The word “English” itself is probably the most popular in the world. You can even use it in the remotest regions of China or in the farthest reaches of the Pampas. It is, unlike any other, is liable to evoke some kind of a response. Most of what you hear in return would be some version of “nyet” – but at least you establish some semblance of connection with other humans. This is way better than saying “Deutsch” or “Francais”. Of course one can squeeze a response in some former colonial domains. Otherwise, be ready for even more rejection. Say something like “Magyar” or “Nihongo” and you likely to be thought of as a complete idiot. Even in the most hospitable and laid-back lands could grow suddenly cold after such attempts. What are the chances of finding a speaker of an obscure, grammatically weird and tongue twisting Hungarian among the proudly unilingual Castillanos in the middle of Madrid? Virtually nil – one must be nuts to expect otherwise. This obvious fact however has been perennially lost on some travelling Russian public since the times of the Great October Revolution.
Based on some stories I can only imagine a strictly unilingual party functionary in a drab Soviet suit trying to buy some electronic item on the streets of New York sometime in 1980s. He first timidly enters some bustling epicentre of western commerce and sidles up to a VCR isle trying desperately to decipher the squiggles describing the merits of each make and model. He sees the prices but the rest is a bit of a mystery. He keeps mumbling “which one, which one, which one?” He is flabbergasted and lost in front of this impossible wealth. Stricken but still standing he simplifies his task by paying attention exclusively to some numeric descriptors and occasional international words he seems to recognise. A remote semblance of clarity gradually emerges in his mind. It has arrived at some cost as his forehead is covered with myriad of sweat beads and his mind has made a loop all the way home to Moscow. There this wonder of western technology will be either unpacked in front of mesmerised relatives or sold to the highest bidder to offset the cost of the trip and make a tidy rouble profit for a new pair of pants or a three week holiday in Crimea, you choose.
His trembling hands are nearly ready to pull the coveted prize from the shelf and caress it like a favourite dear pet cat, anxiety and tension increase pounded by persistently pulsating thought – “You cannot make a mistake”. All goes blurry for a moment, the sweet thoughts of home coming melt into the horizon once again. Two crucial questions demand answering – “does this VCR work on 220V and does it comply with European Pal standard?” Our pal cannot miss – failure is not an option. If it does not work on 220V, VCR becomes virtually worthless. He must ask. However with his English spanning the great hollow between hello and good-bye this is a nearly impossible predicament. His pants, gasping for extra O, there is not return as he pads his pockets leaving sweat marks on his new polyester. He nearly faints – his eyes have been caught in the cross-hairs of a seasoned salesman who expertly hurries to qualify his chances before bolting to his next source of commissions.
Our deodorant-free Communist friend manages a thudding hello after which he utters the two key questions in pure and unadulterated Russian. The moment of uneasy silence ensues as his counterpart’s brain quickly computes whether a call to police or fire fighting department might be a preferred course of action. Our friend raises his question once again, in a slightly more desperate octave this time. His nose starts itching, failing to understand how this Italian born salesman would not get a single a word of the most glorious and beautiful tongue. His blood of a mid-ranking bureaucrat starts boiling on slow with his pitch gradually lifting to shouting heights – he figures the louder he talks the better his chances at getting his snobby Muscovite tongue through the thick skull of his erstwhile vis-à-vis.
Finally, the tension reaches a crescendo. Fiasco seems unavoidable. The tinder dry cannon is ready to fire only to be interrupted a sudden “how can I help you?” in Russian uttered by an old German-born customer. This guy fought the WWII on the wrong side and ended spending some good old correction time in the Gulag system. He, unlike his thick German accent, was recovered and moved on to better life in the USA. Surprisingly, he never became bitter and now stood straddling the Iron Curtain, ready to prevent an international conflict. Now, our God-sent linguist quickly settles all key questions, safely sending our red director home with the Italian living another happy day of spaghetti pomidoro. Well done diligent servant! With work done and hands hardly dirty, our unimposing hero climbs down quietly, landing on the right side of the ominous Curtain and WWIII is averted!
Home Roots
Although the Soviet educational system did nominally teach a number of foreign languages to its subjects, the actual results were typically less than inspiring, as opportunities to use any foreign tongues were virtually unheard of. Most of us lived in the land of isolation that allowed but a trickle of foreign press, visitors or TV, let alone any other point of interaction. I spent majority of my formative years in the city that boasted one of the largest ballistic rocket concerns that employed thousands. While many were happy with all that bread on the table, for some inquisitive young minds it was certainly an unparalleled detriment. Alas, our thirst would not be quenched and instead the city received a very high security status. This denied entrance to any foreigners whatsoever. Even the ones from the friendly Eastern block were not welcome.
So here we lived in the city of about million people who hardly ever experienced any encounters with any foreign culture, tongue or as much as different colour tonality of colour. Many a less inspiring place at least partook in the ubiquitous and friendly student streams of aspirants from friendly Africa and enigmatic Asia. Not here as our potent university campuses remained pallid and bland with near perfect uniformity.
Foreign travel was hardly an answer as it was mostly reserved for the privileged perching on the top of the party machine. In return the party asked for a lot of responsibly sleepless nights which did not lend much support to growing one’s language skills. So all our education did not amount to all that much. Those who had time did not have access and those who had access were busy devising their treacherous Communist tricks.
It was utterly pointless and yet our poor parents poured countless hopes and roubles into the language education that was considered a hallmark of a well-rounded member of Soviet intelligentsia alongside with music, math and chess of course. So we studied, did assignments, studied some more just to be able to utter some of the most banal phrases such as “Hello” and “Good Bye”. All was for naught in the absence of real impetus for learning – practice. In fact the best English language students in my class tended to be the punks who admired “Deep Purple” and AC/DC. One of my friends was the best in the class solely due to his infatuation with his bedraggled, drugged up and unshaven idols of the western rock culture, which subsisted on the nearly illegal level in our land of secrecy. A limited knowledge of depraved AC/DC lyrics served as a deep and inexhaustible trough of knowledge, forget spending countless hours in the company of garlic-breathing ill-versed teachers.
No wonder that any degree of respectable mastery of a foreign tongue was nearly tantamount to a true paragon of achievement as stood not too far from those who like to dig into your skull under the pretence of neurosurgery. My mother was really inspired when I was a true prodigy at the age of four. I ran naked, laughed unabashedly and could draw very violent pictures in seconds. She thought to channel my nervous energies into something more useful pushing on my nascent musical talents. Alas just one year at the music school I still preferred less structure and discipline, the hallmarks of any plausible music career. Soccer ruled trumping any subsequent attempts at establishing any solid grounding in the ultimate intellectual pursuit of Soviet intelligentsia – chess. All led to naught, as I managed to lose all but one game at my first and last official tournament. It was nearly a complete disaster. In fact, I just about smashed a chessboard on the head of one much more apt and smarter opponent. I clearly needed a place to shed my natural aggressiveness through exercise. The point was well taken and I tried to ruffle through more sweaty alternatives within the confines of many local offerings that even included boxing. This one lasting the least, as the first direct punch not only triggered a headache but also a stark realisation of incompatibility between the rough ancient pastime and my other quasi-intellectual aspirations. A wide variety of sports later my prospects of a career Olympic athlete were languishing in the most sever fashion – short, stocky and slow – I could not even compete in sumo.
The last hope was a technical career with the concentration on math and physics. Due to some moderate successes and prompted by engineering blood of my grandfather, I realised soon enough that only hard work and some luck could make me a reasonably successful member of the Soviet thinking class. But was it unique enough to be truly proud of? My unquenched pride seared me constantly. I needed an edge, something to stand out at; something to gain worth and respectability. The unyielding bastion of foreign tongues beckoned. I hardly knew anyone who knew anything in this department. Good, maybe there is a place for me. But all that work. I could hardly fathom all that concentration. I will surely do one day. But for now daydreaming was so much better. It was sweet to think how one day, miraculously perhaps, I will master not only English but nasal French and succulent Spanish as well. But not now, there are more girls to meet and friends to play cards with. Later when I am 32 perhaps…
Why 32, because this when the extremely round and hence important year of 2000 was scheduled to take place. For now I will just get by tapping into the vocabulary and grammar afforded by the profound AC/DC lyrics. My rock savvy friends could always land a hand when it came to Hall and Hell, Bitch and Beach among other mysterious utterings clouded in the Channel fog. All of this did not go very far except for frayed shorts and long hair. Ever more meagre efforts at university announced years of a slow downhill. There was so little to lose that the descent took a long, long time indeed. Until one fateful day on the university campus arrived…
Copy Machines
The existence of cope machines in the mid 80s was a fact of life in the prosperous West, in the East carbon paper served as a perfect and only substitute. Our dear Soviet bureaucracy just loved carbon paper especially since it allowed for production of multiple, much adored and always necessary forms. Even on the forefront of the academic thought carbon paper was the only answer to the myriad of life demands. So imagine our elation and trepidation at the thought of hosting a copy machine exhibition by Minolta on the university grounds. Warm hopeful winds were rapidly melting perennial freeze announcing hopeful springy future. Predictably, we could hardly wait not only to see the wonders of western technology but also to experience first real contacts with live human specimens from the behind the curtain. Even visitors from Mars could hardly have caused this much excitement.
The exhibition primarily marketed to local burgeoning business classes that had already started springing up, feeding on the reforms introduced by Moscow. These new Soviet business people still looked awkward and badly dressed in crumpled cheap suits, thin ties and scuffed shoes – but they were the only ones the wily westerners could remotely sell anything to. You might image that payments in roubles were out of question. As such the students and the penniless academics were only a very long-term marketing target at best. Hence we were granted the access to the magic exhibition on the first day only.
Finally the doors swung open. Crowds rushed in and I had to push my way through a throng of onlookers for a first hand look at three or four wonderful of these machines. Ensconced in spacey chain mails of Japanese plastic these were the true wonders. They speedily copied ones’ class notes with an ease of taking a breath – I could only imagine the potential of all philandering students wishing to copy neighbours notes, homework etc. The future was brilliantly scintillating until I approached one of the salesmen obligingly waiting for demonstrations requests.
The wafts of expensive fragrances mixed with tasteful gusts of exquisite tobacco engulfed all approaches. Hardly anyone dared to breach the front line. All stood as right before the opening salvo at Borodino. With only a slight adjustment though as my slick westerners bristled with smiles instead of bayonets. At last, I made a few conversational attempts with about a fifty word vocabulary. After few “hmm and hoes” I had to beat a retreat with a copy sample I happily snatched on the march back to the barracks. This was hardly a satisfying outcome as my very future was fleeting away faster than mesmerizing sparks of a supernova. What a surprise! These guys hailing from Austria did not speak a word of Russian - the Russian dominance did indeed end somewhere between Kiev and Vienna.
They did speak the language of international business – English. Alas, I was not an important Soviet industrial leader to be flanked by adequate translation help. As such I had to fend on my own. Amazingly, my fifty words proved easily superior to those of my fellow students. They pushed me right in to address their hunger for the shiny exhibits. My mumbling lingual advances were kindly received once again. I persevered with singular and very grammatically disdainful “copy” and “show”. My patience was eventually rewarded I was accorded few more gifts of a copied page. My cohorts were elated. I felt a bit like a hero. And yet my excitement was by plain old jealousy. Having experienced the real language barrier for the first time in my life I had to do something about it. I was humbled and needed to act even if out of pure spite for all that cologne. Few days later I signed up for a set of evening English course for the coming semester.
English – I Can
This course was designed for non-language professionals. The expected length was two years with weekly sessions and assignments. At first a daunting task with my already full schedule that already included full time engineering studies, university basketball practices and side attempts at making some quick party cash. Filling all plausible available time slots seemed to do the trick. If only we always could do that. Alas, our pubs will suffer.
After some initial success came a very predictable downslide. Now, my English languished somewhere between basketball practices, science classes and commuting. The once a week routine was having hard time attracting necessary study time and effort.
Suddenly, this sub-par effort was dismissed in favour of entirely new and very thirsty work ethic. Somewhere between getting average marks at labour safety and failing to qualify for the NBA draft, my sense of responsibility found a new, uncounted for, source of inspiration. It must have been a mighty push from God. I changed my routine from just a few hours per week to at least ten hours of classes and homework. Slowly but surely my previous language heights were scaled to never look back. In just few months I acquired a sufficient level of skill to make my English interesting, exciting and useful. By the end of the first year I was able to maintain a reasonable conversation on a number of topics. I could hardly contain my excitement, ultimately I felt like a real learner who was suddenly in a possession of something unique, intellectually challenging and potentially very rewarding ability.
Up to now most of my interactions were with the fellow course students and our instructor. I desperately needed some confirmation, anything would do. My first “real” test did not make me wait too long, as my best friend Misha offered an opportunity to go to Hungary with a group of university students. This was one of the most exciting times of my life – eventually I was about to venture outside of the beloved motherland for the first time.
Swimming in the Fish Tank
Prior to the welcoming doors of Perestroika, rare a Soviet got a chance to glimpse into other folds of the Iron Curtain, let alone peeking through it. The other folds in the ever thinner and more strife-ridden fabric were of course our friendly Eastern European neighbours – Poland, Hungary, Romania etc. Here in the West we tend to underestimate the historic, cultural and economic merits of these states just recently entering the Pan European ranks. For us living in the Soviet Union, some of these countries represented the multifaceted pinnacle of success when juxtaposed against our less than glorious deeds. One can hardly imagine difficulties of obtaining an opportunity to visit some of our more advanced brothers and sisters then.
A good deal of connections and some money in order to procure a short (usually a two-week visit) visit to any of these countries were a must. My grandfather was a lucky sort, as he managed it twice – once to East Germany on a business trip and once to Bulgaria to experience the exotic sands of Black Sea beaches in Varna. Just on the opposite side to Crimea, this could hardly be further away with its glitzy shopping and people with dollars, marks to be exact as the locale was renowned for cheap Teutonic thrills.
Grandfather’s ensuing tales were truly mesmerizing and were frequently re-told with panache worth of Cervantes and Scott, Walter that is. Considering that such trips usually were nearly prohibitively expensive, the heavily rationed currency was nearly always used for things of marketable value. Speculation was in our arteries it seemed and paying king’s ransom for pure vacation kicks was only for the upper elite. The merchandise had to pay and more.
Even my staunchly communistic grandfather did not consider it beneath him to seek out deals on valuables that were later resold to cover his trip expenses. Some wilier characters actually brought some stuff for in kind exchanges such as army watches, caviar, matreshka dolls and other famous knickknacks. Of course, all this commerce required a commitment of time and energy. So much as that missing many a famous monument, museum and statute was not considered a major Faux Pas. Instead such efforts wallowed in their lowly venal glories.
Now this is about Eastern block travel. To go to the West, one had to be extremely well connected and clean from the KGB perspective. My grandfather once applied for one of these trips just to be turned down due to his lack of clearance brought on by his chief engineer job at a railway car factory. He must have been privy to some chilling state secrets and could not be let loose on the train obsessed French with their decadent TGV technology. Undoubtedly, the bourgeois French must have been looking for ways to slow down their super fast rail beasts and my grandfather with his knowledge of vintage WWII technology was just the guy they were looking for. Alas, TGV stayed alive and my grandfather did not get to see the land of pomp and consequence. Capitalist French were left to fend off their deadly addiction to speed on their own.
Based on some stories I can only imagine a strictly unilingual party functionary in a drab Soviet suit trying to buy some electronic item on the streets of New York sometime in 1980s. He first timidly enters some bustling epicentre of western commerce and sidles up to a VCR isle trying desperately to decipher the squiggles describing the merits of each make and model. He sees the prices but the rest is a bit of a mystery. He keeps mumbling “which one, which one, which one?” He is flabbergasted and lost in front of this impossible wealth. Stricken but still standing he simplifies his task by paying attention exclusively to some numeric descriptors and occasional international words he seems to recognise. A remote semblance of clarity gradually emerges in his mind. It has arrived at some cost as his forehead is covered with myriad of sweat beads and his mind has made a loop all the way home to Moscow. There this wonder of western technology will be either unpacked in front of mesmerised relatives or sold to the highest bidder to offset the cost of the trip and make a tidy rouble profit for a new pair of pants or a three week holiday in Crimea, you choose.
His trembling hands are nearly ready to pull the coveted prize from the shelf and caress it like a favourite dear pet cat, anxiety and tension increase pounded by persistently pulsating thought – “You cannot make a mistake”. All goes blurry for a moment, the sweet thoughts of home coming melt into the horizon once again. Two crucial questions demand answering – “does this VCR work on 220V and does it comply with European Pal standard?” Our pal cannot miss – failure is not an option. If it does not work on 220V, VCR becomes virtually worthless. He must ask. However with his English spanning the great hollow between hello and good-bye this is a nearly impossible predicament. His pants, gasping for extra O, there is not return as he pads his pockets leaving sweat marks on his new polyester. He nearly faints – his eyes have been caught in the cross-hairs of a seasoned salesman who expertly hurries to qualify his chances before bolting to his next source of commissions.
Our deodorant-free Communist friend manages a thudding hello after which he utters the two key questions in pure and unadulterated Russian. The moment of uneasy silence ensues as his counterpart’s brain quickly computes whether a call to police or fire fighting department might be a preferred course of action. Our friend raises his question once again, in a slightly more desperate octave this time. His nose starts itching, failing to understand how this Italian born salesman would not get a single a word of the most glorious and beautiful tongue. His blood of a mid-ranking bureaucrat starts boiling on slow with his pitch gradually lifting to shouting heights – he figures the louder he talks the better his chances at getting his snobby Muscovite tongue through the thick skull of his erstwhile vis-à-vis.
Finally, the tension reaches a crescendo. Fiasco seems unavoidable. The tinder dry cannon is ready to fire only to be interrupted a sudden “how can I help you?” in Russian uttered by an old German-born customer. This guy fought the WWII on the wrong side and ended spending some good old correction time in the Gulag system. He, unlike his thick German accent, was recovered and moved on to better life in the USA. Surprisingly, he never became bitter and now stood straddling the Iron Curtain, ready to prevent an international conflict. Now, our God-sent linguist quickly settles all key questions, safely sending our red director home with the Italian living another happy day of spaghetti pomidoro. Well done diligent servant! With work done and hands hardly dirty, our unimposing hero climbs down quietly, landing on the right side of the ominous Curtain and WWIII is averted!
Home Roots
Although the Soviet educational system did nominally teach a number of foreign languages to its subjects, the actual results were typically less than inspiring, as opportunities to use any foreign tongues were virtually unheard of. Most of us lived in the land of isolation that allowed but a trickle of foreign press, visitors or TV, let alone any other point of interaction. I spent majority of my formative years in the city that boasted one of the largest ballistic rocket concerns that employed thousands. While many were happy with all that bread on the table, for some inquisitive young minds it was certainly an unparalleled detriment. Alas, our thirst would not be quenched and instead the city received a very high security status. This denied entrance to any foreigners whatsoever. Even the ones from the friendly Eastern block were not welcome.
So here we lived in the city of about million people who hardly ever experienced any encounters with any foreign culture, tongue or as much as different colour tonality of colour. Many a less inspiring place at least partook in the ubiquitous and friendly student streams of aspirants from friendly Africa and enigmatic Asia. Not here as our potent university campuses remained pallid and bland with near perfect uniformity.
Foreign travel was hardly an answer as it was mostly reserved for the privileged perching on the top of the party machine. In return the party asked for a lot of responsibly sleepless nights which did not lend much support to growing one’s language skills. So all our education did not amount to all that much. Those who had time did not have access and those who had access were busy devising their treacherous Communist tricks.
It was utterly pointless and yet our poor parents poured countless hopes and roubles into the language education that was considered a hallmark of a well-rounded member of Soviet intelligentsia alongside with music, math and chess of course. So we studied, did assignments, studied some more just to be able to utter some of the most banal phrases such as “Hello” and “Good Bye”. All was for naught in the absence of real impetus for learning – practice. In fact the best English language students in my class tended to be the punks who admired “Deep Purple” and AC/DC. One of my friends was the best in the class solely due to his infatuation with his bedraggled, drugged up and unshaven idols of the western rock culture, which subsisted on the nearly illegal level in our land of secrecy. A limited knowledge of depraved AC/DC lyrics served as a deep and inexhaustible trough of knowledge, forget spending countless hours in the company of garlic-breathing ill-versed teachers.
No wonder that any degree of respectable mastery of a foreign tongue was nearly tantamount to a true paragon of achievement as stood not too far from those who like to dig into your skull under the pretence of neurosurgery. My mother was really inspired when I was a true prodigy at the age of four. I ran naked, laughed unabashedly and could draw very violent pictures in seconds. She thought to channel my nervous energies into something more useful pushing on my nascent musical talents. Alas just one year at the music school I still preferred less structure and discipline, the hallmarks of any plausible music career. Soccer ruled trumping any subsequent attempts at establishing any solid grounding in the ultimate intellectual pursuit of Soviet intelligentsia – chess. All led to naught, as I managed to lose all but one game at my first and last official tournament. It was nearly a complete disaster. In fact, I just about smashed a chessboard on the head of one much more apt and smarter opponent. I clearly needed a place to shed my natural aggressiveness through exercise. The point was well taken and I tried to ruffle through more sweaty alternatives within the confines of many local offerings that even included boxing. This one lasting the least, as the first direct punch not only triggered a headache but also a stark realisation of incompatibility between the rough ancient pastime and my other quasi-intellectual aspirations. A wide variety of sports later my prospects of a career Olympic athlete were languishing in the most sever fashion – short, stocky and slow – I could not even compete in sumo.
The last hope was a technical career with the concentration on math and physics. Due to some moderate successes and prompted by engineering blood of my grandfather, I realised soon enough that only hard work and some luck could make me a reasonably successful member of the Soviet thinking class. But was it unique enough to be truly proud of? My unquenched pride seared me constantly. I needed an edge, something to stand out at; something to gain worth and respectability. The unyielding bastion of foreign tongues beckoned. I hardly knew anyone who knew anything in this department. Good, maybe there is a place for me. But all that work. I could hardly fathom all that concentration. I will surely do one day. But for now daydreaming was so much better. It was sweet to think how one day, miraculously perhaps, I will master not only English but nasal French and succulent Spanish as well. But not now, there are more girls to meet and friends to play cards with. Later when I am 32 perhaps…
Why 32, because this when the extremely round and hence important year of 2000 was scheduled to take place. For now I will just get by tapping into the vocabulary and grammar afforded by the profound AC/DC lyrics. My rock savvy friends could always land a hand when it came to Hall and Hell, Bitch and Beach among other mysterious utterings clouded in the Channel fog. All of this did not go very far except for frayed shorts and long hair. Ever more meagre efforts at university announced years of a slow downhill. There was so little to lose that the descent took a long, long time indeed. Until one fateful day on the university campus arrived…
Copy Machines
The existence of cope machines in the mid 80s was a fact of life in the prosperous West, in the East carbon paper served as a perfect and only substitute. Our dear Soviet bureaucracy just loved carbon paper especially since it allowed for production of multiple, much adored and always necessary forms. Even on the forefront of the academic thought carbon paper was the only answer to the myriad of life demands. So imagine our elation and trepidation at the thought of hosting a copy machine exhibition by Minolta on the university grounds. Warm hopeful winds were rapidly melting perennial freeze announcing hopeful springy future. Predictably, we could hardly wait not only to see the wonders of western technology but also to experience first real contacts with live human specimens from the behind the curtain. Even visitors from Mars could hardly have caused this much excitement.
The exhibition primarily marketed to local burgeoning business classes that had already started springing up, feeding on the reforms introduced by Moscow. These new Soviet business people still looked awkward and badly dressed in crumpled cheap suits, thin ties and scuffed shoes – but they were the only ones the wily westerners could remotely sell anything to. You might image that payments in roubles were out of question. As such the students and the penniless academics were only a very long-term marketing target at best. Hence we were granted the access to the magic exhibition on the first day only.
Finally the doors swung open. Crowds rushed in and I had to push my way through a throng of onlookers for a first hand look at three or four wonderful of these machines. Ensconced in spacey chain mails of Japanese plastic these were the true wonders. They speedily copied ones’ class notes with an ease of taking a breath – I could only imagine the potential of all philandering students wishing to copy neighbours notes, homework etc. The future was brilliantly scintillating until I approached one of the salesmen obligingly waiting for demonstrations requests.
The wafts of expensive fragrances mixed with tasteful gusts of exquisite tobacco engulfed all approaches. Hardly anyone dared to breach the front line. All stood as right before the opening salvo at Borodino. With only a slight adjustment though as my slick westerners bristled with smiles instead of bayonets. At last, I made a few conversational attempts with about a fifty word vocabulary. After few “hmm and hoes” I had to beat a retreat with a copy sample I happily snatched on the march back to the barracks. This was hardly a satisfying outcome as my very future was fleeting away faster than mesmerizing sparks of a supernova. What a surprise! These guys hailing from Austria did not speak a word of Russian - the Russian dominance did indeed end somewhere between Kiev and Vienna.
They did speak the language of international business – English. Alas, I was not an important Soviet industrial leader to be flanked by adequate translation help. As such I had to fend on my own. Amazingly, my fifty words proved easily superior to those of my fellow students. They pushed me right in to address their hunger for the shiny exhibits. My mumbling lingual advances were kindly received once again. I persevered with singular and very grammatically disdainful “copy” and “show”. My patience was eventually rewarded I was accorded few more gifts of a copied page. My cohorts were elated. I felt a bit like a hero. And yet my excitement was by plain old jealousy. Having experienced the real language barrier for the first time in my life I had to do something about it. I was humbled and needed to act even if out of pure spite for all that cologne. Few days later I signed up for a set of evening English course for the coming semester.
English – I Can
This course was designed for non-language professionals. The expected length was two years with weekly sessions and assignments. At first a daunting task with my already full schedule that already included full time engineering studies, university basketball practices and side attempts at making some quick party cash. Filling all plausible available time slots seemed to do the trick. If only we always could do that. Alas, our pubs will suffer.
After some initial success came a very predictable downslide. Now, my English languished somewhere between basketball practices, science classes and commuting. The once a week routine was having hard time attracting necessary study time and effort.
Suddenly, this sub-par effort was dismissed in favour of entirely new and very thirsty work ethic. Somewhere between getting average marks at labour safety and failing to qualify for the NBA draft, my sense of responsibility found a new, uncounted for, source of inspiration. It must have been a mighty push from God. I changed my routine from just a few hours per week to at least ten hours of classes and homework. Slowly but surely my previous language heights were scaled to never look back. In just few months I acquired a sufficient level of skill to make my English interesting, exciting and useful. By the end of the first year I was able to maintain a reasonable conversation on a number of topics. I could hardly contain my excitement, ultimately I felt like a real learner who was suddenly in a possession of something unique, intellectually challenging and potentially very rewarding ability.
Up to now most of my interactions were with the fellow course students and our instructor. I desperately needed some confirmation, anything would do. My first “real” test did not make me wait too long, as my best friend Misha offered an opportunity to go to Hungary with a group of university students. This was one of the most exciting times of my life – eventually I was about to venture outside of the beloved motherland for the first time.
Swimming in the Fish Tank
Prior to the welcoming doors of Perestroika, rare a Soviet got a chance to glimpse into other folds of the Iron Curtain, let alone peeking through it. The other folds in the ever thinner and more strife-ridden fabric were of course our friendly Eastern European neighbours – Poland, Hungary, Romania etc. Here in the West we tend to underestimate the historic, cultural and economic merits of these states just recently entering the Pan European ranks. For us living in the Soviet Union, some of these countries represented the multifaceted pinnacle of success when juxtaposed against our less than glorious deeds. One can hardly imagine difficulties of obtaining an opportunity to visit some of our more advanced brothers and sisters then.
A good deal of connections and some money in order to procure a short (usually a two-week visit) visit to any of these countries were a must. My grandfather was a lucky sort, as he managed it twice – once to East Germany on a business trip and once to Bulgaria to experience the exotic sands of Black Sea beaches in Varna. Just on the opposite side to Crimea, this could hardly be further away with its glitzy shopping and people with dollars, marks to be exact as the locale was renowned for cheap Teutonic thrills.
Grandfather’s ensuing tales were truly mesmerizing and were frequently re-told with panache worth of Cervantes and Scott, Walter that is. Considering that such trips usually were nearly prohibitively expensive, the heavily rationed currency was nearly always used for things of marketable value. Speculation was in our arteries it seemed and paying king’s ransom for pure vacation kicks was only for the upper elite. The merchandise had to pay and more.
Even my staunchly communistic grandfather did not consider it beneath him to seek out deals on valuables that were later resold to cover his trip expenses. Some wilier characters actually brought some stuff for in kind exchanges such as army watches, caviar, matreshka dolls and other famous knickknacks. Of course, all this commerce required a commitment of time and energy. So much as that missing many a famous monument, museum and statute was not considered a major Faux Pas. Instead such efforts wallowed in their lowly venal glories.
Now this is about Eastern block travel. To go to the West, one had to be extremely well connected and clean from the KGB perspective. My grandfather once applied for one of these trips just to be turned down due to his lack of clearance brought on by his chief engineer job at a railway car factory. He must have been privy to some chilling state secrets and could not be let loose on the train obsessed French with their decadent TGV technology. Undoubtedly, the bourgeois French must have been looking for ways to slow down their super fast rail beasts and my grandfather with his knowledge of vintage WWII technology was just the guy they were looking for. Alas, TGV stayed alive and my grandfather did not get to see the land of pomp and consequence. Capitalist French were left to fend off their deadly addiction to speed on their own.
Impenetrable Magyars
Now due to Misha’s graces I was to embark on my first foreign travel opportunity. Misha’s Komsomol connections were the key factor. The Soviet Communist Youth organisation (Komsomol) was a good vehicle for opportunistic young lads to advance in the society. Misha with silver spoon origins had always been an ambitious type. Looking for additional angles was his favourite pastime. Not having particularly strong ideological inclinations did not bar his swift offensives with Komsomol favoured for straightforward mechanics. Not surprisingly today most of the commanding economic and political positions in the former Soviet Union are held by ex Party and Komsomol members – times change but actors stay the same.
Just like about any other opportunistic weasels, we looked at this trip from mostly a commercial perspective. My budding talents automatically appointed me as communications head of our little expedition and since my knowledge of Hungarian was just as plausible as fluency in Swahili, English was our only hope. Truth be told, there were some English major students in the group. However, our intricate commercial transactions required trust they did not instil, lest they will ask for a piece of action and our projected margins could not sustain such presumptions. I was the guy.
Cleared by Komsomol and ever less vigilant KGB of the late 1980s, we happily embarked on a 24-hour journey to Lviv, the beautiful and historic city in the Western Ukraine – our first connection point. Arriving in Lviv offered one-day opportunity to be exposed to the sound of true and unadulterated Ukrainian deftly mixed with some glorious 19-century European baroque architecture with the famous Opera House as its flagship. As far as any commercial aspects went, the nearly palpable proximity of the Polish border did not produce much in a way of visible results - our anxious selves had to wait for few more days.
A short overnight train hop brought us to the Western most region of Ukraine – Zakarpatye. It was my first but not last encounter with this unique and surely the most multicultural part of Ukraine. This region is hemmed in by an incredible confluence of geography and politics. On the East it is separated from the rest of Ukraine by Carpathian Mountains, creating a natural and sometimes very meaningful divide. All other sides of the region border on four different nations – Rumania, Hungary, Slovakia and Poland. Such positioning has created a very interesting ethnic mosaic that has been in play for centuries. The main language is Ukrainian. But this one is of a very different sort when compared to Lviv let alone more easterly parts. I was completely stunned as comprehending even few words proved to be an enormous challenge. And this is after eight years of school instructions. Misha was the only happy character in his ignorance – he was spared nearly obligatory Ukrainian language instructions during his high school years due to his well-connected and very Russian parents. His presumed liver decease could not sustain a pressure required by weekly instructions in the language that hardly differed from Russian!
The rest of us marvelled and despaired at the perennial educational effort wasted. Finally, someone properly explained to us the key to this conundrum: When the Mongolian horsemen swarmed over the land later to be known as a Russian Empire in the 13th century, their cruelty and greed appeared to have found a natural barrier in the form of the Carpathian Mountains. By now satiated hordes let the people on the other side alone, including their language and customs. While the language to the east of the divide continued changing and developing under the influence of many numerous historical twists and turns, the western language remained dormant and retained much of its ancient traits. In fact some claim that what we heard in Zakarpatye is not Ukrainian at all but rather a version of ancient Russian. You can only imagine the relief for our pride – we even learned something. I even stopped dismissing the locals as hicks – according them a due degree of respect for lingual perseverance tangled their decidedly less Mongolian roots.
After a short two-day stay in the capital city of Uzhgorod with its interesting but still very familiar Soviet history, our group moved closer to a town near the Hungarian border. Like all starved for abroad Soviets we were not allowed across the border too quickly in order to acclimatise – lest we can develop an acute bout of something similar to high altitude sickness, in a cultural sense. Some were known to lose consciousness at the sight of unfathomable – endless strings of salami and surreal mounds of cheese were known to jolt brains to the limit. Our fragile unaccustomed to consumerism minds needed delicate management and no surprises.
The small town Badurs, although mostly Soviet in appearance, was quite a change from what we experienced at home. First of all, the street language was no longer Russian or Ukrainian – it was Hungarian. Secondly, even the preference for local time reference was Hungarian, as it was two hours behind the official region’s time (same as Moscow’s). So when you wanted to ask how late it was, locals would typically inquire which time you wanted to know first – Budapest’s or Moscow’s. Finally, folks here did not require the same level of border clearance as the rest of their Soviet compatriots and could cross into Hungary and back seemingly at will. This gave the local economy a bit of a boost, as they appeared to have more in the stores and restaurants of offer. While a typical Soviet restaurant could only deliver one or two items out of total of forty featured on the menu, here the establishments were much better supplied – we enjoyed the food, ambience and foretaste of Hungary itself.
Grinder Ambitions
After a three-day sojourn with the Soviet Hungarians, we were ready to take on the world. The fateful day finally arrived. As the bus approached the border, we could hardly sit still anticipating the taste of delights that were waiting just across the river behind the striped border polls. The only worry was an overt abundance of presumably useful merchandise that could be exchanged or sold in order to boost the earning power afforded by the meagre exchange allowance of only about 50 USD per person. Coffee grinders were the most popular. Our central planners had a special affinity for grinding coffee even though there was hardly any coffee to grind. While typically stingy offerings of underwear, sausage and cars persistently eluded the Soviet market, grinders were plentiful. Some astute central planner must have predicted the impending overwhelming conversion to coffee drinking – amazingly prescient. While grinders were fast approaching the magic 2 to 1 ratio (two grinders per capita) the underwear stubbornly stayed at 1.5 –Kremlin did not expect a strong improvement in the hygiene habits.
After some regular border check-in procedures shadowed by many pale faces strained by baited breath and clammy hands. The tension was palpable stretching to the limit. What if they find all those grinders? Luckily the border guards did not object to our proclivity to caffeine and were only happy to move on. The engine revved up again and the bus jolted into motion, the bridge was crossed and voila we were some place else. The first and the most lasting impression was left by the state of the roads, as our bus speeded like a bullet along the extremely well-paved highway leaving behind totally worn-out pothole-stricken roads behind the border. The bus’ engine sang and we were lulled to sleep due to be in the first port of call – the city of Debrecen – in less than two hours.
The stop in Debrecen was to be the first test for our capitalist and language skills. Once out of the bus we quickly scattered around the town centre to scour for good deals, treats and other delights of suddenly freed Soviets. The first corner store was not a disappointment as it offered ten times more of everything, as I ever had seen in my life in one place all at once. I was prepared of course and did not let myself faint, instead I quickly proceeded to recalculate prices of different goods into roubles – time was of essence. To my dismay my first lesson was disheartening. Although the whole world of consumerism was at my steps, the prices were not a match for my paltry budget. The lesson number one: capitalism is not cheap. The lesson number two: eloquence of one’s English is not a guarantee of success. In the shop they only spoke Hungarian – what a surprise!
An overnight stay at a local budget hotel was a pleasant revelation – since it was cleaner, better stocked with basics like soap and towels then anything I had ever seen at home. The towels and soap pieces were rather small though, as the astute hoteliers rightfully expected the hungry Soviets to make out with anything they could their hands on. The next morning after a short excursion to partake in some historic delights of a city totally bombed out during WWII, we were chomping at the bit at the prospect of attending a local market - our second and hopefully more promising commercial foray into the unbound fields of capitalism. This was Soviet tourism after all and monument-watching was a luxury we could not afford.
The market turned out to be a busy open air affair teeming with just about anybody – perennial merchants of Poland, perennial thieves of Romania and flinty Soviets with hungry eyes and grinders, of course. To say the least, the scene was crowded, competitive and not for the faint of heart. We plunged in the fray only to discover that owning to its near-the-border location; the market featured a lot of middlemen who asked too much for their wares. Besides, the atmosphere seemed ripe for some pick-pocketing – so we had to be on the lookout. After a few passes along the aisles I managed to trade my first class coffee grinder for some western summer garb. It was first class silky wife-beater that served well my conceited ambitions of athletic kinda dude. The quality way superior to any low-class sleeve-less wonders available in the Soviet stores; and made in some place foreign, it brandished over-sized bicep outlines in bright pink to boot. A great find! Both parties were delighted with the concluded business and my grinder went on to maul any and all those western coffee beans in its wake. But all of it was small potatoes - real commercial successes had to wait until the great capital of Magyars - Budapest. The market dealt another blow to my English as it was deemed essentially useless by the busy buyers and sellers operating exclusively in eastern European tongues. I had to wait my turn in Budapest.
The first glimpses of Budapest did deliver the punch. It looked marvellous and very western, just like a fairy tale – except this time we could touch the magnificent ornate walls, walk on cobble stone boulevards, experience wide open parks, baroque architecture, open air cafes, overstocked neon lit shops and other delights previously unknown to most of us. Some things were even startling such as extremely courteous drivers that stopped as soon any pedestrian stepped on crosswalks. In Russia it tended to work the other way, as soon a pedestrian stepped in the crosswalk, a driver would accelerate – life delivered few thrills and this one was not to be missed by any proud vehicle owner.
Blue Danube
In Budapest, we stayed just outside of town in a hotel situated right in the middle of a tourist zone along the banks of the famous Danube. Here we were right in the middle of a European paradise surrounded by lively night life, well-to-do locals and even West Germans who enjoyed cheap beer, robust entertainment, rich architecture and semi-divine status to boot. Everything in sight was delightfully different, carefree and almost impossible with our meagre budgets. We could mingle in, touch it but could not have it – so tempting it was. All such temptations had to be consigned to the backburner in favour of all important commerce.
Enriching and extensive cultural programs stared us in the face. But refinements of life could wait since most of our time was spent scouting all sorts of potential deals. My dear Misha set his mind firmly on acquiring a generic car sunroof. In his tech savvy world he was convinced that a car sunroof would ultimately lead us into the big blue and rich future. We spent hours wandering from one car shop to another – blisters and calluses had to wait turn for their soothing treatment. There was no time to waste. I was more than confident that Misha’s incredible penchant for salesmanship would lead to success. His salesmanship gifts were so much a tradition in the North America that was a rarity in 1980s Soviet Union. He could describe and help envision the glorious climax of the coveted car sunroof making us some real dough in so many a picturesque detail that even Michelangelo burn with red-hot envy. Considering the prospective mark-up to and ensuing wealth, we spent just about all our mental resources searching for just a perfect specimen.
Luckily in Budapest my attempts at English started delivering some decent, although unpredictable, as some wily Hungarian merchants seemed to know how to count in at least a dozen languages. I hunkered for real conversations though but those required too much of joue-de-vivre - much to the contrary of our present aspirations. The relaxing atmosphere and conversational charms of overpriced sidewalk cafes did not appeal to our limited wallets us. Neither did numerous art treasures, inspiring churches and heavy-laden museums. We kept stubbornly pounding the sidewalks instead. Luckily, after two days we finally procured a first-rate specimen. At last, we could exhale in relief and plunge right back to spend the rest of the money. With a new shining pair of Head sneakers to spoil anybody, I felt like a million bucks. Exhausted at the end of that hard day in the office we plunged right into the festive atmosphere of the surrounding tourist district. However, since money was short and entertainment budget basically non-existent we had to contend ourselves with peering through the impenetrable glass to the world of free-flowing beer and fat-dripping hot dogs.
We salivated over everything and everybody including poor West German school children who did not think twice before jumping on a local amusement ride or furtively swigging on premium beer once out of teachers’ sight. The lack of western wallets would not make us give up and go to sleep. We had antidote of our own - vodka and cards were dutifully smuggled in the depth of our duffel tourist bags. And since most of it proved to be mostly worthless from a trading perspective – drinking and playing cards were the natural options. During those short days in Budapest I slept the least in my entire life. I must have averaged no more three hours per night. Struggling to wake up in the morning, I had to make myself go on morning jogs along the river just to keep myself upright. To my dismay I discovered that all those songs about the blue Danube were bunk – the water looked brown, polluted, and significantly less romantic than anticipated.
Window to Europe
After a few exhausting days on the shopping track with money nearly gone and the delightful car sunroof safely packed in the suitcase sized up to fit a whole person, Misha decided that time for a real party was at hand. I thought he wanted to pursue our usual poor paths laden with home supplies that we were accustomed to. Something different transpired instead. Not choosing a cosy nook on the grounds of our hotel, Misha triumphantly led us into a local bar with trendy glass panels and well-stocked shiny counter. I started getting a bit alarmed. The place was full of westerners who were not a match for anything we could get up to. The place was ritzy, glittery and abuzz in languages that none of us could comprehend. The only familiar item was Rocky III playing on the bar screen. But even this could not assuage my anxiously pounding heart as Rocky handily thrashed Ivan and gave him tongue-lashing in Hungarian to boot.
As Misha moved to order some overpriced beer all of my alarms set off howling. This was just a beginning. At the very last instance inebriated by the presence of the trip queen named Helen, he promptly waded ever deeper. A bottle of Champaign with the price tag that could have fed my entire family for at least a week delivered the worst possible blow. No amount of my very desperate objections could dissuade my cavalier companion. The ensuing consumption of the carbonated poison proceeded with abandon and recklessness perfectly suited to a typical Russian soul – “we live only once”. Having seen part of my commercial stake disappearing in the pocket of the gleeful waiter I struggled to enjoy my time in the glitter, as Misha’s life advice failed to resonate with hollow emptiness in my frugal heart. I managed to make a few apparently satisfied sips. But wasn’t enough to convince my profligate Misha. Besides, to the worst of my chilling expectations our queen left less than impressed.
The last full day on the Hungarian soil was spent driving around the countryside and visiting most quaint and picturesque nooks the land had to offer. We visited soaring cathedrals, crooked ancient streets, steep bluffs and sweeping vistas. Unfortunately, I remember very little of it due to nearly complete exhaustion. Back for the last short night at the hotel, we were about to exit our first foreign adventure with not much else to report. Suddenly, a new batch of West German teenagers arrived at the hotel right before our departure. Despite the late hour we were lingering to savour the last smells and air of the West. To pass time some in the group felt like engaging the former enemy. English was our only option and the choice fell on me. Surprisingly Germans understood me as we proceeded conversing about this, that and the other with relative ease. I was flabbergasted. It worked! I could talk, they could understand and visa-versa. Eureka!
Elated I eschewed going to bed entirely. The Germans had similar impulses. I stayed up for hours in the middle of the night exchanging notes with my newly found German friend Marcus. We managed to express views on social systems, politics, economics and my newly acquired pair of shorts that sported colours of the German flag. Then we started talking soccer and I produced my very real trump card - our trip queen Helen happened to be the one and only sister of a famous Russian soccer star. This guy was one of the best strikers in Europe, well-known and even handsome. After mentioning that Helen Protasova was in fact a member of our squad, Marcus’s happiness knew no bounds. Now, I was his friend forever or until he could meet Helen at least. Unfortunately for him, she did not wake up until the very departure and downtrodden Marcus had to content himself with just a brief introduction. He later wrote me a couple of letters which promptly stopped coming once I had furnished him with Helen’s address. Bloody heartless capitalist! No matter, if we could not be friends, I could at least be assured that the ever-elusive English was within grasp – a victory!
After our departure we made just a couple stops on the way to the border. On the outskirts of Budapest we bought a whole slew of cheap and dirty magazines in a last minute effort to spend the last vestiges of foreign coin in our pockets. Having exhausted our material and physical resources on this exciting shopping expedition we promptly fell asleep just to be woken up by a terrible racket caused by bus tires hitting myriad of pot holes long an unkempt road – home sweet home! Back in Dnepropetrovsk we quickly discovered that our highly prised car sunroof was less than a hit with the savvy locals. Barely, we managed to get away with just a slim profit. A quick transition to the status of a Soviet Rockefeller will have to wait. Our thoughtless last minute purchase of a whole sheaf of indecent magazines delivered a financial bonanza – we should have bought the whole newsstand! Sunroof fiasco was merging with the horizon, some neighbourly aficionados were leafing through freshly delivered samples of western press and Hungarians were left brushing up on their English counting skills while we looked forward to new adventures.
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