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  • wherrygirl
    started a topic Tale of Three Cities

    Tale of Three Cities

    TALE OF THREE CITIES
    Warning! There are absolutley no pictures in this topic. (Now there's a chance to use your imagination!)

    I had seen the brochure several times in the window of our local travel agents and what it offered caught my imagination. Pictures of those unmistakable gloriously coloured onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral as seen from across Red Square adorned the cover - it could only be Moscow. In the end I gave in, entered the travel agents and collected a copy. Once home I turned page after page as it described a trip to the USSR, with stays of a few days each in Moscow, Kiev and finally Leningrad.
    This was 1984. Chernenko had recently been elected as General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party, but he was in poor health and died the following year. Then followed the election of Mikhail Gorbachev, whose reforms finally led to the break up of Communist regimes in Europe even though that was certainly not what he had intended. But at this time Communist USSR was still the “enemy” we had known for so long.
    Enemy or not, however, I was intrigued. Browsing the brochure, studying the itinerary and gazing at the pictures, I thought “Well, yes….. looks exciting.” Thoughts slowly morphed into “I wonder….. well, perhaps…. um-mm….. Oh, be a devil and go!”
    There were several optional trips offered, and I went on some delightful and very interesting ones, but I was equally keen to explore on my own as much as possible and even to get to know the Russian people as much as – or if - possible. Booking my holiday period at work and announcing where I was going resulted in raised eyebrows, widened eyes and gaping mouths and drew jokes on the lines of “Well, let’s hope you come back….”, “We’d better start looking for a replacement…..” But, like me, they were intrigued.

    The day had come - I was in Heathrow staring at the departures board which announced that the 6.30p.m. to Moscow was delayed some two hours. An excellent start, I thought, with a four hour flight ahead that means it will be well past midnight before we touch down, in fact a long way past midnight their time. Then Customs, Passport Control, perhaps they’ll demand our life history to check whether to let us into the country, might there even be a body search??? Then finally a coach to my hotel….registration at reception… finding my room… (or will I be escorted by armed guard?). By the time all that had been accomplished it would hardly be worth going to bed!
    Huh!! Why do I do these things?
    Somewhere between 8 and 9 p.m. the departures board suddenly flickered, re-scrolled and there it was – MOSCOW NOW BOARDING. Heart thumping just a little bit I headed off to where it would all begin. Settled in my seat, I waited, only half believing in my destination. Moscow, I reminded myself, yes, Moscow in the USSR. I would have to try and phone my mother as soon as possible as she waited anxiously at home for the sound of that mad daughter’s voice assuring her that all was well.
    Meanwhile, I waited.
    Then that magic moment came when, seatbelts fastened, engines suddenly roared full blast, the wheels began to roll. Gathering speed down the runway, I felt the nose lift …… heard the thump of the wheels folding back into their housing. I was on my way.
    Following the east coast as we flew northwards for a while, I concentrated on the view from the window. The moon must have been full, because the rivers winding below gleamed softly but clearly against the grey shadowing land, an image I have never forgotten. I tried to identify the river Waveney, which flows only two or three minutes from where I live in Bungay. Feeling a little calmer I settled back in my seat as the plane slowly veered away from the coast and got a fix on Moscow. Of the journey I now have no recollection, in the increasing darkness probably all there was to see were little clusters of city lights, perhaps more rivers, miles of blankness which made a mirror of the window.

    Descent had begun and the heart thumps also began again, this time with excitement. I had left Heathrow blazing with lights, chatter, hurrying people but here in Moscow we must have been the last plane in for the night (well, after all it was about 1.50 a.m. Moscow time) because most of the airport building was in darkness, leaving just the areas needed for our reception dimly illuminated. The plane finally stopped its trundle round the runways, engines quietened and shut down and we began to collect our belongings. Suddenly the cabin lights were switched off. We all sat there, silent, wondering in the darkness. After some time they were switched on again but still no-one appeared to open the cabin door and indicate that we were to leave. Some of the passengers were getting a bit restive and I didn’t blame them.
    In the end an air hostess came in, opened the door and we were allowed to descend. An official appeared to lead us to Passport Control. There was hardly a sound anywhere. The quietness must have been infectious, because most of the whole planeload walked in a kind of cowed silence. But in the queue I got chatting to a Mexican next to me and was amazed to find that he was studying at London University in what I used to know as the old Woolwich Polytechnic in south-east London, just a short tram ride away from where I was born and grew up. I never cease to be amazed at the coincidental meetings I occasionally have with complete strangers who turn out to come from a place, (even a street in one instance) that I have some connection with, or who know someone whom I also know.
    But this one was going to be a little troublesome! I had been observed as I chatted.

    (To be continued)

  • wherrygirl
    replied
    Many, many thanks to the four of you who have been reading my tale and have responded with such appreciation plus remarks on what you have felt while reading it. That makes me feel that you have been at my side all the time. a wonderful sensation.
    I'm writing the Leningrad section and will post it as soon as possible.

    Leave a comment:


  • janihudi
    commented on 's reply
    remarkble how you can recall so many things after all those years.
    beeing there in the time of the iron curtain it must have been a strainge feeling.
    impressive but strainge.
    never heard of Babbi Yar, but i have seen those movies about what was happend in the war, so i think that it was at Babbi Yar.

  • yvneac
    commented on 's reply
    Still flabbergasted (scotché, in French) at your story Ivy. After the sadness ofBabi Yar , the wedding party is a ray of sunlight.

  • Ralf__
    commented on 's reply
    Wonderful continuation. This was again a story which was producing pictures in my mind without having been there before. I searched a little bit for the statue, but this is quite difficult, especially because a lot of the monuments were erected during these days in the eighties. I looked also out for the description of Babi Yar and was very impressed about the shocking history of this place. I admit that i pay meanwhile less attention to WW2 things having a certain overflow. If you want you can follow in Germany 24/7 to TV channels "working up" these years. It is a large part in history education in school and many families, so also mine, can share personal memories of family members during the war years (either lost, having been in prison for years or expelled from their homes). So maybe it is no surprise, that Babi Yar was new to me and made me speechless.

  • wherrygirl
    replied
    The Tupolev touched down in Kiev at 14.50 after a 1 hr. 20 min. flight from Moscow. It took twice as long again for those of us who had stayed in the Cosmos to reach our hotel after the coach had done the rounds depositing the plane load of passengers at their various accommodations. There was time only to quickly unpack, refresh and gather in the dining room for dinner before we were due for an evening walk to Revolution Square (later renamed Independence Square). During our stay we all had our meals at the set time as in Moscow, but I don'’t remember anyone missing out at feeding time -– we had been thoroughly drilled (indoctrinated?) so it had become the norm for us.
    The first thing that struck me during our walk was the appearance of the shop windows! I had expected the same as had been evident in Moscow, blank, colourless, giving little clue as to what was to be had inside. But these were lively, the clothes shops had smart garments well displayed, other shops dressed their windows with their attractive wares, it all looked quite prosperous. In my naivety this was something that I found difficult to understand. Agreed, we were in the Ukraine, but it was all part of the USSR and I had assumed that a similar standard of living would be evident at least in the western parts of the Soviet Republics.
    Of the hotel décor I recall the dining room quite well. There presumably existed a much larger, general one because ours was very small and probably just for groups or private parties. Some very attractive tiling decorated the walls, beautifully modelled little plaques that were somewhat out of the ordinary. I wondered whether there were any shops around that might sell something similar for DIY enthusiasts. So when we were out and about several people kept an eye open for tiles for Ivy! But to no avail, unfortunately. Maybe people in the city didn’t DIT?
    Regrettably I was not drawn to Kiev as I had been to Moscow or soon would be to Leningrad. And with only three days in which to explore and a few interesting optional excursions available I decided not to lose out by going off on my own. It was a pleasant enough city in a way, with wide streets, grand squares and several parks. It was also a city of monuments. There were monuments at every corner along the boulevards, or so it seemed, monuments on each piece of slightly higher ground in the parks, or if they ran out of high ground then they built pyramids and massively tall plinths. The displays related to what must surely have been every battle fought in Kiev during WW2, as well as older ones extolling the achievements of the heroic people of Soviet Kiev after the October Revolution. The messages were hammered home from every direction. Some of the monuments, particularly those commemorating battles, were certainly impressive with the multiple figures beautifully sculpted, exuding the strength and determination of the fighters as well as the agony of the wounded.
    During that first evening'’s walk, guided by an enthusiastic and knowledgeable young man, we had paused in one of the parks to look at a particular statue. I think the image was somehow representative of Soviet youth, but can I picture in my mind the details of the statue? No! I have a booklet about Kiev, at least about its numerous monuments, and though I have scrutinised all the photos not one of them jogs my memory -– no eureka feeling. Maybe the statue had too recently been erected to be found in the booklet so, being important, received particular attention from the guide.
    I can see us all standing there gazing up at the figure which was situated atop a flight of wide steps. There we all were, listening to the young man standing to my right half way up the steps as he explained the symbolism. The American I mentioned earlier tried to get a serious conversation going with him on life under the Communist system. The questions asked were all sparked off by what seemed a genuine wish to try and understand.
    But the discussion got nowhere, needless to say, for the young chap had a well memorised answer for everything. The American gave up.
    For the following day that very short list I still have shows that a full programme had been arranged. The morning excursion was a city tour, which would have given me a much better feel for Kiev than I could have achieved wandering the streets in the limited time available. Then in the afternoon we were to go on a river trip and in the evening to dancing at the theatre. I just have no recollection of either, but must have gone to both. I would never pass up on a trip on the water and, assuming that the evening was of national dancing complete with costumes, then that is right up my street.

    Do you know, back somewhere in the early sixties (I can date it closely because my parents moved up to Bungay in 1964 and my father died two years later), my parents and I went to the Theatre Royal in Norwich where the Red Army Choir were appearing. The theatre was jam-packed and seething with excitement because they had such an excellent reputation for their deep, full-throated, powerful voices. And did they sing! Amongst their vocals they must surely have had “Kalinka” for no collection of Russian folk-songs can be complete without it. Also no audience at a live performance can help but join in with the chorus. Who can resist it? Finally, of course they did some superb Cossack dances. Who can resist that, either? The thunder of the applause nearly had the chandeliers down and the encores lasted almost as long as the original concert.
    So yes, I must have gone with the others to that display of dancing at the theatre in Kiev.

    But back to the present, or at least to 1984.
    The following afternoon was earmarked for an excursion to a site that I can picture clearly and that I will never forget. It sears the soul as yet another reminder of what man can do to man. The venue was Babi Yar. I have no wish to detail what it was about for it is well documented online. But if anyone not familiar with it wishes to do a search, make sure you find a straightforward account of the complete story, because many give only what happened at the beginning.
    The site was a deep ravine -– once it was much deeper -– and there at the top on a built-up mound to one side was a memorial to what had happened in the area during WW2. One of our group, wishing to go closer to examine the sculpture, tried to reach it by moving along the top edge of the ravine but was immediately shouted at by someone right over on the opposite side. Not understanding, he hesitated, and was hastily warned by our guide that it was sacred ground. There was silence all round as the guide gave us the facts which I am avoiding here, and the coach back to the hotel afterwards was also pretty quiet.
    Our final day in Kiev was for a morning trip to the Lavra, a complex of above-ground churches and monasteries and underground catacombs housing the mummified remains of monks who had lived there centuries ago, while in the afternoon there would be a visit to the cathedral of St. Sophia. I have faint memories of the interesting catacombs, which resembled a confusing underground maze, but I can recall nothing of the many churches at the site -– because of the lack of time I doubt whether we visited them, anyway. Similarly a search of my memory for images of the afternoon trip to St. Sophia cathedral has drawn a blank. Seeing yet another church could have put a damper on my enthusiasm and memory decided to lose the pics.
    However, our last dinner in Kiev –- ah! What an evening! We had settled happily at our two tables in the little dining room and, sheer coincidence, next to the one I was at sat a wedding party. They had arrived before us, but were still at the speeches stage so we contented ourselves with admiring the bride and her attendants and sizing up the groom. The formal - well, meant to be formal - part over they settled down to chit-chat, jokes, laughter and anticipation of a great evening feasting. Food arriving, they quickly began to tuck in. Then began the toasts. We noticed that after each one all the guests started shouting a single word over and over again until the couple stood up to kiss. Someone timed the duration of each kiss. Yes, each kiss, for this was going to continue throughout the evening. Great shouts went up after each performance and, as we learnt later, its duration was announced. We all began laughing and clapping with the wedding party, learnt the word they were chanting and did our bit to add to the din, while our grins and waves were returned with great bonhomie.
    But we wanted to know what it was that they were all calling out. And what was the custom about? The waitress explained that the word meant “kiss” in English and the couple had to hold the kiss for as long as they could, something to do with how long their love would last. But I have forgotten the word, except that I’m sure it began with the English “v” sound. Searching the web I soon found the wedding custom but could only discover that the word to be shouted out was Gorko and meant “bitter”, implying that the vodka was too bitter and the couple must kiss for as long as possible to take out the bitterness.
    Two somewhat different explanations! However, the American ordered a couple of bottles of something special to be sent over to the party and we all redoubled our efforts for the final toasts. So much laughter and cheers as we became part of the merriment made our final few hours in Kiev very, very memorable.

    And so, tomorrow – ah! Leningrad.
    (to be continued)

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  • Ralf__
    commented on 's reply
    Very impressive story, and i am glad to read, that people have been so helpful! I am quite sure that my program would have been different because of different interests, but i am not sure if i would have been so brave to explore everything on my own. I remember a trip through Eastern-Berlin during these years which was also thrilling, but we were two or three friends together - a much more comfortable feeling.

  • wherrygirl
    replied
    Many thanks, Mark and Yves, glad you are enjoying it. I'm really having fun telling you my tale - and, my goodness, how sharply it is bringing it all back to me. (Getting homesick!)

    Leave a comment:


  • yvneac
    commented on 's reply
    Agree with Mark. You are the perfect guide to visit Moscow, Ivy.

  • PoloUK
    commented on 's reply
    Lovely story Ivy, beautifully told.

  • wherrygirl
    replied
    Many, many years ago while staying in Den Haag, I went to see the Mesdag Panorama, a cylindrical painting of 19th century Scheveningen and a remarkable experience. Standing on a platform above an artificial sand-dune and with the base of the painting hidden under layers of sand and pebbles, the viewer could walk around, lean over the rails and feel they were really looking down on the beach or along the village streets. So it was with a pleasant surprise that I had read about the Borodino Panorama in Moscow, another cylindrical painting.
    No peaceful scene is portrayed there, for it depicts the battle of Borodino in which Russia fought against Napoleon’s army in 1812. For anyone interested in boning up on the battle and the museum housing the painting, the following is quite a good site. https://www.moscovery.com/battle-of-...norama-museum/

    I found the address of the museum on my Moscow street map and somehow ascertained the number of the tram I needed to get. (I have just scrutinised the Moscow map that lay buried in my overflowing map box but there is no sign of any tram routes on it. If I had bought a separate tram routes map then I would certainly have kept it, so maybe I had the information from the hotel receptionist.) My usual tram from near the hotel down into the heart of the city always deposited me near a large and presumably important road junction, so there were several other tram stops ranged along the pavement. I studied them all and found the post with the number I wanted, but decided to ask someone just to make sure. For all I knew “my” tram might go in the right direction but may not go all the way before turning back, as is the habit sometimes with public transport. I approached an elderly lady coming towards me and trotted out my attempt at “Can you help me, please?”. It was good enough to elicit a friendly smile and nod and opening the map I showed her the museum, then pointed to the tram stop and said the tram number (luckily I had learnt some simple numbers, more or less!). The old lady beamed, nodded vigorously, then took me by the hand and together we walked up to the stop and joined the queue. Next, pointing to herself and the tram number on the post, by dint of more nodding she made me understand that she also wanted that tram. Finally, bless her, pointing to herself again and to the spot on the map where she would get off, she held up three fingers, counted them off and pointed at me and the museum position.
    Who needs words???
    The tram arrived, we both got on to find it jam-packed, but as my guide moved up to let others behind us in the queue climb aboard, we became separated because I was trying to work out the ticket price and scrabbling in my purse for the correct coins to put into the machine. In the end someone helped me out! Tram clanked off, grinding and swaying its way along the track while all of us standing passengers hung on for dear life. I kept watch on my little old lady further along and after a while she squeezed her way to the front ready to alight. She craned to catch my eye, held up three fingers, pointed at me, gave a big smile and disappeared into the crowds on the pavement.
    The museum was easy to find down a side street and I went upstairs to see the painting. It was exceedingly impressive, though I’ve had to have a look at the website to remind myself of some of the details. Whether or not they were playing Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture in the background goodness knows, but if they weren’t then they should have been! When I first heard that Overture in the distant era I call my youth, how little did I know that one day I’d be standing in front of a famous painting depicting the battle and located in a city called Moscow!

    Apart from the people I encountered briefly but most enjoyably, the broad, heavily trafficked streets and the half-empty shops, another thing that struck me in Moscow was the beauty of much of the architecture of historic buildings. One of the optional coach tours took me to the Catherine Palace, where once the famous Amber Room was located. I remember the guide explaining how the latter had disappeared during WW2, the whole of the beautiful amber decorating the walls having been reputedly removed by the Nazis. Despite many theories and “red herrings” it has never been found. But the guide assured us that it would be replicated eventually. And so, a few years ago, the work was completed. I also went to the Novodevichy Convent, the site of which contained several centuries-old churches and, of course, the famous cemetery.
    One museum I was able to reach on foot was the Pushkin Gallery of Fine Arts containing centuries-old work – including precious icons in which I was very interested - up to more modern times. Following my map I came to a large roundabout with quite a few streets leading from it. One on the opposite side from where I stood seemed to lead to the Pushkin but, spying a very smartly uniformed traffic-warden nearby I asked him. I had the same little bow as the young lad in the GUM store had given me and a welcoming smile as he confirmed my road. Perhaps I looked as if I might try a short cut across the roundabout, for I remember him giving me a sort of mock stern look as he pointed his finger at the route to be followed, i.e. crossing each road one by one all the way round till I came to the one I needed. He then repeated that little bow, and it was accompanied by a friendly smile. He had probably experienced these mad foreigners making a dash for it straight into the traffic tearing through the roundabout.

    Thursday, at 13.30, was take-off time for the flight to Kiev by a Tupolev of some kind or another. Already, after only a few days in Moscow, I had the beginnings of a familiarity with that great metropolis which comes, I suppose, from pushing around on one’s own as much as possible. I just didn’t want to leave it.
    But Kiev, how very different it would prove to be……

    Just one little thing. This is what I bought at the last moment from the Intourist shop in the Cosmos hotel.

    P1200230
    by Ivy, on Flickr

    I love the shape of the setting, an isosceles triangle with the sides gently curved. It seems so quietly elegant! At 14ct. the gold has a warm, slightly rosy tinge to it – I had difficulty in finding a chain to match when I returned to England. It has remained a favourite piece to wear.
    (to be continued)

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  • yvneac
    replied
    On the Red Square, Ivy vs the Red Army. A unknown story of the Cold War.

    Leave a comment:


  • wherrygirl
    replied
    But just to backtrack a moment, back to GUM. While in there I fancied a good cup of tea. Well, this was a famous department store, wasn’t it? Well, of course ….. if you disregarded the contrast between it and those to be enjoyed at home …. so surely it would have a café? A café where I could sit down at a table with a pot of tea? They were great tea drinkers, Russians. I might even have a cake! Wandering around, upstairs and down, I found nothing. Frustrated and getting thirstier every moment, I stood wondering whether to go and brave a street café. I had already tried that, joining the queue at the counter and practicing my Russian while waiting patiently as my turn drew nearer. That had been my mistake. I soon learnt that push, shove and a loud voice was the way to get served. The girl behind the counter ignored me and served the person behind. It happened again.
    At which point I got my dander up. Letting fly a flood of English indignation, (see if they can sort that out, I had thought,) at least I’d come within their field of vision and they’d notice that I was next to be served. True enough, I had got my tea – and cake. Keeping an angry, disdainful expression on my face and glaring at the chap behind me in the queue, I had gone off to find a seat.
    Should I now march into a café, perhaps straight up to the counter and (in English, of course) demand tea? Pondering, I saw a young man approaching me. He had seen the puzzled look on my face and, giving me a really smart little bow (I’ll swear he clicked his heels as well!) asked if he could help. He asked in English! How did he know my nationality? Goodness knows, my gold watch was out of sight in my handbag. I explained my predicament and he looked sorrowfully at me, explaining that GUM didn’t have a café. We chatted for a moment and he told me that he was studying English and was happy to have an opportunity to speak it to a national. I complimented him on his excellent knowledge and pronunciation, for both were really excellent. He apologised that he had been unable to help me in my quest, gave another little bow and went off. What a pity that GUM didn’t come up to scratch, for we could have had tea together and a good long English natter.
    I probably found a café where at last I could enjoy my tea, for I don’t remember collapsing in the street from dehydration.
    However, here I was with another day to explore. A-ha! Red Square, I thought. Entering the impressive great space, my attention was immediately drawn to the beautiful St. Basil’s Cathedral. I gazed happily at that collection of domes, multicoloured, yes, but also with their brickwork sculpted into so many varying styles, demanding that you just sit down and study them properly. I gave them a long time, but not enough to do justice to the glorious display. Then I looked at the Lenin Mausoleum. The long queue of people waiting to enter rather put me off, curious though I might be to see his embalmed body. No, it was not a macabre curiosity, but in contrast to staring at great statues of famous people high up on their plinths, people wearing some kind of uniform or robe and gazing confidently into the far distance (conquering hero type), people that somehow seemed to have been not quite real, this was to see the actual body of a human being who had loomed so great in the USSR’s history and influenced its development for so long, such a seismic change from all that had gone before. But I decided that in my short stay I had better move on.
    Hardly had I got going when a platoon of guards came goose-stepping along the front of the building. Idly I watched as they approached the archway into the Kremlin complex, and I wondered what that thumping of the foot, seemingly with the force of the whole body, might be doing to the spine. But then I moved on. And, oh boy! did I put my foot in it! A great shout went up from the leader of the guards. I stood and wondered what that was all about. My standing still just made things worse. The shout was repeated, sounding more threatening, much more threatening. Someone nearby motioned for me to step outside the parallel lines marked on the paving and leading at right angles up to the archway that the guards were disappearing into. I had noticed them and others in various parts of the square, and had assumed that they were there to delineate special areas for use during displays and celebrations. I still don’t know why no casual stroller was allowed to step on the hallowed ground. But I moved, smartly though without the goose-step.
    During the afternoon I had a good wander round the shops in the central area. No, not to buy, just looking at them. After having experienced GUM I was trying to see what the individual shops had to offer the housewife. The thing that struck me immediately and which was very thwarting for a stranger was that the windows, many of which were quite large, had little or no wares to display. I stood in front of one, gazing at the complete blank behind the glass panes, just a dark hanging blind shielding any view of the inside. People, mainly women if I remember correctly, came and went but if they had bought then I could not see what it was. So in I went to see for myself. It turned out to be an indoor food market, at least that’s all I saw and I don’t recall going upstairs – if there was an upstairs. All types of food were there, grocery, greengrocery, fish, meat, bread but how little there was! I know it was afternoon and maybe housewives had diligently done their shopping before hurrying home to prepare the midday meal. But to see so little remaining on the counters came as quite a shock. I tried one or two other shops but met with similar paucity of goods.
    Leaving the main shopping area I explored the smaller side streets. I say smaller, because one of the first things that had struck me was the width of the streets in the centre of Moscow. At least two, if not three lanes each way on the major roads. But wandering along the side roads it could have been any small town.
    And here I must show the second photo of this supposedly imageless story, while warning you of one more yet to come before we leave Moscow. Strolling along, I came to a tiny little shop down two or three steps which had an array of small gifts-for-foreigners type articles in the window. At the back of my mind I had kept the thought of “Must buy something really good for Mum” and this little Aladdin’s cave might have that “something good”. In I went, was obviously identified as a foreigner and an English one at that, for I was greeted in my own language. There were some pretty little things to see, but I quickly spied something just a little different that my mother would appreciate.


    P1200221
    by Ivy, on Flickr

    I think the leaves and blossoms appliquéd on to the black background are of bamboo, cut so beautifully thin, their golden sheen catching the light at slightly differing angles according to the way of the grain on each particular piece. The veins in the leaves are accomplished by the finest of cuts, each graduated from where they spring from the main vein up to their tips. Truly a work of art.
    The little wall-hanging was very carefully wrapped and survived the three flights of my holiday yet to come. My mother was delighted and it now hangs on the wall of my living-room.
    (To be continued)




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  • janihudi
    replied
    an enomeres yourney, a holiday in a country wich is not known for there hospitality.
    Always the idea that they are looking for you in where you go and what you do.
    but a must go for a globetrotter like you

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  • yvneac
    replied
    Nice to follow you in this exotic times in Moscow Ivy. I do like the story of the lid. Sometimes these little things become the symbol of great experiences and they find their place in the day - to - day life.

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