Ya Izvinyayus, Nigoavoyou pa Ruski
(I’m Sorry, I Don’t Speak Russian)
In the immortal words of former gin drinker extraordinaire, Winston Churchill, ‘Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma’. Granted, he was almost certainly plastered when he said this, but then again he almost always was. Deciphering the age-old puzzle that is the vast expanse of land sprawling unashamedly from Eastern Europe to the Pacific is no mean feat, and certainly a test made far sterner when you cannot even master the basics of the language, such as enquiring at the local watering hole about the latest Test Match score, or pointedly remarking that it’s a damned shame they couldn’t find any bloody Earl Grey. This did little to deter the perennially underprepared and uninformed duo of Tim Saunders and Henry Wickham who, accompanied by Tim’s unsuspecting girlfriend and lifelong Muscovite, Anna, threw themselves headlong into another unplanned and wildly miscalculated attempt at a holiday, choosing to explore a country mocked for its decidedly cool summers during the far chillier days of early winter. The following collection of rambling nonsense punctuated by pithy if somewhat inaccurate anecdotes represents a broad and only slightly elaborated retelling of their time in Moscow. As always it’s needlessly long and self-indulgently detailed, so I won’t be offended if you lose the will to live and give up halfway through. Devastated and mortified, yes, but not offended.
* * *
The day began early. Tim and Henry, however, were not there. They awoke around 11, a comfortable distance from the day’s beginning. Thankfully the generous and ceaseless hospitality of the Zagorodnikova family had continued uninterrupted in to day two of the adventure as platters of cold meat and largely unidentifiable sponge cakes were continually produced from every corner of the house. Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist John Updike once dryly quipped that ‘One does not go to Moscow to get fat’. After embarking upon their third breakfast in almost as many hours, Tim and Henry had to respectfully disagree. Resisting the urge for yet a mother post-meal nap following a customarily hearty morning repast, our intrepid explorers boldly set off in search of more Eastern European excitement shortly after midday, having eventually located various errant items of clothing about the flat.
The walk to the correct bus stop was ‘simple’. Unfortunately so were Tim and Henry, and thus the search for the elusive 253 continued well in to the afternoon. Despite numerous attempts to discover the Russian for ‘sun’ the still word evaded them while the celestial orb continued to beat down upon the cold, glistening landscape of the Muscovian suburbs. When eventually the bus was located, Tim and Henry fell into a delightfully genial, if somewhat faltering, conversation with an wholly unobjectionable Russian lad going by the name of ‘Yes Peace’ (Damir); a young man who harboured an unusually intense love for the much derided Canadian “singer-songwriter”, Avril Lavigne. He proudly informed the pair that the previous day had been spent listening to the entirety of her tawdry back catalogue to celebrate the release of her seminal debut album some 12 years before this chance meeting aboard musty public transport. A warm farewell involving the exchanging of meaningful handshakes and slightly damp Russian matches preceded the dynamic duo alighting the bus and plunging themselves once more into the murky underworld of Moscow’s subterranean metro train system.
With uncharacteristic efficiency the pair soon found themselves in the capital’s legendary Red Square, for an afternoon of obligatory sight seeing. Several architecturally exciting historical buildings were located and extensively photographed in the hope that one of them would be the nation-defining seat of Russian authority, The Kremlin. Sadly it would later transpire that this once-in-a-lifetime, not-to-be-missed cultural landmark of palpable historic significance was missed by Tim and Henry. When the whereabouts of the troublesome building was finally ascertained the sun was already hanging low in the sky and the hour was growing late, so reluctantly the pair stole once more into the incipient darkness of a typically unforgiving Russian night.
Leaving the environs of the capital’s political centrepiece did, however, prove to be more wearying than expected; a maze of inexplicably blocked pavements and uncrossable roads meant that the area was once again explored, but this time in the dark with several burly police officers watching on with the disapproving glare of scowling teachers surveying suspicious looking children loitering in a crowded schoolyard. After eventually eluding the Russian authorities long enough to cross the street the pair then made their way to the imposing, magnificently illuminated spectacle that is the world famous Bolshoi Theatre, and on shortly there after to a nearby coffee shop where indulgently sweet coffees and traditional Russian fondue were ordered with no hint of embarrassment or remorse.
This latest venture to a cafe proved far more successful than the first outing to a similar establishment earlier in the day, when two vodkas were procured before Tim, drunk on the intoxicating air of a new challenge, and of course the vodka, came dangerously close to attempting the theft of another patron’s half-eaten pastry. Erroneously believing the aforementioned customer to have departed the vicinity permanently, the assumption being based on little more than a half-drunk cup of coffee and ostensibly discarded newspaper, Tim readied himself to pounce, stalking his prey predatorily much like a lion sizing up an antelope in the Serengeti. Fortunately the would-be predator, now coiled in attack position, allowed his unsuspecting quarry an additional minute for the previous occupant of the table to return, which proved to be a judicious move of mercy that avoided a situation of almost certain catastrophic embarrassment. For return the previous occupant most assuredly did, and eaten the pastry most assuredly was. For once, curiosity had not killed the cat and the journey had continued unimpeded.
Having danced their merry way back to the iconic Bolshoi, another exalted pillar of the city’s breathtaking landscape soon revealed itself to the starry eyed pair. This time it came in the form of the legendary British explorer, the archetypal wandering soul and old-world colonial emissary, Ryan Horatio Walker (middle name possibly fabricated for literary impact). Waltzing gracefully in to view like a dancer gliding effortlessly across the fabled Swan Lake, this old chum from their carefree university days unveiled himself to the awestruck masses in fittingly magisterial fashion, having lost none of the dazzling good looks and radiating charm of his youth. Across a face only slightly weatherbeaten by the ferocious elements of the Russian winter spread a winning smile accompanied shortly after by a characteristically cheeky quip about the recent arrivals’ conspicuous Britishness. Hands were shaken and shoulders grasped before the trio struck out for pastures new, seeking the edgy, alluring aroma of Kamchatka. This method of walking with an end point in mind was markedly unfamiliar to both Tim and Henry, who were briefly unnerved, particularly after hearing that Kamchatka was an expanse of hard, mountainous land situated on the eastern-most tip of Russia’s vast coastline. However, under the astute tutelage of a seasoned Muscovite, progress was swift and Kamchatka was located in downtown Moscow, and not the hostile, icy climes of a peninsula battered by unforgiving Siberian winds, after it was in fact revealed to be a thriving “intelligentsia bar” (if you’ll pardon Ryan’s inexcusably pretentious description of the place).
Drinks and conversation flowed in equal measure as matters of international diplomacy, literature and avant-garde philosophy were used as proverbial tools in the heavy weight intellectual jousting of a lively and genial evening. Arguably the reality resembled more closely three drunken foreigners shouting fairly incoherently in English across a crowded bar of increasingly irritable locals. Which naturally did little to deter them. Beer and ignorance do so often combine to form a most potent mix of obnoxiousness.
The mid-game departure of Saunders to solicit the attentions of his delightful new girlfriend Anna left only Walker and Wickham, who continued to set the world to rights in between generous mouthfuls of discount Russian lager. After dodging death on more than one occasion during intermittent trips to the bar’s infamously squalid restrooms (which, at the time of writing, were proudly free of aggressively right-wing political graffiti for the first time since 2006), the pair eventually decided to set off on a fresh crusade and reconvened with the rest of the recently formed Muscovian entourage en route to the ominously titled nightclub, Propaganda. Thankfully, Putin-heavy rhetoric was entirely absent from the club’s aesthetic, as were government officials attempting to disseminate pro-establishment pamphlets on his deeply entrenched political agenda.
Tremendously thumping rhythms abounded as the group deployed an exceptional repertoire of flawlessly executed dance moves, fuelled only by vodka red bulls and an increasingly diminishing sense of self-awareness. An ever dwindling band then set forth into the night once more, this time settling one of Moscow’s premiere homosexual discotheques, Mono. Despite being named as a baffling homage to glandular fever, the club proved a fitting venue for the remaining quartet to finish the night with aplomb, Henry’s shameless flirting with other members of the almost exclusively male clientele notwithstanding.
* * *
Tim, Anna and Henry awoke the following afternoon to find themselves on the 18th floor of an impressive high-rise block of flats located in the pulsating centre of the Russian capital. In the words of New York Times bestselling author Marjorie M. Liu, ‘Moscow was, as some said, the most beautiful mistress a man could ever want, but never cross her: like any good woman, she might just cut off your balls for the hell of it’. Tim and Henry, particularly Henry, had learned this the hard way, although thankfully they had only been metaphorically relieved of their dearly cherished personal extremities. After the high-octane gyrations of the previous evening the group found their footing a little shaky and their bodies a little tender, although the stunning panoramic view offered by the apartment’s living room window went a long way towards alleviating the post-indulgence melancholy. Boasting an almost unrivalled view of the city’s magnificent architectural landmarks, including a truly exceptional two-storey Burger King nestled discretely among the orthodox Catholic churches and upmarket perfume salons of the district, it was, as Tim succinctly observed, ‘a good place to be hungover’.
As bearings were gathered, along with several mischievously absent items of clothing, a late-afternoon breakfast was decided upon at an unrepentantly un-Russian eatery boasting some of the finest French food, French wine and French music that side of Paris. Despite somewhat unsettled constitutions the trio partook of a hearty collection of heavily fried, battered and deep baked comestibles in order to fortify themselves for another round of alcoholic jubilations later that day. A return to the flat saw Tim and Henry exhibit some of their lesser harnessed skills as handymen, putting into practice a devastatingly effective grasp of basic DIY, helping to dismantle beds, tables and bookcases with only the humblest selection of screwdrivers at their disposal, while also making a cracking round of teas to keep the workforce suitably energised.
The first phase of the day was successfully concluded when Tim narrowly avoiding being crushed by a rogue mattress and several large items of furniture were miraculously crammed inside a rather reluctant Ford Fiesta. With this full scale version of Tetris satisfactorily completed, the group set off into the crisp Russian night in search of yet more whirlwind adventures, flushed with the triumphant glow of victory. A preemptive bout of intoxication took place at the residence of a particularly fabulous new acquaintance by the name of Anton, a man for whom seven costume changes during the course of an hour and half of casual pre drinking was considered perfectly regulation, possibly even bordering on the slightly conservative. He was also blessed with a unique creativity that had led to his lodgings being adorned liberally with handcrafted objéts, an antique typewriter sitting proudly atop an opulent chest of drawers, capped off by a bathroom painted and lit with such vivid shades of magenta that it resembled an acid-trip inspired solarium.
Recomposing himself after a particularly disorientating experience to the aforementioned lavatory, Henry returned to the living room to DJ with his customary inelegance, deftly combining questionable song choices with some rather jarring interruptions between tracks. While the highly inexpert workmanship on the decks was hardly enough to inspire a great deal of body-pumping movements from the other party goers, guests continued to drift in undeterred, adding further ingredients to an already eclectic social mixture. Among the incumbent members of an already existing circle of comrades were Rita, with her fascinating predilection for combing moody black and white photography and striking provocative, outlandish poses, and her boyfriend Andrey, who exuded an aura of quiet composure and a warm, easy friendship. Ryan was once again unearthed from the icy depths of Moscow’s socialist housing projects to awkwardly flail his limbs among the conspicuously stylish ensemble to which the motley crew of Englishmen had inadvertently attached themselves. Showing flagrant disregard for the Russian Federal Service for Alcohol Market Regulation, bottles of illicit, after-hours champagne were rapidly negotiated from a nearby Japanese restaurant and then rapidly consumed (take that, Putin). Another round of swift costume changes followed as Anton continued to search for the perfect combination of clothing that was both garish and provocative in equally satisfactory degrees, before the group, buzzing pleasantly from the heady concoction of the evening thus far, left in pleasant haze with their course firmly set.
The course was revealed to be somewhat less firm when some twenty minutes later plans changed and the intrepid party found itself redirected towards Moscow’s legendary den of iniquity, Arma17. On this particular night the club was playing host to a lavish reconstruction of the iconic US festival Burning Man, an outdoor event of such sprawling and ambitious proportions that it is traditionally held in the middle of the desert. The small scale version housed atop a derelict Russian factory retained a surprising amount of authenticity to the original, and to ensure only the finest and fittest clientele, the club itself was located at the top of approximately 72 flights of tastefully lit stairs.
A relentless passion to make up for decades of communist-era social and cultural repression was evident in all corners of the converted industrial space, as fancy dress of almost unparalleled variety was offered upon entrance to all new arrivals, while an unnerving troupe of visual performers prowled through the shadows, delighting and confusing in equal measure with some eery spectacles of bizarre art-house experimentalism. All this complimented perfectly the military-grade speaker system set up to majestically overlook the steamy, pulsating flock working the generously proportioned dance floor. So too did it go a long way toward alleviating the gut wrenching horror and shackled but burning indignation which followed the discovery that drinks from the bar were in the lofty region of 500 roubles apiece. Even with the shaky Russian currency trading at a paltry 70 to one against the stubborn British pound, this was still a touch rich for group’s taste.
Now fully clad in a dazzling array of outlandish costumes, ranging from raunchily clad sailors (Henry) and flamboyant 19th century peasants (Tim, if such a combination were to ever exist), to eccentric fairytale princess (Anna) and painfully camp Peter Pan/Robin Hood crossover (Ryan), the group dived headlong into the fray to embark on yet another round of saucy escapades. They melted effortlessly into the writhing sea, which stretched from the makeshift bar in the east to the imposing raised stage in the west and was populated almost exclusively by the city’s most ludicrously attractive and fabulously attired men and women. The trademark moves were once again proudly on display as the unlikely cohort puffed out their chests and proudly displayed their colourful plumages, like drunk, haughty peacocks with a natural affiliation for rhythmical undulations. As the night wore on yet more of the club’s hidden delights revealed themselves to the eager crowd. Room upon room was discovered in the pleasantly decayed expanse of the building’s magical top floor through a series of mini expeditions that saw grown men and women scramble through impossibly low openings and crevasses in the walls amidst peeling plaster and crumbling alcoves.
The night finally wound down as the group slowly ran out of steam, with Ryan pointedly commenting around six in the morning that he was now ‘only gyrating out of a sense of obligation’. The time honoured Russian tradition of bartering with random motorists for a lift home in exchange for fairly meagre investment ensured the need for a cab was mercifully avoided, as a charmingly unbalanced gentleman of advanced years was pressed in to service; his creaking, rust-engorged vehicle seeming a mighty chariot at this late hour. The car, built largely from the remnants of old Soviet tanks, tore it’s way out of town, clanking along tunefully down the thankfully unpedestrianised eight lane super highways of outer Moscow.
* * *
There comes a time in every young man’s life when he must share a sauna with several grizzled, hirsute Eastern European gentlemen; sweaty torsos and slightly undersized towels being key components in what was a relatively close quarters steam room. And so it was that Tim and Henry found themselves in such a situation some two days after their last excursion into the vibrant and seedy side of what the city’s underground clubbing scene had to offer. Looking to relax and unwind after the relentless and exhausting experiences of their first few days in Moscow, a traditional Russian bathhouse, or ‘Banya’, as they are quaintly named, was located, boasting all the vintage hallmarks of such an establishment, namely a cheap bar, slowly rotating disco ball, and a small television playing some sort of Russian Top of the Pops from the 1980s. And, of course, Ryan was there.
The intervening time had been spent sleeping in between meals and naps. Yet more strange and at times unnerving gastronomical unions were belched forth from the indulgently swollen underbelly of Moscow’s upmarket boutiques and quirky eateries, among them an exotically isolated ice cream parlour boasting a gorgonzola and blueberry blend alongside mysterious teas brewed from pinecones, or some such delightful nonsense. In a nod to more conventional tourism, intermittent sight seeing had continued although only during the by now well established window from five to eleven in the evening. As such, breathtaking monuments and stunning scenery, testament to both Russia’s awe-inspiring architecture and staggering natural beauty, continued to be viewed exclusively in the dark. Which is to say that they weren’t viewed at all. Thankfully the weather held out at a positively balmy minus 12 (Celsius, of course. None of this antiquated Fahrenheit bollocks).
After one such late night excursion, the group had arrived home at a customarily late hour whereupon Anna had taken the unconventional option of parking her car across the train tracks adjacent to the car park rather than in the car park itself, spaces being at something of a premium. While this was no doubt an inspired solution in the heat of the moment, the judiciousness of the plan was revealed to be somewhat less solid than previously believed when the car slipped from its precarious position atop those metal lines, crunching down loudly upon its straining axel, before ending up balanced uneasily, wheels dangling uselessly as it straddled the tracks in a most undignified fashion.
Left until the morning, the situation had, miraculously, not resolved itself and the BMW remained in a suspended state of paralysis as an ever swelling crowd of onlookers came to stand by and gawp rather unhelpfully. Eventually, extortionately well paid assistance was provided by a local man with a pick up truck who did a reasonable job of dragging the stranded vehicle to safety. All the while Henry had been left to spend the morning in a similar state of suspended animation, unable to contact his hapless friends and marooned in the not unpleasant although increasingly uncomfortable front room of Anna’s mother’s apartment. It was here that their hostess’ maternal grandmother, a woman as welcoming as she was obstinate, made ever more forceful and exasperated efforts to communicate exclusively in Russian to a man who was, to put it mildly, a complete novice in the language. To say that conversation had been faltering would be a wildly generous appraisal, and in the end dear old babushka shuffled impatiently from the room, while at the same time the crowd of bemused locals that had temporarily engulfed the already congested car park of Anna’s apartment complex reluctantly dragged themselves back to the drudgery of their daily lives, the pulsating excitement of the morning’s rescue already fading into memory.
But we digress. Back to the bathhouses. After being ferociously beaten for a solid 10 minutes apiece with branches of birch (naturally intended as an inexplicably therapeutic exercise), each member of the unwitting clientele was then subject to wild oscillations between the fantastically hot and the extraordinarily freezing, as they went from sauna to plunge pool and back again in a routine that can only be described as punishingly varied. Ultimately, however, the trip to proved a restorative one, as a round of herbal teas capped off another bizarre yet satisfying experience. The group were left feeling rejuvenated, reinvigorated, a little violated, and exfoliated beyond all reasonable belief. This was, of course, in careful, almost ritualistic, preparation for one final night of unrepentant, shameless hedonism which would forever stamp the holiday as an unequivocal success. Fortunately, Tim and Henry’s final soirée in the Russian capital coincided neatly with a occasion of such magnificent, awe-inspiring splendour that it had all of Moscow aquiver for the high-class degeneracy about to be released upon the city. This, more specifically, was Anna’s 25th birthday, for which grand designs and ambitious machinations had already been put into motion by her nearest and dearest long before the British vacationists had lurched gracelessly into their lives.
With the stage set, hearts pounding in eager anticipation, and bookings made at a number of swanky consortiums all across town, our superlative heroes broke free from their domestic shackles one last time, hell bent on writing yet another glorious chapter into the legendary annals of Russian folklore. The venue chosen for the commencement of the extravaganza was accordingly niche and impenetrably cool, bedecked in glorious floral arrangements courtesy of Anton’s peerless eccentricity and his unlimited access to large quantities of expensive flowers. Among the by now familiarly unorthodox gathering were many of Anna’s extensive circle of companions, come to bid her the merriest of birthdays and partake in the most heinously uncontrolled of celebrations. There were stylish apparitions, innovators and artists from all across the vibrant cosmopolis, while Tim and Henry also struck up a wonderfully unexpected rapport with the drummer of a Russian punk band. As the guests milled and drank, Anna stood with regal elegance atop a chair in the centre of the group, all the better to be showered with love and admiration from her adoring subjects. After a few more rounds of fruity and exotic cocktails, partnered with several emotional birthday speeches and suggestively shaped cakes, the time was ripe for the royal party to leave their court and head off to the wild outlands.
The evening, fittingly, wound up where all the madness had begun just five short days ago, among the filthy heathens who crowded into that infamous cesspool of youthful knavery, Propaganda. There were a number of exciting, whimsical and down right outrageous tales from that most splendacious of evenings, each worthy of mention if only to further highlight the preposterous, frivolous but downright enjoyable antics that so characterised this period of time that was as dazzlingly intense as it was brief and ultimately unremarkable.
But the real eye-catching, headline-winning performance of the evening came from our very own Ryan Walker. Ryan, content to lay low and flirt on the periphery for much of the previous outings, now suddenly exploded into life, emitting an irresistible wave of charm and charisma that radiated across the place, engulfing all and sundry who came in to contact with this burning, sexual furnace of a man. He strutted with a hitherto unrealised sense of self-confidence, resembling a veritable modern day Casanova as he flitted casually from bar to dance floor and back again, buffeted along serenely by the gusting current of his own irrepressibly sensual aura. One misty eyed young woman after another fell helplessly under his spell, the potent fumes of masculinity positively steaming out of him; all the while Henry drifted ever further into the shadows as Ryan continued to flaunt his effortlessly superior technique. Time and time again he shifted fluidly into ever higher gears of furious animal magnetism; it seemed as though there was nothing on earth that could stop this runway freight train.
The place now saturated in his pheromones, like a damp, muggy swamp of latent sexual libido, our strutting provocateur notched up his carnal barrage yet another level and it was also at this point that the party and its attendants relocated for one last assault on mind and body. The final destination was to be Anton’s avant-garde apartment with it’s quirky selection of artefacts and partially assembled Christmas tree tied to an unfortunate broom. As time wore on the whirlwind pace of the evening (or by this time, early morning) ratcheted up once more as the proverbial viewfinder became ever more fuzzy and the images captured increasingly disconcerting. Flashes of bizarre, almost incomprehensible scenes whipped past, as though the evening were being glimpsed from a carousel spinning at an unwieldy pace, operated by a dangerously inebriated fairground attendant. Anna bathed fully clothed in bathtub full of vibrant, exotic flowers; in the living room a drunken game of Jenga was being comprehensively lost by Henry whose shaky handed performance was broadly analogous to a recovering alcoholic attempting open heart surgery, while Ryan scrambled frantically from room to room, simultaneously pursuing and pursed by a gaggle of amorous young women as though trapped in a Benny Hill sketch being performed in the Playboy Mansion.
Tim and Anna departed shortly after, Henry trailing along behind them as always like the sad, bewildered puppy abandoned by its owners that he so pathetically resembles on a depressingly regular basis. The ethereal, eternal neon lights glowed all the while, blinking down at them comfortingly from billboards and advertising hoardings all along the Tverskoy Boulevard and the quixotically picturesque Pushkinskaya, lit up like some hazy fairytale backdrop. It would have made the perfect Christmas card. If only someone other than Henry had bothered taking a photo, whose blurry documenting of the trip was hardly worthy of the mobile phone memory space which it had demanded. Upon arriving back at Anna’s quaint flat for a few final moments of tranquility, their hostess collapsed onto the sofa bed with Tim not far behind, the couple for once not joined by their perennial third wheel, who, finally taking a hint, mercifully absented himself.
Determined not to let the faltering Jenga playing of earlier be his final meaningful act in Russia, his mind was resolved with steely determination upon one final assignment: to make a breakfast of such tear-jerking magnificence that it would at least partially atone for so many sub par moments of inadequacy in his life up to this point. And so it was that Henry strode forth into the cold morning air, snowflakes whirling fitfully around him as he set off purposefully but entirely without direction down the frosty highway. A few solid minutes of rudderless wandering quickly gave way to a more considered approach, with the Wednesday Morning Hero eventually having the presence of mind to retrace his steps to a previously visited grocery store. Bursting through the automatic doors with a fevered intensity not seen in a retail food outlet since Antony Worrall Thompson’s adrenaline-coursing attempts to shoplift several blocks of Tesco Value cheddar back in 2012, Henry quickly set about his divine mission.
Surging down the aisles with only a modicum of self-control, and piloting his shopping trolley as though it were a Lamborghini Aventador, he snatched fistfuls of pork sausage and closed cap mushrooms in mad frenzy, as if the Four Horsemen themselves were about to descend upon the unsuspecting supermarket and usher in a rather anticlimactic Rapture. After he had ferociously slammed the trolley into top gear, careening wildly around corners while expertly avoiding several bemused but impressed looking pensioners, the triumphant voyager soon found himself at the tills, all items miraculously located. Bidding the check out assistant an overly fond farewell, harnessing a profoundly misplaced confidence in his non-existence linguistic skills, he charged from the shop, bound once more for home, in a scene reminiscent of Charlie Bucket’s famous discovery of a Golden Ticket in his hard earned Wonka bar.
He arrived at the flat to find Tim and Anna enjoying a warm and tender embrace, safely closeted away from those dazzling neons, although the garish fluorescence of the pharmacy sign across the road still filtered in gently through the gaps between the blinds. The great Russian penman Leo Tolstoy, a man who famously sired 13 children (two more than legendary reggae composer Bob Marley), once wrote in his novella Family Happiness that ‘I felt a wish never to leave that room - a wish that dawn might never come, that my present frame of mind might never change’. Had either of them been in more eloquent form then this is perhaps the sentiment they would have wished to express. As it was Tim merely emitted a noise somewhere between a gurgle and moan before rolling over and returning to his blissful slumber.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Henry blitzed through a ramshackle attempt to compose something vaguely resembling a cooked breakfast, throwing ingredients and various other nearby objects at Anna’s unfortunate set of pots and pans, hoping against hope for something at least partially edible to emerge over the course of time. The result was his usual speciality, Charred Toast and Undercooked Everything Else. The surfaces, appliances and utensils, even those that hadn’t actively been involved in the cooking process, were left in the most astonishing state of devastation. Conveniently running out of time to clean up following this most rudimentary of ‘meals’, Tim and Henry undertook a final frenzied sweep of the living room to reclaim their crumpled, musty possessions, having somehow managed to retain boarding passes and passports, if not their dignity and self-respect.
Defying the expectations built up over lifetimes of haphazard time keeping and almost aggressive unpunctuality, they arrived at the station in time for their scheduled train journey back to Domodedovo airport. An intimate, heart-warming farewell on the platform between Tim and his beloved Anna was only slightly dented by Henry queasily groping for support in the form of a nearby scaffolding pole. Which was soon revealed to be a rather irksome construction worker. Having boarded the train with no further catastrophe befalling them, the pair slumped into the unforgivingly harsh embrace of the rigid seating, watching with a wistful gaze as the sporadic snowfall slowly lost faith in it’s purpose until finally giving up altogether.
* * *
And so it was that the epic adventure, one filled with romance, drama, titillation and, of course, Ryan, finally wound down to its largely satisfying conclusion. All things considered, the electrifying, whirlwind trip is perhaps best summed up by noted centenarian Bob Hope, who once laconically remarked on his own time in the country, ‘We had a very successful trip to Russia. We made it back’. As they wandered bleary eyed through airport security, their pockets still stuffed full of largely worthless Russian currency, the mercilessly fatigued duo reflected upon the great good fortune that had brought them almost entirely unharmed, physically if not emotionally, back to where they had begun. A final boarding call for flight 8402 echoed around the cold, sterile terminal while Tim and Henry remained hunched over in a state of barely conscious immobility at the airport bar, so naturally it was with great difficulty that heavy legs crunched into action for one last time as they accelerated into what can best be described as a hasty shuffle toward the warm, welcoming glow of Gate 15B. They whisked themselves From Russia With Delirious Confusion, and Russia breathed a deep sigh of relief.
