Kaliningrad 20 Years Ago

Kaliningrad 20 Years Ago
(or Russian Hospitality part 1)

Diary entry dated 28 December 2000

From our brief excursion to Königsberg Cathedral we were off at last to Olga’s mothers. I wrote in my diary of rattling over roughshod cobbles, dodging one pothole to land in another, of dimly lit streets, an old metal railway bridge overlooking a huge rolling-stock marshalling yard crammed with lines of open wagons and tankers, of winding streets clung onto by tired old German flats and overlooked impersonally by more modern chunks of concrete that looked more tired and shabby than the ones they sought to usurp. I wrote of the street onto which Andrew let us out of his car. (It was the approach road to Olga’s flat, the flat she shared with her son, her mother, daughter and Marsha the cat.) ‘Mean Street’ I wrote, on account of what the road was: a narrow lane that ran along the side of two or three groups of flats, which taken together formed open-ended quadrangles. On our right there was a small shop in a low-level shed-like building, with a thick wooden entrance made of two doors bolted together. We were going to get in there, once we had braved the terrain: an adventurous combination of savaged concrete interlaced with sinews of ice.

Previous article: Svetlogorsk to Kaliningrad by Train

It was warm inside the shop; very little, very basic but altogether very warm. Here, I could chalk up another first, my first time in a Russian shop. The fish and meat counter was enough to give a vegetarian a fit of the flying ab dabs, so I focused elsewhere and found that that every packet, every box and every wrapped item, no matter how small it was, had a little bit of paper stuck to it on which the price was clearly written in hand. The shop keeper, a stout and formidable-looking lady, was dressed in an apron of broad stripes, reminiscent of ticking material used in pre-war British deck chairs.

Whilst I was taking in the ambience and generalities, brother Joss was concerning himself with the relative prices of things, particularly those things to which he was most partial, ie meaty things, such as sausages, big chunks of meat on the bone, plus large cheeses and pickles.

Olga purchased some items to take with us to her flat, and on the way we stopped at another shop, this one built into the end of the block of flats immediately preceding hers. This shop was slightly larger and more enticing owing to its ample stock of alcohol. I remember that the brand selection was impressive, whilst the generic composition was limited primarily to a choice of vodka or beer.

As it was about 5pm, I was surprised to discover that we would not be taking wine with our afternoon tea but vodka. “It is cranberry flavour,” Olga emphasised, so that was alright then!

It was not far now to Olga’s flat. The street lighting was worse here than it had been on our approach and, as we turned into the open-ended quadrangle, our best guide was the light filtering out from an open door at ground level. The beams of light seeping out from the hinge side, threw a thin and lurid glow across a large mound heaped up at the front of the flats. Some of its composition had spilled out across the path and, as it crunched beneath our feet, we realised it was coke (ie, the sort you put in the stove to heat your house!).

We passed through the external door, a big, old wooden affair, blistered, warped, incapable of being closed that night as it had been, no doubt, for years. We were now in the stairwell. This was my introduction to the average Kaliningrad stairwell, typical in its design and appearance to thousands across the city.

The Balham flat

In looking back on the way I reacted to and described these communal areas, I feel both reticent and awkward. In England, I had been brought up in a rural community. My family home was an 18th century thatched cottage. My closest friend’s father, a farmer, had a large 18^th century hunting lodge set in the most rural and sequestered piece of English countryside that you could possibly imagine.

It is true that on moving to London, as a postgraduate student and later in my first job, that my flat in Balham was so notorious, I mean in the sense of basic and humble, that it earnt itself the sobriquet of The Balham Flat. But as shabby, disheveled and wanting as it most certainly was, this flat occupied an old Victorian house, the type that in the early 80s was, like numerous other residential Cinderellas, waiting for Thatcher’s golden slipper. These hangbacks from the 1950s, with their garish red and yellow wallpaper, threadbare carpets, doors overpainted in rivulets of gloss, antiquated electric fires, mouse-eaten skirting boards, rising damp, yellowing net curtains and a kitchen and bathroom that looked as if they should have been consigned long ago either to the scrapheap or social history museum, were known and tolerated, loved to some extent, in that quaint way, with reservations, that you might compassionately look upon a gentleman of the road. Such flats were held in affectionate dislike, reviled but revered as home.

Kaliningrad 20 years ago: the flat

For all I know the residents of Kaliningrad back in the year 2000 may have felt exactly the same about their flats as we did about our bedsits, but for we westerners, particularly those who had tasted comparative privilege, no matter how lowly or secondhand, it was one of the most challenging moments of coming to Kaliningrad ~ how to react to the flat.

I could tell that Olga, who had travelled and stayed in London on at least two occasions and observed such differences as there were, was embarrassed about what we might think or say. We thought, oh dear, this place could do with a coat of paint, the metal stair rails could do with fixing, the concrete steps could do with some attention and the tangled mass of electric wires protruding dustily from every orifice like an old man found in the nude, well, we did not think much of that and, of course, we said even less.

Unlike some flat complexes in Kaliningrad, the block containing Olga’s flat was a mere three storeys, and her flat was on the third floor. We had already passed some of the biggest, burliest doors I have ever seen not standing outside of a nightclub wearing a dinner jacket, and now we were standing outside yet another which did not fit with the rest whilst none of the rest fitted with any.

As with the stairwell, Olga’s flat premiered yet another phenomenon ~ the two-door combination security system. The first door, which was made of metal and looked secure enough to resist yet another revolution, was immediately backed with another, this one as solid as the first but having a button-down padded interior. It crossed my mind that I must have missed the KGB plaque as we entered. However, the ritual awaiting us was surely a special test (as challenging and bizarre as anything that the Masons could have thrown at us).

In Russia shoes must be removed

As is the custom in Russia, and the custom remains today, all visitors must give up their shoes as soon as they cross the threshold of the flat, the assumption being that the streets, in this instance the streets of Kaliningrad, are so bad that …

Anyway, I had on a large pair of clod-hopping lace-up boots, difficult from which to extricate myself even in normal circumstances but very near impossible whilst dancing around on one foot. Being winter, and a harsh winter at that, hopping around wearing a full complement of heavy clothing in an attempt to connect with your lace, whilst it may have been good for Jane Fonda, was hardly conducive to dignified composure and still to this very day leaves you all sweaty and flustered.

Advice for all of you who are visiting Russia in winter, invest in a pair of winter boots but make sure that they are zip-fastening.

It did not take long for us to get acquainted with the Soviet flat, even in a pair of slippers that were two sizes too big for me. The flat comprised a small bathroom, two short corridors, one extending from the front door to bedroom and the other to the right, a small kitchen at the end of this second corridor and before that, to the left, a medium-sized bed-sitting room. This room opened out onto a balcony typical for flats in this region: it was narrow, but of a size sufficient to accommodate two to three people, together with two small chairs and a table. Incipiently, such balconies were open to the elements, but a trend for boxing them in had developed, as was the case in this instance. The inclusion of glazed casement windows converted the humble balcony into an extension of the living space, giving the occupants somewhere to sit and smoke whilst offering additional insulation in winter and a semi-open area in which to relax in summer.

The little kitchen was truly thus, allowing, with cooker and fridge, no more than a small table in front of the window along with a chair and stool.

The bathroom was likewise space-conscious, the bath, unboxed, having a long-reach, combination-tap fitted with a shower rose and, of course, there was a toilet.

Kaliningrad 20 years ago: the toilet

The toilet itself, or rather pan system, was a somewhat curious affair, and I must confess that I had never seen the like in the UK. Looking into the bowl, it consisted of two parts. At the front there was a small water chamber and to the back a shaped platform. Without wanting to go into too much technical detail, how this worked was that one answered the call of nature, turned the handle, a jet of water shot out of a conduit at the back of the platform and, if luck was with you, the water chamber did the rest. For young children I suppose it must have been a far more exciting model than our boring British bog, more of a successful launch than, to use the vernacular, dump.

Russian hospitality

Moving swiftly on, two to three sociable hours were spent at the flat.

Whilst feeding Joss presented no gastronomical difficulty, Olga’s mum had solved the vegetarian issues by augmenting various salads with traditional Russian blinee: savoury pancakes with three different fillings ~ cabbage, potato and mushroom. These went down very well with the cranberry vodka purchased earlier.

I have never asked Olga’s mother what her first impressions were of the two visiting Englishmen ~ perhaps it is best not to know!! We found her very open, interesting, sociable and hospitable, and for me, as I was going out with her daughter, it was nice to know on this cold Kaliningrad evening that the ice, as they say, had been broken.

Back out into the cold, we were now to go by taxi to Olga’s friends’ flat, Andrew and Inna’s.

Being a person of moderate food consumption, I was more than a little concerned to learn that Russian social tradition places great store upon the provision and demonstrable enjoyment of a hearty meal and that any show of reluctance or inability to eat what is laid down in front of you could engender serious offence. I cushioned my concern with the self-assurance that a degree of exaggeration may be expected regarding accounts of the size of the meals and the reaction to reasonable restraint from those who had prepared the meals to those about to receive them.

Very soon, I would find out.