Memories of Marxist Moscow - A Collage - Part 3
January 7th 2007 00:41
A grey lift goes up and the doors open onto a long grey corridor. A group of stranded travellers emerge, turn and walk along the corridor. Escorted by two armed soldiers, they stop and turn into another grey corridor that looks the same. They walk to another lift which again rises. They emerge and march along another grey corridor, this one with doors off on either side of it. A young Australian woman in the group, hasn’t eaten since before daylight and is so hungry she’s dizzy and loosing her ability to stand. The group carries her along. Three more long grey corridors and they are halted before a grey door with strange Russian markings on it.
“Did I tell you the one about the Russian priest,” says Jock, a professional Scottish comedian.
“Nay, I can-ney remember,” says Michael, his Scottish side kick.
“Oh Aye, well now, it goes like this….”
MOCKOBCKOE Beer is 13% proof and made just outside Moscow in a town called Mockba. It is one of the strongest beers in the world. It is a larger and tastes much like Fosters, with a catchy under-taste of roasted barley. It is very palatable but highly dangerous on an empty stomach.
The bar isn’t really a bar at all, but more your light, 60s coffee-lounge styling. It is a magical bar though, because one US dollar will buy you anything at all – providing it is a little bottle of MOCKOBCKOE beer - brewed locally and hastily shiped in for stranded dissident westerners.
“Aye folks,” mocks Sam the Scottish comedian, holding onto his friend for support as he raises his bottle one more time, “they’ve shipped a case of beer in fer uz, ‘case we escip inta tha strits of Moscow, and turn inta KGB spies.” Ha ha ha ha ha ….
The repartee continues amid great whoops of laughter and animated getting-to-know-you chatter. The retro-sixties mirror-tiles of an otherwise colourless and bland grey-walled, coffee-lounge-style Russian bar, soon reflects a lively scene. A scene which is no doubt viewed with contempt for western decadence by native onlookers, however hungry for US dollars. Meanwhile, oblivious now and uncaring of their situation, a small pod of stranded travellers gets pleasantly inebriated, drinking little bottles of very potent Russian Beer.
Dear Diary,
Today I found out what it felt like to be scared, sick and hungry. I felt disorientation as my head spun from lack of sleep, starvation and over-proof beer. I felt fear because my life was not mine to control. I was only vaguely aware that I was leaving one grey room to find another. I was marching again, down some more – or was it the same - grey corridors. I fancied the lift went up, but it could have gone down. Then I was aware that I was passing through another grey door with more markings on it. What was it with Russians and grey?
The bench-tables and chairs were made from roughly hewn timber. There was no special finishing - no mirror polish, no veneer - just chunky grain and splinters. There were about 15 of them strategically placed around a poorly lit, cavernous room, with grey walls and big timber support columns. The hall resembled a cavernous mine-shaft and felt just as dank and drafty. There were simple settings of plain white plates and mugs on the tables signifying it was some sort of dining room.
Momentarily alone, a now cashless group of inebriated and starving travellers stared at each other and their new surroundings, blinking in bewilderment. A Danish anthropologist - having ‘come-to,’ after previously relieving his aching feet of their smelly trappings in the makeshift coffee-lounge-bar - suddenly suggested that the group should sit down and ‘prepare to do the dishes if asked to pay for the meal.’ ‘That is,’ he adds, ‘if they intend to feed us and not eat us?'
The water from the jug is fresh, clear and icy cold as I gulp it down. It is sweet and a slight taste of clay hits my tounge, as I drain my glass for the second time.
Three familiar Russian air-stewardesses suddenly appear from a grey door in the far wall of the cavernous dining hall. They move with an unnatural awkwardness, topped with familiar neon-coloured, blue eyelids. Again I am reminded of robots in the half-light. They come in two waves; the first laden with big steaming pots of soup, the second carrying huge trays loaded with the simple delights of a Ploughman’s lunch, ‘Soviet-style.’
A large bowl of Borsht appears from my right - a very tasty traditional Russian staple, consisting of soup made from beetroots, with whole boiled-eggs in it. It’s sweet earthy aroma making my taste buds tingle with anticipation, as I remember meals shared as a child, on holidays with my European family.
“Ah, he’s-a happy to see ya,” quips a Scottish accent from across the room joking about the eggs looking like sheep’s eyes. There is a roar of laughter before the subdued clinking of cutlery signals that serious dining has commenced throughout the room.
Big solid chunks of freshly baked wholemeal bread, arrives in wicker baskets, causing gestures of ecstasy amongst the starving diners. Plain white plates laden with thickly sliced ham and salami, blocks of rich smelling cheeses, pickles, tomatoes and capsicum – sweet mother of God – and, two cups of freshly brewed Coffee, whose steaming odour launches me to new heights of rapture.
In the west it is said that there is no such thing as a free lunch.
I beg to differ.
To be continued.../
“Did I tell you the one about the Russian priest,” says Jock, a professional Scottish comedian.
“Nay, I can-ney remember,” says Michael, his Scottish side kick.
“Oh Aye, well now, it goes like this….”
<<>>
MOCKOBCKOE Beer is 13% proof and made just outside Moscow in a town called Mockba. It is one of the strongest beers in the world. It is a larger and tastes much like Fosters, with a catchy under-taste of roasted barley. It is very palatable but highly dangerous on an empty stomach.
The bar isn’t really a bar at all, but more your light, 60s coffee-lounge styling. It is a magical bar though, because one US dollar will buy you anything at all – providing it is a little bottle of MOCKOBCKOE beer - brewed locally and hastily shiped in for stranded dissident westerners.
<<>>
“Aye folks,” mocks Sam the Scottish comedian, holding onto his friend for support as he raises his bottle one more time, “they’ve shipped a case of beer in fer uz, ‘case we escip inta tha strits of Moscow, and turn inta KGB spies.” Ha ha ha ha ha ….
The repartee continues amid great whoops of laughter and animated getting-to-know-you chatter. The retro-sixties mirror-tiles of an otherwise colourless and bland grey-walled, coffee-lounge-style Russian bar, soon reflects a lively scene. A scene which is no doubt viewed with contempt for western decadence by native onlookers, however hungry for US dollars. Meanwhile, oblivious now and uncaring of their situation, a small pod of stranded travellers gets pleasantly inebriated, drinking little bottles of very potent Russian Beer.
<<>>
Dear Diary,
Today I found out what it felt like to be scared, sick and hungry. I felt disorientation as my head spun from lack of sleep, starvation and over-proof beer. I felt fear because my life was not mine to control. I was only vaguely aware that I was leaving one grey room to find another. I was marching again, down some more – or was it the same - grey corridors. I fancied the lift went up, but it could have gone down. Then I was aware that I was passing through another grey door with more markings on it. What was it with Russians and grey?
<<>>
The bench-tables and chairs were made from roughly hewn timber. There was no special finishing - no mirror polish, no veneer - just chunky grain and splinters. There were about 15 of them strategically placed around a poorly lit, cavernous room, with grey walls and big timber support columns. The hall resembled a cavernous mine-shaft and felt just as dank and drafty. There were simple settings of plain white plates and mugs on the tables signifying it was some sort of dining room.
Momentarily alone, a now cashless group of inebriated and starving travellers stared at each other and their new surroundings, blinking in bewilderment. A Danish anthropologist - having ‘come-to,’ after previously relieving his aching feet of their smelly trappings in the makeshift coffee-lounge-bar - suddenly suggested that the group should sit down and ‘prepare to do the dishes if asked to pay for the meal.’ ‘That is,’ he adds, ‘if they intend to feed us and not eat us?'
<<>>
The water from the jug is fresh, clear and icy cold as I gulp it down. It is sweet and a slight taste of clay hits my tounge, as I drain my glass for the second time.
Three familiar Russian air-stewardesses suddenly appear from a grey door in the far wall of the cavernous dining hall. They move with an unnatural awkwardness, topped with familiar neon-coloured, blue eyelids. Again I am reminded of robots in the half-light. They come in two waves; the first laden with big steaming pots of soup, the second carrying huge trays loaded with the simple delights of a Ploughman’s lunch, ‘Soviet-style.’
A large bowl of Borsht appears from my right - a very tasty traditional Russian staple, consisting of soup made from beetroots, with whole boiled-eggs in it. It’s sweet earthy aroma making my taste buds tingle with anticipation, as I remember meals shared as a child, on holidays with my European family.
“Ah, he’s-a happy to see ya,” quips a Scottish accent from across the room joking about the eggs looking like sheep’s eyes. There is a roar of laughter before the subdued clinking of cutlery signals that serious dining has commenced throughout the room.
Big solid chunks of freshly baked wholemeal bread, arrives in wicker baskets, causing gestures of ecstasy amongst the starving diners. Plain white plates laden with thickly sliced ham and salami, blocks of rich smelling cheeses, pickles, tomatoes and capsicum – sweet mother of God – and, two cups of freshly brewed Coffee, whose steaming odour launches me to new heights of rapture.
In the west it is said that there is no such thing as a free lunch.
I beg to differ.
<<>>
Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye,
13 dissident westerners with beer and food were plied,
Now, what to do with them,
they’ve no more $$$ to spend?
We’ll load them back on the bus,
.. and show them Moscow trends.
13 dissident westerners with beer and food were plied,
Now, what to do with them,
they’ve no more $$$ to spend?
We’ll load them back on the bus,
.. and show them Moscow trends.
<<>>
To be continued.../
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Comment by katyzzz
Photography Tips
Health Focus
Poetry Lighthouse
MS Paint Art
Shouldn't you be out there, cashing in on all this?
Unbelievably good. [now what does that mean, search me , girl, I just work here.
And she ended up in Queensland?, do tell.
My littlest girl has also been to Russia, perhaps not such a distant time from yourself, she was very young when she went, they all seem to have inherited that same accursed gene.
With apologies to your goodself.
katyzzz
Comment by Ash
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
Excellent as always, look forward to hearing what became of the stranded travellers..........
Ash
Comment by Lilla
Enviro Warrior
An Extra Ordinary Life
Dream Herald
thank you for your kind words...
cash in?
..yes that is the eventual plan as I gather all my memoirs together. This blog is for that purpose, to help me create, play with, publish and hopefully get out and get back as many feedback comments as possible - before fine tuning the final book. Feedback and encouragement are important factors for writers I think and Orble is so good in that respect. Publishers are standing by, but it takes so long and I get so distracted in orble too.
*lol*
There are so many adventures, my life (to-date) is exceptionally full ... so much to write about, so little time, you know how it goes ... brain getting hazy some days... There's the magazines I write for too and other on-line commitments, not to mention my artistic gifts and the Tarot deck I am trying to illustrate for a friend ... busy, busy, busy.
But, we'll all get there in the end...
Cheers again for your encouragement.
Lilla...
Comment by Lilla
Enviro Warrior
An Extra Ordinary Life
Dream Herald
yes, I have never found a beer to rival it, maybe after I sell my memoirs, I'll be able to import a few crates of it... Gee, I wonder if they still make it? Maybe now that it is a capitalist country, they export it... ooo a new line of research coming on, as if I didn't have enough to do today *lol*
two more parts to go, I think... and it's done.
Lilla...
Comment by Adrian
Philosophy Blog
Pardon me while I go see if there's any leftover pizza from last night...
Comment by Lilla
Enviro Warrior
An Extra Ordinary Life
Dream Herald
what can I say?
I was well-gone drunk, and hadn't eaten for about 12 hours - since in-flight meal coming from Singapore - which wasn't that good.
Ha, maybe I can include a description of the inflight meal... but I can't remember it was so uneventful, truly.
I'll remember this meal I described here for the entire remainder of this life and probably the next too. It was one of the simplest but kosher meals I have ever had. And of course European - whch appealed to my taste buds, as my blood lines have travelled from there to Australia, via UK detour, where I was born.
Hmmm, I see what you mean, I'm getting pekish just thinking about it...
Hope you found some pizza, I love left over pizza!
Cheers
:Lilla
Comment by Marisa
New Spirit New Energy
Looking forward to more.
Comment by Lilla
Enviro Warrior
An Extra Ordinary Life
Dream Herald
thanx for that, you must enjoy your food too? *lol*
...part four tomorrow morning, all being equal,
thank you for reading...
Lilla
Comment by DuskDevi
Rucks and Rolls
Rugby World Cup 2007
Is this part of *that book?
I can smell the food Lilla.
Tastebuds doing a tango now!
Am rushin'...Moscow...
Dusk
ps. is this where you picked up the vodka egg tip??
*link provided
Comment by Lilla
Enviro Warrior
An Extra Ordinary Life
Dream Herald
..really nice to see you...
I just got up *yawning* so please bear with my on the non comprehendus mendus ... it'll take a while for the chai to activite the appropriate cells needed for early morning workouts in the cryptic gym.
hmm let me see, Moscow... food... starving .... angels .... book... nup, nothing there
how about;
travel ... food ...tastebuds ... Moscow ... Book [Bible maybe?] ... eating Angels?
No, not that?
um ... okay, how about,
Hungry Angels eating pleasant fare at the Moscow Lego Brick Hotel?
Nup. that's not going to cut the mustard either, is it?
*l-ing ol now*
*feeling sheeeeepish*
... moving on ...
Vodka Vodka flows in distant family's veins now for some generations and the tips are handed down, pro gratis from my distant cross boarder uncle, Boris. Can't have black eggs in our Borscht, can we?
Thanks DD for your kind words of encouragement.
Lilla.