Chapter 8 - Moscow observations

As the others prepared to talk, or rather listen, to the stories I’ve heard hundreds of times before, I took myself outside, using Anastasia as my excuse to take a long walk. We started along the Moscow river, passing under the gaze of the not quite finished colossus Peter the Great. I silently thanked the man who, desiring a more exact knowledge of his eastern territories, initiated his Great Northern Expedition to explore and map Siberia. Such a remote part of the world charted not for expansion but for knowledge itself. That didn’t happen often.

Anastasia and I took a detour through a deserted Gorky park. Dilapidated with rickety shanties and rusting equipment. I saw one lone man ice fishing in a tiny frozen pond. There were a couple of kiddie rides up and running although no one was around. The loudspeakers at the entrance broadcast lively, blaring music. Anastasia did not approve of the loud music I could tell. She turned her head to look up at me with pain in her old dog eyes. ‘Are you a reincarnation of another Anastasia?’ I asked her with my thoughts. She blinked. I took that to be a yes and picked up her poop with a bit more reverence after that.

I turned in at Red Square to see the Kremlin and St. Basil’s Basilica looking like some mad Arabian dream and zigzagged back through streets and lanes, always within sight of renovation cranes hovering over Christ the Savior Cathedral. Peeked inside the famous GUM department store, a multi-leveled glass arcade housing several stores that all sell the same things. Moscow is dilapidated and magnificent, everything on a massive scale. Buildings take up entire blocks, square and solid in red brick and grey stone with little decoration. Streets are wide, in many case six lanes wide, although it is evident that the lanes do not restrict, for cars pitch and weave across the road at will. I saw u-turns completed right in the middle of the street without even slowing down.

The men are somewhat colourless but the women of Moscow are impressive. Very smartly dressed in furs, impeccable makeup and stylish shoes. How they can manage to look so groomed in polluted air and muddy streets I don’t know. The December air is cold and the skies are grey but I am surprised not to see snow. Disappointed too, I want a ride in a troika sleigh.

When I returned I encountered one of Auntie Galina’s neighbours, a well dressed man accompanied by two guards armed with Kalashnikov rifles. He motioned me to join him in the elevator but I smiled him on, pretending to be waiting for someone else. I did not fancy standing in a glass elevator glass next to someone who needs two armed guards. Back in the flat everyone was resting, so I read “Crime and Punishment”. “Such a troubling book” Auntie Galina said with a sniff when she saw it, but I have always felt connected with Dostoyevsky somehow.

I was frequently distracted by the landscape out the window however, the river off to the left, and one of the so-called “Seven Sisters” in the distance. These are wonderful old Soviet buildings that look like severe wedding cakes, tiers topped with a communist star. I placed my hand on the shiny window pane to feel the ebbing sun’s weak warmth. Light reflected on the top layer of creamy white paint, showing off long ago brush strokes by some unknown painter.

Chapter 8 - homesteading in Moscow

We were both bleary-eyed this morning. Our night was interrupted often; Babby’s because of the jet lag and mine because of Babby tottering off to the toilet at what seemed a constant shuffle. When she did sleep she snored loudly and robustly.

Babby always was talkative, but travelling with her really puts it in the spotlight. As I write this she is going on and on about a mish mash of things – politics, birds, how pale Russian fruit is, her garden back home. No one else has said anything for twenty minutes, nor even really looked at her as they go about their chores, but she carries on cheerfully and undaunted. So different from her son. I now wonder if Dad is so silent because he never got a word in edgewise.

“Of course I don’t need to talk to you about the war. I wonder what Stalin was really like. I bet he didn't eat enough fruit. The apples we get at home are so red they’re black, these must be a winter variety. No scabs though that’s a blessing. I would have killed for fruit during the depression. Vegetables too, other than potatoes. Did you have fresh vegetables here then? Or maybe you didn’t have a depression the same as we did. Terrible drought. Our chickens dying left, right and centre. Oh look! A lovely little thing just flashed by. It has a white flash on its wing now what would that be? I have a chickadee at home that knows me – he always comes to eat the gumps out of the porridge pot. I call him Chucky Dee, Dee, Dee, Dee, Dee! Chucky Dee, Dee, Dee, Dee, Dee! I’ll call and there he is, hungry as anything.”


A silent Arkady sloped off to work early this morning and the rest of us enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. Babby offered to cook and I am happy to say Auntie Galina wouldn’t let her near the kitchen. Babby’s cooking is and has always been abysmal, worse even than Mom’s. Cookies like rubber. Tea thick enough to stop a bullet. Boiled meat. I remember hearing the story of when Sam was born, and Babby stayed at our house to look after the rest of us. Mom’s boss gave her five porterhouse steaks as a celebration gift. Five beautiful steaks. Steak was an expensive treat in our house and my mom sat in the hospital trying to decide how and when to cook those precious and rare bovine gems. But as soon as she stepped over her threshold with baby in arms, Babby patted her on the arm and said, “Now don’t you worry about that meat that was lying around. I boiled it up so there’d be no germs.” My mother’s heart turned cold at the sight of five grey, desiccated slabs sitting on a platter in the fridge. Dad always said that’s why there are only three of us kids, Mom couldn’t bear the thought of Babby in her kitchen ever again.

Far better she should sit and talk about old times, growing up on the prairies, her early life with Grampa, a traveling salesman during the depression who sold household items nobody wanted and no one could afford. His death, literally on the road, his heart stopping as he walked from one house to another, goods spilled out on the sidewalk like scattered weeds. Then her and all her children moving to the tiny farm she called the homestead. I always liked that word. ‘Homestead’ sounds so cosy. But I imagine in reality it was anything but.

chapter 8 - ties that bind

We had a quiet evening listening to some music on the radio while Babby wrote postcards. I wonder she has anything to impart having been here all of three hours, but she tossed off several before willing to call it a night. She’s amazing. I’m hearing her faint accent anew – that weird combination of Danish, Russian and Canadian. I guess she comes by it honestly. I remember her mother, just barely, as I must have been four when she died. She only learned the rudiments of the English language. I never met my great-grandfather but I know he never learned a word of English, a fatal omission as it happened.

It must have been some life. Setting up home in the flat plains of a new country, a fisherman who had to learn how to be a farmer, providing for a family of nine children. Babby was the youngest but one. There was also a cook and a ‘girl who did’. Babby once told me how each child had been instructed to save a particular family treasure in case of fire. Hers was an enormous samovar, an object as tall as she and twice as heavy. Thankfully her strength was never put to the test. What a thing to put on a child!

They never had money, but after the eldest sons grew old enough to taste a bit of the outside world and earn, they got a horse to make life easier for the father who had always pulled the plough himself. Three days later, still not used to my great grandfather’s touch, the horse bolted, reins tangled up in arms and legs. Every command the middle aged man could muster was shouted as he was dragged over the fields for miles, his body becoming a bloody and then a silent mass, but the horse would not heed. Of course not. Canadian horses do not understand Russian.

Chapter 8 - Babby's homeland

Travelling with an 84 year old has some real benefits; we got seats right at the front of the plane and received the most attentive service. Babby was glued to the window the whole trip, telling me about icebergs and cloud cover for 14 hours. At one point she asked me to get her a hankie out of her capacious handbag and I got to see what was inside:
· six hankies
· one pair of wool socks
· cotton neckerchief
· four little boxes of Chicklets gum
· notebook decorated all over with pictures of kittens
· pocket diary promoting a brand of greeting cards on every page
· plastic rain cap - gold
· two full decks of cards and a spare joker
· three rolls of Life Savers (butterscotch, rum and butter, grape – her favourites)
· Paper serviettes
· a roll of toilet paper
· a silver plastic candelabra in two pieces that fit together with a snap.
The last item in particular had me stymied. I could only hope it was a gift.

Auntie Galina met us with enormous fur-coated hugs and a car, driving us to her apartment right in the centre of Moscow. Though dark, I could see the streets were crowded, and we took more than two hours to get what seemed a relatively short distance but Auntie Galina says this is a normal rush hour. Imagine having to do this every day!

The apartment is larger than I expected. I guess my reading material was pre-perestroika and so my views of what to expect were skewed. We are at the top of a nine-storey building with a glass elevator that rides up the outside to get to our floor. Auntie Galina’s daughter Svetlana, a carbon copy of her mother except pregnant, silent son-in-law Arkady who looks to be at least 9 feet 6 inches tall, and toddler Vasily met us with hugs and kisses all round. A dog named Anastasia met us with a more lugubrious expression. “Just like my Binky at home”, Babby cooed to it. A fabulous display of smoked trout, caviar, salads and wine awaited us. Babby professed she only wanted a cup of tea but far be it from me to pass up such a feast.


While we ate Babby kept up a non-stop chat interspersed with showing photos. “Betty came west because her dad had a bad stroke and was not expected to live. Pearl lives next door. Her husband has a little greenhouse but she is a few sandwiches short of a picnic if you catch my drift. Don’t the potatoes look good? I must spray them for flea beetle next year. Mogen’s wife Violet came from Saskatchewan. She dove into the beach at Jericho at low tide and died of head injuries. She wasn’t used to the ocean. No low tides in Saskatchewan you see.”

I’m sure no one was really taking in any of it, but that doesn’t seem to deter her. Or to matter. It will all get repeated, no doubt, several times during the next two weeks. It’s good to see her happy, seeing the family she’s never seen while she can still see. I am struck by the family resemblance. Second cousins once removed, but she and Auntie Galina have the same chins. And the same girlie laugh. I’m used to it from Babby, but it doesn’t seem to match Auntie Galina’s formidable personality. I asked Arkady to show me how to put in a call home as I knew Mom and Dad would want to know we’d arrived safely.

“Was Galina there to meet you? I’d heard she was unreliable. Was she late? Did you have to wait?”

I didn‘t rise to the obvious. “No Mom they were there on time and got us here just fine.”

“Have you eaten? Are they feeding you?”

“Yes we’ve just eaten a lovely meal. Caviar Mom.”

“Oh, well no doubt it’s as common as beans there. I hope you’re not letting your grandmother eat caviar. You know what fish does to her insides.”


“Don’t worry, she just ate bread and salads.”

“Salads? Do they have salads there then? Are they washed properly? Do they know how to wash salad properly? Is the water clean?”

“It wasn’t that kind of salad. It was cucumber, peeled. And potato. Cabbage. Everything is well cooked or peeled or pickled.” I rolled my eyes. Here she is commenting on others when she is always notoriously late and hasn’t eaten a vegetable that wasn’t in a can or frozen in decades.

“Good. You make sure she gets enough to eat. But don’t let her near fish. And make sure she gets to bed on time.”

“I will. We’re just having a cup of tea. I’ll give you the number here so you can contact us.”

“Oh my goodness don’t bother. It will be so expensive to call all that way and I know we couldn’t work out the numbers anyway.”

“Oh, so we’ll just call you then. On Auntie Galina's phone. The one who is hosting your daughter and mother-in-law." I tried to sound pleasantly acidic.

“Much better.”

Curses! She always wins!

chapter 7 - ending

Three days of sloth. I am going nuts. The library has three mangy books, all in Chinese. The only activities seem to be smoking, spitting and playing mah jong in a room full of smokers and spitters. Of course Hamish is in his element. All he does is drink beer and sleep. I’ve never seen anyone sleep so much. The food is disgusting, but at least we can buy biscuits. And huge cold bottles of beer of course. I sit on the sturdiest deck chair I can find, play solitaire, reread books and watch the sea roll by until the sun sets red into the smog.

Remembering a romantic old sailors’ theory that the moon sprang from the Pacific Ocean while the earth was still young, I turn to tell Hamish and see he’s fast asleep and snoring heavily. I look at him and wonder what am I doing? He’s so lazy, a big kid most of the time, shambling around with a smile on his face as if he’s listening to some private joke. I never know what he is thinking. And when I think I do know he comes out with something totally surprising. We don’t have the same kind of sex anymore, passionate and prolonged, not able to keep our hands off each other until exhausted and sweaty. It’s more - controlled.

His suitcase is a mess, an absolute tumble of clothes so that he always looks rumpled in everything he wears. And he never seems bothered by it. He’s lost half his clothing, his toothbrush and his razor. I always have to lend him my things, pick up after him, remind him to replace things. I’m getting tired of it. Truly fed up.

Thank goodness some of the other backpackers are friendly and we have discussions that last for hours, suddenly realizing afternoon has become night. We all drink copious amounts of tea just for the pleasure of getting thermoses filled and using a loo that flushes. Sometimes we play scrabble. If it weren’t for them I’d have no one to talk to. Everyone asks me about Hamish as if he’s the only thing of interest. How do they even know he exists except as a big napping lump? And a presence at dinner of course where he charms everyone and they all laugh and joke with him, telling him how they admire his choice to go back to school, encouraging his newly emerging spirit of adventure. Not one person asks how I feel about his impending exodus. Sometimes I can barely look at him without feeling miserable.

Tonight, our last night, there was a party in lounge #3. I convinced Hamish to stay awake and go, and with high hopes we entered the salon to find a tape player playing slow, bad music that three couples and one single lady were dancing to in a rather cheerless manner. The music was often interrupted by individuals who got up to sing. The Chinese passengers’ love of song is amazing. They will sing at the drop of a hat, preferring Western songs, which is unfortunate because they are terrible singers of Western music. I would have loved to hear local music sung by people who understand it.

“You got me up to see this?”

“It’s our last night on the boat.”

“Oh good they’ve got beer. Would you like one?”

“Why do you always have to have so much beer?”

“There’s nothing else. It’s hot, I’m thirsty and there are only a few more days in which to savour cheap, Chinese beer. I like beer. What’s the problem?”

“Nothing, it’s just that…I don’t remember you drinking this much at home.”

“Maybe you weren’t watching. And I have to get my palate ready for Germany.” He smacked his lips.

“You sound like you’re really looking forward to it.”

“I am. Of course I am. Now that I’ve made the decision I can’t wait to get started. I never felt this way before, looking forward the next phase of my life.”

I don’t know what made me come out with it now. I planned to do this later, to make things easier, to make a clean break. But something inside lashed out. A demon perhaps. Or a malevolent sprite. Or maybe my true self, bubbling up.

“I guess there’s nothing stopping you going over early.”

“Early?”

“Yes, you know, to find a place to live, get sorted out, meet people there, that kind of thing.”

“Well, I don’t need too many days for that. I can probably set up someplace to live pretty easily from England.”

“Oh but wouldn’t you prefer to do it in person now that you know how much fun it is to go to new places?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asked smiling.

I did not smile back and his own smile faded. “I…I don’t understand.”

“I think it’s obvious.” I did smile then but it felt sickly. “I’ll make it easier for you. You are free. You have no ties.“

He flushed. “What do you mean? Are you feeling ok?”

“I’m fine. It’s pretty straight forward. You don’t have to think of yourself as being in a relationship. You can feel free to meet whoever you choose. Go wherever you want. If you fall in love, then that’s fine. You don’t have to consider my feelings on the subject. We’ll just remain friends.”

I felt my voice wobble at his look but was damned if I’d let him see me back down. I stood up. “I’m going to walk around the deck and watch as we moor in Hong Kong harbour. No, don’t get up. And don’t wait up, I’ll see you in the cabin. I’m almost packed up anyway, so we can go straight from the boat to the airport whenever you are ready.”

He was speechless and I was able to quickly make my escape. I could feel the tears beginning and I wanted them invisible in nighttime darkness, no spectators. I just know he’s going to want to talk about this tomorrow but I am determined to remain silent and just get back home. Then we can go our separate ways. Doing it this way, now, will be so much easier. Prolonging the separation would break me apart in slow pieces. A quick break is best. Then he can get on with his life and I can deal with what I have to. But I wish it wouldn’t hurt so much. I wish I didn’t see the hurt on his face replaying in my head. Maybe I can change airplane seats so we’re not sitting together.

I sat on the edge of a holey wicker chair, feeling awful. I tried to tell myself it’s really relief I’m feeling, that it’s better for both of us. Endeavouring to put tomorrow aside, I watched the approaching lights of Hong Kong sparkle through the darkness. As the night slowly became grey with dawn’s approach I tried to let the city’s beauty calm me.

chapter 7 - tramps on a tramp

The sun was shining as we arrived at the boat, far earlier than most others of course. We sat on our bags and waited for the usual panic. Sailed past customs only having to show our cameras. After all our receipt saving and preparation! Oh well, better this way than the hours of interrogation we had been expecting. I guess the dearth of visitors since the Tiananmen Square event has relaxed some bureaucracies. There were maybe ten other backpackers in what seems to be a half full boat, the rest being Chinese- men in shiny suits and ladies in short skirts with knee high nylons showing beneath.

Our boat looks like a murder took place on it in 1920 and it hasn’t been cleaned since. Rusty and decrepit. The few wicker deck chairs almost all have large holes in the seats preventing one from actually sitting in them. The swimming pool is a square cement hole in the stern, empty of water but full of brown and green sludge, of interest to a marine biologist but not much to a swimmer. Most of the door locks do not fulfill their purpose, nor do some of the window hatches. Fabric on the indoor chairs is faded and torn, with grubby lace antimacassars hinting at thousands of greasy heads. The air is forlorn. It’s perfect. Our cabin has three bunks, but we’re the only ones in it. We even have a porthole. There are three sinks, a loo and a shower, ceramic mugs with lids and piping hot water in three of those amazing Chinese thermoses. Stiff white sheets and scratchy blankets tucked mercilessly into bunks. As luxurious to us as any cruise ship could ever be. We have three days on a slow boat from China!

chapter 7 - Private Lives

Our last day on Chinese soil and I'm embarrassed to admit I'm kind of looking forward to leaving. Travelling in China, on our own and not on some tour, is hard work. We’re used to the heat and humidity now, but the climate still tires us. And this whole thing with Hamish. Soon enough he will be leaving and then I will really be alone. I feel sapped of energy.

Tonight we are treating ourselves to a stay at the Peace Hotel, famous for having accommodated Noel Coward while he wrote “Private Lives”.
I feel out of sorts and on the way up to our room I look at Hamish and without thinking say, “When we get to Hong Kong, why don’t you cut your hair? It’s too shaggy.”

He ruffled his unruly mop. “I kind of like it like this.”

“Well I think it looks juvenile.”

He looked at me surprised. Which is how I feel too. God, I sound like my mother! Why am I saying this stuff?

Our hotel room is shabby, with a soft bed and dirty walls, looking just like any Western styled hotel or motel in any small town in any country. But to our eyes it seems opulent. There is a real bathroom all to ourselves! Warm water! A reading lamp that works! A TV with an English speaking news station! Our own key! Soap! A window!

We can lie around naked and talk freely to each other and I try to make myself enjoy it. We had a lukewarm bath, made love because we could, and lay on the bed, occasionally saying “Do you remember?” Or “What about that day?”, remembering all the things we’ve seen in the last few weeks. I wanted only to smile at the memories added to our relationship but my mind instead goes to the image of Hamish going away and what that would mean. Our conversation ran out after an hour or so and I lay back on the bed, feeling the hot air settle on my skin and looking at the peeling ceiling.

I persuaded him to go dancing downstairs in the evening. I have been wanting to escape curious eyes for weeks but now desire to get among other people. After all we've done we can only talk for an hour? That's not good! The room held a tired band playing tunes that sounded as dusty and worn as the furniture. Several men came up to ask Hamish if they could ask me to dance, which he found vastly amusing. After dancing they would grab my hand and rush me back to our table, thanking both Hamish and me for the pleasure. All very courteous.

After an hour of me dancing and him drinking beer after beer he asked me to put him out of his misery and let him go to bed. I felt put out - he hadn't danced wiht me himself once! I just silently got up and led the way back to the room. Almost everything he does now makes me feel a bit resentful.

Even though they are worn and shabby the bed sheets are clean and its a treat to lie on clean sheets again. Hamish has told me I clutch at the sheets and pull them tightly to my chest, not letting go for anything. I guess I’m still not totally used to sharing my bed. Maybe it's a sign not to.