Genuine attitude towards Russians in Europe

2024 Author: Seth Attwood | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-16 15:55

“… When they talk about global peace, in fact, they do not mean the world of peoples, but the world of elites who suddenly emerged from the system of national control and make decisions behind the backs of the local population,” writes in the book “People without an elite: between despair and hope”philosopher, political scientist, former professor at Moscow State University Alexander Panarin. And further: "… the elite, reoriented to global priorities, ceased to be the plenipotentiary of the nation, and its voice." We will also look at Europe from the inside through the eyes of an ordinary tourist.

Adventures of "Alenka"

A benevolence instilled in respect and piety. Not the slightest bit of sarcasm or disdain. No cold indifference or polite refusal. Not a smile with dislike in my soul. I was wasting myself, warmed up by our political TV shows. In Europe, Russians are treated with the utmost respect and complacency.

… My wife and I love to travel. Usually we settle in inexpensive apartments, ordered and paid for a month, or even earlier. A stranger, but an apartment, not a hotel room, gives, albeit a fleeting, illusion of some kind of kinship with the city you came to as a tourist. In addition, home comfort cannot be replaced by anything, and we are no longer young.

My wife and I have a rule - to leave behind an apartment cleaner than it was before we moved in. And be sure to have a bunch of fresh flowers on the table. Draining the kitchen table and stove before leaving, taking out the trash, wiping the coffee table in the loggia and the writing table, I defiantly think: "Let Europe know ours …"

When meeting the owner of the apartment, we listen to a polite instruction (do not smoke in the apartment, do not drive guests, do not make noise after 23:00, do not throw bottles from the balcony, do not empty cigarette butts and paper into the toilet, do not steal towels …). The list of warnings and prohibitions may seem curious, if not offensive, and speaks of the sad experience of the owners who risked renting out to tourists.

After listening to the monologue of a slightly agitated hostess (and now, please, your passports, I will take a copy of them), saying goodbye until the day of departure, I will definitely give her Alenka chocolate, specially brought from Moscow. The proven Soviet brand of the famous confectionery factory "Red October". There is no such chocolate abroad. There is better, but there is no such thing. And the girl Alena, with her eyes in half the sky on the wrapper, once again hints to foreign women that the most beautiful women in the world grow out of our girls.

But seriously. Foreign hostesses leave enthusiastic responses about such tourists on social networks and recommend us to everyone, everyone, everyone …

In Florence, "Alenka" left for her intended purpose. In Genoa, Alenka had a different story.

… It was pointless to wait for a pause in the conversation, but we were in a hurry. When two Italians are talking (or rather, they are shooting in bursts of phrases), there can be no pauses by definition. I burst in with a question at a moment when one of the interlocutors took a breath. It was at the railway station, and I asked the one that seemed more respectable to me, which means with knowledge of English, which bus is more convenient to get to Garibaldi Street (local taxi drivers, which is written even in their Italian tourist memos, when boarding call one the price, and when disembarking, the price increases several times - therefore, the bus is more reliable). The woman instantly switched to me, forgetting about the one with whom she had just hooked her tongues. My request was more serious. She saw it from my wife's anxious look. As luck would have it, there is no free Wi-Fi at the train station in Florence, and we could not get through to the owner of the apartment who met us.

The Italian's English was even more flamboyant. The matter ended with the fact that Alba (this is how she introduced herself as a middle-aged Italian, “alba” - from the Italian “dawn”) called the owner of our apartment from her phone, specified the time and place of the meeting, changed her route, got on the 23 D bus with us and, making sure that now we will definitely not get lost, I jumped out only at a stop earlier to change to my bus. Saying goodbye, we hugged each other. I gave Alba "Alenka".

We parted as relatives, and it took only 15-20 minutes. At the door of the bus, Alba showed us her thumb: "Moscow - in!". Although I have never been to Moscow

On the bus in Florence, I gave way to a lady (her age could be judged by her husband leaning heavily on a stick). The lady thanked in English and immediately said that she had spent six hours on her feet, four of which were in the Uffiza gallery, that she was English, and her husband was German, that the last time they were in Florence was on her 60th birthday, which means - a long time ago that their son was married to a Spanish woman, and their granddaughter was friends with a Swede …

“An international family,” I replied simply.

- Yes. - The English lady sighed. - We live in two cities - six months in Berlin, six months in the suburbs of London. But I dream to live the rest of my life in Florence …

Following etiquette, I invited the lady to Moscow. Saying goodbye, we hugged each other. The next "Alenka", of course, I presented to this English "queen".

So much for the attitude to Russian "terrorists", "poisoners", "conquerors" … To the men in "earflaps", "smelling of vodka and garlic."

In Genoa, a wife was drying her hair with a hairdryer, and immediately the lights went out in the whole apartment. Ok, it was morning. The voltage relay reacted elementary from the overvoltage in the network. Trifle. Open the flap, return the relay to its original position and point. But there was no guarantee that the failure would not happen again. Obviously something with a hairdryer. We call the hostess. A thousand apologies! Half an hour later they brought us a new hairdryer and … a huge box of Italian cookies as a gift.

This household trifle, it would seem, could become a crack in our relationship, but it, on the contrary, brought us closer together. We reacted to the trifle, as it should - with a benevolent smile, and the "Italian side" - with triple responsibility and gratitude for our tolerance. In social networks, we exchanged warm reviews about each other.

In the same Genoa, a mother and her eight-year-old daughter were not too lazy to make a good detour with us in order to take us through the labyrinths of narrow port streets to the oceanarium

In Milan, a very young man, probably a student (that is, a representative of the newest political formation, in my opinion, "must be" stuffed with anti-Russian sentiments), turned off the music in his smartphone, which he enjoyed the whole walk, set up the navigator and specified our path to the "millimeter" to the hotel "Champion", wishing a good day and sunny weather (it was drizzling).

Yes, I have not met such educated young people in my native Moscow for a long time! Or am I unlucky?

We love Russians - Russians love us

Thin, sun-tanned, athletic, confident, with piercing eyes and sharp facial features, like a Hollywood cowboy, taxi driver Mirko (a friend of the owners of our apartments in Sveti Stefan in Montenegro) during the holiday season (from May to October), from from dawn to dawn, seven days a week, meets, delivers to hotels and villas, and sees off vacationers. He sleeps, according to him, no more than five hours a day, but he, Mirko, as soon as we greeted at the Tivat airport, began our dialogue with an anecdote about Montenegrins.

- There are two friends. Mirko smiles slyly into the salon rear-view mirror. - One asks the other: "What would you do if you had a lot, a lot of money?" “I would sit in a rocking chair and watch the sunset,” a friend replies. "Well … you look at the year … the second … I'm tired … Then what?" "In the third year, I will slowly begin to swing."

Mirko laughs. And we, passengers, too, but after a pause, having digested a prickly mixture of Serbian and Russian words. Mirko, gesticulating and almost not touching the steering wheel, masterly gets out of the disorderly "herd" of cars, in response to different voices of horns. We are taxiing onto the mountain serpentine of the track. To the right is the cliff and the sea. To the left is a rocky wall, cynical in its indifference. The sea, then breathes deeply, then does not breathe at all. Just like we are in the car. Montenegrin Serbs are dashing drivers, which they are proud of and flaunt.

Mirko is also politically savvy.

- The current president is sitting here. Mirko released the steering wheel for a second and tapped himself on the neck. - He wants to join NATO, but we do not want to. We are a small country. We have a lot of sun and sea. We love Russians - Russians love us. See how many are built! They are all Russians. The Russians have arranged modern Montenegro. We are grateful to you.

Mirko wanted to turn to us, who were sitting in the back seat and stretch out his hand, but caught himself in time - the car was entering a steep mountain bend.

These are not just words.

You can feel the benevolence of Montenegrins at every step - in shops, cafes, on the streets, on the beaches … - they will tell you, show you, take you by the hand. With a smile. With warmth in my eyes. True, there are many Russians. Both tourists and those who chose Montenegro for residence

In the city of Bar, which is on the border with Albania, a woman, seeing that I am looking through the eyes of someone who could photograph me and my wife near the traditional symbolic city monument "I love Bar", offers her help. We started talking. Nadia is from Perm. More precisely, she was born in the Far East, married in Perm. She gave birth to a daughter. I opened my own business. The daughter has grown. It didn't work out with my husband … I sent my daughter to study in England, and she herself moved to Montenegro, to Bar. Business in Perm is flourishing, as evidenced by the daughter's place of study and the luxurious "gelding" - the fusion of science and passion. Nadia opened a business in Bar in order to have a convenient visa.

- Once every six months I cross the border with Albania, drink coffee there, and return.

She took us in her Mercedes to the Old Town - the main historical landmark of Bar. We parted as relatives.

People are becoming kinder under the Montenegrin sun.

A smile makes everyone brighter at once …

They say that in German you can only command. Conduct business conversations in English. In Italian - sing and confess your love …

In Spanish, you can do both, and the third, but with redoubled passion.

We rented a tiny studio apartment 20 minutes walk from the Prado Museum, for which, in fact, we came to Madrid. In the old, on the border with the "colored", quarter. The border is a narrow, outstretched street. Window to window. If you do not curtain the windows and do not lower the blinds, then your personal space becomes the space of your neighbor. And vice versa. Life at a glance. It is customary here to meet your gaze, smile at each other, and it is better to wave your hand as a sign of mutual sympathy: "Nola" ("Ola-ah-ah") …

You will hear this “hola” in different intonations and say it yourself dozens of times a day - at the counters in the store (meat, dairy, fish, bread … - separately); paying at the checkout; from a passer-by who accidentally meets your gaze; necessarily - from a neighbor at the elevator or at the entrance; at the ticket office in the subway, in a pharmacy, in a bakery, in a bar … This short greeting with two chanting vowels, as it were, informs the interlocutor of your good intentions and trust, eliminates suspicion and anxiety. If you want, it unites with an invisible thread, albeit temporary, but of fellow countrymen - we are in Spain and are happy about it. We came here with the confidence that we will love it. And we like …

"Colored" people fill the quarter with their colors. They live in it according to the laws of their national traditions and habits, but feeling the edge, realizing that it is foolish and dangerous to climb into a strange monastery with their own charter

It has its own way of speaking, moving, gesticulating, smiling, keeping quiet, drinking coffee … Its own way of dressing. Often out of season and at the wrong time motley, as it seems to a visiting tourist. However, not defiantly motley, but only highlighting one or another exotic dressed person against the general background. Appearance, like a "business card" - I am from the northern part of Africa, and I am from Latin America. It's like a signal to others: when communicating with me, be kind enough to take into account the peculiarities of my "I".

Luridly bright, hip-length cotton tunics ("dashiki") with jeans; to transparency, snow-white, light as tulle, dresses for men ("kandura"), from under which one can see weary feet in sandals … T-shirts painted under a peacock's tail; Arab male jalabiya; Indian harem pants; tunics grand-bubu, tailored a la bat …

A strict English three-piece suit, usually blue, with a tasteful tie, a dashing blue (Hemingway style) is a rarity here. You cross the street and physically feel the change in the quality of life. The black woman sat in the shade of magnolias and completely merged with the blackness. Only the ember of a cigarette revealed its presence in this black square of Malevich. Probably, in this quarter, they talk, quarrel and laugh louder than in the rest, but (surprisingly) this does not create a sense of anxiety and tension. However, whoever wants, he will take delight for aggression. The hare hole, even in the absence of the hare, is full of fear, Jules Renard wittily noted.

There are many street vendors from the Black Continent in Madrid. Bags, bijouterie, dark glasses, umbrellas … Cords are threaded into the seams of the tent, on which the goods are lying. At the sight of the police, the tent instantly folds into a bag. Such traders can occupy an entire street. I wonder who this discounted junk is intended for, for what buyer? I saw dark-skinned sellers asking the price, but never bought anything.

As soon as not in Spanish, fragile Laura (mostly middle-aged Spanish women, dumpy, like peasant women), in which I immediately guessed the teacher, the mistress of a modest apartment, which my wife and I rented in Madrid, with humor and to the smallest detail explained to us how to use the household and technical stuffing of her home, and, saying goodbye "until the next arrival in Madrid," so … the gas in the bottle in the kitchen ran out. A hot veal steak frying pan gurgled deliciously with olive oil, and the blue-and-yellow wick of the flame died underneath. I saw this as a symbol and asked myself a sad question: what are we Russians going to do if our main breadwinner, gas, turns away from us? However, less than half an hour later, Laura brought us a new bottle and a basket of fruit as a sign of apology for the inconvenience.

I reassured her:

- It is only in Russia that gas is immortal.

We washed down the steak with wine.

Please, sir

After watching television political shows with the participation of politicians, political scientists and fellow journalists, I went to Poland with an uncomfortable feeling of anxiety - how will they receive it? Will not the trip be spoiled by the petty dirty tricks of the “offended against Russia” Poles? Heartburn reminded of themselves poisonous words of the popular in Moscow Polish journalist Zygmund Dzenchkovsky (a frequent guest of television political sittings on all our patient state channels until masochism): "Russia is so tired of all Europe!" Dzenchkovsky, for persuasiveness, slashed himself in the throat in the studio with the edge of his hand. At the same time, a scorpion that has just bitten an enemy would envy the look of the "feather shark".

When I was going to Poland in the morning, I took the reply of my Polish colleague personally. My son, who had just returned from a trip to Poland, reassured me: “Dad, don't take it to heart. That's what the show is for the chairs to fly. The Poles respect us at least. I felt very comfortable there."

The son is 23 years old. Generation without a trail of "historical dust". Moreover, he was a successful jazz pianist. A man of the most indifferent profession to politics. He feels good. And to me, already a gray-haired "journalistic wolf" with a Soviet biography, if desired, they can always demonstrate in practice the words of Dzenchkovsky's colleague. I did not exclude, for example, that in a cafe or restaurant a waiter, having guessed the Russians in my wife and me, might spit on a plate, and then bring us this “delicacy” with a smile: “Please, pan”.

There are historical reasons for my "schizophrenia". So in Skaryszewski Park in Warsaw, just before our trip to Poland, unknown persons desecrated a monument to Soviet soldiers. A swastika and the emblem of the armed forces of the Polish underground during the Second World War "Home Army" were painted on the monument. The monument was spoiled by the inscriptions: "Red Plague", "Down with communism!", "Get out!" Vandals repeatedly poured red paint on this monument to Soviet soldiers in Warsaw, wrote obscene words. In a word, my fears of the known ill-will of the Poles were well-grounded.

Imagine my amazement when in all the cities of Poland we traveled through (Warsaw - Wroclaw - Krakow - Warsaw) we were received as relatives. And they will prompt, and they will show, and they will take you by the hand …

We jumped into the tram, but little things to pay for the fare, no. No problem! Each passenger changes with a smile. Are you at a loss how to pay with a card through the terminal? Will show. And in shops, and in cafes, and in the compartment of trains, and at the ticket offices of railway stations … - all courtesy itself. I didn’t expect, and the girl at the Wroclaw railway ticket office suggested that I was entitled to a discount by age. And she offered a third cheaper ticket. Where is the poison?

The journalist Dariusz Tsyhol, who fell out of favor with the authorities just because he studied at Moscow State University and (of course) knows (and loves!) The Russian language, “got my brains right” at a dinner party. The old man, Darek got excited, the common people do not hold evil against Russia, against the Russians. Furthermore! They are respected at least for the fact that you are the only ones who actually oppose the States.

Dariush (his friends call him Darek) graduated from the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University in 1988. He published a series of articles in the Polish online edition of the Voice of Russia, for which the right-wing weekly Gazeta Polska accused Darek of … an anti-state conspiracy. The authors of the article "The Shadow of Moscow on Polish Television" convinced readers that an anti-Polish conspiracy was brewing inside the state television TVP (then Darek worked on TV). One of the main “heroes” of the “conspiracy”, the authors made Darek, who worked as a correspondent for the Polish Press Agency in Moscow, a war reporter, and deputy editor-in-chief of the NIE newspaper. Dariush Tsykhol was called the "mouthpiece of the Kremlin" and "Russian agent". Dariusz is now the head of the Facts and Myths weekly. He also loves Russia and the Russian language. And he did not deviate one iota from his views. So that's it.

At dinner with our Polish colleague, we agreed that the fact that Russia is blamed for all the troubles of modern Europe is worse not for Russia, but for Europe itself. For Russophobia disorients European politicians. Paralyzes their professional will. Slips false landmarks, and they hit false targets

There is no single, like-minded Europe. The European is rebooting and not everyone understands how it will end.

I began this essay with a quote from a book by the philosopher Alexander Panarin. I will end with his own conclusion: “The elites who wished to become global did not only renounce their national identity and the protection of national interests. They refused to share with their own peoples the hardships of existence associated with the commandment "in the sweat of your brow to get your daily bread."