Conversations with a cabby - Russia styley

Not long ago I found myself in the unusual position of being driven to the airport by an English-speaking taxi driver. Unusual, because many people here don't speak English and consequently - with my dreadful Russian - I don't get to chat to many Russians outside my normal everyday life. I can negotiate my way through standard tasks of course, but I don't get the chance to have those 'you'll never guess who I had in the back of my cab...' conversations that seem par for the course for many taxi drivers back home.

So when this guy started to chat to me, I was very interested to see where it would go. And I learned some things...

Apparently people in the West (his implied capital letter, not mine) hate the Russians. He was at a loss to explain why, but there you go, it was just the way it was... I suggested that what he saw as 'hate' was in fact total incomprehension of what makes Russians tick by those who have never visited (or indeed, by some who have), since it's impossible to understand this nation's complexities unless you pay very close attention to it's recent history and actually, not many of us do that. Which of course strengthened his impression we don't like them very much still further because, well, why wouldn't you study Russian history?

The reason that people of his (and my) generation in Russia don't speak very good English is simple, he told me. (Bearing in mind that we were having this conversation in the very language he claimed to be bad at, I begged to differ, but he - in the way of all taxi drivers, everywhere - knew better). It all comes down to the fact that when he and his peers were at school in the 1970's and 1980's, they were told by their teachers not to worry if their English grades weren't high. Or indeed, if they didn't learn it at all. Why? Well, because very soon, the rest of the world would be speaking Russian... (No, really)

All the 'bad' Russians have left Russia and now live in - you guessed it - London. The UK government welcomes all the criminals who have ripped Russia off with open arms because they bring such vast sums of money with them.

I did suggest at this point that whilst the British immigration policy may be - ahem - a little 'forgiving' for those who have money, I found it hard to be believe that ALL the 'bad' Russians had now left, for the UK or anywhere else, since day-to-day life over here would suggest that there are still plenty of baddies to go around. He didn't agree. Although our respective definitions of 'bad' may be somewhat different, based on the next point he made...

The anti-corruption drive within the Militia (the traffic police) is nonsense, he told me (I brightened up at this point, thinking that finally we might have a point we could agree upon. But no...) All the rules and regulations that meant a motorist breaking the law now has to go to the station or ultimately to court to sort it out are just wasting everybody's time. No, it's far better just to bite the bullet, and hand over your cash on the side of the road. What happens to the money after that point really isn't any of his concern.

Russian schools are going to the dogs. He was particularly concerned that his son was not getting enough homework (let me tell you, Russian school is all about rote-learning; they work those kids hard...), because he worried that his grades might not be high enough for him to join the profession he (the dad) had picked out for him. I wondered what profession that might be. Oh, the government, of course. If you want to make real money in this town, that's where you need to go...

At this point we reached the airport. And then I spent the next 30 minutes trying to explain to Boys #1 and #2 that no, England is not full of baddies with Russian/UK passports. That's only St John's Wood and Knightsbridge...

Please note: in my usual disclaimer, this post is based upon a conversation with one isolated person, is not representative of Russian attitudes as a whole and - of course - I am not in any way suggesting that there are corrupt organisations in Russia; I am reporting the views of one isolated individual...

Valentine's Day? Was that what it was?

As you may have noticed in yesterday's post, the Potski Familiski finally has access to a car in Moscow. This is most definitely a Good Thing, and has freed us up from the tyranny of the waiting for the Taxi that Never Comes, a frequent occurrence if you live off the beaten track in Moscow. Since we've moved to our new home we've heard the 'he has a flat tire' excuse, the 'he took the wrong road and couldn't get through the forest from there' excuse, the 'he went on the wrong road and got stuck in a traffic jam' excuse, and the best one so far, 'he doesn't come from Moscow so didn't know how to get to you' excuse (which does rather beg the question, why call yourself a taxi driver?).

Now however, we are free to hop in the car at any opportunity and be late because of our own stupid misdirections rather than someone else's. This weekend we took full advantage of that, trying as usual to fit in far more than we had time for, and on Saturday drove into the centre of town to try and find a few hard to get comestibles (wrapping paper, a birthday card, and eye-make-up remover. Didn't think they were hard to get, did you? Let's just say I'll be stocking up on my forthcoming trip to the UK...).

We found ourselves in a smart department store on the Novy Arbat and whilst I was making a purchase, the Boys were approached by 2 handsome young men wearing short (VERY short) Roman tunics, each bearing a tray of heart-shaped biscuits. Of course my sons took 2 each (oh, the shame; I never feed them, you know), and munched away as I made my purchase. Or rather, I tried to. In many Russian department stores they still operate the old Soviet-style system, as I found out when I tried to pay.

It works as follows; you go to the cosmetics counter. You select your eye-make-up remover. You try to pay. There follows a confusing pantomime where the lady behind the counter explains that you can't pay here, you have to pay over there at the till. She puts the product in a bag anyway, which you try to pick up. Then there is further confusion and a bit of tussling when she hands you a ticket, but not the bag or the product. Then your husband comes to the rescue whilst you wonder which parallel universe you are in, and he takes the ticket over to the till on the other side of the store, pays, comes back with the reciept, and you are finally handed what you came to buy. Why you can't take the product to the till I don't know (it's not as if these places aren't security guarded to the hilt), but that's how it's done. Now you know, should you ever find yourself short of eye-make-up remover in the former Soviet Union...

In any case, the Boys were happily eating their biscuits, as was Husband. I was, shall we say, enjoying the view of the young men in their tunics. And then Husband and I had the following conversation...

Him: "So, now you know where to come for cosmetics, at any rate."

Me: "Yes..."

Him: "And if you fancy a free biscuit you know where to come for that too."

Me: "Well, only until tomorrow, though."

Him: "What do you mean?"

Me: "Well, don't you think that two young men in toga's offering free heart-shaped biscuits might have something to do with it's being Valentine's Day tomorrow?"

Him: "Aaaah."

Needless to say, in the Potski household there was no further mention of February 14th's being a significant date...