And so the intrepid writer morphs
again. Rather like Dr Who or that bloke out of Quantum Leap. From the steaming Tropics to the fierce winter of the fantastic city of Moscow.
The first impression is that it's not
as cold as I expected and there's no snow. No problem, the next day
it snows and I am congratulated by my colleagues for bringing the
snow with me.
Something is not right on the way from
the airport to my apartment. Can't put my finger on it. The roads are
jampacked, Moscow traffic is as dense as I was told to expect – but
what's wrong? I know. All this traffic and not one car horn blaring.
Lagos, Islamabad, Dacca, Rabat it's not. It's dark a lot of the time
too.
For anyone who's lived in the tropics
and experienced the trauma of going from icy air conditioning to 100%
humidity – instant perspiration attack. Well, here you go from sub
zero outside to sauna conditions inside. And the air is so dry, I
feel my skin dessicating. Yes, I know I'm a wuss, no one else
complains this much.
My first foray to the supermarket and I
notice an awful lot of smoked fish and smoked meat and pickles.
Traditional cold weather fare to get you through the winter I remind
myself. Excellent selection of breads. I try some interesting looking
salami type meat and hard Russian cheese that you could probably make
cricket bats from. Note to Alastair Cook - you've tried everything else, what about cheesy bats? Armed with the shopping, I arrive at the checkout
and right behind me is a chap with one item who makes a gesture which
I interpret as “can I go before you as I've only got one item?”
Of course my man. He stumbles past me and I notice his face looks
like he was recently on the losing end of a bare knuckle fight or he
has face planted on the pavement once or twice. His one item is a
bottle of vodka and his breath (as he passes) indicates it's not the
first of the day. He takes a long time to pay because he has to
search his pockets for every bit of change, all the while rabbiting
away to me - presumably apologising for taking so long. Disapproving
stares are levelled at him from the other shoppers. I have to tell him I don't
understand when he asks me something (probably for some dosh to help
him pay for his booze) Anyway his face lights up and he says loudly
to me “Ah, me Rooshyan alchoholic!” I smile diplomatically but my
fellow shoppers are not amused. He must have found enough money
because he trots off with his purchase. No stereotyping now.
I am now learning pavement etiquette or
how to win in the war of the walkers. When it snows, there is usually
one narrow strip on the pavement – usually on the road side of
centre – where everyone tries to walk. If you walk close to the
buildings, you are in danger of being covered in melting snow off the
rooves or worse, skewered in the head by a falling icicle. I recall the advice about sitting under coconut trees in the Tropics. I go to
some dangerous places. Then on the side of the pavement nearest the
road is all the snow, slush and ice in piles so no one wants to walk
there either. So you always have people coming straight at you. Who
moves first? I have worked out a strategy – a wussy strategy
naturally. I wear a hood and heavy boots so I can always move to
either side.
But to make me feel better, I manage to
kick a pigeon. RSPCA please read on. Now, everyone tries to do that in London, don't they?
The thing is, the flea ridden, mangy specimens in London are so
streetwise they always manage to get out of the way. Not so, this pigeonski. I
just hang my foot out as usual and connect (to my surprise) with it's
feathery rear end. Now when I say “kick”, I don't Jonny Wilkinson
it over the nearest minaret, it's just a little tap. I expect its
little pigeon toes are quite cold and it can't move very quickly. And it
looks a lot more presentable than its London cousins. I won't kick any more, promise.
I am out looking for a place which has
wifi (and beer) as my internet at home doesn't work. I chance upon a
hostelry which calls itself “Molly Gwynn's”. I think my
rudimentary grasp of the Russian alphabet has failed me. No, I go
inside and it is definitely Molly Gwynn's. It sells the black nectar
and one or two other Irish beers so there is an Irish connection –
but Gwynn? And for some reason the waitresses are wearing tiny tartan
skirts that you might have difficulty making a scarf out of. But
they've got wifi. Now look at this picture.
Would you adam and eve
it. What are the chances of finding my favourite local beer in Kent
here in Moscow – and advertised in Russian too. I'll have a pint of
lager please.
On the way home, I drop in to a
produkti (a kind of mini market/cornershop) I buy a couple of things
and then, just as I'm leaving, I spy some fresh bread which looks
like cheesy topped flatbread in the display cabinet. Mmmmmm, I'll
have one of those please. The guy behind the counter points at a
handwritten sign without lifting his head. What's that I wonder. I
try again, he looks at me, annoyed, and says something which doesn't
sound like “can I help you, sir” A fellow shopper spots my
confusion and says with a smile. “He says they are closed and will
open in 20 minutes”. So half the shop is open and half the shop is
closed even though the breads and cakes are out there on display. I
diplomatically call him an arse under my breath and leave.
2 days later, I return to said
emporium. It's closed again. I keep calling to the “customer
service agent” behind the counter who is doing such a good job of
ignoring me, I wonder if I'm there. Philosophically speaking, if
everyone ignores your presence, are you actually there? Answers on a
postcard (what's that?) to Emeritus Professor of Philosophy and
Bullshit, James McGee – somewhere in Sussex. Making hand gestures
to a non existent watch, I ask when they will deign to get off their
whitehall farces and open up. 17 o clock is the reply. As it's 1845,
I think they mean 7 o clock. Given that my Rooshyan is rubbish, it's
only fair not to correct their poor command of English. Sure enough,
7 oclock – 19 o clock, Boris – the handwritten sign is taken down
and they're open for business. Or are they? I'm bored with this story now, aren't
you? I got meself a cooked chicken and a cheesy bread in the end.
Lovely.
By hell, it's cold this morning. 14
under, apparently. Have I ever been in such cold conditions? Sober.
Skiing doesn't count.
Good evening I say to the brass мииркот who is holding his gloved hands, soccer defensive wall style, over his parts. He looks worried
