Exploring Svetlogorsk

28 December 2000

“… 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!

Previous article: The Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk

Related: The Hotel Russ

Exploring Svetlogorsk

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.

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.

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 20^th 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.

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.

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.

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