Tag Archives: Kaliningrad 2000

Kaliningrad via Gdansk

Kaliningrad via Gdansk
My first visit to Kaliningrad: left UK 23 December 2000

Kaliningrad via Gdansk is one in a series of posts that recount my first visit to Kaliningrad in 2000, and my first impressions of the land, the people and its culture.

Updated: 18 January 2022 | First published: 16 August 2019

It’s 7pm, 23^rd December 2000, and I am sitting nervously on a British Airways’ plane bound for Warsaw, Poland. I am one of those peculiar types that believes sitting in an aluminium tube with thousands of gallons of highly inflammable fuel at 35,000 feet is perfect insanity. Never mind about the well-meaning ‘statistically safest form of travel’.

But was it a nice place where I was hopefully going to get to?

Previous post in this series: See you in Kaliningrad, Russia!

As I said in my previous blog post, I hadn’t flown since 1971, but here I was jetting off to Warsaw. From Warsaw, we would take a bus to Gdansk and then, after a night or two there, a train to Kaliningrad, Russia.

For a non-flyer I took a perverse almost masochistic delight in the journey, overcoming much of my fear with the aid of three or four vodkas and a very complacent brother, who grinned like a jackanapes all the way.

For my own part, arriving at Warsaw Airport was not only novel in that we had arrived but also for the officialdom that greeted us. Here we were in the East, where it pleased my literary and cinematographic prejudices to discover a far more officious and militaristic reception. In London, Heathrow, it had been all suits, ties and ‘ladies and gentleman’; here, in the East, it was visor caps, uniforms, side-arms and cold stares. Passing through passport control was a stereotypical dream come true: the steely eyed and expressionless face of the man inside his little glass booth, glancing first at my passport photo and then searchingly back at me.

My first visit to Kaliningrad (year 2000) and my first impressions of Kaliningrad and Russia. Links to posts in this series arranged in chronological order:
1. The Decision: My first visit to Kaliningrad December 2000
2. Kaliningrad via Gdansk (23 December 2000) {{You are here! 😊}}
3. First Day in Gdansk (24 December 2000)
4. Christmas in Gdansk (25 December 2000)
5. Boxing Day in Gdansk: Kaliningrad 2000 (26 December 2000)
6. Into Russia (27 December 2000)
7. Kaliningrad: First Impression (27 December 2000)
8. The Hotel Russ, Svetlogorsk (27 December 2000)
9. Exploring Svetlogorsk (28 December 2000)
10. Svetlogorsk to Kaliningrad by Train (28 December 2000)
11. Kaliningrad 20 Years Ago (28 December 2000)
12. Russian Hospitality Kaliningrad (28 December 2000)

The ‘Sausage’

Somewhat disappointed that I had not been mistaken for the spy that they had been waiting for, I was then treated to what for most people I should imagine is a dull and onerous routine ~ retrieving one’s luggage ~ but which for us, thanks to a certain bag in our entourage, proved to be most entertaining.

The bag in question was a cylindrical-shaped canvas hold-all with a rubberised waterproof base. In theory it was a great piece of kit, capable of holding, well, anything really, and, when empty, folding away into nothing. Problem was, however, that when full it was very bulky, extremely heavy and extraordinarily long and, although it was well-catered-for with various handles and straps, those little wheels, which are such an indispensable feature of today’s large travel bags, were conspicuously non-existent.

So there we were with the rest of them waiting patiently at the side of the carousel for our luggage to emerge. One by one our cases appeared, and we duly retrieved them. But where was that last, that special bag?

With about six people left around the carousel excluding ourselves, we began to grow concerned. But just as we began to fear that we may have lost our exclusive bag, we caught sight of it, coming out of the luggage hold from behind the rubber flaps ~ only it didn’t. It sort of popped out, sat there for a while and then nipped back in again.

Two or three large heavy cases then came tumbling out in a kind of jumbled confusion, quickly followed by another sighting of our long and lost bag. For some odd reason, it was making its exit and entrance at a compromising angle.

Moving closer to the exit point, we could clearly hear lots of huffing, puffing and cursing from behind the rubber curtains. Our bag was now sandwiched sideways across the gap, forming a blockade with the remaining cases caught on top and behind it. From what we could make out, a lot of frustrated energy was being expended out of sight behind the scenes and then, with a thump and a cry, our obstinate bag and the others that it had bullied came tumbling into view.

Whether our long bag didn’t think much of Poland or was simply a petulant creature, this we will never know, but It was evident from the large boot prints on either side of the bag that our ‘Sausage’, as it became to be known, had put up a hell of a fight!

By bus to Gdansk

After this trauma, we no doubt took a quick snifter or two of vodka from the hip flask that I had brought with us. It was now time to lug our luggage, including our recalcitrant Sausage, from the warmth of the airport to the snowy wastes outside.

The plan was to bus it to Gdansk. We were both looking forward to the journey, to relaxing on the bus, that is until we saw what it was that we would be travelling in. Being English, we can be forgiven for believing that we would be going by luxury coach when, in fact, the carriage awaiting us was a rusting, clapped-out minibus with mustard lace curtains that once no doubt had been white.

I don’t recall being too perturbed by the fact that almost everyone was smoking on the way; my brother was a smoker and I was prone now and then to indulge in the odd cigar. Looking back on it, it must have been a right old stinker ~ the curtains weren’t yellow for nothing, although my smell memory retains a distinct essence of diesel fumes more than it does tobacco.

It was a long journey, and we were very tired. It was snowing continuously and sometimes quite heavily, but this merely added to the stereotypical image that I had nurtured, and it pleased me for its novelty as much if not more than for the differences I noted as we trundled on our way: shops and road signage, all written, of course, in Polish; the filling stations whose names I did not recognise; and, when it was possible to see through the steamed-up windows, the distinctive change in architecture.

As the open road gave way to increasingly built-up areas we knew we were travelling through the outskirts of Gdansk.

We had in our possession a computer printout identifying the hotel where we would be staying and, according to the bus driver, we were close to where we wanted to be. We alighted from the bus, cramped and stiff, on the side of a dual carriageway teaming with traffic, shell shocked from travel fatigue but anaesthetized by vodka.

My wife to be, Olga, had arrived there some hours before us and, as luck would have it, I spotted her having a cigarette in the window of the hotel restaurant across the busy street from where we were standing. Remember those wonderful days? Having a cigarette in the restaurant! {Post-normal days’ comment: Remember those days before coronavirus, ie sitting in a pub or a restaurant!}

Thus, the first stage of the journey into Russia was complete. We would stay for three days in Gdansk, which included Christmas Day, and then, on the 27^th December, leave Poland by train for Kaliningrad.

Next post in this series:
3. First Day in Gdansk

Feature image attribution: Photo by USFWS on Pixnio: https://pixnio.com/vintage-photography/men-in-the-aircraft-cockpit-old-vintage-photo#

It Always Snows in Russia!

… and sometimes it doesn’t

Published: 22 January 2021 ~ It always snows in Russia

Before moving here, whenever I mentioned to a fellow Brit that I was visiting Kaliningrad, I would be asked, “Where’s that?” As soon as I had educated them geographically, among the predictable responses based on prejudice and cliché, an old stalwart was, “Russa! Brrr, it’s cold out there …”

Try as I might to explain to them that since Kaliningrad was the westernmost point of Russia the climate was not that much different to the UK’s, the stock images of frozen rivers, ushanka hats, voluminous fur coats and, of course, snow ~ lots and lots of snow ~ proved impossible to shovel away.

It always snows in Russia!

When I first came to Kaliningrad in winter 2000, there was snow, and lots of it (see Kaliningrad First Impression), and I do recall seeing a tower-mounted digital thermometer somewhere in the city giving a temperature reading of minus 27 degrees. Harbouring the same stereotypical notions of Russia’s salient attributes, this first encounter pleased me no end, providing me with photographic evidence to confirm what Brits had always known, that Russia was cold and that it snowed a lot.

There was more snow to Russify my experience when I travelled to Kaliningrad in 2002. We entered the exclave via Lithuania, where it was also snowing heavily, and the journey by train across the snow-bound wastelands was all that the heart could desire.

This stereotype was to melt away, however, in the winter of 2004. This was the year that a new-found friend of ours looking for adventure and a woman, decided to accompany us on our Christmas trip to Kaliningrad. He knew that it was cold (it’s cold out there in Russia), and his knowledge had been bolstered by the tales that I had told and the photographs that I had shown him. He was excited, and set about preparing himself for Siberia, buying up large stocks of woolies, U.S. military surplus coats and the all-important long johns. His suitcases were fat and heavy.

Who said that it always snows in Russia?

Not disappointed, in the first three days of our arriving in Kaliningrad, the temperature had dropped well below those in the England we had left and, more importantly, there was snow, lots of swirling snow. And then, quiet suddenly, the mercury shot up the thermometer tube, the snow melted, the rain came, and it stayed that way for a month. As I believe I have said before, there is a world of difference between Kaliningrad in the winter rain and Kaliningrad in the snow. Those who live here will know what I mean.

Last year, winter 2019-2020, was like everything else that year, miserable. It was, literally, wishy washy: a winter of muck and puddles.

So, how refreshing this winter to see some snow. It has not been that heavy, but it has been persistent and cold enough for successive falls to settle and to transform the city and regional landscape into a childhood memory of how winters used to be.

Oh, but it’s alright for me, or so my critics tell me. I don’t have to go anywhere. I don’t have to scrape the ice and snow off the car in the morning and then brave the roads on my way to work. On the contrary, I can sit at home, look out of the window and admire the Christmas-card view. And they are right. But I am unrepentant and remain that way. There have to be some advantages in getting starry, and this is one of the few.

Come rain, snow, hail or shine my wife goes out whatever, and this is as it should be. Someone has to do the shopping. And she also has to obtain those much-needed photos for Arsebook, which I can then requisition and use here for my blog.

Russia! It always snow there!

To bring things up to date, for the past several days or more it has been snowing lightly, and today, at the time of writing, it was at it again. Temperatures are low enough to ensure that what comes down stays put; just enough for picturesque, but not enough for concern.

This morning, the scene at the back of the house through the patio door was wonderful. It had snowed quite a lot during the night and the rooftops of the old German houses all had snow on them, some in total, some in places, and the fruit trees had become crystalline, petrified, the smaller branches and twigs very nearly pure white and the trunks and boughs though not completely covered with snow were artistically contrasted by what had collected upon them.

Our pear tree was the most wonderous thing. One side of the trunk was peppered with a white drift of snow and the rest, the smaller branches and twigs, coated into nobly clumps, so that taken as a whole it resembled a giant cauliflower. The rest of the garden had all but disappeared, replaced by a smooth white plateau, except for the Buddha, and he was wearing a snow-white hat in the unmistakeable shape of a British policeman’s helmet. Wherever did he get it from?

Kaliningrad Buddha wearing a snow hat. It always snows in Russia! — No he is not a silly Buddha!

Later, as I was stood in the kitchen making a cup of tea, my eyes caught movement and lots of it through the gap between two houses, which for most of the year is obscured by leaves and foliage. All I could see was different coloured objects darting hither and thither, and then it dawned on me that without the obstructing verdure the small park across the road was visible and what I was witnessing was the congregation of numerous families, mothers with their children, and that the different coloured objects, some zipping across the plateau and others sailing down the banks from every conceivable angle, were children on their sledges.

Children sledging. It always snows in Russia! — **Children on sledges, Kaliningrad, Russia, January 2021**

Olga, who walked through the city centre yesterday, said how delightful it was to see children with their parents playing snowballs and whooshing about on sledges. It was a good old-fashioned traditional family sight, and it reminded her of her youth. It reminded me of mine as well. Whenever there was snow, which became less and less frequent in England as the years rolled by, we children would hammer each other with snowballs. We also had a sledge, a one-of-its-kind made from the light alloy parts of a scrapped Flying Fortress, a B17 bomber, salvaged from Polebrook’s United States’ wartime aerodrome. What happened to this culturally interesting and nowadays valuable item? One of my brothers, with considerably less acumen than myself for the singularity of historical artefacts, deciding that he would clean out one of the family barns after a forty-year hiatus, skipped the sledge and kept the junk. Oh, don’t worry, we take every opportunity to remind him of his folly, in no uncertain terms.

From the kitchen to the living room, looking out of the window at the Konigsberg house opposite that has never had anything done to it at least since perestroika, I noted that the two toilets lying in the back garden ~ where else? ~ had become snow toilets, a rare sight indeed, but not as exclusive or controversial as the giant phallus, complete with two enormous snowballs, that some imaginative and enterprising young men would erect a day or two later somewhere in Kaliningrad.

This made the news, and, of course, Facebook. Personally, we had a bit of fun with this, by which I mean we conducted an experiment. Olga posted the media story to Facebook, and then we sat back ready to compare the different reactions from Russian commentators and those in Britland. As we anticipated, the Russian response was one of condemnation and disgust, whilst the Brits reacted in a flamboyant spirit that ranged from artistic criticism to unbridled glee.

Me? I just felt sorry for the virtue of virgin snow, but I consoled myself with the thought that outside of our circle something like this would never be condoned in the UK for fear that it would offend the delicate sensibilities of feminists, race-grievance wardens and the entire woke community: a giant phallus made of snow! Sexist! Racist!

Snowballs!

Advice for Russians Emigrating to UK

A warning to the Curious (apologies to Peter Vaughan)

Updated: 12 March 2022 | Published: 24 September 2020

Warning!
In response to Russia’s special operation aimed at ‘demilitarising and de-Nazifying Ukraine’, the UK media has embarked upon and is actively pursuing an intensive propaganda programme which is resulting in widespread anti-Russian sentiment and Russophobia. Aimed at cancelling Russian culture and demonising Russian citizens at every level, incidents of verbal abuse and physical aggression towards Russian nationals have been reported in various western countries, including the UK. This comes against the backdrop of reports suggesting that Facebook is greenlighting hate speech against Russians on its social media platform. You are advised to travel to the UK only for essential reasons and whilst there to exercise caution.

Part 1

An article in The Moscow Times (12 February 2016), ‘ Russian Women — They’re Just Not That Into You’, tells the disheartening tale that Russia’s “fascination with foreignness” is over and that Russian girls no longer fantasise about being “whisked away by a foreign prince in Levi’s”. (How about a foreign knave in a pair of ‘skinnies’ cut-price from Peacocks?).

As a long-time married man of a respectable senior age, I really could not tell you whether this is true or not. However, an inveterate Facebook commentator, a Facebook friend of my wife’s, who never misses an opportunity to respond negatively to my wife’s more political Russian posts, has asserted on more than one occasion that Russian’s are queuing to leave Russia and live in the UK and America. Allowing for the obvious hyperbole, an interesting question nevertheless emerges from this statement: Do Russian citizens still want to emigrate to the UK?

I use the word ‘still’ purposefully, based on my own observations that the Russia of today is considerably different from the one I encountered twenty years ago, which was reeling from the fallout of perestroika and was a time therefore when the quality-of-life divide between the East and West was at its most dramatic. Then, it was understandable that people, especially young people, were looking for a way out and that the West, with all its lauded material trappings and projected hedonism, was not simply a land of opportunity but a seductive Lady Bountiful ~ Shangri La personified.

You can imagine the banner advertisement, ‘Move to the UK ~ a better way of life awaits you!’ But life in the fast lane has a funny way of slowing down, and it could be argued, with no small degree of credibility, that since then Russia has caught up with, if not in many instances, overtaken the UK, where almost every citizen is heavily in debt, young people outpriced from the housing market, too many people and not enough jobs, and where political, social and ethnic division, moral malaise and gratuitous violence has replaced the cohesion and respect of the past.

Advice for Russians emigrating to UK part 1

Nevertheless, the answer is ‘yes’. Of course, there are Russians, predominantly younger Russians, who continue to be attracted by the lure of the West, but the allure is no longer the promise of a substantially better or more stable life. The internet has put paid to that naivety. Today, the internet offers a window on the world and however the media spins it, the other side of the so-called western democracies, like Jekyll’s Hyde, is continually surfacing.

As life on the edge and the chance to become embroiled in the left vs patriot battles are ‘No Sale’, I think we can conclude that what allure there is, is strictly financial. The old sheen may have worn off the good-times chimera with the insurgence of unserviceable credit cards and unsafe streets, but the financial remuneration from certain jobs and professions continues to pull and, you never know, there is always the chance you will beat the House no matter how fixed the wheel.

This post, therefore, and those that follow in this series, are dedicated to those of you in Russia who are considering and/or seriously contemplating emigrating to the UK. You may still be wondering, should I really do this? Or you may already have made up your mind that you are off; either way, I trust that by shedding some light on what you can expect to find in the UK economically, socially and politically, that this series of articles will serve to alleviate any delusions and misconceptions that you may have adopted. And whilst these articles are primarily intended as a guide for prospective or potential emigrees, some sections may prove useful for those amongst you who are travelling to the UK on an international secondment or for the purpose of tourism.

Advice for Russians emigrating to UK part 1

In the following posts I will consider the bureaucratic, economic and social ramifications of moving to London/moving to England, and in it I will explain why I have deliberately chosen to deal with London as a separate entity to England as a whole.

[Image credit: https://www.freeimg.net/photo/180045/question-worry-wonder-unsure]

Russian Hospitality Kaliningrad

Kaliningrad 20 Years Ago (or Russian Hospitality part 2)

28 December 2000

Andrew’s and Ina’s flat was located in a newer and higher apartment block than the one we had just left. It was situated on an estate of high-rise flats, access to each building being controlled by intercom. This was a more than satisfactory security measure as there was little chance of breaching the heavy metal outer door without the lock being triggered.

Previous article: Kaliningrad 20 Years Ago (or Russian Hospitality part 1)

Up three or four flights of steps we went until we reached the door to their flat. We rang the bell. There was the sound of a dog barking, the sound of a dog being told to stop barking, the sound of a dog ignoring what it had been told and the door opened. Standing there was Andrew, whom we had met briefly a few hours ago, and his wife, Ina. “Hello! Welcome!” she intoned, welcoming us literally with open arms. Andrew looked on, smiling amiably; the disobedient dog barked and barked and barked and, whilst Olga and Ina launched into excited conversation, Joss and I honed our skills in the art of the one-legged boot hop.

Russian Hospitality

It did not take me long to realise that if Andrew and Ina had been a double act, Andrew would have been the silent partner and Ina the live wire. Ebullient, expansive ~ both in speech and body language ~ Ina was a dynamo of questions, curiosity and inquisitiveness. She was also a natural organiser, a multitasker before the word acquired cult status, delegating roles, assembling guests and playing the role of the perfect host as if she had been born to it, which I had no doubt she had. Her social skills and extroverted flair enabled her to introduce the other people present: her friends Helen (whom I had met in Svetlogorsk) and husband Valordia and her, Ina’s, son, whilst transacting other important hostess functions, such as seat placements, finishing touches to the table arrangements and the all-important consideration of who wanted what to drink. I did not know at that particular time that at parties and social gatherings, Ina was often called upon to fill the role of master of ceremonies, which she did comfortably and with confidence, but had I have been made aware of this fact it certainly would not have surprised me.

Of Helen I have already written, but what of her husband Valordia? Like Andrew, he was another big man. Tall and broad, with a receding hairline and big, thick, black moustache, he reminded me of more muscular version of John Cleese and, as he had less English language at his disposal than Andrew, who only spoke the odd word or two, but did so to humorous effect, by relying on facial expression as his principal means of communication Valordia’s John Cleese attributes became finely tuned and compounded as the night went on, or perhaps, as the vodka went down.

One other person who was in our company that evening, whom I have not mentioned yet was Olga’s daughter, Polina. She was a tall, slim, 16-year-old, so I was not at all surprised when we took our seats at the table that brother Joss was occupying the chair next to her.

Out came the vodka and before you could say ‘Bugger, that’s a big glass full!’, the party was underway.

Food aplenty

The table was already groaning under the weight of several large platters of different salad mixes, umpteen bowls of pickles, large salvers of meats and fish, plates of bread of various types and colour, bowls of spuds and other vegetables, and it just kept on coming. I cast a rueful glance across the battlefield, hoping that the aggregate diners were supporting an appetite equal to the gargantuan volumes, and would have been quite content with my little plate of salad to which Olga, urged on by Ina, kept adding. One thing I could rely on and that was Joss: his first plate runneth over, and he was having no difficulty in whapping back the vodka.

Conversation around the table was competing with the rattle of knives and forks on plates and with background music. Russian and English was spoken in sporadic bursts. Ina was keen to know ~ that is, keen to know everything about the British way of life: our customs, traditions, what we valued, how we socialised, our political views. There was no end to her curiosity, and whenever she could not think of the English word she wanted, she would briefly revert to Russian, as she asked Olga or Helen for clarification. All three ~ my wife, Ina and Helen are English language teachers ~ and as this was one of the few occasions when Helen and Ina would get to converse with native English speakers, amongst their other questions were ones which were language related: did we say it this way, was this word correct in this context, and what other idioms did we know? Andrew, who could understand a little English and also speak a few words, would throw in the odd phrase here and there, with humorous intent, whilst Valordia would breathe in with surprise, shake his head wisely, purse his lips when comments got saucy and chuckle whenever appropriate.

Joss Hart in Russian helmet — Soviet helmet? ~ no, that’s my brother

Kaliningrad Russian Hospitality

It was in the midst of such frivolity, just as I completed my second course, that ‘the boys’ jumped up, the lights went down, the background rock music found a new high level and within seconds everyone had stopped eating and were leaping around the room. This impromptu dancing spell lasted all of five minutes, after which ‘the boys’ and some of ‘the girls’ made their way to the large covered balcony for a smoke.

Before and after this eating interlude, many toasts, some very long and meaningful, soulful and sincere had been made, necessitating the quick downing of a large glass of vodka followed by an immediate refill.

Smoking over and it was back to the grub. I was just deluding myself into believing that I was doing rather well, when out on a huge plate came Ina’s pièce de résistance ~ a monolithic cabbage pie baked entirely with me in mind.

“It’s all for you,” Olga beamed.

England expects every man to do his duty and I tried, believe me, I tried. But although I had three helpings, and must admit that it was rather good, my blighted guts had by now reached saturation point.

The boys were up on their feet again; the rock music was blaring; the floor of the flat was shaking ~ as was the pendant ceiling light ~ as those who had the energy, not to mention the inclination, strutted their stuff on the ‘dance floor’. And then it was off to the balcony for yet another smoke.

The evening continued much in this same manner until no more food, no more dancing, no more smokes and no more energy was left ~ only the vodka remained, and that we kept on drinking.

Russian Hospitality Kaliningrad — Improving his looks

Relics of the Soviet era

Between times, we somehow made space to consider some nostalgic relics from the Soviet era. A visor cap was produced, of police origin complete with badge; two pairs of shoulder boards ~ one army and the other marine; and, Joss’s favourite, which he could not resist but wear, a rubber gas mask with a long respirator pipe. I mention this last item specifically, since having included the photograph I would not want you to get the wrong idea about what sort of occasion our evening had been.

Both Joss and I came away from this evening well fed and watered. Our hosts could not have looked after us better. We had experienced our first taste of Russian hospitality and in the process had learnt something of each other’s culture on a personal level, beyond the headlines and stereotypical dross bandied around by the media. Years later I came to understand the true significance of this first encounter with real Russian people. It was the first step in the direction my life would take me. I had no knowledge then that the adventure had already begun, but the good and open nature of the people I had met, the glimpse into a cultural world that I never knew existed, and the first faint, barely noticeable but deeply perceived singularity of this strangely magnetic city and region, so structurally imperfect but spiritually complete, had already begun to pull me in.