There were dragons and volcanoes and castles; there was tea and watermelon and cake; and there were six of us contemplating the square tiles on the table.
We were playing Carcassonne, an extended version. Bit by bit, we were building a maze of cities and roads, and every now and then, when someone drew a tile with a volcano on it, the dragon would come into action.
‘It’s a bit like Russia,’ Craig said to me. ‘You never quite know what to expect.’
Craig used to be an engineer and came to Russia from the UK a few years ago on a short-term basis to help build a house for a friend. That is, he wasn’t intending to stay here long-term. Marrying a Russian woman somewhat changed things, however.
‘What’s it like to live in Russia permanently?’ I asked. ‘Do you ever get used to it?’
Craig laughed and shook his head. ‘It’s an adventure,’ he said. ‘Although that’s not always a good thing… One time when we were applying for a temporary residency permit –’
‘Don’t tell her that!’ Anya exclaimed in perfect English. ‘You’ll scare her off!’
Craig evidently thought I deserved a warning, and continued to recount the incident to me. On the way to queue overnight for the permit, he explained, they had ended up first at the police station, then at the hospital, before reaching the office at eight o’clock in the morning. They finally left the office at ten o’clock that evening.
‘And then there was the time I nearly lost my leg when we were going to the dacha,’ he said, and described with relish the events surrounding his lucky escape (Anya had given up trying to dissuade him from regaling me with his adventures, and even contributed some amusing detail).
Craig was not the only one to comment on the unpredictability of Russia. Even after more than twenty years of acquaintance with Russia and eight years of running Eclectic Translations (where I am interning), Will hasn’t got used to it either.
I discover this on the way to a recording studio to do a voiceover. We are looking for somewhere to have lunch and pass a battered sign stating ‘Винни Пух’ (Winnie the Pooh). According to Google Maps, Winnie the Pooh is a café, although you wouldn’t think so from the exterior. It looks like some sort of half-derelict industrial complex. The man at the entrance lets us through, and we walk across a dusty yard to where Винни Пух is again declared in faded writing above the door. ‘We’ve got to find out what this is,’ Will says to me, taking the stairs two at a time, and I can’t help laughing at the absurdity of this place.
At the top is an office. No one pays us any attention, and we look around, bemused.
Will points to a notice on the wall. ‘Воздушные шары,’ it reads. ‘Hot air balloons.’
It appears that even Google Maps hasn’t solved the mystery that is Russia.
