Russian Tales

And such is life in Petersburg. On another occasion several weeks ago I was walking with a friend along Nevsky Prospect when a group of five lads breezed past. Mike almost instantly recognized them as the most prolific criminal gang operating on the metro. There is a rich diversity of life on the streets of Petersburg, not all of which is pleasant.
One of the more remarkable phenomena in the city is the appearance of a couple of apparently gypsy girls. They are easily distinguishable among the thinning crowds in the twilight, being about five feet up on the air. They ride around, not on bikes, but on two huge horses which snort clouds of steam into the chilly night air. They clip-clop around the streets and seem not to surprise the passers by much. Sometimes children sit up on their backs while proud mothers take photographs- while I hope that they turn the flash off and don’t scare the horse into charging down the street through the traffic with the child clinging desperately to the saddle. It’s Russia, and the only expedient policy in my opinion is to fear the worst. It’s safe.

I mentioned that I have moved house. I now live on Moskovsky Prospect, ten or fifteen minutes walk from the centre of town, and it is no longer necessary to run for the metro, which gives me much more freedom in evening activities. Were it not for a slight shortage of money it would be a wonderful place around which to drink every night of the week. Only yesterday evening I was in an English bar called the Red Lion just opposite the Bronze Horseman. It is a large cellar-style bar with a vaulted ceiling and a long bar along one wall. There are three main rooms, curiously with the cloakroom at the far end from the entrance. The bar itself is typically inefficient, and ordering drinks should not be undertaken in a hurry. The guests vie with the staff for access to the bar, as the waitresses serve both direct orders from the guests and table orders served by waiters. I was standing at the bar in the early hours when, with a pop and a fizz, all the lights went out. Only in Russia…. Several large men appeared with torches and a few raucous minutes later the lighting was restored.
The previous night I had been in another well-known establishment in the Petersburg night scene. Datcha, as it is called, is a unique club. It is cozy, to say the least, to the point that people seek pint-lifting-space on the street outside. It also has a policy of charging deposits on beer glasses. The reason for this becomes apparent before too long. Datcha is not a sophisticated place, and many of the guests could also be described thus. After a night of drinking anyone will be a little unstable, and combined with what can often only be described as wild dancing, beer glasses tend to get smashed on a wholly uneconomical scale. Take into account the inevitable violence and there is a very good reason to charge for glasses. The décor of the place is suitable, being simple, and the furniture is easily replaceable. Actually nothing seems to have been replaced for about ten years, and there are numerous holes in walls that look suspiciously like they have been used as stashes for substances of dubious legality. The place is fun though, and many hours can be spent happily in its extraordinary atmosphere. While I was there with some friends a large fellow with a skin-head was going around proudly using what few words of English he could muster. His preferred method of socializing was to barge his way around the bar chugging from anyone’s beer he pleased. Not being too keen to lose my beer to some drunken fat man, I provided him audaciously with an empty glass which he gladly took, lifted to his lips and tipped up, up, and even a little higher still. Seemingly a little suspicious, he lowered the glass and scowled disapprovingly before stalking off to find more rewarding prizes. He returned later to talk about Iron Maiden, and at a friend’s instigation let out a great roar. Not to be out-done we roared back enthusiastically, much to his surprise. Strange things happen in Russia.

I was out shopping the other day for some food in a local market. The building is a huge dutch- barn style, with a wide convex roof. Inside all sorts of traders stack their wares high on trestle tables and stand up on raised platforms looming over the passing shoppers, and at the slightest glance in their direction they call out for you to go and try the ‘best, cheapest, tastiest’ product. It actually is quite oppressive, and if anything can teach you the Russian disinterest or focus, it is that experience. Give them an inch and they take a mile. Unlike Western Europe markets and kiosks are usually more expensive than supermarkets. This is not a rule, and depends on the product, but certainly for meat, cheese, vegetables and other fresh produce supermarkets are often a little more expensive. More expensive does not mean expensive. You can buy a good bottle of vodka here for six pounds, and that’s for a 1.5 liter bottle. A 5kg bag of potatoes will cost about 50 pence, and the same money will buy a 1.5l bottle of tomato juice. There seems to be a good supply of fresh fruit and vegetables, contrary to some stories I have heard. The great novelty is Russian champagne, which you can pick up for about 1.50 GBPs, and is not that bad. In fact you can buy a glass of champagne in a bar for the same price as a pint of local beer. Now where else in the world can you do that?