Post by Drew on Oct 19, 2004 8:46:16 GMT
Had to split this into 2 as I went over the 10,000 character rule ;D
Roll up, ladies and gentlemen, for a tale full of
Eastern (European) promise... The promise being the
one I made to myself never to go back there, once I
had (finally) got out of Chisinau airport...
My epic journey began on the Tuesday morning, with
that singular pleasure I get whenever I go to a game,
home or away. I am the sole member of the Zug (near
Zurich) TA, meaning that I am always on my Jack
walking through the streets of my home town to get to
the airport, kilted up. Try it sometime. There's
safety in numbers, even as few as two, even outwith
Alba, but cycling along the streets of a Swiss town at
7.45am in kilt and "battle dress" guarantees you more
than a sideways glance.
By the time I got to Budapest, however, after the
first leg of my flight, the kilts were beginning to
assemble. Dave and Mags fae Leith, David fae Kings
Lynn (this TA malarkey gets more Ingerlish converts
every day. I ought to set up SassenachTA. Professor
Aitken could be president...) The flight itself
included BELTA's only two remaining members, who took
the P155 out of me mercilessly for my Valencia
escapades. No chance of my getting into any mischief
on this trip, though - passport and dosh were in a
bum-bag, and I'd travelled light - a rucksack with a
few spare clothes and my glasses and keys was all I
needed. And I certainly was going to go the official
taxi route this time and avoid being picked up by
kindly locals intent on violating my Franco-Swiss
behind...
Into Kishinev/Chisinau and off to the Hotel Jolly,
where the wine festival was still going strong, mainly
due to TAMBer Chisinau Andrew's girlfriend serving us
free vino. All good. Harry my Valencian saviour was
there, and I promised him I'd steer clear of mishaps
this time. Met up with "bedfellows" for the trip,
Marky and fellow WEST-er big Alan, and the day turned
into night at Club Roma, Kishinev's hippest,
happeningest nite-spot. The ladies were Eastern
European, ie fit but they knew it, but the language
barrier seemed to be proving a stumbling block.
"English?" "Français?" "Deutsch?"... "No,
Raahhhhssian" came the reply, so it seemed to be a big
nyet all round on the Svetlana Nanjiani front (though
a few happy campers seemed to fluent in the language
of lurv/pivo).
Back to the hotel at 3ish. I repaired swiftly to the
bar for tre bere, as they say in Moldovan, and by the
time I'd parted with the lei (all 15 pence worth), I
returned to find my komradskis in charming company.
Bleedin' 'ell, I thought... how'd they manage to pull
in 30 seconds at 3am in a deserted hotel lobby? It
only took 20 minutes and Marky telling me "Drew,
they're hookers" for me to realise that these were
indeed Baboushkas of the night. Marky was doing a
splendid line in stringing them along with such gems
as "So, where d'ye work?" "Here. In hotel." "Is that
right? What d'ye do?" "Services" came the diplomatic
reply... Classic stuff. Despite the ladies' claims
that for 100 Euros, the boys could have one each for
the night and, regarding your humble scribe, "he can
watch. No extra charge", the WEST-ers knew that they
had better than that waiting at home for them and we
retired, unbowed and unsullied.
Wednesday. The day of the game. Up early and into a
Joe Bax-ski to the plusher side of town to hook up
with a predominantly Loony Alba minibus tour. Diggie
Don and MoFae were just pulling up in their own
jalopsky, and the latter proceeded to distinguish
himself by sitting down at the first available kilted
table and downing a jug of milk in one, pausing only
to spill some down his ocelot-skin jaikit. The rest of
us got free breakfast, purely by dint of being
souvenir photograph material for the waitresses. Nice
one.
The tour got underway, the party including an unknown
Londoner by the name of Brian who seemed to be a Nobby no-mates and happy to tag along (and what with Artour not making it out of his scratcher in time, we had a seat to fill). We made it 35 yards down the road
before our first stop, at a local supermarket for the
cairry-oot. 64 cans of Baltica were purchased, along
with a bottle of pepper vodka which warmed the cockles
in more ways than one. As we pulled away, Singing Phil made a half-hearted attempt at a head count and we realised that we were a piper, or rather a Brian, down. We presumed that the 30 Euro entrance fee had put him off (Gad, but they can be grippy, these Southerners). Either that, or it was the prospect of 8 hours with Singing Phil...
And off we headed, to Orheuil Vechi, the old
monastery. I could make up some pish about its
history, but truth be told, I was supping the pepper
voddy on the back seat, listening to The Tevendale
opinion on Baltica beer and Kellas@MyMinibusHell.com,
so the religious and cultural significance of this
Carpathian jewel was somewhat lost on me. Particularly
after the second stop, for a wee warming... vodka. In
fires Phil, dragging the delectable Karina (our
translator and tour guide for the day) to the bar and
ordering 13 vodkas. "What kind?" "Oh, the cheapest..."
We continued making slow progress, stopped by "Drive"
not knowing where said Orheuil was (one tourist spot
and oor drive couldnae find it) and then to cross what
we prayed was not the border into Transnistria, but
which turned out to be the ticket office for the
monastery (about 5 miles up the road from it). A
convertible Lada freewheeled past with a 3-piece suite
strapped to the back. If we hadn't realise by then
that we were in the depths of the former Soviet Union,
we did now.
We finally reach the monastery, but not before a brisk
walk up a sizeable hill, past bemused locals who were
treated to some Scottish hands across the watter by
Phil, distributing biros, spare change and Tunnocks
tea cakes from a seemingly Tardis-like sporran (don't
ask...) Once we were allowed into the monastery, it
was a case of spitting out the chuddy, removing the
Glengarries and appreciating the fact that this was a
13th century orthodox place of worship, still in use
today - a fact to which the humble, bearded monk
attested. The walls and floor were hewn of stone, as
was the incredibly low roof, constructed deliberately
at a height to make one bow one's head, in reverence
to the Lord.
In another attempt at pan-European bridge-building,
tour operator extraordinaire Scott Kelly spied a
guest book and decided to leave his name, and by
extension the mark of Scotland as a nation, for
posterity. It was only after he had put pen to paper
and seen the already peely-waley monk blanching even
further than usual that he looked at the other
signatures in said tome. "Jesus C, 32", "Francis of A,
1351", "ScottK, 2004". This was, it turned out, an
age-old prayer book, set aside for intercessions for
the souls of the dying. Ach well, 'twas a mistake
easily made, but one which will haunt Mr Kelly on
trips for decades to come.
It was decided to beat a hasty retreat, so we headed
hostelry-wards. Unfortunately, certain members of the
party deemed it necessary to stop whenever we
encountered peasant locals, descend from the bus and
patronise them with sweets, biros and
photos-with-a-Glengarry. Hunger and full bladders soon
put a stop to this, however, and we found our Moldovan
lodge. The owner, with an eye for a fast
leu/Euro/dollar, whipped out his national costume (one
of those white lacey embroidered Easter European jobs)
and was soon serenading us with the national
instrument. After a few tunes on the Moldovan recorder
(I kid you not), Tom reciprocated with the ol'
harmonica and then it was sausages all round. Sausage
soup, sausage and polenta grill and sausage wine. Not
that we cared, after our harrowing morning.
We were, of course, there for a fitba match, so we
wended oor merry way back to Chisinau, aided and
abetted of course, by Mr McFadden's vocal chords. The
vodka seemed to be having an effect on him, however,
as the ballads became ever bawdier. Singing Filth, as
he is now known, only stopped when we got into town
and halted at a wayside vodka emporium, giving us the
chance to drink vodka in the freezing cold whilst
singing TA songs at bemused locals. This
halt did, however, give one of our number the
opportunity to fire into the lovely Katrina, local
lass but a Harvard graduate, so a smart cookie. She
also had a boyfriend of 13 years standing in town, not
that this stopped our tartan-trewsered lothario.
Should said footsoldier have a lassie at home, I'll
spare his name and merely say that he has been seen in
online versions of the Herald under a "Vogts must go"
banner since then. And if he's single, then he'll be shouting his name fae the rooftops as Katrina was an affa bonny quine.
Game time approacheth, but not before a trip back to
the hotel bar. Ever one for a bargain (I told you we
Southerners were grippy), I spied a hairdresser in the
hotel. Vlad's yer uncle, I thought, as (a) haircuts in
Switzerland are £15 a pop (hence also having one in St Galmier...), and (b) this was the only place in town to have hot running water. She washed my hair twice... ooh, bliss... and for £3.50, I got the most Soviet haircut this side of David McCallum as Ilya Kuryakin in "The Man from UNCLE". I am reliably informed that it is, actually, a Franz Ferdinand-style flick, making me currently "all that".
Will Drew survive? What further misfortune can possible befall him? Tune in to part two (I'll do it as a reply to this post...)
Roll up, ladies and gentlemen, for a tale full of
Eastern (European) promise... The promise being the
one I made to myself never to go back there, once I
had (finally) got out of Chisinau airport...
My epic journey began on the Tuesday morning, with
that singular pleasure I get whenever I go to a game,
home or away. I am the sole member of the Zug (near
Zurich) TA, meaning that I am always on my Jack
walking through the streets of my home town to get to
the airport, kilted up. Try it sometime. There's
safety in numbers, even as few as two, even outwith
Alba, but cycling along the streets of a Swiss town at
7.45am in kilt and "battle dress" guarantees you more
than a sideways glance.
By the time I got to Budapest, however, after the
first leg of my flight, the kilts were beginning to
assemble. Dave and Mags fae Leith, David fae Kings
Lynn (this TA malarkey gets more Ingerlish converts
every day. I ought to set up SassenachTA. Professor
Aitken could be president...) The flight itself
included BELTA's only two remaining members, who took
the P155 out of me mercilessly for my Valencia
escapades. No chance of my getting into any mischief
on this trip, though - passport and dosh were in a
bum-bag, and I'd travelled light - a rucksack with a
few spare clothes and my glasses and keys was all I
needed. And I certainly was going to go the official
taxi route this time and avoid being picked up by
kindly locals intent on violating my Franco-Swiss
behind...
Into Kishinev/Chisinau and off to the Hotel Jolly,
where the wine festival was still going strong, mainly
due to TAMBer Chisinau Andrew's girlfriend serving us
free vino. All good. Harry my Valencian saviour was
there, and I promised him I'd steer clear of mishaps
this time. Met up with "bedfellows" for the trip,
Marky and fellow WEST-er big Alan, and the day turned
into night at Club Roma, Kishinev's hippest,
happeningest nite-spot. The ladies were Eastern
European, ie fit but they knew it, but the language
barrier seemed to be proving a stumbling block.
"English?" "Français?" "Deutsch?"... "No,
Raahhhhssian" came the reply, so it seemed to be a big
nyet all round on the Svetlana Nanjiani front (though
a few happy campers seemed to fluent in the language
of lurv/pivo).
Back to the hotel at 3ish. I repaired swiftly to the
bar for tre bere, as they say in Moldovan, and by the
time I'd parted with the lei (all 15 pence worth), I
returned to find my komradskis in charming company.
Bleedin' 'ell, I thought... how'd they manage to pull
in 30 seconds at 3am in a deserted hotel lobby? It
only took 20 minutes and Marky telling me "Drew,
they're hookers" for me to realise that these were
indeed Baboushkas of the night. Marky was doing a
splendid line in stringing them along with such gems
as "So, where d'ye work?" "Here. In hotel." "Is that
right? What d'ye do?" "Services" came the diplomatic
reply... Classic stuff. Despite the ladies' claims
that for 100 Euros, the boys could have one each for
the night and, regarding your humble scribe, "he can
watch. No extra charge", the WEST-ers knew that they
had better than that waiting at home for them and we
retired, unbowed and unsullied.
Wednesday. The day of the game. Up early and into a
Joe Bax-ski to the plusher side of town to hook up
with a predominantly Loony Alba minibus tour. Diggie
Don and MoFae were just pulling up in their own
jalopsky, and the latter proceeded to distinguish
himself by sitting down at the first available kilted
table and downing a jug of milk in one, pausing only
to spill some down his ocelot-skin jaikit. The rest of
us got free breakfast, purely by dint of being
souvenir photograph material for the waitresses. Nice
one.
The tour got underway, the party including an unknown
Londoner by the name of Brian who seemed to be a Nobby no-mates and happy to tag along (and what with Artour not making it out of his scratcher in time, we had a seat to fill). We made it 35 yards down the road
before our first stop, at a local supermarket for the
cairry-oot. 64 cans of Baltica were purchased, along
with a bottle of pepper vodka which warmed the cockles
in more ways than one. As we pulled away, Singing Phil made a half-hearted attempt at a head count and we realised that we were a piper, or rather a Brian, down. We presumed that the 30 Euro entrance fee had put him off (Gad, but they can be grippy, these Southerners). Either that, or it was the prospect of 8 hours with Singing Phil...
And off we headed, to Orheuil Vechi, the old
monastery. I could make up some pish about its
history, but truth be told, I was supping the pepper
voddy on the back seat, listening to The Tevendale
opinion on Baltica beer and Kellas@MyMinibusHell.com,
so the religious and cultural significance of this
Carpathian jewel was somewhat lost on me. Particularly
after the second stop, for a wee warming... vodka. In
fires Phil, dragging the delectable Karina (our
translator and tour guide for the day) to the bar and
ordering 13 vodkas. "What kind?" "Oh, the cheapest..."
We continued making slow progress, stopped by "Drive"
not knowing where said Orheuil was (one tourist spot
and oor drive couldnae find it) and then to cross what
we prayed was not the border into Transnistria, but
which turned out to be the ticket office for the
monastery (about 5 miles up the road from it). A
convertible Lada freewheeled past with a 3-piece suite
strapped to the back. If we hadn't realise by then
that we were in the depths of the former Soviet Union,
we did now.
We finally reach the monastery, but not before a brisk
walk up a sizeable hill, past bemused locals who were
treated to some Scottish hands across the watter by
Phil, distributing biros, spare change and Tunnocks
tea cakes from a seemingly Tardis-like sporran (don't
ask...) Once we were allowed into the monastery, it
was a case of spitting out the chuddy, removing the
Glengarries and appreciating the fact that this was a
13th century orthodox place of worship, still in use
today - a fact to which the humble, bearded monk
attested. The walls and floor were hewn of stone, as
was the incredibly low roof, constructed deliberately
at a height to make one bow one's head, in reverence
to the Lord.
In another attempt at pan-European bridge-building,
tour operator extraordinaire Scott Kelly spied a
guest book and decided to leave his name, and by
extension the mark of Scotland as a nation, for
posterity. It was only after he had put pen to paper
and seen the already peely-waley monk blanching even
further than usual that he looked at the other
signatures in said tome. "Jesus C, 32", "Francis of A,
1351", "ScottK, 2004". This was, it turned out, an
age-old prayer book, set aside for intercessions for
the souls of the dying. Ach well, 'twas a mistake
easily made, but one which will haunt Mr Kelly on
trips for decades to come.
It was decided to beat a hasty retreat, so we headed
hostelry-wards. Unfortunately, certain members of the
party deemed it necessary to stop whenever we
encountered peasant locals, descend from the bus and
patronise them with sweets, biros and
photos-with-a-Glengarry. Hunger and full bladders soon
put a stop to this, however, and we found our Moldovan
lodge. The owner, with an eye for a fast
leu/Euro/dollar, whipped out his national costume (one
of those white lacey embroidered Easter European jobs)
and was soon serenading us with the national
instrument. After a few tunes on the Moldovan recorder
(I kid you not), Tom reciprocated with the ol'
harmonica and then it was sausages all round. Sausage
soup, sausage and polenta grill and sausage wine. Not
that we cared, after our harrowing morning.
We were, of course, there for a fitba match, so we
wended oor merry way back to Chisinau, aided and
abetted of course, by Mr McFadden's vocal chords. The
vodka seemed to be having an effect on him, however,
as the ballads became ever bawdier. Singing Filth, as
he is now known, only stopped when we got into town
and halted at a wayside vodka emporium, giving us the
chance to drink vodka in the freezing cold whilst
singing TA songs at bemused locals. This
halt did, however, give one of our number the
opportunity to fire into the lovely Katrina, local
lass but a Harvard graduate, so a smart cookie. She
also had a boyfriend of 13 years standing in town, not
that this stopped our tartan-trewsered lothario.
Should said footsoldier have a lassie at home, I'll
spare his name and merely say that he has been seen in
online versions of the Herald under a "Vogts must go"
banner since then. And if he's single, then he'll be shouting his name fae the rooftops as Katrina was an affa bonny quine.
Game time approacheth, but not before a trip back to
the hotel bar. Ever one for a bargain (I told you we
Southerners were grippy), I spied a hairdresser in the
hotel. Vlad's yer uncle, I thought, as (a) haircuts in
Switzerland are £15 a pop (hence also having one in St Galmier...), and (b) this was the only place in town to have hot running water. She washed my hair twice... ooh, bliss... and for £3.50, I got the most Soviet haircut this side of David McCallum as Ilya Kuryakin in "The Man from UNCLE". I am reliably informed that it is, actually, a Franz Ferdinand-style flick, making me currently "all that".
Will Drew survive? What further misfortune can possible befall him? Tune in to part two (I'll do it as a reply to this post...)
