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pink pryaniki and on his face was the broad, totally-immersed-in-the-moment grin
that I'd grown to know and like so well.
I worked my way to the centre of the crowd and quickly learned that our accom-
modation and meals for the night had already been arranged. First up we were to
visit Vladimir, whose wife was already at home cooking up a feast, and who'd be
angry if we didn't get over there right now . After that, we'd been invited to spend
the night with the family of a pleasant, but serious-looking man called Andrei.
We were escorted to Vladimir's house by a cavalcade of onlookers who cheered
as we got our ungainly bikes going. Once inside, a beaming Vladimir introduced
us to the other guest of honour. Seated proudly at the head of the table was his
favourite thing in the whole world - a huge twenty-litre jar of double-strength
samagonka . In the Russian tradition, he poured everyone a liberal shot, while ex-
plaining that he made it to sell to the village.
'Yeah! And he's his own best customer,' an old woman squawked from the
corner, receiving a rowdy burst of laughter before we all drained the shots. 'Bot-
toms up.'
Two more rounds of firewater preceded the first course, and the meagre helping
of food was quickly followed by more rounds again. With an empty stomach full
of potent alcohol, my impressions of the evening soon became a blur. There must
have been over twenty people in the room, but to save my life I couldn't remember
more than two or three. The only distinct memories after those initial rounds were
of everyone dancing to loud music from a tinny gramophone, and of a teary Vladi-
mir holding me in a tight, slobbering embrace, slurring drunkenly in my ear. He'd
forgotten our names.
'I have to thank you and praise you and Tom like the gods, Kosta. You have
made this into the best day of my entire life!'
Thanks to a healthy cyclist's metabolism, I was starting to sober up by the time
we moved a few doors down the road to Andrei's home. Most of the crowd had
dispersed by this stage but a twisted handlebar and a bounced-off pannier bag told
us that a few intrepid souls had obviously taken the bikes for a ride.
We pushed our bikes along the muddy road, past high paling fences and sturdy
solid log walls punctuated with warm, friendly windows. Vladimir - still devastat-
ingly drunk - escorted us to Andrei's front gate and bid us a slurred and incompre-
hensible farewell before wandering slowly back home. We pushed open the gate
and wheeled our bikes into what seemed another world.
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