancaster bomber crews prior to take off on their way to Berlin.
Facemasks x two ~ check. Hand wipes ~ check. Large shopping bags ~ check. Rubber gloves ~ check. Irvin flying jacket ~ check. OK, perhaps not the latter, but you get the picture.
This has all been steadily shelved. We do still take our masks with us but only because some shops, government offices and other such places demand that they are worn. We do not wear them in the street, and we no longer don them when we travel by taxi.
Taking a taxi in itself is another example of altered traffic-light syndrome, as we scale down from red for danger to amber for caution. Time was once when I would no more get into a taxi than climb into a hearse, but that time has long since passed. My initial return to this convenient mode of transport would not be countenanced unless my facemask was sternly in place, and we would ride out the duration of the journey with our faces poised before the open windows and wipe our hands thoroughly with disinfectant wipes as soon as we alighted. Now, we are happy to taxi-it sans masks. We still leave a window or two open and shoot each other a tight-lipped smile whenever our driver coughs or sneezes, but we are nowhere near as paranoid.
In days of yore when the coronavirus menace first hit, masked-up and ridiculous-looking, we would enter the local supermarket as if invited to a radiation-leak party. Once inside, we tore around the shop grabbing what we wanted as if our arses were on fire and religiously observed the one-metre distancing tapes at checkout.
Prior to Mission Shopping, and as part of our checklist ritual, we would first decide which of the two supermarkets we were going to shop in. We are lucky to have two supermarkets close to our abode, neither large but one smaller than the other, and as the smaller supermarket, which is also the more expensive, is always more empty than the other, for the sake of presumed safety and expediency, ie quickly in and more rapidly out, we always chose this shop. Now, however, as self-isolating veterans, we observe this rule no more, shopping in each supermarket as mood or necessity suggests.
Another precaution that has been downgraded from a stage 10 emergency situation to about a four and a half is the strict rule that we originally applied to quarantining our shop purchases.
On arriving home, flak damaged but yet intact, we would extract only those items from our shopping bags that we immediately required, for example food items for lunch, or which needed, because of their perishable nature, to be stowed away in the fridge. All food packages would be washed or wiped prior to opening and those destined for the fridge would be placed in the fridge isolation room ~ the chilling compartment (aptly named). The rest of the commodities remained in the bags and were placed in the hallway to the attic, where they would remain until safe the following day.
Now, Olga seems to ignore this ritual almost completely (she is more ~ considerably more ~ of a coronavirus skeptic than I), whilst I sometimes remember to ‘handle with care’ and sometimes do not.
In earlier times, on our return from wherever, one or other of us would take care to thoroughly disinfect the door handles, keys and anything else we had touched. We would wash our hands as soon as we returned, disinfect and then wash our hands again. We continue to wash our hands as though a liberal has shook them (cannot imagine that ever happening), but the attendant ritual has been more or less dispensed with.
On the social distancing front, the ironclad code of no fraternising with the suspect-contaminated has also been downplayed, and we have gone from no guests and social gatherings to selected guests and small social gatherings. Admittedly, these occasions have mainly taken place in the garden and not indoors but, as I believe I mentioned in a previous post in this series, maintaining prescribed social distancing measures quickly proved impractical if not impossible, and whilst we do not go around hugging and embracing as if we belong to France ~ when France was France ~ we are considerably less conscious of the risks of social interaction than we were six months ago.
Self-isolating Englishman in Kaliningrad
Possibly ~ no, not possibly, definitely ~ the greatest alteration in our Covid-19 bunker mentality is that slowly, but surely, we have permitted ourselves the luxury of dining and drinking out. We are not entirely comfortable with this arrangement, and, indeed, it just happened rather than was planned.
The momentous first post-coronavirus café/bar occasion took place during a day trip to the small seaside resort Otradnoye. Olga wanted to swim and the most comfortable and convenient place to wait for her was in the outside area of the pop-up summer café, a party tent that services the food and beverage needs of the sand and sea clientele. We had a pack of antiseptic wipes on board and used these like a clumsy juggling circus act to decontaminate the beer bottle. We had also taken the precaution of bringing with us our own plastic cups.
The second bar/restaurant experience was when we travelled to Svetlogorsk to celebrate our 19th wedding anniversary. This was an indoor job, because the hotel staff would not allow us to dine and drink outside. At the time I thought it quite high risk, even allowing for the fact that Olga and I were the only patrons, but neither of these two events was as adventurous as our most recent outing when we ate and drank in the company of about 100 people or more at a beach-side restaurant in Zelenogradsk.
Once again, we refrained from sitting inside, choosing instead a table on the upper tier of the two-tier decking system facing the beach and sea. I believe, if my memory serves me right, that a pack of antiseptic wipes came into play but more by force of habit than with respect to coronavirus hygiene protocol.
Self-isolating Englishman in Kaliningrad
In a few days’ time we have a relative from the UK coming to visit. As a matter of course, she will have to undergo a test for coronavirus at one of Kaliningrad’s clinics the day after she arrives. If she gets the all clear, we will no doubt push the boundaries back still further by going to a restaurant and, as the autumn chill sets in, we will be dining inside ~ That’s one small step for mankind, one giant leap for a Covid-19 self-isolator.
Mick Hart, the Self-isolating Englishman in Kaliningrad, unleashes himself in Zelenogradsk
Mick & Olga Hart celebrate their 19th wedding anniversary in Svetlogorsk, Russia.
Published: 5 September 2020 ~ Englishman Married Twice in Russia in One Day
31 August 2020 was our wedding anniversary. Nineteen years together and never a cross word. At least, I used to think so until I learnt more Russian and discovered that what for years I had presumed to be my wife’s words of endearment were in fact expletives. How does it go? Ignorance is bliss.
To mark the occasion of my good fortune and her bad, I suggested that we take a trip to Svetlogorsk, the Baltic coast seaside resort, and retrace our steps in time. There, we would visit the church where we were married and call in at the hotel nearby, Starry Doktor (Old Doctor), where betwixt the two ceremonies, the first at the church and the second at the Russian equivalent of the UK’s registry office, we had, with our guests, stopped off for a pizza and something light to drink.
Olga, my wife, had wanted a church wedding but in Russia church weddings are not officially recognised by the State, which meant that we would need to be married twice on the same day: first in the church in Svetlogorsk and then at the registry office in Kaliningrad.
Before I could be married in the Russian Orthodox Church, it was necessary for me to attend an orthodox church to seek absolution for my sins.
As I was in England prior to the wedding, and living at that time in Bedford, I had to travel to the Orthodox church in Kensington, London, in order to honour the obligation that the Orthodox church required. On hearing about the purpose of my trip, some of my friends opined that I would be there for a very long time.
Today, 31 August 2020, the plan was to call in at Starry Doktor first, for an old-times’ sake pizza, and from there walk to the church.
As well as being our wedding anniversary, another anniversary of almost equal proportions was about to be enacted, which was that this would be the first time that I would eat something and drink beer in a restaurant, discounting one bottle outside a beachside café a few weeks back, since the coronavirus air-raid siren sounded, which for us was sometime in March this year.
The masked traveller
We travelled by train, as we were in the mood to do so, equipped with regulation coronavirus face masks and antiseptic hand wipes, both of which became progressively useless as normal life took over.
It is difficult, if not perfectly ridiculous, wiping hands, wiping the top of bottles, wiping, for example, a sweet wrapper and in the process of doing so forgetting what order you are doing it in or whether you have done it at all. The best anyone can achieve in normal circumstances is to go through the motions and then give up.
Englishman married twice in russia in one day
Arriving in Svetlogorsk we found that the number of visitors, which after a very heavily subscribed summer season due to the Russian state’s incentive to boost domestic tourism in the wake of coronavirus restrictions, was at last diminishing. Autumn was on its way; holidays were over; school term was about to resume.
Nineteen years ago to the day, the weather had been superb. Mr Blue Sky had garbed himself in his best robes for the occasion and his friend, Mr Sun, although as bright as the proverbial new penny, had turned down the heat with respect to the presence of autumn.
Summer, like the madness of youth, was fading fast and as it ebbed away was being replaced by that distinctive autumnal tinge. In autumn the air becomes thinner and our senses more finely attuned, especially our sense of smell. Summer is the time of noise, laughter, exuberance; autumn the soft and mellow fragrance of yellow and auburn leaves, of mossy dampness and that enticing nip in the air that tells of winter’s imminence. It is the seasonal ante-chamber, the last stop for quiet reflection, before the cold embrace.
When we left for the coast by train this morning, it had just stopped raining, but upon our arrival in Svetlogorsk (I can hear Victor correcting me ‘Rauschen’) the sun had broken through and someone up there was being kind to us on our anniversary as the temperature was perfect. We are autumnal people.
We walked the short distance to Starry Doktor, and I was both pleased and discomfited to see that my favourite property, the old Mozart café, had at last been bought and was now being renovated. Whatever you do, please do not spoil this wonderful example of Gothic Rauschen, I heard myself whisper.
We passed the smallest antique shop in the world, thankfully not open today or we would have bound to have been in there buying something, and found ourselves opposite the newly constructed and open Hartman Hotel, a resplendent establishment if ever there was one, which, with its imposing vintage automobile swishly parked outside, is bound to give Svetlogorsk’s Grand Hotel and Hotel Rus a challenging run for their money.
Information board outside Starry Doktor Hotel, Svetlogorsk, Russia
Starry Doktor, we were pleased to find, had not changed. And neither can it, as the information board outside the building denotes. There was no change inside either, not to the layout and décor or in the reception that we received, which was rather Soviet in kind.
“We’d like to order a pizza. Can we eat outside?”
“No”
“But we can order a pizza?”
“Yes.”
Olga looks through the menu.
“What sort of vegetarian pizzas do you have?”
“You will have to look.”
“OK. Can we have cheese and tomato?”
“We don’t do that. We do cheese with tomato paste.”
“OK. We will have that.”
“Which one do you want?”
“Cheese and tomato paste?”
“You need to look in the menu and tell me which one that is.”
Back to the menu.
“Margherita.”
Smiling and being ‘mine welcoming hostess’ was not apparently on the menu either and as we were the only patrons, we found ourselves acting in that strange way that one does in cafés and restaurants when the atmosphere is not quite to one’s liking, ie talking in low whispers. Nevertheless, this was all part of the traditional service and being us, odd, the nostalgic input was strangely appreciated.
When the pizza arrived it was not thin crust; it was very thin crust. If I did not already have a pocket handkerchief, I could have folded up a piece and used it as such. However, it was not without taste, and putting behind me almost all notions of misapprehension regarding coronavirus and drinking from a bar-room glass, my first beer for yonks on a licensed premises was greatly appreciated.
Starry Doktor Hotel, Svetlogorsk, Russia; August 2020
From Starry Doktor we walked the short distance to the small church where we had been married. On the way we were dismayed to find that one of our favourite houses had been swallowed up by a new, totally out of scale, brash ‘look how much wealth we’ve got’ refit. I could not be sure, but since our last visit in the spring of this year, it looked as though another gargantuan villa, again completely off the scale chart, had sprung up between the pine trees on the opposite side of the road.
“Will they ever stop building?” Olga grumbled.
Just for us, or so we would like to think, the weather was getting better by the hour. Our little red-brick church, resting on top of an eminence, with its three or four tiers of steps leading up to the entrance, peeped through the birch and pine trees; the sunlight peeped through them too, impressing the surface of the church with dainty twig and leaf patterns, whilst the sky above smiled bright and blue and the air about us blessed our senses with that first cool note of autumn.
Svetlogorsk Church, Russia, August 2020
If you were watching my words as moving images on a screen, we would now defer to the cinematographic technique where everything goes wavy, the implication being that we were going back in time. So let us do just that, and ripple away to the day of our wedding in August 2001.
Englishman married twice in russia in one day
On this day, 19 years ago, we were residing, with our wedding guests from England, at the Lazurny BeregHotel ~ alas, another victim of Svetlogorsk’s build ‘em big and build ‘em high development. Lazurny Bereg, which was a mid-sized building and a nice hotel with bags of character, has since been replaced by something high-rise. I am not sure whether the new-build is an apartment block or a block of flats for holiday lease ~ c’est la vie.
The church service was set for 11am, so it was breakfast at 9am, and togged up and ready to go by 10am, but first we had to run the gauntlet of a series of Russian games, pre-wedding reception frolics, which, to be quite frank, as I was as nervous as ~ you know the word ~ I could just as well have dispensed with.
My wife to be was being waited on by friends, who were helping with her make-up and dressing her in her wedding apparel ~ well, that’s what she told me they were doing? Meanwhile, at an appointed time, I was instructed to go to the front entrance of the hotel with my brother David and our friends from England, then, when the word was given, I was to enter the building and proceed upstairs to the first-floor hallway where our hotel room was situated.
The word was given and in we went. As soon as we reached the first flight of steps we were met by a delegation of my wife-to-be’s, Olga’s, friends. Two of these could speak English, otherwise the scenario would have been considerably more complex. As it was, we worked out fairly quickly the nature of the first game. Apparently, I was not allowed to see my fiancée unless I crossed the palms of those before us with rubles, ie I had to pay a levy!
After a great deal of banter about would you take a cheque or how about an IOU, I offered two and six, but the Russians were having none of it. We had to pay and pay in rubles.
Never mind whether my wife was worth 200 rubles, about £1.30 at that time, unfortunately I was ruble-less in Russia. As luck would have it, my brother David’s wallet was better endowed than mine, and he handed over the requisite notes. He reminded me about a year ago, however, that I never did pay him back and that technically my wife was his, a subject on which I will say no more …
Having stumped up the cash, we were then escorted to the first-floor hall. Neatly laid out on a table in front of us were a series of family photographs featuring children. I was asked to guess which one was Olga. I think I was on the verge of getting it wrong when one of our friends blurted out the answer, who then shouted “David’s paid the money and I got the photo right, your claim [on my wife] is looking more dodgy by the minute!” This is what happens when you let Londoners come to your wedding!
Now it was time for Olga to emerge from the room in all her finery, but instead, the hotel door opened and there stood a large man dressed in women’s clothing. He gave me a Goliath hug, informing me as he did that if I did not pay a ‘ransom’ I would have to marry him instead. He would not have dared to suggest such a thing today, given England’s queer reputation! But back in 2001 things were not so very far gone.
If only she’d have shaved!
Once again it was down to my brother to make good with the rubles, who by this time was protesting that my lack of rubles was clearly a fix.
At last Olga appeared. She had decided to forsake the Russian trend for large, voluminous and pleated wedding dresses for something less ostentatious, and she looked lovely. Mind you, Andrew, the man in drag, was not a bad second.
It was only a short journey from the hotel to the church, but a mini-bus had been hired to get us there. As the church service was to be presided over by an Orthodox priest, who naturally would be speaking Russian, I had been given cues and, acting on these cues, instructed as to what my responses should be. So nothing could possibly go wrong, could it?
I love Orthodox churches. The richly painted and opulent icons together with the mist from and smell of wax candles intermingled with incense creates the most hallowed of atmospheres, and our church, although modest by big city standards, had an ethos all of its own.
Englishman married twice in Russia in one day
The ceremony required us to walk in circles at given points in the service and to have two people standing behind each of us holding gold-tone crowns above our heads. One of Olga’s friends did the honours for her, whilst my brother held the crown above me. He complained later that his arms had ached considerably and that the task had not been made easier by the tight fit of his jacket. If I said it once in those days, I had said it a hundred times: avoid cheap suits from Hepworths.
My brother, David, crowning me
All things considered, the service went well. Yes, it was a pity that when the priest asked me if I had another wife as an impediment to getting married that I answered yes instead of no, but I think I got away with it!
The wedding ceremony (blurry pictures courtesy of pre-digital photography, although the originals are sharper than this)
Outside, after a good round of photographs, this was the point at which we walked across the road to Starry Doktor, where we congregated outside for a drink and a pizza. I stayed on non-alcoholic beverages as we had a heavy itinerary in front of us.
Pizza time was essentially a way of killing time. In Russia, as I mentioned earlier, church marriages are not officially recognised by the State, and in order to be officially married, to have the marriage registered, we had to travel into Kaliningrad and get married a second time at the official registry office.
Forty minutes later, a cavalcade of cars whisked us off to the city, about 25 miles away. It was quite impressive, even allowing for the gallows humour about fleets of black cars and funerals.
The registry office functioned from inside one of Kaliningrad’s big old concrete monoliths, which has since been given a face job, but back in those days it was a daunting sight, all weather-stained and pock marked.
From a small portico the entrance led into a hall of typical marble effect. We had first to cross this hall into one of the small offices at the far end and get ourselves ‘booked in’. However, my passport, which at that time I should have been carrying with me day and night, was back in Svetlogorsk in the hotel. This omission caused something of a bureaucratic crisis in spite of the fact that the young lady in the office had seen and spoken to me half a dozen times the previous week, when we had visited the offices to ask questions about procedure. Just as it was beginning to look as though we would all have to come back next month, the issue was finally resolved upon the discovery that I was carrying a photocopy of my passport, which was accepted under the circumstances, but only after I had received a jolly good telling off ~ pity I could not understand what the young lady was saying.
All sorted, we were then ushered into an adjoining room, an antechamber to where the main event would take place. This was the ‘red room’. Why? Because it was; the walls were maroon and the furniture reproduction Louis something, the rather loud nature of which caused one of my compatriots to draw parallels between it and a bordello. He should know, I thought.
All looking amazed about something in Kaliningrad registry office’s ‘red room’ (31 August 2001)
We ambled around in this room for about ten minutes before being called into the official wedding chamber. This was a vast room indeed, highly ornate but empty except for a table and chair at one end, above which hung a large example of the Russian coat of arms. At the centre of the desk stood a small Russian flag and behind it a large ledger, which was waiting for me and the witnesses to sign.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding in Kaliningrad registry office, Russia, 31 August 2001
When it came to the crucial moment, the placing of the ring upon Olga’s finger, the music that was playing in the background was intercepted by the Beatles singing, of all things, ‘Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away …’ This, obviously, set the British guests rocking in the aisles, whilst Olga’s two female friends cried bitterly, not inspired by the romance of the moment but by the inconsolable belief that they were losing a friend forever, who, once married, would be whistled off to degenerate England never to be seen or heard of again.
From the ring and Paul McCartney, it was off to the front desk. I took up my position on the seat in front of the ledger and to the solemn refrain of the Russian national anthem, which thundered around the room, duly signed my name in the book. Olga then followed and the witnesses came forwarded and scribbled their monicas in the space allocated for this purpose.
Signing the official wedding book … Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia 2001
The music changed to something full of glad tidings and amid the congratulations that we were well and truly spliced, and the kisses and kind words (Clive, my London friend, “Well, you’ve done it now!”) large bunches of flowers appeared and at last a tray of alcoholic beverages.
Outside, under the portico, the tradition of throwing the bride’s bouquet mirrored that in England and was caught by one of our English friends.
Now, all the official gubbings done and the church service completed, you would have thought that we would be off to the reception ~ not so. First, we had to honour the tradition of being driven around the city, a trip culminating in a visit to Kaliningrad’s principle Soviet war monument, where, in front of the eternal flame and at the steps of the commemorative obelisk, we would pay our respects with flowers.
The photographs that were taken here are among some of the most potent and memorable of that day and also reveal how lucky we had been with the weather.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding. At the Soviet war monument, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
Before joining our other guests at the reception venue, we had one last call to make. This was for wedding photographs to be taken outside of Königsberg Cathedral and in the pillared vestibule containing the grave of Immanuel Kant, the German philosopher.
You can be sure that by the time we arrived at the reception hall, I was ready for a drink! But there were yet two more Russian wedding traditions that had to be observed before we could indulge.
The first was biting the loaf. Both my wife and I were assigned to this task, one after the other, the idea being that he or she who took the biggest bite would be awarded the role of dominant marriage partner. Olga went first and, always up for a challenge, I followed making sure that I took a massive bite. Whilst everyone was congratulating me on having taken the biggest bite, as with most things marital I had bitten off more than I could chew. Fortunately, the next act involved gulping back a glass of wine, which saved me from choking on the bread, and then we chucked our glasses over our shoulders and into the street behind us. One glass broke and the other glass bounced, but I never did ask what the symbolic significance of this was.
Our reception was held at what was then known as The Cabana Club, a restaurant/café bar with a Latin American theme. It was a good choice, an attractive venue equipped with three large rooms. One room served as the wedding reception area, the other as a dance hall and the one at the back a very large and quiet lounge, with comfy seats and soft music.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding reception at The Cabana Club, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
Alas, The Cabana is no more. It appears as if the building has been parcelled off. If I am not mistaken, a portion of the premises is now occupied by a small bar frequented by students and young folk, but as the interior of this latter bar is rather small, the rest of the old Cabana Club must have been subdivided for other purposes.
The reception
In essence, Russian wedding reception rooms are not so very different in configuration from their English counterparts. A table is placed at the head of the room for the bride, groom and other officiating ceremony members and the guests occupy either a chain of tables leading from the principal along both sides of the room or, as in our case, owing to the shape of the room, are dotted about here and there in groups. I believe there had been the usual head scratching about who should be sat with whom, and some license extended to unusual combinations, but at the end of the day concord was achieved.
One departure from British formality is that whereas in the UK it is customary for the best man and groom to speechify, in Russia everyone has a go. The food is served, and each guest in turn interrupts the eating process by standing up and delivering a speech as a precursor to toasting the newly wedded couple. Another significant difference is that whereas British tradition swerves heavily towards the jocular, speeches typically embroidered with satirical tales of lurid happenings from the stag night before and often inter-sprinkled with a ribald confetti of innuendos and smut, Russian speeches are characteristically deep and philosophical, well-meaning and sincere. They are also very long and made longer in our case as those guests who were bi-lingual acted as translators for their Russian companions so that we, the British contingent, could understand the sentiments expressed.
Among our guests was Sam Simkin, esteemed poet of the Kaliningrad region, and, of course, our dear friend Victor Ryabinin, artist-historian. I can see him now, peeping out from behind a picture that he had painted especially for us, delivering his speech with customary sincerity and humility. His presence was, as always, a source of warmth and reassurance. Sam Simkin presented us with a landmark book which both he and Victor Ryabinin had composed, The Poetry of Eastern Prussia.
Many guest speeches later, the dreaded moment arrived when I had to perform my speech. The content of this speech had been a bone of contention for months. I had to produce something which Olga could translate effectively to the Russian contingent, but the idiomatic nature of my speech and its typical recourse to innuendo made it difficult in this respect, and there had also been some controversy between Olga and myself about the tone of the piece.
The props that I would be using had also fallen under the critical spotlight: there was a doctored image of President Putin and the then Mayor of Kaliningrad with caption saying something about British invaders, a photocopy of one of our British wedding guests wearing a German helmet and, the pièce de résistance, a pair of hole-ridden and ragged Y-fronts. Whilst I had no doubt that the turn and tenor of my speech would have gone down well at a wedding party in Rushden, England, I was not entirely convinced, given the criticism aforehand, that it would be as well received, or for that matter understood, in Kaliningrad 2001.
Go for it! So I did. But all the way through I felt that I was on very shaky ground! In the event, I pulled it off ~ and I am not just talking about the underpants ~ better than I could have hoped for, but I was glad when it was over.
It really was time now to sit back and just get drunk, but Russian wedding parties are not like that. Before we could even think about relaxing in the traditional sense, we had a whole afternoon of games to contend with.
I will not go into detail about all of these, but restrict my comments to two. One had me wrapped in a blindfold. In front of me sat a row of ladies on stools with their legs crossed. My job was to walk down the line and fondle each of their knees and by this process, whilst blindfolded, identify my wife. I was not complaining and, yes, I did get it right!
The knee-feeling game: Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia 2001
The second game was one we had played when we first came to Kaliningrad in 2000, at a New Year’s Day party. This game is one which we later exported to England and used to good effect at some of our own parties.
It goes like this. Three or more male players have a long piece of string attached to their trouser belts. Attached to the end of each string is a banana. Lined up in front of the players are three empty matchboxes. On the word ‘Go!’, all of the men have to thrust their hips in order to swing their bananas. As their bananas make contact with the matchboxes, the boxes begin to move. Each player has to move his matchbox in this way, the winner being the first to propel his matchbox over the finishing line by the powerful thrust of his hips and the decisive way he handles his banana.
David Hart prepares his for the ‘banana game’: Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
To this day, the controversy persist over who won the contest and who cheated. In the final analysis, I think we agreed to compromise. The summation was that whilst the Russians may have had the biggest bananas, the British contingent had the best hip movements.
Cue wavy lines across the final image.
That was 19 years ago. This was not the first time we had returned to the little church on top of the hill in Svetlogosrk, but it was possibly the first time we had made the definitive connection between our wedding and the life we have had together since. The first time we had returned on the day of our anniversary.
We stood before the lectern where we had stood 19 years ago. We had a cuddle and kiss and Olga took the mandatory photographs for her Facebook account. And then we lit two candles and placed them in the sand-filled stand in front of one of the icons.
“Let us say thanks to God for each other, for the times we have had and hopefully have to come,” says Olga.
We also said thanks for all the experiences we had shared and for the people we had met along the way, including thanks for Victor ~ especially for Victor.
Outside, the sky was blue, the sun was radiant. It was a glorious day in Svetlogorsk (‘Rauschen, Mike’), as perfect as the day on which we had been married.
Mick & Olga Hart outside the church where they were married in 2001. Photo taken 31 August 2020. Svetlogorsk (Rauschen) Russia, the Kaliningrad region.
Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 169 [30 August 2020]
Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye …
As we get set to wave goodbye to summer, and goodbye to the waves as they roll along the golden sands, the question that seems to be foremost in almost everybody’s mind is are we about to say hello to second-wave coronavirus? The simple answer to that is, that there isn’t one. As with everything concerning this modern pandemic, the information/disinformation is so muddled and contradictory that should second-wave coronavirus arrive it will possibly be lost beneath a triple-figure coronavirus conspiracy wave.
I am reading social media responses that have gone from conspiracy theory to conspiracy conviction, the favourite expressions of which are ‘on purpose’, ‘crash the global economy’, ‘they want people to distrust one another’ and the valedictory ‘the damage has been done’. In this mindset the only wave that it is credible is that we have already waved goodbye to life as we knew it.
Here, in Russia, I quote from InfoRos: “There will be no second wave of the coronavirus infection in Russia, Russia’s former chief sanitary doctor and now a member of the lower parliament house, Gennady Onishchenko, said on Tuesday.” [https://inforos.ru/en/?module=news&action=view&id=112523 : published 29 July 2020; accessed 30 August 2020]
Severity of COVID-19 cases may increase in second wave, scientist says “According to the scientist, the novel coronavirus infection is likely to have three waves and it will be possible to return to the accustomed way of living only by the summer 2021” [TASS Russian News Agency: https://tass.com/society/1193965 : published 26 August 2020; accessed 30 August 2020]
Meanwhile in the UK, the situation as reported is markedly different, as this 28 August 2020 headline from The Telegraph shows:
But just look at this conflicting array of UK headlines:
Coronavirus: Hospital staff prepare for possible second wave (BBC)
NO SECOND WAVE More coronavirus outbreaks will come this winter, but Europe will avoid ‘horror’ of a second wave (The Sun)
Will there be a second wave of coronavirus in the UK? If cases of Covid-19 could surge again in UK “With lockdown restrictions eased across the UK to varying degrees, concerns amongst experts are growing in regard to the possibility of a second wave of coronavirus cases if social distancing guidelines are not adhered to” [Edinburgh Evening News]
UK researchers warn of much worse 2nd virus wave (Anodolu Agency)
Going on the headline sample above, for the first time in my life I am tempted to stay with The Sun!
But it is not only the ‘will there be, or won’t there be a second wave’, it is should we all be wearing masks? Does social distancing work or is it counter-productive to herd immunity? Are we supposed to be exercising some kind of self-imposed isolation? If it is alright to go to work, why is it not alright for children to go to school? If masks have to be worn on public transport and in shops, how come it is still alright to go to cafes, bars and restaurants? How many ‘spikes’ in Covid-19 resulted from non-social distancing during the BLM riots? How many Covid-19 cases have resulted from holiday-period hotel stays and crowded seaside resorts?
Now, in the midst of all this confusion, I have not yet mentioned ~ although I am just about to ~ when does the vaccine cometh and, as sure as night follows day, when it does have you decided which camp you belong in? In other words, are you an opt-in vaxxer, an anti-vaxxer or a resist-at-all-costs vaxxer?
This ‘know your rights’ article strikes me as funny as it contains the sort of tautology that Ronnie Barker would have been at home with, and it would not look out of place in Jonathan Swift’s biting satire, Gulliver’s Travels, in which Swift sends up political and bureaucratic aggrandisement as so much windbag waffle.
The polemics of compulsory vaccination can be overcome by self-isolating where nobody can get at you ~ I would suggest asking Mrs Doctor Who if you can jump into her box ~ or by inventing the first social-distancing personal force-field, guaranteed to prevent anyone entering your personal space inside the one-metre limit.
As I contemplate these options, I will continue with the second phase trial of my unique vaccine against confused messages, which is to see all, believe nothing and to take heed of Frank Sinatra singing ‘I did it My Way’.
‘You ought to get out more!’ Since the birth of coronavirus, the intentional irony in this off-hand remark has taken on a whole new irrational meaning. We know that we want to get out more, but we are told that we should stay in more, and even a patriot like Nigel Farage, who does get out occasionally to do nothing more obnoxious than stand on a cliffside in Dover watching the endless flow of boats coming in full of happy smiling migrants destined for 4-star hotels (they do get free face masks as well), is castigated by the liberal press for breaking UK quarantine rules when they know full well he is not.
That’s quite funny, isn’t it? One Englishman pursued doggedly by the UK’s liberal media for travelling down to Kent, whilst hundreds of migrants from every corner of the globe you have never heard of, and don’t particularly want to, are pouring into the UK like, er let’s say hard water through a Co-op tea bag, and on arrival, having been duly welcomed by our British Polite force, are then bussed to British hotels to reside in non-social distancing proximity at the expense of the British taxpayer. Hmmm?
Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer
Safe in the knowledge that, to use Mrs May’s expression, it was ‘highly likely’ that there would not be a train of migrant boats being dutifully escorted to the shores of the Baltic Coast, I decided that a second trip to the coastal resort Zelenogradsk was needed before second wave coronavirus potentially washes us back over the isolation threshold.
From Kaliningrad by car, the journey to Zelenogradsk takes between 20 and 30 minutes on the region’s modern road network (providing the crowds are not out!). As we zipped along in a friend’s car, I reflected on how long and cumbersome the same journey used to be just after Perestroika, bumping and pot-hole dodging the old German road within its crash-insensitive avenue of big gnarled trees.
Ahhh, Kaliningrad’s new generations do not remember those times, but for those of us who do, we are able to appreciate just how extensive and beneficial improvements in this region have been over the last 20 years.
Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer
It was another beautiful day in this priceless exclave of Russia as we drew in at the side of the road close to the bus park and rail station.
We had been forewarned by Zelenogradsk residents that we would find the resort exceptionally busy, far busier than it was when we last visited three weeks or more ago. To some extent, this was to be expected, as we were now further along holiday-period road, but our sources informed us that the tourist population had swelled as a result of the Russian government’s incentivisation to boost domestic tourism, which, with international travel limited and some of the borders still closed, appeared to be doing the trick. Apropos of this, I prepared myself for the game of spot the Muscovite on holiday. What I was not prepared to find was that bears (meeshkee) would also be taking advantage of the relaxed self-isolation rules.
There was one standing by the side of the road as we alighted from the car. Just to prove the western prejudice that bears really do walk the streets of Russia, I asked him nicely if I could have my photograph taken standing next to him. As you can see from the photograph, he was only too happy to do so.
As I walked away, however, I sensed that this particular bear was becoming increasingly grizzly. “Anglichanin! Anglichanin!” he growled (Anglichanin meaning Englishman). Looking back, I saw that he was standing with his right arm extended. His palm was open and he was repeatedly scratching it with his claws in a gesture that could only mean that he had a terrible itch. Poor bear, I thought. And then the possibility dawned on me that perhaps non-isolating meeshkee who consented to have their photograph taken expected to be remunerated.
Having crossed his palm with rubles, we dropped our travelling bag off at the dacha kindly lent out to us by a friend, and took a walk along the prom. Yep, the news was spot on, both the prom and beach were busy.
The frontside bars and restaurants were also busy, not full but far from empty. For the first time I caught a whiff of nostalgia. If anybody had told me six months ago that I would be shunning these essential establishments for health reasons I would have laughed at them. More shocking came the realisation that this was possibly the longest continual period in my life, at least from the age of 14, that I had not frequented a pub or bar.
To take my mind off this reprehensible milestone, we decided to take a brief excursion into the backstreets of the town.
What a delight these streets are. Architecturally, they provide the onlooker with an historical snapshot of the region’s social history, an evocative diorama depicting life from pre-war Germany, through the Second World War, across the Cold War period and into the present day.
Nostalgically, this pre- and one ardently hopes never-to-happen gentrification, echoes, for my generation at least, a time of natural realism now forever lost in the UK, but preserved in Kaliningrad and in its surrounding towns and villages in the overgrown verges, rough tracks, a seemingly inexhaustible inventiveness for recycled car and lorry tyres, vegetable plots neatly honed, vibrant cottage flower beds and an astonishing medley of makeshift sheds, lean-tos and little old barns. (See my later post, which I haven’t written yet.) I cannot remember the name of the street ~ I think it was Memory Lane.
From this enlightening excursion, we ambled back to the dacha, stopping on the way for some edible provisions and, naturally, a couple of bottles of beer. We were going to divvy up the grub and, making a picnic with it along with one of the bottles of beer, head off to the beach.
We had decided to walk away from the nearest, the most central point of the beach as this was where people would naturally be most concentrated, thus availing ourselves of a quieter spot whilst fulfilling our social contract to observe the one-metre rule.
Our plan paid off. We found a nice, white sandy stretch of beach with a convenient barrage of sea-breaker sandbags against which I could rest my back as I drank my beer whilst my wife, Olga, went for a swim.
Mick Hart chilling on Zelinogradsk beach, Baltic Coast, Russia
The water was gloriously warm, Olga informed me later, and my beer, which had been well-chilled at the outset, kept sustainably so parked between the sandbags where I had placed it at ground level. We were each so comfortable in our own right, according to our own pursuits, that we stayed put until evening and by so doing were granted a first-rate view of one of the Baltic Coast’s legendary sunsets ~ sublimity at its best.
Zalinogradsk, Baltic Coast, Russia, Sunset August 2020
Making our way back into town, we spent another lazy hour sitting on one of the benches along the central promenade playing spot the Muscovite before returning to the dacha for a nightcap with a blue elephant.
No, this is not the name of a Russian beer (as far as I am aware), and neither have I reached the intoxication level whereupon such manifestations are commonplace to me.
The blue elephant in question was a little elephant made from Plasticine. On our way back from our street tour earlier, we had stumbled upon some young entrepreneurs selling Plasticine models on the edge of the sidewalk.
We bought the blue elephant from them, upon which one of the boys exclaimed excitedly, “Great, we’ve now got enough money for three ice creams!” and when I asked them if we could take their photograph they were even more excited, “Enough for three ice creams and our photograph taken!”.
Olga Hart buying a Plasticine elephant from young Russian entrepreneurs, Zelenogradsk
I think when I get back to Mick’s Place (Attic Bar) I will allocate a special spot for this new drinking partner of mine, providing he keeps a metre apart and always wears his facemask.
Zelinogradsk, Russia: a hand-sculptured Plasticine elephant. Now a drinking partner in MIck Hart’s bar Mick’s Place
As the world’s media focuses upon the race to see which country can get the first Covid-19 vaccine off the starting blocks, amidst wild accusations of vaccine poaching and dramatic speculation that the game has gone nationalist, I discovered myself suffering from statistic-watch withdrawal symptoms. “It will all be over by Christmas,” so the generals said at the outbreak of World War I.
Anyway, as I could hear a lot of noise but could not see the cavalry, I ignored my wife who was chuntering on about a plot to crash the world economy, of which I am not at all guilty, and found the following stats for Russia in general and Kaliningrad in particular.
These are the coronavirus figures as provided by the sources credited as at 21:31 on 29 July 2020.
Both sites from which I have extrapolated these figures cover every country known to man (and Others), so if you want to consult and compare, you know where you can go.
Meanwhile, self-isolating has never seemed so reasonable. It appears that almost everybody in this neck of the woods is taking the opportunity to socialise and get out and about whilst they can.
Reports filtering in to me from the UK suggest that the lockdown mentality has taken root and that whilst restrictions have been eased officially, many people remain cagey, with most of these believing that a second wave is not only imminent but has already begun. Indeed, the UK government and media seem to be actively preparing the populace for the second-coming.
Here, in Kaliningrad, and rumour has it in Russia per se, the attitude is markedly different. Being British, I have already been accused of hiding under the bedsheets, but on those brief occasions when I have upped periscope, although the masks go marching on, the general impression I have is that the attitude-ohmmeter swings widely across a spectrum which starts with hardened disbelief, travels across a broad swathe of resignation and ends with stoical resolve. Paraphrased it goes something like this: it is not as bad as we are being led to believe; whatever will be will be; we will do our best to avoid it but somehow life must go on.
Second Wave Coronavirus
As an experiment, I popped over to Goggle News UK and in the search engine keyed in ‘second wave in Russia’. Herewith is a sample of the headlines my search returned:
No second wave of coronavirus infection expected in Russia — former chief sanitary doctor
Russia can avoid a second wave of coronavirus if everyone follows the rules and observes distance, says WHO
No preconditions for second COVID-19 wave in Russia yet, PM says
I then did the same with regard to western Europe, ie I keyed in ‘second wave in western Europe’. The search returned:
The second corona wave emerges in Europe
LIVE UPDATES: PM warns signs of second wave of virus in Europe
Spain’s second coronavirus wave swells, fuels concern across Europe
And finally, I made the same search, but substituted Europe for UK, ie ‘second wave in UK’. The search returned:
Cambridge scientists fear coronavirus second wave as ‘R’ rate rises across UK
Six towns where coronavirus is causing fears of UK second wave as Army brought in
Government not doing enough to stop coronavirus second wave, says British Medical Association chief
Even allowing for the fact that the last headline is merely concerned with party politics, ie vote Labour and they will instigate a street demo which will outlaw coronavirus for inciting populism, the attitudinal difference inherent in the way in which Covid-19 is reported and discussed is an interesting one.
Forget the argument that the Russian version of events is to play the significance of the virus down whilst the UK and western Europe motive is to peddle sensationalism and stoke hysteria, the questions are: does the first reassure and the second sow panic, does the divergent tone of each influence opinion or reflect a herd immunity to it and, lastly, but most significantly, does the public really care? How does it go? You can fool some of the people all of the time but not all of the people all of the time.
My take on the dominant attitude towards coronavirus in Kaliningrad is that for the majority of its citizens opinion is formed not by the media but in the character-making crucible of history. To understand that statement you will need to have at least an elementary knowledge of Russian history, of the hardships endured and surmounted. After all, if it puzzled such a great thinker and statesman as Churchill ~ on Russia Churchill’s famous definition was “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma” ~ what chance do you have? (alright, alright, there’s no need to take it out on Churchill’s statue ~ innit). However, you can shortcut the history lesson and understand the prevailing attitude towards the threat of coronavirus in Kaliningrad by remembering that Kaliningrad is in Russia, and Russia is the country that saw off Adolf Hitler!
As for me, well, I carry my British credentials everywhere, not only in my passport, and, although I have emerged and have become more flexible in my day to day regime of self-isolation, I remain as cautious as the proverbial butcher’s dog. Wait a moment, I think I may have botched the expression. Butcher’s dogs are called many things, but are they cautious? Mine is ~ it’s vegetarian.
12 July 2020 saw our first get together with friends since coronavirus sentenced us to solitary confinement. Although my wife had been working on her pet project for six months, converting what had once been a slab of Soviet and German concrete into a real, live garden and the sun had come out to play after two days of heavy rain and a marked decline in the temperature, the social occasion was impromptu.
Earlier this morning I had emailed our friend Stas’ revised ‘Homework’ back to him for his approval. He had written, in English, an account of his life leading up to the time he met our mutual friend, the late Victor Ryabinin, and how through Victor’s influence he had developed both his interest in art and his love for the history of Königsberg. I had edited his work and now needed him to sign it off prior to posting it on my blog under the Victor Ryabinin category.
Socialising in the Coronavirus Age
Anyway, it was during this exchange of emails that I accidentaly mentioned to Stas that it was a pity that he was driving to see us today because if he was not, instead of a cup of tea we could have taken advantage of the good weather, the hard work my wife has put into her garden project and partake of a beer or two.
This must have had resonance as Stas delivered the plants for our garden as he had promised but left his car at home. Along with his girlfriend, Olga, he also brought a bottle of cognac, so from little acorns mighty oaks did grow.
Whilst not under one of Robin Hood’s, we do have a rather nice, albeit problematic, pear tree in our garden ~ problematic in that had we had it removed as our landscape gardener advised it would have eliminated the issue of how best to incorporate a functional seating area in the space at our disposal. But we love trees, so there was never any question of taking a saw to it. However, the block-paved roundel at the base of the tree, whilst looking nice, would not easily accommodate a table and six chairs. We had considered constructing a table around the tree, with its trunk at the centre, but eventually decided against it as the net result would have been that for each person in six seated only five would be seen, an interesting conundrum and highly beneficial if you could get the seating right in circumstances where every guest had at least one person whom they did not like and therefore would rather not see.
That was not the case today, where all we had to think about was arranging the seats around the rectangular table in such a way that after half a dozen cognacs the spindly legs of the chairs did not slip off the hard ground into the soil giving its occupants that distinct sinking feeling before the ultimate embarrassment of sailing arse-over-head.
And yet, there was another thing to consider, as remember we were operating this get-together under strict observance of the Coro social distancing guidelines.
In this respect, our seating arrangements should not have been more beautiful. With the assistance of a lump of cardboard and a piece of board a not attractive but workable proposition was achieved, whereby myself and another of our clan could move back from the table, our makeshift plateau having removed the risk of any unsightly submissions to gravity.
The art and science of socialising whilst social distancing
At first the six of us stuck more or less to our social distancing and preventative strategy guns. Some, those more inclined towards caution, adopting a more rigorous approach than others.
Red star marker and an excellent cognac brand!
To assist us in this respect, Olga had taken the precaution of introducing some jolly looking beer and shot glass markers so that each individual would be able to personalize and safeguard their glass. These little brightly coloured objects were fashioned into distinctive novelty shapes, for example Olga had a red star, which I deemed appropriate because she was always talking about the positives of Stalin and the Soviet system; I had a little red car because I hated driving and had given it up years ago; I also had a green meeshka for my beer glass, which was most appropriate as my wife often calls me Meeshka (she calls me a lot of other things as well), and green for beer was green for go; other people, depending on their preference and personality, were able to choose from a variety of symbols, which included a ‘stop’ sign, a mobile phone (perhaps this should have been my wife’s, as she would be lost without her phone!!), a big red hand and so on.
A meeshka beer glass marker
The glasses having been carefully labelled, each serving plate of food was then equipped with its own tongues or spoon, according to the type of fare offered, and each guest had his or her own packet of antiseptic hand wipes.
We had, in effect, taken all the precautionary measures that could be taken. Alas, however, with the best will in the world, it soon became apparent to me that force of social habit and practicality were two rogue factors that no amount of precautionary procedure could ameliorate.
Socialising in the Coronavirus Age
As the occasion got underway, various conversations sprang up. As Stas can speak English and my Russian is not going to win me any linguistic awards ~ although I learn a little more of the language each week ~ Stas was my discussion partner. When our conversation commenced, we were sitting about one metre away from each other, but the background volume of other people talking soon required that we lean in closer toward one another to hear what each was saying.
Another decreasing factor in the art and science of social distancing came when, according to the old Russian custom, someone proposed a toast before quaffing the drink in front of them. As well as necessitating encroaching upon the one metre or one-and-a-half-metre rule (whatever it is supposed to be now), the clinking together of glasses, although brief, was nevertheless receptacle contact, and, of course, when different people helped themselves to food from the serving plates, each of us in turn handled the same cutlery.
With the sensible precautions that we had taken exposed for what they are in real circumstances ~ nigh-on impossible to adhere to ~ we decided to talk about politics.
Talking politics whilst the guests tend to our garden!
Now, according to the Western media, the ‘autocratic nature of Russia’ (their label) precludes such conversation, but like so many stereotypifying things I have found this categorically untrue.
On the subject of the recent constitutional vote and Mr Putin’s presidency, I pointed out that whilst I had met and spoken to people who obviously were not supporters nobody seemed to be able to answer the question, “who then would you vote for?”
When the conversation turned the socio-political situation in the UK, Europe and the USA. I expressed the opinion that, as with everything, liberalism came with a price. In the UK, and West in general, that price included unrestricted and uncontrolled immigration, racial disharmony, a baggage of political correctness to keep the host population in line, an exponential loss of tradition and cultural identity, a revisionist version of history, a threat to heritage and ancestral home, the loss of a moral rudder, anti-social behaviour, a rise in violent crime, terrorism and diverse divisions leading to societal instability and lack of social cohesiveness, in return for which you received soundbites about civil liberties, freedom of speech and rights. Every five years you got to put your mark on a slip of paper in the voting booth giving you the choice between two political parties. This ensured that the name of democracy was upheld, even though the core members of each party were singing from the same rap sheet. In my opinion, the price that you were paying had no value to it and was, again in my opinion, far too high a price to pay.
Well, the sermon came to an end, and as in every civilised realm of the world, no one was any the wiser about what people want and where they think it will lead them, and, as political discussions always change nothing, we all had another cognac and broke the distancing rule once again by coming in closer for photographs.
The guests study the cognac bottle; Mick drinks the cognac!
Nevertheless, these flaws in our risk-assessment plan noted, at the end of the day we refrained from a lot of handshaking and embracing. Stas and his Olga left, as work was on the horizon tomorrow, and my Olga and I repaired to our neighbour’s gazebo for an hour, where, as we were sitting over a metre apart, I suppose no one could really fault us.
The cat was pleased to see me when we got home. He has decided that social distancing skills are not for him, as he needs to nip and scratch me given the chance once a day at least. I sometimes suspect he is liberal …
The guests doing our gardening. I would have helped, but I was drinking …
Although I am still prone to headlining this series of articles as the Diary of a Self-isolator, I have begun to wonder whether the relaxation of coronavirus restrictions warrants a change of name, say, for example, the Diary of a Social Distancer, but have come to the conclusion that in the interests of continuity the original appellation should persist.
You can see the etymological crux of the issue in the revelation that recently, whilst self-isolating, I accepted the invitation to emerge from the homestead to stay for a couple of days at a friend’s dacha in the heart of Zelenogradsk.
Zelenogradsk is considered to be the second principal seaside resort in the Kaliningrad region, the number-one slot invariably reserved for Svetlogorsk. Whilst it is widely accepted that Svetlogorsk wears the crown, in recent years that crown has been tarnished by a controversial extension of the coastlines promenade in preparation for an extensive building programme that has decimated the resort of what little beach it had.
Zelenogradsk, on the other hand, has a beach par excellence; acres of white and golden sand stretching across the curving coastline for as far as the eye can see. On a good day, that is under a bright blue sky with plenty of sun to boot, the Zelenogradsk coastline is a beach-lovers paradise and the rolling waves and surf from the sea a scintillating superlative for all that is loved about swimming and sailing about on the briny.
Natural sandy coastline: Zelenogradsk, Russia (July 2020)
Today (3 June 2020), the weather conditions could not have been better. And for reclusive comfort combined with close proximity to the front, the old German house in which we were lodging could not have been more inviting or better located.
Before heading off to the beach, we decided ~ my wife, our friend and I ~ to buy a pizza and a few edible accessories from one of the seafront bars. This was the first time since coronavirus began that I had eaten in a restaurant or been to a restaurant to buy food, and although we were sat outside on the decking and the waitresses were bemasked, the entire experience seemed strangely illicit and fraught with a sense of risk.
On paying for our order there was a poignant moment when one of the girls who had served us, possibly the manager, not only thanked us for our custom but almost begged us to return again, such is the devastation that coronavirus has wrought upon the café, bar and restaurant business.
We did not eat in the restaurant’s outside seating area, choosing instead the comparative safety of limited social numbers in the conservatory of our temporary German home.
Before eating the food we had bought we of course observed all of the risk-decreasing procedures handed down to us from the world’s health industry, which is to say that we washed our mitts and swabbed the polystyrene packaging with antiseptic wipes before opening it and then used cutlery to eat with.
I have to admit that it was good to sample fast food again, even though the preliminaries had knocked it down a gear or two.
Social Distancing in Zelenogradsk
Victually resuscitated, plus a bottle of white wine later, our friend departed, leaving Olga and myself to make our way to the sea.
I wondered, as I walked towards the beach, if the low numbers of people present was a coronavirus consequence. If so, it was the perfect tragedy, but the volumetric increase in visitors on the following day, which was a Saturday, assured me that the comparatively low turnout had been the product of a working day.
By 12 noon on Saturday the numbers of people in Zelenogradsk had swelled enormously, but not to such an extent as to render social distancing ridiculous, as it had in England when people had flocked to Brighton beach in such appalling numbers that it was all they could do to find enough room in which to stab each other.
As we walked along the widened footpath with its pedestrian section on one side and its mini-road on the other, along which whizzed all kinds of two- and four-wheeled mini traffic, and with its astonishing eclecticism of man-made buildings on one side and the rolling sea and sand on the other, I hoped for their own sake that there were no representatives of a certain American media organisation lurking around in the undergrowth. From what I have read recently the western media seems to have a neurosis regarding ‘ethnic Russian families’, ‘smiling Slavic couples with children’ and ‘traditional family values’, all of which was refreshingly evident today. It is a peculiar point to ponder on, is it not, that what matters to some is of no matter to others.
Take the preferences of my wife and I, if you will: My wife swims; I drink.
Under the Old Normal, we would find a spot that was mutually suitable. An outside drinking area for me to relax in; a section of beach close to the sea for her to get sand in her toes and completely drenched in salt water.
Under the New Normal, however, this was not to be. Although the seating areas outside the bars were reassuringly patronised, the interiors being off-base, I had decided aforethought not to frequent them but carry on social distancing. So, whilst my wife dunked herself, I simply went for a stroll, and when I had strolled enough waited for her on a bench like the perfect husband I am.
Example of brand new old: Neoclassical building on the coastal path, Zelenogradsk, Russia (July 2020)
My fascination along this particular pedestrian thoroughfare is with the architectural anomaly. It is so outrageously ~ in an entrancing sort of way ~ diverse, with no two buildings the same either in scale or point of style. It is not visually unheard of, for example, to have a brand-spanking new hotel ~ all curvilinear, porticoed, sleek and slick in metal and glass and conspicuously erect ~ rubbing shoulders, I should say, with a great, grey giant of a building, a sad and sorry-looking concrete block of flats, neglected, uninhabited, windows open and vacant like the proverbial eyes in skulls and next to it, abstrusely, a red-brick castle pastiche, festooned with mini-turrets, or a vast building in magnolia-coloured stone boasting all the attributes of neoclassical architecture in its most defining form standing next to a humble shack, a distressed-brick and weathered wooden domicile with its roots in Eastern Prussia but with the added Soviet enhancements of an asbestos roof, steel railings and bulwarking metal sheets. I could walk up and down this road all day marvelling at these sites, which are far more interesting, and infinitely more imaginative, than anything you would see today on the fashion-circuit catwalks.
This lovely old building overlooks the sea along the Zelenogradsk coastline. Its much sought after location almost certainly means it will be demolished to make way for a palatial new residence, or, more likely, hotel. Myself, I would go for renovation. There is nothing like restoring heritage and making it your home.
Our excursion to the beach tomorrow would take me even further along this road, to a place of architectural extravagance the likes of which I have never beheld before, but more of this in a later post.
The sea and my wife having been reacquainted, it was now time to walk into town and purchase some bottles of ale from a well-stocked shop on Zelenogradsk’s high street. I would like to include these delights in my bottled beers of Kaliningrad appraisal, which I started compiling last week, but notwithstanding that they were not bought in the city itself, a minor point that could be overlooked, I have limited my bottled beer review to include brands that are generally available in supermarkets, so I will possibly leave the ones I tried today for a future specialist category on craft and imported beers.
Social Distancing in Zelenogradsk
Now, coronavirus has brought about a number of changes both in attitudes and lifestyle, some seemingly seismic, others more subtle. Like Nigel Farage, who on his Facebook page posted ‘103 days since I last drank a pint in a pub’, it has been 106 days-plus since I drank a beer in a bar or restaurant. Drinking at home is not my cup of tea, although that is what I drink there, and I have to say that sitting on a park bench and drinking ~drinking alcohol that is ~ is one of those dubious pleasures in life which up until now has passed me by. Today, however, as my wife wanted to go swimming again, and as I would rather be outdoors than in, whilst she got ready to swim this evening I packed up my beer in my old kit bag ready to find that bench.
To be honest it was not as bad as I had anticipated. All in life is relative and when you have been cooped up for the greater proportion of 106 days, a park bench and a bottle of beer is paradise. As the song goes, ‘the bare necessities of life will come to you!’
Mick Hart, in the company of a bottle of beer, happy to be on a bench on Zelenogradsk beach (July 2020)
Forgetting where I was for a moment, I looked nervously over my shoulder. That man on the opposite side of the road? Did he not look a little like Ed Davey, the Liberal Democrat leader? Relax, I thought, this isn’t the UK? Even there, there is no Ed Davey Matters movement. Even there, he and his party does not matter very much, and here he does not matter at all.
Besides, I was not about to go legally to the pub and enjoy a pint like Nigel Farage and be accused by the liberal outrage industry. In fact, I was not about to break social distancing laws in any shape or form. After 106 days in self-isolation I was off to the seaside for a change of scenery.
What Really Matters
As we sped off in the car towards the coast, I thought to myself a couple of days at the seaside matters. It matters very much to get out into the fresh air and enjoy the bounteous gifts of nature. Sun, Sea and Sand Matters, I thought. Fresh Air Matters. A Change of Scenery Matters.
We were staying for two nights in a friend’s dacha. Good Friends Matter. The cottage was an old German building. History Matters. It was not far from the sea. Being Not Far From The Sea Matters.
Before we went to the beach we sat in the conservatory, ate a pizza and cracked open a bottle of wine. Good Company Matters. Good Conversation Matters. Good Wine Certainly Matters.
The seaside town was busy but not overcrowded. Being Busy But Not Overcrowded Matters. It was clearly a family occasion. Families Matter. There were mums and dads with their children. Mums and Dads with their Children Matters.
The sea was warm and good for a swim. Warm Sea Matters. The atmosphere was family-friendly with no hint of anti-social behaviour. No Anti-Social Behaviour Matters.
What Really Matters
In the evening, I bought a couple of bottles of quality beer. Quality Beer Matters (ask Nigel Farage!). And as I relaxed and drank those beers I thought to myself, everything that I have seen today and all that I have experienced matters. It matters a lot.
What wasn’t there to matter as it did not matter at all was a matter for commonsense. But that’s another matter which in the fullness of time will matter little and then will matter a great deal less.
I took another sip of beer and something closer than the celestial spheres whispered to me in the voice of history, “Consider the matter closed!” it said. “There are those that can end the matter now if push really comes to shove, and that is a matter of fact!”
Sitting on a Bench in Zelenogradsk Drinking Beer Matters!
The last couple of days have been extremely important ones here in Russia, as the citizens of the largest country in the world head off to the polling booths to vote ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ for the new constitutional reforms. My wife was among them. I cannot reveal which she way she voted, but you who know her can probably guess.
The Value of Traditional Values
The latest BBC article (https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-53255964) as at 20.27pm Kaliningrad time, obviously alludes to the effect that a ‘yes’ vote for the reforms will have on President Putin’s terms of office and “Other conservative reforms include a ban on same-sex marriage and reference to Russia’s ancestral ‘faith in God’.”
Whilst all this has been going on, I had lost touch with ‘home’ news, so I undertook a quick scan to see what has been happening in the UK over the last few days. I deliberately avoided any and all references to coronavirus, as I have a good friend in Leicester and did not want to think about it. These were the headlines:
22 June 2020
Reading stabbing attack suspect Khairi Saadallah
[Comment: The one thing about the Old Normal that the New Normal cannot change]
26 June 2020
Three Londoners stabbed in Bournemouth beach brawl hours after ‘major incident’ declared
[Comment: Safer to be self-isolating]
Notting Hill: Police officers attacked at illegal street party
[Comment: Could it be the price of appeasement, ie softly, softly approach’ to statue-wrecking riots?]
Hero policeman David Whyte, 42, fights for his life after trying to tackle knifeman asylum seeker who stabbed six at Glasgow hotel
[Comment: Do I need to?]
27 June 2020
Bottles thrown at police as another London street party turns ugly
