Sympathizing With Svetlana

A bit late with this post, but things happen. To be precise, my Russian colleague in The Trade, Svetlana Marinskaya,  dropped in unexpectedly, and we spent last evening going through two bottles of superb Chardonnay that she had 'obtained'  in Ukraine. Lana, you see, is a soccer nut, and had been swanning about Poland and Ukraine watching the matches. Until she wasn't.

Now Lana and I share a history. Indeed, in Vladivostock, we had spent some time trying to kill each other. Yes, we were together in The Trade, but on opposite sides. Astute readers will suss out that we were unsuccessful in this endeavour, in that we were now happily drinking together some ten years later. Nothing personal in this, you see.

Mementos of this tussle are still with us -- a bullet scar on my right shoulder and a similar scar on Lana's inner thigh. If I had aimed a bit higher, any child bearing on her part would have....well, enough of past battles. It all goes to show that bullets and real estate share something in common: what matters, in the words of Phil Spencer and Kirstie Alsop, is "location, location, location."

Given last night's tryst with the Chardonnay, my memory of what transpired is a bit hazy in spots, but I think I remember the gist. Lana had a great time bouncing around the various stadiums in Poland, but much less so in Ukraine, although she had visited my sugar beet plantation and was impressed. Not so much with the sugar beets, but more with my Ukrainian supervisor, Bohdan.

"He's kinda cute," she said. "And don't get me wrong," she stated. "Like Bohdan, the average Ukrainian was always very kind and helpful. There was, ...er....a spot of trouble occurred when I came into conflict with the elite."

"The cronies of Viktor Yanukovych."

"Precisely. Can you imagine? There I was, having paid top ruble for a seat in the Kiev stadium. Just before the game started, I was told to vacate the seat. Some nephew or other had suddenly decided to attend. I was escorted out of the stadium by two "government officials". Bloody thugs, actually. In the passageway leading out of the stadium, the two nodded in deference to the nephew who was just entering. I mean, REALLY. What was a girl to do?"

"And....?"

"The three of them wound up in some hospital or other, and are now tending to various broken arms and legs. At that point I decided to get the hell out. No point in joining poor Yuliya in some godforsaken prison."

"Speaking of Yuliya," I put in, "what I cannot understand is why Putin hasn't resolved that situation. After all, it was she who made that oil and gas deal with old Vladimir, from which Russia has profited handsomely."

"Ah," said Lana, a touch of sorrow in her voice, "Vladimir is not the man he was. He wants to be loved and adored by the people, and the fact that a slew of people are rather vehemently protesting his policies (or lack of them) well, it grates.  He is, in my opinion, beginning to choke. Just like the Russian soccer club did. Unless there is some kind of epiphany -- "

"And pigs will fly," I interrupted.

Lana stared. "What on earth do flying pigs have to do with it?"

We had been talking in Russian, save for that last bit. Lana's English wasn't bad, but idioms are tricky. I explained the reference, and, after thinking for a moment, declared, "So, as we would say, 'And the Volga will flow no more.'"

"You have it."

At this point Lana launched into a detailed description of the various soccer matches she had attended. All of this is ill remembered -- the Chardonnay -- but one thing stuck in my mind, the perfect name of a professional athlete. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Bastien Schweinsteiger.

Auf Weidersehen.