It is amazing and surreal to be back home. It’s bizarre to
think that I’ve become someone who just pops back from Moscow for the weekend.
Sometimes it’s like I’m watching someone else doing these things; the concept
of doing them myself seems incomprehensible and completely beyond my
capabilities. I look back to just a couple of years ago and it feels like I’m
looking at a different person – a shadow, a silhouette, incongruous with who I
am now.
When I finally walked through Heathrow Arrivals and into my
dad’s arms on Friday night, I was exhausted. My flight had landed fifteen
minutes late; my baggage took over an hour to arrive; and I was surviving off
only two hours’ sleep.
I’ll flashback to Thursday and explain all. I’d been tired
from the moment I woke up from another restless night’s sleep, and by lunchtime
the prospect of the hours ahead before we were going out seemed daunting and
exhausting. Luckily, Alexia needed to go to the market to buy shoes for the evening,
so as I needed to get some fruit, the two of us went together.
Alexia’s bartering skills were impressive: a clever mix of
hard bargaining and flirtation. In the end she got the hapless Armenian
salesman down from 2500r (£50) to 650r (£13) – but that wasn’t enough to
discourage him from boldly asking for my phone number. Next we ventured into
the market hall to buy apples and apricots. At the apricot stand, we were
absolutely nonplussed when our attempts at haggling were quashed by an
over-eager market guy who insisted he wouldn’t sell me the apricots at all;
he’d give me some apricots, but only
if I agreed to a date with him. I said that was very nice of him but I really
would rather just buy the apricots, but he was insistent. Eventually I managed
to barter him down to just my phone number (which he immediately rang to check)
for some free apricots and the promise that there would be lots more dried
fruit when I came to meet him (oo-er). This throwaway negotiation seemed all
very well at the time, but in retrospect has left me with the issue: where on
earth am I going to get my apricots now? At 6 o’clock that same evening I got a
phone call from this market guy (whose name is Kanon by the way) and had to
explain that, no, I was not free for dinner that evening and, no, not tomorrow
either, or the next day as I was going back to England. I hope he’ll eventually
forget.
After our market adventures, Alexia and I went to the big
book shop on Kirova, as I wanted to take advantage of the extra luggage space
and take some books back with me this time round. An hour later I emerged with
a stack of five hard-back books, which had cost me less than 300r (£6) in total.
I’m finding it difficult to get my head round the random pricing system of this
country; books are cheap, but to buy clothes you have to buy expensive imported
brands or get them from the market?
Another thing I can’t quite work out is how the restaurant
industry survives here, because no matter where you go, the service is beyond
awful. At 7.30 a big group of us met at a local Italian restaurant for Seb’s
birthday, hoping for a chilled meal out. However, by almost 10 o’clock our food
still hadn’t arrived, and the mood was slowly being dampened by hunger and
frustration. It was then that a waiter emerged to inform us that none of our
pizzas were coming (something about a problem with the pizza oven) so could
everyone re-order. The idea of waiting another two hours for food we didn’t
even really want was ridiculous so after a long debate, we stormed out of the
restaurant, paying for 60% of the drinks bill.
Ben and I went on to Макмастер, a local fast food
restaurant (of which there are many, all with names based around McDonald’s –
McMaster, GrillDonalds, etc.) before meeting the others at Your Bar, which was
fast becoming our local. One of the group, I’m not sure who, had sorted out
tables for us as usual and the message went round that we could order whatever
we liked. Little did we know that at the end of the night we would be landed a
bill for every single thing we’d ordered, amounting to 18,000r (£360), to be
split between the fifteen of us who were still there.
By this stage, not only was it past 3am, way too late for me
to be out, with my flight being the next day, but more drama had kicked off and
one of my close friends was in tears; I needed to get her out of there as quickly
as I could. The bouncers had other ideas. They were refusing to let any of us
leave the bar until the full amount was paid. I tried reasoning with them,
telling them my friend had had a death in the family – they could see how upset
she was – but they were physically forcing me back. Eventually, without me
realising what was happening, Rob was giving them 5000r and we were being
ushered out of the club. We had no idea what would happen to the rest of them.
It was 4am when I eventually collapsed into bed, having been
walked home by some friends. I had only two hours before being violently
awakened by my phone alarm and beginning what was to be a very long day. Just
before 7am I took the trolleybus to the main train station, where an airport
transfer van would be waiting for me. Added to the exhaustion, I was fighting a
feeling of nausea from the big breakfast Lyudmila had generously given me
(along with a lunch consisting of six bread rolls and more fruit than I could
imagine consuming in a week) and was dreading the thought of the six-hour road
journey ahead. My brain itself felt lethargic and I accepted the change from
the bus conductor, 450r all in 10r notes, with only a mild feeling of
irritation.
Nonetheless, it was a relief when I had found the correct
transfer van and was sitting securely inside with the long journey ahead of me.
I slept a while and when I awoke, the other three passengers, a couple and a
girl not much older than me, were chatting cheerfully. After a while it
transpired that the girl, Violetta, was from Yaroslavl originally but had moved
to Morocco with her husband and had been in Russia visiting her mother for only
the second time in two years. We got talking and swapped Skype details; she
even offered me an open invitation to visit her in Morocco. As I was still
exhausted, I soon apologised and said I needed to get a bit more sleep, but we
agreed to talk more later.
I ended up sleeping for the entire remainder of the journey
and it was only when the other passengers gently stirred me that I realised we
had reached the airport, an hour ahead of schedule. Violetta and I went
together and after a long search managed to find two seats together, where we
sat and talked for a few hours before our check-in desks opened. We talked a lot
about the situation in Russia, and she explained that she, like a lot of other
young people in Russia, had felt the only way for her to secure herself a good
future was to move abroad. So she and her husband, whom she’d met in Turkey,
had moved to Morocco, where wages were the same but life was much more
comfortable. She told me how in Russia, where wages were so low (around £10 a
day average salary) and living costs were high (almost the same as in Britain,
I’d say), people could barely afford to survive, let alone enjoy themselves.
From the Russian people I’ve met, I get the impression that anyone with any
sense of ambition in Russia just wants to get out of there.
Needless to say, it’s a relief to be back in the green and
pleasant land I’m lucky enough to call my home. Being in Russia has made me
realise all the things I take for granted; a big, beautiful house in a safe
area, near to town and countryside; central heating that I can control myself;
washing facilities that don’t involve hanging my clothes on an indoor washing
line; a bathroom sink! I realised today that I don’t even think Lyudmila has a
vacuum cleaner. It’s something we take completely for granted that we can go
out in our cars without having to bribe every policeman we see, that we can
just pop down to the supermarket when we need something, that we can leave the
country whenever we like, unhindered by the government! It’s a relief to know
that this is my reality, and not what I’ve just left behind in Russia.
I don’t know how I’m going to feel about going back to that
place, but this weekend has been the break I needed. Yesterday was spent with
my family – walking the dogs with my mum, keeping my Nan company while the
others went to see the body, watching my brother’s band. It’s been a bizarre
mix of familiarity and abnormality, some things being just as they ever were,
others changed forever. I can’t describe how good it felt seeing all my family
again, but with my impending departure and the absence of Gramps, everything
seemed somehow shifted slightly out of place. There were reminders of him
everywhere, not least because there was a feature about him in the newspaper on
Saturday night and another in Stock Car magazine,
which they’d sent us on hearing of his death. Reading about all his
achievements, it suddenly struck me; he’d been so proud of me, but I’d never
told him how incredibly proud I was of him. He’d achieved so much in his life,
but through it all, he was ever the gentleman, ever the family man, always
putting his family first.
Today, Mum and I went shopping for a suit for me to wear to
his funeral. We were there for nearly six hours, the search seeming almost
impossible, but we persevered – Gramps would have wanted everyone to look their
best, as he always did himself. It felt important to get it exactly right, so
when I returned home with a tailored dress that happened to match perfectly
with a suit jacket of Mum’s, I felt like he would be proud. When I think about
what I’ve got left to do to get my degree, I keep thinking of how proud he’ll
be when I graduate; it’s only after the thought’s passed that it hits me again
that he’s not going to be there to see it. His death has been completely
surreal for all of us; none of us has been fully able to take it in. I can only
hope that tomorrow will bring us all closure and give him the amazing send-off
he truly deserves.
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