The Heart of the City

Kaliningrad is a changing city, trying to cope with the demands of modernising times. As the part of Russia not in Russia, its citizens are allowed to pass through Lithuania (now part of the EU), to get to the motherland. They are not however, allowed to get off the train.

As we boarded the train in Vilnius people stared out of the window. They were taking the 24-hour trip from Moscow to Kaliningrad. Previously called Königsberg, it was won from Germany in the 2nd World War and ethnically cleansed by agreement of the two countries. Hence it is a little confused. German looking architecture gradually fading, mixed with Eastern bloc charm.

They don’t get many English tourists. My travelling companion and I were the cause of the late running train whilst bemused border guards studied our visas. We were a little concerned by the solemness of their gesticulations until one of them cracked a smile. Panic over, they stamped our passports and the crazy ladies on the train were allowed through.

They city only had one hotel in our price range and we had been warned online that it was frequented by ladies of the night. The signs in reception about overnight guests and the heavy security seemed to indicate that this had once been the case. The hotel itself seemed clean and well looked after. Frequented mostly by businessmen – which seemed to be indicative of the city itself – perhaps the cause of the overnight visitation problems.

Despite struggling to find a bar or restaurant that didn’t cater to this crowd, we did discover that Kaliningrad is very amenable to tourists. The people are brusque and harsh, always available to bark nyet at you when you are doing it wrong. But, they bend over backwards to be accommodating, and seemed genuinely excited to see English people. They don’t speak much of the language, but we got by with a mixture of Russian, German and hand gestures.

Sightseeing wise the city is a mixture of old and new. There is not that much of the old left as the centre was completely destroyed in the war. The ugly-pretty House of Soviets – the unfinished, empty, very Russian looking tower block, blights the skyline. Built on the grounds of the Cathedral, our first tourist stop, it started slowly sinking and is left empty. It’s an astounding sight. The cathedral itself stands restored in all its German-ness. Being an old philosophy student it was compulsory to pay homage to Immanuel Kant, ‘the sage of Königsberg’ who is buried here.

We then took ourselves on a walking tour of the city. Like all cities there is an underbelly. There are parks, statues – with a heavy ‘mother Russia’ hint – and some remaining gorgeous buildings with a Germanic twist. On the other hand, there are blocks of run down flats, dirty streets and people who have seen tough times.
Mafia

Guidebooks to Kaliningrad are few and far between, but, armed with various printouts from the Internet we found a lovely restaurant underneath the theatre, It was probably our most extravagant meal on our trip (food isn’t cheap), and the most entertaining. Catering for a mixed crowd that included a group of young people drinking cocktails in the corner. This small restaurant had a lovely ambience and good menu featuring what seems to be the Eastern bloc classic of pike–perch.

Whilst waiting for our meal we noticed the atmosphere suddenly change with the arrival of what we assumed to be the Russian Mafia. The staff looked worried, what looked like large amounts of money were soon sitting in one of the men’s suit pocket, and the young crowd were silent. Just when we thought the excitement was over a heated argument ensued between the leader of the Mafia guys and the leader of the young crowd. It was obvious that they knew each other, and we wished our Russian were better. After an audible intake of collective breath, dining resumed in silence. We tried to eat inconspicuously until they left and the atmosphere lightened.

Next stop on our tour was the Devil’s Museum. Fairly odd in subject and location – it was situated in a residential block of flats –an eclectic mix of items, ranging from the pagan looking to more recent cartoon images of the man himself, although he wasn’t depicted as a man in all objects.

Finally, we went to the Kaliningrad museum. Although not in English, it was fairly obvious from the pictures that the Königsberg of old had been a very different and beautiful place. It may not be so beautiful on the outside these days but it has guts and fiestiness and we left this quirky city with more than a little bit of sadness.

Desire

Nothing there,
exhausted and dry
like a desert, a winter, a long forgotten dream,
I breathe, I continue on.

In my shell,
protected and warm,
I search, flounder and battle against the wind,
in stasis, while life continues on.

Can you hear it?
I can feel it, a yearning,
it beats like a drum in my heart,
chipped and damaged, it continues on.

No matter who or why,
it grows and changes inside,
pupae first, then a chrysalis, like a butterfly,
new and raw, it continues on.

Feeling like Spring,
it takes over,
a bounce, a gait, a flutter,
until it soars, like a bird, continuing on.

Safari symptoms

It came to me over an ellie - well not literally, but I was looking at it and it occured to me that really this was what life should be all about.

I watched them walking, interacting as a social group, behaving simply, as they should - and I wondered how life got s complicated.

The grind of daily life exists in every species, but the companionship, the closeness, the touch of a trunk, is sometimes miles away from us.

Many people, including myself, life in isolation. In a silo (a great work expression), operating and interacting in fits and starts. Never truly connected.

And why...fear, or rejection, of boredom, or reliance. This is not a problem for ellies. They act as a group. Connected as one. Supportive, close knit and truly beautiful to behold.

I made a vow over the ellies to lose the fear. To interact, to find someone to join my gang. To act as a group, or at least a pair with someone. I am no longer alone, I am reaching out. And if I lose touch...

I always have the ellies.

Miss happy go lucky

The mystery deepened. How was it that everything that had once seemed so easy now seemed so hard. Confidence wanes, companionship is hard to find, boundaries blur. It's very difficult to know where one stands in life. Ultimately it's alone, by myself, no one to rely on. Why is this? Of my own making, of habit, of genetics, of mistrust and sadness.

To find someone who gets you, wants you and doesn't smother you is the million dollar question. Take it, examine it, analyse it, and learn. Be open. Don't be afraid any longer, take it on the chin and stop being so scared to live the dream.

You still live in fear, cower in corners and take refuge in solitude. Why are you so ashamed of admitting who you are. What difference normality. Take on the world, discover it, discover yourself, and let it free.

Too many excuses, too hard to change, too scared to change. new life, it can be done. Push the sadness away and take strength from those who have gone before you. D not follow them. Life it short and depression is wasted on the living. Be joyful and seek out those you can be joyful with. Draw new boundaries, bigger circles, higher peaks. Ask for help, but help yourself also. Admit defeat in some areas and move on. Move away and stop dwelling. Make new connections and keep trying. Skip, run, sing. Stop being afraid. Make music, eat, make love, be creative, never stop dreaming. Push away cynicism.

Look at where you are going. No one can make the journey but you. You learn hard lessons. Make it easy on yourself. Immerse yourself in the light of life and skip through it gladly.

The day I realised I was middle class

It came on all of a sudden.
Not like a lurking cold, or a tingling sore, but like a clean break.
The sort you might sustain by falling down the stairs.

It was the van drivers fault.
Damn him.
There I was walking my eco-friendly way to work and he struck.
All the kids stared, the communters stared, I stared.

That was the day my veggie box delivery guy beeped me.

Poet and don't I know it

Sometimes I think it might be quite easy being a poet.
All you need is fragments of words, phrases, you don't even have to finish it
It can be abstract, make no sense.
It doesn't matter.

The image is put across without the need for chapters.
Without too much rhyme or reason.
Really...without too much rhyme.
They don't have too anymore.
All that effort of a prize winning school girls poem about Croydon water tower.
It mentioned flower - and power - amongst over things.

The poet I would most like to be my mum Jackie Kay, makes me want to speak my poems in a sing song Glaswegian voice.
But I can nae do it ken, and not even a wee dram of whisky will help that South London drawl.
I'm quite fond of it though really.