St Petersburg was a gentle introduction, as European as it is Russian. After that we took am overnight train to Moscow, which is so Russian it slaps you in the face, offers you some smoked fish, insists you drink a glass of vodka, then accuses you of being a spy and threatens to revoke your papers.
The insistence on vodka, at least, came in the aptly bear-like shape of Big Ivan, the first person we met when in the city. He was sat alone as if expecting us in a cafe where we ordered beer and and greasy meat pasties called cheburak.
"Vodka is better," he said from his table nearest the counter, and invited us to join him. That was it. I already knew he'd be called Ivan.
He bought the first (large) vodka. Mari, being female, was allowed to decline, but I'd read my Russian ettiquette guides and took the whole 100mg glass in one. Ivan looked horrified.
He bought the second one too, a smaller measure. "Please, not all at once," he said.
Ivan was a crime reporter for one of the Moscow papers - I didn't believe this until he showed me his photo in his regular column - and sketched a grim picture of guns, drugs and immigrant tension in the city. He also said he was a tourist guide (I assume he uses a different spiel for that one) and a police officer.
"The problem is there aren't enough jobs for people," he told us later. No Ivan, and that's probably because you've got them all.
He seemed to have a lot of time on his hands for a man with at least three jobs and it was me who eventually had to call an end to the session, feeling I'd had more than enough. If you are going to get drunk in Moscow, it's a good idea to do it with the local crime correspondent. The conversation serves as a constant reminder why you must get too witless.
We swapped phone numbers, but didn't see Ivan again after that. He texted me a few days later and asked me if I wanted to watch the England game with him in the bar, but I was already tucked up in bed, exhausted with the baking hot claustrophobia of the city. And besides, I think Ivan probably gets too see enough high-expense misery and suffering in his job, as a tourist guide.
The insistence on vodka, at least, came in the aptly bear-like shape of Big Ivan, the first person we met when in the city. He was sat alone as if expecting us in a cafe where we ordered beer and and greasy meat pasties called cheburak.
"Vodka is better," he said from his table nearest the counter, and invited us to join him. That was it. I already knew he'd be called Ivan.
He bought the first (large) vodka. Mari, being female, was allowed to decline, but I'd read my Russian ettiquette guides and took the whole 100mg glass in one. Ivan looked horrified.
He bought the second one too, a smaller measure. "Please, not all at once," he said.
Ivan was a crime reporter for one of the Moscow papers - I didn't believe this until he showed me his photo in his regular column - and sketched a grim picture of guns, drugs and immigrant tension in the city. He also said he was a tourist guide (I assume he uses a different spiel for that one) and a police officer.
"The problem is there aren't enough jobs for people," he told us later. No Ivan, and that's probably because you've got them all.
He seemed to have a lot of time on his hands for a man with at least three jobs and it was me who eventually had to call an end to the session, feeling I'd had more than enough. If you are going to get drunk in Moscow, it's a good idea to do it with the local crime correspondent. The conversation serves as a constant reminder why you must get too witless.
We swapped phone numbers, but didn't see Ivan again after that. He texted me a few days later and asked me if I wanted to watch the England game with him in the bar, but I was already tucked up in bed, exhausted with the baking hot claustrophobia of the city. And besides, I think Ivan probably gets too see enough high-expense misery and suffering in his job, as a tourist guide.
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