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.

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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.

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.

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.

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