Архив метки: Svetlogorsk Year 2000

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.**

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.