29-III-1979.
Solitaire everywhere. Note the olympic design woven into the curtain on the right. Same in other two hotels.
We developed this roll ourselves. One of the fixers wasn't so fresh, it seems.
We didn't bring enough cigarettes to last us through, so we smoked what we found, even the „Kazbek“, which is 4cm of tobacco, something sharp and nasty, and a 6cm cardboard tube instead of filter, the purpose of which is to keep the ember far enough so not to burn through the gloves, so it can be smoked outside. At the airport we bought some bulgarian, „Стюардесса“ (stewardess)... Its filter was strong and the tobacco mild, so mild that smoking was futile, no taste at all. We named it „first video cigarette, you see the smoke but feel nothing“.
In Kiev we were in the same hotel where dad was seven years ago. Seeing how many rubles we still didn't manage to spend, we went and bought whatever we found: a spare phone for Oma, some fishing gear for her dad, two packs of small playing cards (so I could play a few rounds of solitaire on the small desk in the room) and two pack of regulars, some cute painted metal box, a semiautomatic (not quite idiotmatic) camera, Viliya M (immediately nicknamed William), a precision scale for the photo lab, big pack of matches, some pefume and cosmetics for mom. Then in the duty free shop a carton of Gauloises.
In the elevator in the hotel, some oldster, literally a face from the same book as Brežnjev, as if a retired colonel or some such critter, asked me why was I wearing such long hair and beard. „I'm from Yugoslavia, it's permitted there“. Gotcha, old shitter, you think everyone who comes along is automatically a candidate for your scrutiny and upbringing. He first looked up to each of the corners of the cabin, yes, dear, I am counting with being probably surveilled and it's upon you tu try to explain whether there's anything wrong with what I said. And then went „well it's also permitted here, lots of things are permitted...“ and lost the end of the sentence, guess the elevator door opened.
While we were waiting for the bus to the airport, some locals sneaked into the lobby, probably pretending to be cab drivers fetching customers, or they knew the doorman - the whole strictness was a bit more lax here - and saw some boots that he liked. The guy wearing those boots didn't want to part with them, we don't need rubles. The guy was paying dollars and went to buy a pair of shoes for the guy, so he doesn't go home barefoot. Transaction was successful, even though the shoes came when half of us were already boarded.
My parents came to the airport to pick us up - our plane came on time this time. The yellowish suitcases, as always, the romanian ones from 1976.
This year the couch was on the left; most of the years it was under the window, facing the TV. The cabinet on the right is the sewing machine Slavica by Bagat of Zadar.
Her dad came to see us, and we handed him the fishing gear and the phone. Then we drove him home, as he deliberately did not take the bike ("my mErcedes") so he could have a rakija or two with my dad, and said hi to Oma and plugged in the phone, so she'd now have one in the lobby, where she sits most of the time anyway. Skviki (the dog, though the nickname is lifted from Alan Ford comics, where it's a guinea pig... did look like one when he was a puppy) was happy to see us.
Mentions: Alan Ford, Oma, rakija, Skviki, solitaire, in serbian
11-X-2020 - 10-III-2026