Olga proved a worthy tour guide and educator.
First on her agenda was teaching me to recognise the
characters in the Russian alphabet. This became the precursor to me being able
to read and recognise signs. The literature filling the street-scapes began to
transform into something familiar. A new world was opening up to me as I saw
that much of the advertising had similar undertones to my homeland. Olga
insisted that I practice what I was learning by reading Russian street signs.
She also showed me a simple trick which transformed
the way by which I used the Metro. There was a small sign which I hadn’t
noticed before showing the symbol for a stairway. This simple sign, she explained
to me, indicated the way to a connecting station. Suddenly I was able to
navigate my way through the complexity of the Metro with considerably more
ease.
And thirdly she explained to me an extremely practical
Russian custom of catching a taxi. Any person who is driving by and would like
to earn some money will stop, Olga explained. “Then you negotiate a fare and
get in.” I was uncomfortable with this idea of getting into the car of a complete
stranger but she assured me it was a perfectly normal way for people to get
around Moscow. With a certain degree of scepticism I tested the concept and it
wasn’t long before I was completely at ease and thoroughly enjoying this convenient,
not to mention extremely cheap, mode of transport. It delighted me meeting new
and interesting people and listening to their taste in music for the duration
of the journey. It reminded me of my university days when part of my daily
routine was hitchhiking to campus.
Armed with these new skills I was able to travel
throughout Moscow with confidence and ease, meeting Olga, upon her request, in new
and interesting sections of the city each evening, at the conclusion of her
work. We would walk the streets with her eagerly sharing every interesting
tit-bit of information that related to the area. She even showed me the site of
the first McDonalds in Moscow, and where the end of the queue reached several
blocks away on opening day.
Over the weekend we drove beyond the outer ring-road
(the unofficial border between Moscow and the rest of Russian) to small towns crammed
with whitewashed, walled churches topped with golden, onion domes glistening in
the weak autumn sun and surrounded by babushkas, sitting at trestled tables,
selling matryoshka dolls.
During one of our strolls through Moscow Olga invited
me to join her to see Swan Lake performed by the Bolshoi Ballet Company at the
Bolshoi Theatre. I eagerly accepted this invitation, so she negotiated the
purchase of tickets from a street vendor. I overheard the lively exchange and
when she returned to me she laughed saying the man had told her she was a “fox”.
I presumed the meaning of “fox” was the same as in my vocabulary and with a
smile upon my face I mentally had to agree with the vender.
The evening at the Bolshoi Theatre was memorable for
two reasons. Firstly the ballet was breathtaking and on a level of aesthetic brilliance
which I could never have imagined. Accolades of “Bravo” filled the air at the
conclusion of the performance and flowers and bouquets rained down on the stage
around the performers. It was a truly remarkable spectacle which I felt privileged
to have witnessed.
The evening was also memorable for what happened on
the way back to Olga’s car. Up to that point our courting had been limited to holding
hands, brushing against each other, walking arm-in-arm and sitting closely
together at every opportunity, each one hesitant to make a more intimate move. Walking
home that night Olga surprised me by pulling me into an alley way and kissing
me. A wonderfully long, warm and passionate kiss which transformed our
relationship completely. We moved past an imaginary line into a new dimension,
a new phase. We became free and uninhibited from that moment on and we sensed a
bond developing between us. We became a couple in love.
As if to reinforce our new status, the following
evening we met at an authentic Russian restaurant called Samovar (the same name
given to a device used by Russians for heating water to make tea). We were
greeted by an elderly man playing a grand piano accompanied by a woman vocalist,
who throughout our entire meal, performed romantic Russian songs. With the
restaurant practically deserted the entire time, we were easily able to imagine
that the songs were for our benefit alone.
By now the date of our departure to St Petersburg was nearing
so I made attempts to purchase plane tickets. There was a travel agent in the
hotel’s lobby so I put the question to the young girl sitting behind the
counter. Her terse reply was simply, “Do you want cheap tickets or do you want
to get there.” Aghast, I assumed something had gone astray in the translation
so I shrugged off any careful analysis of her reply and expressed my desire
that I did indeed wish to “get there”. Without expression the girl arranged the
tickets and I left her desk with the uneasy feeling that I had briefly encountered
the edge of a Russia which was deep, complex and best left to the imagination.
Since we had met, Olga and I had made no attempts to
visit the other’s place of accommodation. I suspected Russia could be a
dangerous place so intentionally I erred on the side of caution and always met
Olga in public places. However on the afternoon of our departure to St
Petersburg I did not have a choice. Olga collected me and my belongings from
the Hotel Ukraina after checkout and we drove across Moscow to her apartment
directly opposite the Metro station of Botanichesky Sad. Apprehensively, I rode
the elevator to her floor and moments later we were in her tiny, one-bedroomed
apartment. My brief feeling of paranoia was completely unfounded. The apartment
was sunny, clean, modern and besides ourselves, empty. Olga gathered her things
and after locking up we were finally on our way to Sheremetyevo.
By the time we were seated at the gate it was dark and
snow had begun to fall. I sensed Olga’s anxiousness. When I queried her she
divulged to me a fear of flying. Looking out through the terminal windows at
our Russian made Tupolev Tu-154 sitting on the tarmac under a blanket of snow I
could empathise with her fear. I felt it best to contain my terror from her. I
suggested alcohol as a suitable tool to get us through the experience, so we
purchased a small bottle of vodka and had its contents consumed just in time
for boarding.
Once aboard the narrow body airliner we cuddled together
in a mild state of numbness completely oblivious to the other passengers
boarding the aircraft. We were in our own zone, our own space. It seemed like
we had known each other forever. I watched men through the window working in
the falling snow, which had by now turned to blizzard like conditions, spraying
antifreeze chemicals onto the wings. Surly the Russians, out of all the nationalities,
on the planet would know how to fly in these sorts of conditions. Surely they,
of all people, would have the experience flying in this sort of weather. Surely
they knew what they were doing. I tried to reassure myself as best I could, but
still if we were to die we would at least die together, I thought. I hugged
Olga closer to me.
The noise of the engines escalated to fever pitch and
we were thrust down the runway in a flurry of snow. Slowly the wings dug into
the freezing air and lifted the plane from the white earth. I squeezed Olga’s
hand and I felt her tension. We both looked out into the darkness frozen with
fear. The plane bounced and shuddered. The engines screamed as the plane clawed
its way higher into the sky. Then as suddenly as it had begun it was over. The
clouds disappeared and a glorious moon reflected off the shining, metal wings. We
had made it. The sounds of the engines subsided and even the plane seemed to relax
now that it had the blanket of stars above it for company. I relaxed my vice-like
grip on Olga’s hand and she turned to me and smiled with nervous relief. We
were on our way to St Petersburg.
COMING UP on Phobia-Iraq-Love Trilogy Tale:
- Chapter 47: Courting in St Petersburg
- Chapter 48: Preparing for War
- Chapter 49: Evacuation
- Chapter 50: Return to Moscow
COMING UP on Phobia-Iraq-Love Trilogy Tale:
- Chapter 47: Courting in St Petersburg
- Chapter 48: Preparing for War
- Chapter 49: Evacuation
- Chapter 50: Return to Moscow