Архив метки: Mick Hart Svetlogorsk

Englishman Married Twice in Russia in One Day

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.

Mick Hart Kaliningrad train station with regulation coronavirus mask — **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 historic Rauschen building — **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 Bereg Hotel ~ 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.

Englishman Married Twice in Russia in One Day — **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.

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!

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.

Kaliningrad registry office in 2001 — **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.

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.

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.

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 — **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!

Knee feeling in Kalingrad, Russia. Mick & Olga Hart's wedding — **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 — **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.**

Svetlogorsk to Kaliningrad by Train

28 December 2000

There are a plethora of travel guides out there on the internet that like to make sweeping statements about Russian people, as if the people of the largest country in the world can be whittled down to fit ~ like a misconceived square peg into the round hole of consolation. After much negative stereotyping, these articles tend to intimate that in spite of what you have heard, when you meet them Russian people are not so bad after all. It is suggested that they come across as brusque, even rude, but, guess what! ~ when you get to know them they are just as superb and wonderful as any English, German or American person. And what is more, despite having been brought up cooking behind an Iron Curtain, their food is no less delicious.

Related: Exploring Svetlogorsk

Armed then with this image of a bear with sandwiches, we had not the slightest misgiving or uncharitable apprehension that later today we would have the extraordinary experience of meeting and dining with Olga’s mum.

Previous article: Exploring Svetlogorsk

Svetlogorsk to Kaliningrad by Train

First, we had to get to Kaliningrad, because remember, Dear Reader, Olga had been so concerned that her English visitors would baulk at the imperfections there that she had taken the precaution of squirreling them away in the coastal resort of Svetlogorsk, had installed them in the Hotel Russ, where everything was obvious and the fitness centre was minus its wheel.

Yesterday, we had travelled by taxi from Kaliningrad to Svetlogorsk, but today, whether to save money or merely to be brave, Olga suggested that we go by train.

We had returned to the Russ from our afternoon drink in the bar, which had no toilet, got changed ~ rugged ourselves up ~ trudged our way back through the new fall of snow, it was snowing as we did so, to arrive at Svetlogorsk’s railway station just as dusk was gathering. We were right on time: a big, old solid lump of a train was making its way ponderously along the track to where we stood at the end of the line.

Svetlogorsk to Kaliningrad by Train — Trains waiting at Svetlogorsk Station, December 2000

Quickly ~ as quick as it was possible with conditions as they were ~ we hurried along the length of the platform, passing this beast of a train’s bull-nose front until we reached the first carriage door. Unlike British trains where, in getting on and off, you are constantly advised to ‘mind the gap’, here it was a case of mind the small, narrow, rusty iron steps up which you have to teeter if you want to get inside. As the doors were shut when we arrived, there was no small amount of dexterity involved in ascending, balancing and opening them, but teamwork won the day, and before you could say ‘arse over head’ we were on board and, a few seconds later, on boards. Through no fault of a well-illuminated carriage we could have been forgiven for believing that British vandalism had arrived in Russia at last, but it soon dawned on me, with the cold comfort of a Cold War documentary, that Western decadence would simply not be countenanced, that there really were not any cushions or padding upon the seats, just two long rows of slat-back wooden benches.

I ignored what I thought was my brother saying something like “who’s going to pick the splinters out” and made my way to the seat at the other end of the carriage. There may not have been neon lights above our heads saying ‘Look at us, we’re foreigners’, but the inhabitants of the carriage were gawping at us all the same.

They continued to gawp, as if all were one, even though it necessitated some backward craning on their part, whilst we found that we could not hear each other speak below the sound of our peculiar whispering. Fortunately, unlike Max Bygraves, the train never lingered longer, for, with a sickening, unannounced jolt, which took the audience as much by surprise as it had us, wrenching their heads in the other direction, we and the hulking train lurched clumsily out of the station.

Within a few moments of rolling along we had to admit to each other that although the seats had looked hard, cold, hostile and uninviting they were all that and more besides. There was no heat in the carriage; a couple of young scruffy looking blokes were taking it in turns to drain a bottle of vodka; two old babushkas, who simply could not refrain from turning their heads every now and then, gave us a withering stare; a gnarled old man, his coat pulled up over his ears, rocked back and forth with the rhythm of the train, one minute asleep, one minute not; and almost everyone without exception was dragging on a fag, ~ not that this bothered us, tobacco smoking had not quite yet become the wretched victim of self-proclaimed health zealots. I cannot remember whether we lit up or not, but we most likely did. Brother Joss always had a packet of roll-ups with him in those days, and besides, the complete and utter absence of any detectable heating system made striking the match appealing.

Svetlogorsk to Kaliningrad by Train: Tickets Pashalsta!

I was just wondering when and how we would pay for this magic carpet ride, when a fierce-looking babushka armed with a large leather handbag waved that secret weapon menacingly in our direction and snarled something at us, which might have meant anything, such as ‘Hand over your roll-ups’. Such was her fierce demeanour that we would have quite willingly handed over anything had not Olga, taking money out of her purse and passing it to the handbag waver, received in exchange three slips of paper. Ahhh, so these were our tickets to ride.

In spite of the excitement, Kaliningrad seemed an age away. The old engine and its ‘ready for retirement long ago’ rolling stock, rocked, swayed, groaned and complained every snowbound inch of the way. The undernourished light cast a yellow shroud over the carriage windows through which nothing could be seen except darkness and small rivers of snow, which stretched out across the opaque expanse and collected in miniature drifts along the lower edge of the sills. It was a long journey; a hard-on-your bum journey; and a very cold journey; but we got there in the end ~ we actually made it.

The No Frills Travel Company operated from a station which was not in the least different from what you would expect: it seemed that no expense had been spared in reinforced concrete and metal struts.

We alighted, a little undignified, from the steep, narrow and rickety steps, onto a slab. A bitter wind was channeling through the yawning end of the station canopy and what signs there were to tell us how to escape from it were all, of course, in Russian. As this was Olga’s home town, she did know the way, and although nothing softening or unremitting greeted us in the station’s concrete underside, simply evading the wind’s cutting edge was consolation enough.

We were now passing along the same subterranean passages that we had traversed yesterday when we arrived in Kaliningrad, from which we would cross the vast rectangular concourse, and out through one of a number of wonderfully arched Gothic doors. We had done this, and were now standing, ankle deep in snow, on the perimeter of that vast concrete plain where yesterday my senses had been so seductively stimulated by a scene so typically Soviet.

This evening, however, there were no shoveling soldiers and all but one lonely taxi driver. All was quiet on the Eastern Front.

Fortunately, we had done our bit with public transport for the time being and were now all together looking out for Olga’s friend, the man who was going to meet us. We did not have long to wait.

Antiques & collectables

Andrew was a big man; you could not make out his features as he had a muffler over the lower half of his face and a woolly hat pulled firmly down on his head. He shook our hands warmly, exchanged a few short words with Olga, laughed and embraced us and then beckoned for us to follow. Olga had confided my love of history and antiques to him and he was now leading us to an antique and collectables shop some few yards away on the edge of the station carpark.

The antique shop was located in a large room in one of the relatively few remaining original Königsberg buildings. Access was gained by passing through a large, heavy, metal studded door, on the other side of which was a veritable cornucopia of Soviet and pre-Soviet Königsberg relics ~ I’ve stopped short of claiming that it was Aladdin’s Cave, as Aladdin would most likely have found it difficult to get a visa here and is most likely on his way to England as we speak in the back of a Co-op lorry.

I shall not dwell on all the goodies I was interested in here, or what I would have liked to have bought. In a couple of days’, we would return to this shop and make three or four purchases. Suffice it to say, that for someone who had spent a lifetime involved with antiques and curios this was a place far beyond Aladdin and his half-brother Ali Barber (since arrested in Rochdale).

We were actually on our way to Olga’s mums, but our driver, Andrew, had been asked by Olga to wheel us around via Königsberg Cathedral, at this time one of the few historic buildings to have been given the green light for restoration.

Königsberg Cathedral

Konigsberg Cathedral — Königsberg Cathedral (this photo taken in winter 2004)

As we drove, I remember passing by a great concrete monolith, softened by and shrouded in snow, and thinking to myself, what on earth is that? (I was later to learn it was the ‘House of the Soviets’). But the soon-to-hove-into view Gothic turret, high perpendicular gables and broad sweeping roof of Königsberg Cathedral erased all other sentiments, save for that inspired by the sublime scene in front of me. Now when I look back on my first impression of Königsberg Cathedral, its haunting profile sketched against a whiteboard of snow, I gain some insight into the extent to which already the dark and troubled past of this place had begun to draw me in. But whilst the vast silhouette stamped its indelible mark, my recollections of the interior of Königsberg Cathedral in the year 2000 are vague to say the least. I was entranced by my first view of the external edifice but wrote very little in my diary about what lay behind the great oak doors. I mention renovation work to various wall monuments and note that it was not possible at that time to venture further than the ground floor, but much more than this I did not register, although the impression I have is that unlike today the doors opened into one very large rectangular room in which seating and other appurtenances seemed to be at a minimum.

And that, strangely enough, is all that I can recall of Königsberg Cathedral on the inside; whilst the memory of its outside has never let go of me … and never let me go.

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.

Joss Hart in the silver birch tree wood opposite the Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, year 2000. (Photo is blurred because of the quality of an old-world camera and a couple of hangovers.) Note the traditional Soviet hat!.

The walk into town took us on a route passed buildings of a most curious nature, each one different from the other. Immediately next to the Russ, on the same side of the road, there was another hotel, half-completed but with the front section, which was of concrete-block construction, yet windowless, over which a large crane hovered.

Svetlogorsk architecture

On the left side of the road, there were three or four new-builds, the architectural style of which varied immensely from building to building but all incorporating some or mixed elements of Gothic, Baroque and Neo-Classicism. The pastiche shouted conspicuous affluence, the contrasting styles sitting uneasily with each other but rendered plausible thanks to their salutary regard for the East Prussian influence from which they had sprung.

Exploring Svetlogorsk a new-Russian house c.2000 — Grand house, Svetlogorsk, December 2000

On the right side of the road, the majority of houses were older and much more simple and humble. These were small one-storey buildings, possibly dating to the early 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.

New Russian House Exploring Svetlogorsk — New Russian House c.2000. No longer in existence c.2020??

This road contained few houses on the left; on the right there were some beautiful, genuine old houses, small, set back inside woodland groves. What houses there were on the left were extravagant in every sense ~ large, out of proportion with their neighbours, bristling with different-sized windows on every conceivable level and surrounded by high, black wrought-iron fences. These were the properties of New Rich Russians, a term which in those times was used pejoratively. I was to encounter this label often over the next few days, and it would be used in a tone that was as cold as the ambient temperature. It seemed to me that the inherent contempt was a hang-back to the Soviet-era’s emphasis on a level society in which any hierarchical structure, as defined by wealth or class, was frowned upon as being dangerously bourgeoisie, smacked of Capitalist individualism and was tainted by the trappings of conspicuous consumption.

Exploring Svetlogorsk ~ Commemorative Chapel

We continued to walk. This road was a long one, with no deviation. By and by we stopped beside a small clearing in which an unassuming white chapel set in grounds away from the road could be seen. This building had a sad and tragic history to it, as it marked the spot where a Soviet plane crashed into a school building back in 1972.

Mick Hart & Olga outside the Commemorative Chapel in Svetlogorsk Russia (2000) — Mick Hart & Olga outside the Commemorative Chapel in Svetlogorsk , year 2000

Now on the left, we were walking past a large open square which had what looked to be a makeshift stage on one side and on the other the little café-bar which we had frequented the night before. A few yards down from this we passed a couple more historic Svetlogorsk houses, fronted by snow-filled gardens adjacent to the road, and here we were in the centre of Svetlogorsk.

The centre was basically a wider, more open area situated or build around a crossroads. On our right there was a café-bar, across the road on our left a shop, on the opposite side of the road in front of us a small, modern (glass and steel-framed) snack bar and, on the opposite side of the road, a large, non-descript, uniform municipal building.

Olga steered us off to the right, where we passed a glass-fronted restaurant. On the opposite side of the road stood two Prussian blocks of wooden-framed buildings, shutters on either sides of the windows and pretty carved fascia boards above, the latter festooned with rows and clusters of icicles.

We were now heading towards the ‘front’, and to do this we would have to descend along a broad pathway that snaked its way down the steep banks to the promenade. The wind whipped across this section of coastline and, although buffered by the woodland on either side of us and in spite of our extra layers of clothing, was inhospitable enough to force us to take shelter in the nearest place dispensing warmth, hot food and beverages.

At this time, Svetlogorsk promenade was serviced by one café only (a far cry from today!). According to my diary, what I liked best about this cafe was the coat and hat-check facility. This was not something that we were used to in the provincial part of England where we hailed from, and the elegant formality of it seemed to belong to an altogether more refined and bygone era. My ‘second first’ in this café was an introduction to the Russian menu. Unlike in England, where the fare is typed on the front and back of a piece of card, the average Russian menu was so extensive that it was presented to you in the form of a large book, covered in simulated leather ~ a weighty tome, indeed, which would not look out of place should Eamon Andrews be handing it to you (showing my age again). Every page of this wonderful book was rammed with meaty delights, cooked and served in every way imaginable; salivating stuff indeed if you happened to be a carnivore, but if it so happened that you had renounced consumption of animal flesh, as I had, then this great big book was woefully short of grub.

Englishmen & Vegetarians

At this time vegetarianskee options were a long way from catching on in Russia and, whilst most people in this western extremity of the country no longer react with amazement when you reveal that you do not eat meat, your strange preference is still met with a visible degree of perplexity whether dining at someone’s house or eating out in café or restaurant. On this occasion, long ago, Olga did manage to organise something akin to borsch, the most traditional of Russian dishes, but very few places other than this would be willing to make me borsch with the essential ingredient, meat, excluded.

The next rift with tradition was trying to get a cup of tea with milk. The problem here was the inverse of meat: with meat dishes it was necessary to exclude, whilst with tea, it was all a matter of remembering to include. To this day, whenever we order tea (chi) in a café , restaurant or hotel, the milk is always forgotten, and it is not altogether unknown to be asked with a puzzled expression ‘skolka?’, how much?, and even then you can sometimes end up with a tumbler full.

Hurdles are there to be overcome, hoops are there to be jumped through and the cold outside was waiting for us. Wrapped up and back outside, we continued along the prom, our attention and progress arrested by the sight of a rather peculiar tower, rectangular of shape and clad entirely in large sheets of corrugated tin. This, Olga explained, was a lift shaft, the lift within ready to transport you to the elevated ground above, only today it was not working. That was a shame, I thought, as it looked well dodgy and dangerous. We also passed another means of aerial transport, this time in the form of small bucket-shaped cable cars, the wire on which they were suspended following the slope of the bank. A note in my 2000 diary refers to rust and a certain degree of lopsidedness, the implication being that I had been rather pleased to discover that these were not working either, even if it did mean walking up the steep incline. And very steep it was and very slippery.

Exploring Svetlogorsk ~ Bar No Toilet

Approximately three-quarters of the way up this hill, the urge for a pint kicked in and when it did we were fortunate enough to be a snowballs throw away from a neon sign with ‘Bar’ written on it. The old-fashioned red neon tube was a sight for sore eyes, frozen hands and almost unfeeling toes. From the outside this bar looked exceptionally basic and the inside did not disappoint me: half-a-dozen round tables with four plain chairs around each, a high, short counter, two beer engines and an electric fire ~ my kind of place. Olga had a vodka and Joss and I had two ice cold lagers ~ just the ticket for this sort of weather!

We must have spent at least forty minutes in this humble but gratifying establishment, during which we were watched by the bar staff as if we had just landed from Pluto. We soon learnt that our presence in the Kaliningrad region was singularly astonishing; we tended to be regarded somewhere between exotic and alien, or exotic aliens, with an oscillating reaction which swung back and forth from amused curiosity to highly suspicious caution. At first it was unnerving, but, as we became accustomed to it and realised it was par for the course, the attention we received appealed to our sense of the exciting and comic. Besides, if we knew nothing else, we had armed ourselves with one very important and versatile Russian phrase, which was Ya nee penymio (I don’t understand).

This phrase came into its own when we enquired Gdye toylete? And the answer came back, “We haven’t got one.” I had often used this response when I was younger to guests who were visiting our family home; their confusion was delightful. But now with the tables turned it did not seem quite so funny. Further enquiry, with our legs crossed, revealed that although they really did not have a toilet, patrons were welcome to use the toilet block outside that belonged to an establishment on the opposite side of the street.

In normal circumstances, ie normal being when the steeply sloping road outside was not covered by a glacier, such an excursion may have been a considerably less arduous and adventurous undertaking, but even with my brother and I providing more than moral support to each other we ended up sliding this way and that in a helpless fit of the giggles. Fortunately, no accidents accrued, in any place where they might have done when one is dying for a pee whilst inadvertently ice skating, and having mastered this peculiarly Russian ritual, we downed another pint and headed back to the Russ where, ‘isn’t it obvious’, we had returned for a short respite and a snack before travelling into Kaliningrad for our first experience of Russian hospitality.

The Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk

27 December 2000

I recently visited the Hotel Russ (August 2019). It is interesting to observe what has changed in the past 20 years and what has not. The following description is taken from my notes of the Hotel Russ as it was on that celebrated day in 2000 when we first arrived in Russia, almost 20 years ago. Later, we hope to write a review of what it is like to stay in the Russ today. Meanwhile, this was our first experience …

Having passed through the main gate of the Hotel Russ in Svetlogorsk, we followed the path along the side of the building to the entrance. Two large glass doors opened up into a wide, airy and spacious foyer. You could not miss the reception area as it was elevated and had the word ‘Reception’ emblazoned across it, surprisingly in English.

Hotel Russ reception area 2000 — Reception area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000

Previous article: Kaliningrad: First Impression

To get there necessitated climbing up two or three steps onto a wider platform and then approaching the bar. I do not mean the sort you get in pubs; this experience was rather more similar to approaching the bar in court (as far as I am aware).

The two young ladies behind the counter were, well, beautiful springs to mind, but it was a cold, unsmiling kind of beauty; the next word that sprung to mind was ‘’officious and, after that, ‘very’. Olga did the talking; we did the looking and the walking.

From our elevated position we could see that on one side of us there was, indeed, a bar. We both felt instantly better ~ who said ‘at home’?

Bar Hotel Russ December 2000 — Bar area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000

The bar area contained the usual outcrops of tables and chairs, which extended down one side to the end of the building. The chairs were chromium backed and the round tables marbled topped. Indeed, marble ~ or simulated marble ~appeared to be the material of the day within the Hotel Russ. To the left of us, in front of the bar, stood a row of tall, square-section pillars, which fanned out in vaulted form before folding into the ceiling. One of the pillars was decorated with artificial shrubs and climbing plants and beneath it we could hear a water feature bubbling

The area beyond the pillars was effectively the hotel lounge. It was well appointed, with a bank of windows which extended along the entire side of the room and soared up into the heavens above. The ceiling was very high, and if you stood in this lavish area, with its reproduction antique furniture and comfy, cushioned divans, and looked up at the ceiling it was evident they had designed the Russ to look like an ocean liner, complete with curving staircase that took you up majestically onto the upper deck.

Hotel Rus, Svetlogorsk, Russia — Lounge area, Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000

As grand as they were, we did not take the steps. Our luggage was extremely heavy and bulky, even discounting the Sausage, so we took the lift instead.

A tall, thin man, with a face he had purchased from Serious & Co, was summoned to help us with our luggage. He came across the room in a most peculiar way, but it was not until he turned back again towards the lift with a couple of bags, including the Sausage, which were far too heavy for him to manage, that my brother, with an alacrity of mind that was so atypical that he must have borrowed it for the occasion, identified the gait as ‘mincing’. From that moment on, our tall assistant would be known to us as Mincer and Mincer he became.

Mick Hart & Joss Hart at the Hotel Rus, Svetlogorsk, Russia, December 2000 — From left to right: Joss Hart, a man from the Hotel Russ and Mick Hart , December 2000

For a big hotel the lift was little. It was also not very wide. Certainly not wide enough for Olga, Joss, myself, two hefty cases, the Sausage and Mr Mincer. We got in and were all squashed up, something like Dad’s Army when they all crowd into the vicar’s office. There was nothing for it, something would have to give. So Olga got out and walked upstairs. There goes another myth, ‘the typical English gentlemen’.

It was a small lift and it was also a very slow lift. It did not start moving straightaway. Titter ye not, I thought, but it was hard not to all cramped up like that with Mincer looking so serious. But we knew better than to laugh in Russia ~ thank heavens for the stiff upper lip.

Ping, went the lift, at last. I felt as if we had travelled to the top of the Empire State Building not just to the first floor. Joss and I squeezed out and Mincer followed, or he would have done had not the mischievous Sausage found another small door to straddle. We helped our hapless baggage boy out and relieved him of the obnoxious case.

We were now standing in a wide area overlooking the bar, three or four tables and chairs around the perimeter and a pool table in the centre. The rooms on this floor were arranged around an oblong balcony with the centrepiece open and from which you could look down onto the floor below.

The first room that we entered was the one reserved for my brother, Joss. It was not bad at all. A little formal, perhaps, by British standards, I mean not at all like Mrs Musson’s Guest House at number six No-Beach Brightlingsea, but lacking nothing in the clean, neat, tidy and comfortable department.

In addition to the usual appurtenances, Joss had a large, three-quarter size bed and a rubber plant.

Next it was our room, which was on the other side of the balcony facing the Rus garden. In we went, all excited, only to discover that our double room was smaller than Joss’ single and that whilst he had a double bed ~ of sorts ~ we had two singles?

My brother has always been a true gentleman, mostly by accident, and today was one of those, because he surprised us all, including himself (and that doesn’t happen very often) by making the supreme sacrifice: he was willing to give his room up for ours ~ to swap rooms.

Isn’t it obvious!?

Feeling altogether sensible Olga went downstairs to reception to request the transfer. She was back almost quicker than she went with the intelligence that we could not change rooms as Joss had a single room and we had a double, so any change was impossible. The exact response from the ladies at reception had been, “Isn’t it obvious: the single room is for the single person and the double for two people”.

To say that we were not perplexed would be an understatement and Olga, perceiving that her two English associates had been skittled, left them sitting on the bed in Joss’ room, to which we had retreated, sipping vodka thoughtfully out of a hip flask, whilst she went off ‘to see what could be done’.

Ten minutes later she returned. “It’s OK, they are taking care of it,” she assured us.

And they were, sure enough, but not in the way they might have done it back home. As we walked past the open door to our bedroom, we caught sight of the solution to the problem, in the shape of two burly Russian gentleman moving the single beds together and securing the legs at either end with two thick pieces of rope. This made us chuckle; Olga was not amused. She was also not very amused as in passing the upper extremities of the Christmas tree, which extended from the ground floor up through the oval aperture almost to the roof, Joss noted that there was no adorning fairy or star on the top. His suggestion to hang an old pair of underpants on it was a step too far in the smutty English humour direction for Olga, and she went from feeling annoyed to visibly irritated.

To take the wind out of her sails (my brother was also suffering from wind, and she was not too amused about that, either), I suggested a tour around the hotel to get ourselves familiarised with it. At such a time when many companies were still in the embryonic stage of website development, surprisingly enough the Russ was ahead of itself, and we had been able to appraise the quality of this 4-Star hotel by consulting its site ahead of our trip.

As we descended, this time by the grand staircase, we met Mincer on the ground floor, and Olga asked him if we could see the sports centre. “It’s broken,” he replied.

Joss and I shot a glance at each other: perhaps something was lost in translation?

Broken or not our guide continued. We followed him down a short flight of stairs into what appeared to be a typical sports centre changing room, wide and open with slatted bench seats around the wall. We then turned right into a passageway. Against the wall stood an exercise bike, its front wheel hanging off. Mincer said something. Olga translated: “Broken,” she said.

There was little point in arguing. But what about the swimming pool, surely the wheel could not have fallen off that.

It had not. But it had shrunk. On the photographs it appeared to be a full-size pool, whereas, in real life, it was a large, deep bathtub into which one plunged after vacating the sauna. Was the sauna working? Er …

Fully refreshed after our workout, we returned to our respective rooms. Olga had made arrangements to meet with her friend, Helen, the plan being that we would venture into Svetlogorsk for a drink, but what was needed now was a cup of tea and a refreshing bath.

Don’t drink the water

Spoilt by literally having drinking water on tap in England, Olga had alerted us to the fact that in the Kaliningrad region it was strictly a case of ‘don’t drink the water’. I wondered whether it could be as bad as we had been led to believe. The answer came when I began to fill the bathtub. To say that the water was black may well be an overstatement, but it was certainly getting that way. We called Joss in from his room to witness this hitherto unseen spectacle, and then we had Olga ring to reception to report the anomaly. Her reply was, “Isn’t it obvious? You must let the water run!” So, we did exactly that, until we feared that we had dissipated half of Svetlogorsk’s water reserves. Oh, well, we would have to forgo the bath. But what about something to eat? Something simple, such as a cheese and tomato sandwich prior to going out on the town? Our request, by phone to reception, was met with some confusion. The person who took the call had to consult with somebody else. Eventually we were informed that we could have two slices of bread, some cheese and tomatoes on the side of the plate, but they could not do a sandwich. Well, I thought, isn’t it obvious!

It was around this time that we received a phone call to reception from another of Olga’s friends. Olga telephoned the friend in return and was invited to go out somewhere for a drink. As we had a prior engagement, we declined, but Joss solved the double commitment by electing to meet up with the second party whilst we went ahead with our original plans.

Joss’ company arrived first. They were a couple, both persons of which were, I thought, most refined in dress and in manner. What would they make of my brother, I mused, as they whisked him away for the evening?

Olga’s friend, Helen, arrived a few minutes later: attractive, very sweet natured but, I thought, rather, and unduly, concerned about my first impressions of Svetlogorsk. I had no idea as to why this apprehension should constitute the status quo in these parts, although I realised later that in the year 2000, apart from Germans returning to the region to see where their family once lived, foreigners were quite a rare species and English men perfectly alien.

Out into the cold ~ very cold ~ and snow-laden night we ventured, retracing the route that our taxi had taken. We had difficulty walking, the snow was that thick and, where it was not, it was that icy. Also, as I had observed earlier, there were little or no streetlights of which to speak.

Sundial on Svetlogorsk promenade, December 2000 — Sundial sculpture on Svetlogorsk promenade during the winter, December 2000

Our pedestrianisation seemed to go on forever, until we took a right turn in the direction of the sea. We eventually reached the top of a steep bank of steps. I could hear the sea in the near distance and feel the sea air ~ it was as sharp as the proverbial razor blade! Carefully, very carefully, we picked our way down the gallery of steps until we reached the promenade. Directly in front of us stood a man-made and man height (sorry about the lack of PCism) sundial, the wedge-shaped blade reflecting what light there was as it cut its way upwards from the ground. I took hold of this blade, and, in listening to the rolling sound of the tide, thought to myself, “I’m actually here!” (Do not forget, dear reader, that having read or heard nothing positive about Russia since I was a child and, more recent to the time of my trip, having been the recipient of negative media coverage from, without exception, every UK media source available and, in particular official channels (no change there, then!) make no mistake that being in Russia was a truly awesome thought!)

It used to be

The icy blast across the Baltics rendered any further deliberation untenable, and we cut a hasty retreat. It had been somewhat easier descending than ascending, and we stopped at the top of the steps to catch our breath. To our left there were a couple of derelict buildings, about which Helen volunteered some information as to what they used to be. By the time we had reached our destination, a café-bar close to Svetlogorsk centre, ‘this used to be’ had developed into a catchphrase. We passed several collapsing or deserted structures all of which had been ‘Used to Bees’.

A welcome sight was a little neon sign marking the spot where a café-bar stood. As we drew closer, I could make out a single-storey building with a glass door. There was nothing else around the building. Today, as with most of Svetlogorsk, this area has been developed, but the little café into which I first took refuge on 27 December 2000 is, I am pleased to say, still there and still functioning and nothing much, if anything, has changed!

Inside, the café was a simple rectangular room, tables ranged down either side and in the far corner to the right a small semi-circular or curved bar. The establishment was neither grand nor overtly plain. The lighting was just right ~ not too bright, not too dim ~ and the walls were conservatively decorated with framed pictures of the Svetlogorsk coastline and town. Most importantly, on a night like this, it was cosy, comfortable and warm ~ and, of course, it was also licensed.

I cannot remember what lager I drank that evening. I did not really bother. As a seasoned real-ale drinker, I had made my mind up in advance that anything lagerish would be poor, but I drank it all the same.

My one abiding memory of this establishment, and one that would stay with me for a long time, was that there was only one toilet, and it was unisex. This perplexed me a little. There were only three other people apart from us in the bar, but, when the establishment was full, how did a one-toilet system work? The other thing that surprised me about this odd Russian toilet arrangement was that you were unable to use the facility unless you asked for a key from the bar. I would learn later that this inconvenient convenience was by no means a one-off and in some places today the tradition has not moved on much!

I also learnt this evening that whenever I spoke English in a café or a restuarant I would be looked at ~ and I do not mean in the sense of a casual glance! As I noted earlier, foreigners were a rare thing in ‘these ‘ere parts’ and when you were looked at you were really looked at. I believe that throughout the 45 minutes we were in this bar, the other inhabitants, bar staff included, never took their eyes off me, not for a single moment.

We moved on, not because of this, but to pastures anew. If anything, our brief sojourn and the comfort afforded by it, had rendered the great outdoors even more hostile, or perhaps the temperature was dropping even further.

Café Mozart , Svetlogorsk

Luckily, we had only walked a short distance before another neon sign glowed its way into our vision: in a purple-red flowing script, it identified the building on which it was erected as the Café Mozart.

I will never forget that first encounter with the Mozart. The building was well lit on this extremely murky but atmospheric evening, a large picture window flooding the ground with light outside, whilst other lit windows and external lamps threw patches of light onto this and that aspect of the building and wove shadows above and around, picking out and hiding at will the nooks, crannies, decor and detail of what was unequivocally a fine example of the Gothic Revival style. As we approached, the wooden slatted and clad exterior put me in mind of early 20^th century American Romanticist architecture, but it was far too chilly a night to bring this contemplation to a proper conclusion.

Inside the building, large and spacious as it was, there was a traditional dance floor to the right, complete with revolving glitter ball, and to the left a good-sized lounge with a welcoming fire. Although this was not a real log fire but a gas-fired replica, it made the interior very cosy indeed. Comfortable bench seats lined the window, with armchairs and sofas scattered here and there inviting you to sink into them, an over-mantle mirror hung above the fireplace, which may or may not have been authentic antique, and various framed pictures adorned the wallpapered walls, the mood lighting from a combination of pendant and wall-mounted lamps making this habitat the perfect choice for reasonable refreshment and good conversation.

As for the latter, most of that revolved around what it was like to live in England and the English way of life. I would soon learn that the Russian vision of Merry England was as quaintly outdated as our authorised version of what it was like to live in Russia today.

Sad to say, the Mozart, which had affected me with such appealing and positive vibes, closed shortly after this visit ~ at least it was closed when I returned a year later, never to re-open in the same style. Six months ago, the building was up for sale. It has been on the market for a long while and may still be for sale today.