Holiday is a small life ofIs free, at last!
Having appeared on holiday moreover and for the whole month, I began to think of with what to me to take the first two weeks of the deserved freedom before jerking to the family for one thousand kilometers. That holiday is as an exit to freedom, accurately you feel in the first day. Having hardly woken up in the morning, as usual at the crack of dawn, without jumping from a bad sound of an alarm clock that on the submachine gun “wash, swallow, put on“, you slowly overcomes dozing and sluggish understanding that today there is no place to hurry still. Having rolled about in unusual luxury at most half an hour, you, at last, do not maintain unusual morning inaction, and, having jumped from a bed, run out in July, already from a rannitsa the yard which is filled in with yellow paint of the summer sun which deafens you by singing of birds, hum of bees, and silence …
I here, not sluggish and vague recognition that you are free, deafens, stuns you, and you without constraining and without asking again itself as so whether and the truth, internally you triumph, making some foolish gurgling the sounds reminding whether sobbing, whether triumph. As the late catharsis.
At once gait changes. From tired and business, she on herself as if the own master, becomes elastic and somewhere purposeful. Where, only she knows so far, but she is full of hope and the pleasure promising, the purposes is full of some only it clear. Each your step resounds, gives to all body, and legs as in the childhood, are ready to incur you anywhere - at first, there, then here, and after further away.
You approach a mirror, and instead of gloomy, is eternal something the anxious mine of the tired of life and already aging man, you see a light face of the boy which is joyful, let through a bristle and morning bags - eyelids, slightly considerably smiles to you. You for some reason smile to it, it you, and you understand that life is not lived yet, and ahead there is a lot of good. No, you prove nothing to yourself, any auto-suggestion, installations and other nonsense. You do not speak by the fallen voice “I am happy, I am happy, I am happy“ that with each new word to trust in this false mantra less and less. You do not make any efforts, and meanwhile, feel how the pleasure of life, just of the existence, without transfer of the regalia which allegedly have to convince you of your absolute happiness again begins to bubble a new spring somewhere between heart and a throat. And you understand, true happiness is when it is not necessary to convince itself of it.
Being engaged in any ordinary trifle, the feeling of freedom grows more and more and overflows your heart. You suddenly accurately and clearly realize as far as you did not belong yourself as far as there was not the as far as you are a slave. It is unknown from where the woken-up feeling strikes you. You screw up the face from bitterness in a mouth as if you took a bite a bug, and you it is joyful and opposite at the same time. Joyfully from, at last, the acquired freedom. Bitterly from the fact that was a slave.
Just imagine how many things it is not necessary to do which you did, only because you were obliged to do them. Did not want, did not aspire to them, it seemed to you more true that you and the owner of the acts, and meanwhile even your desires and call of duty were not yours, and always strangers.
You should not jump any more in an hour which you with pleasure would oversleep. And would creep out of a bed slowly and slowly somewhere before noon. It is not necessary to put on himself that, comme il faut, which allegedly you love and which allegedly to you goes, and in practice all your being is indignant against absurdity of wearing a tie - a stranglehold, an inconvenient jacket in which it is impossible to extend hands, and the tight shoes injuring legs. It is far more convenient to pull on himself a t-shirt and sports trousers, not limiting your movements and not to think at all of what somewhere will be soiled and somewhere it will be rumpled. At last, let all for a month, you should not see the same faces which as obliges wriggle and play the hypocrite to you, and you wriggle and play the hypocrite them in reply. You suddenly understand that office at which you spend eight hours daily, - the same chamber, let also the mild mode, and your colleagues the same convicts, as well as you. They were put - and they sit. And together with them and you. And term - for life.
You suddenly have time a great lot. You, on a habit, trudge right there after a lunch to wash the dishes, to wash only two times the put-on undershirt, to prepare something. You cannot understand in any way that you are not obliged to do all this with that frequency and any more in that sequence which was developed for last years. To her devils, this ware! There washing, ironing, cooking! This obligatory satisfaction of household vanity.
Speak, happiness is when you are understood. To it, happiness, it is possible to give one thousand more definitions, and all of them will be true. When you love and when love you. When you do favorite thing when you in the homeland, but not in the foreign land, when there is no war. In total - truth. But I here, at the beginning of holiday, understood that happiness for me is when do that you want. And when you want, but not those who nearby. That is, such simple, elementary freedom.
Having appeared behind the locked doors, having fenced off from work, colleagues, children, ex-wives, from all vain world, each of which hisses to you “Dai!“, I felt what legion of duties and obligations, I should carry out daily. Feeling of catastrophic unfreedom of the personality against that, just arisen freedom which I, at the end of the month, will be voluntarily forced to refuse. “It is voluntarily compelled“ - voluntarily compelled tautology of our life. “It is voluntarily compelled“ - as mismatch of freedom and unfreedom. All our life.
A little ridiculously about death
of Provalandavshis at perfect anti-rate of life of day three and that nevertheless that in laziness and idleness not to languish finally, and to introduce a little advantage in the holiday life, I decided to descend in the wood. It happened so that the neighbor dropped in to me to brag of the gathered mushrooms. In our prilesk if there were mushrooms, then infrequently, and mostly mushrooms of the second grade. Well, like slippery jacks or milk mushrooms. Sometimes the grandma met, it is a birch mushroom. And if carries, then it was possible to come across family of krasnogolovik, aspen mushrooms. It is remembered, years to three that, having wandered on the wood much and having found nothing, except two - three worm-eaten butterfishes, I already turned home, but before ran in sosnyakovy klinyshka, on the contrary, and through three steps was stupefied. Steps in ten, on a palette of sad gray foliage as if some natural artist - the mischievous person, in a fit of temper, scattered a burning crimson dye. Family of the handsome - aspen mushrooms. Yes what! The father - a fiery giant, inclined the scarlet hat as if in ceremonious bow. Mother - is slightly less, but also is good: high, harmonous, faultless form. And around the whole brood of the children who as if ran up, playing pranks and being naughty. I remember, even the wife photographed me with two mushrooms in each hand, like some unknown trophies, and the seeing this photo, every time with astonishment asked me where I found this handsome.
And so, having much listened to the neighbor - the mushroom picker about the progress, I right there gathered, and with light baggage, not for long pottering about, immediately went there where as prompted me experience, there had to be slippery jacks. Having passed a thicket through, and having found ten three slippery jacks, I, without thinking twice, decided to walk in other party, and not for the sake of mushrooms any more, and for the sake of physical exercise, so to speak. Direct beams of the sun beat through high pines, the woodpecker in the distance beat off fraction, on the right zasviristet whether an oriole, whether still what bird of paradise, and on heart it became even better for me though better, appear, could not be any more.
The footpath conducted straight to a local churchyard, and I, for a bigger raising of mood, slowly went there. Why for a mood raising, on cemeteries it is offered to give grief and way to grief? Well, in - the first because on that cemetery not I lay yet, and in - the second … In - the second, that is why.
The old man at whom I rented housing, the big uninhabited house was based upon this cemetery, most likely, in the world and pleasure. That is, the old man was living zhivekhonek, and was not going to give immortal yet smother to neither the devil, nor god, and here the mogilka with his photo in the coziest corner of a local churchyard five as decorated years this vale of grief and grief.
In any case to speak, I helped “to bury“ it. Then all his relatives - both distant, and very distant gathered. It is necessary to tell that the grandfather was a preotmenny Jewish warehouse of a petty dushonka. Brought together all whom could, and so far we, the person fifteen, kneaded cement and spread a pedestal a tile, the grandfather - hands in trousers, laughed and joked over us, over death and life. He was so sorry for himself that so far we tore backs, he did not strike with a finger in a finger, and by the evening, probably, from a grief, so was deeply moved on the commemoration that on pleasures got drunk and shouted obscene songs at half of the night.
And so, sorted by curiosity, I began to find a mogilka of this unruly fast liver, and without effort, on the biggest piece, among modest hillocks and pipes - crosses, found it. Here it, handsome. A photo of thirty-year prescription where it is not bald yet and with tanks, according to a bonton of the seventieth of that time (The narcissus, fir-trees - sticks, still themselves the eighteen-year-old youth without mustache, stuck here). Looks a semi-flank, such gallant dandy, on lips slightly noticeable smile plays. Well, and in life laughed at all, and after it will laugh at any fools, like us, sbatsavshy to it it monumentik for a long time for what he us, “on - related“, thanked fake moonshine and rancid fat, in an hour having got rid home.
On granite date of birth is beaten out. Below - “From the loving daughters to dear father“. Itself thought up, the rascal. Daughters then, it is remembered, too walked in the woods, with ridiculous persons, for all day without having put also a little finger to this monument. “From the loving daughters“! There is no date of death, naturally. A heavy tombstone from pink granite, an icon lamp, florets. Well, the little rogue, both here and there kept up. It is interesting when he dies, the gravestone should be removed and carried to ritual service to cut date of death? Or there are masters who come out to the place? And nevertheless it is interesting to me, at a cemetery of it, for certain, there is some director. Well, there, main over dead persons. And how it made out this dead man who for the mogilka undersigned? Or it did not ask these questions? Not in its competence that not all his dead men on the places?
Having had fun in plenty, and carefully looking back that for my snickers I was not convicted of disrespect for the dead, I in excellent mood started wandering further. Here a modest mogilka to some Andryushe, year of birth - 1998, year of death - 2003. Here still modest mogilka, just hill overgrown with a grass. Year of birth 1988, year of death - 2004. And here a marble stele with a name and a surname, year of birth and death, only instead of the photo or drawing deceased, in all growth some silly Jesus Christ. Thick, in a wreath with disproportionately big thorns and with an asymmetric cross on a breast. Neither name, nor surname. What, Jesus is buried here?
Some graves reminded me the African crypts in the form of the decorated cars, planes, or huge big fishes. This dead man adored cars and therefore on his grave the huge model “Rolls - Royce“ flaunts. And this loved the Havana cigars and therefore on it - huge Havana with its image, besides with a cigar in widely smiling mouth. And this was the terrible ladies` man and therefore … However, what difference what cockroaches lived in the heads of these dead persons at their life, even pyramids in Giza not in forces to revive their inhabitants? Having had fun from heart, I slowly abandoned dead persons.
On mushrooms, and it is a little about different
Having curtailed on new to a stitch, and even without peering, I right there, in the dried-up grass, uvidat yellow hats enough large slippery jacks. Slippery jacks usually grow at families, up to five ten heads, though singles meet. Favourite habitats - a damp carpet from mosses, though in rather thin grass, on the drying-up polupeschanny soils, they also often meet. Sometimes, having found a trace of such mushroom family, you will come across all new and new families of excellent mushrooms with big not spoiled hats, on quite thin legs. The leg seldom happens not worm-eaten and too it is thin to be of culinary interest. Therefore, designate it! One hats will be enough.
Having brought together fifty for time of pieces, I go further that in a minute to come across several families. Ten, another, the third - and a heavy package are already felt in a hand. Having passed some more mushroom glades, I understand that for the evening I am provided with work. The matter is that before slippery jacks to boil and fry, it is necessary to remove a thin brown skin from a hat. And it is quite laborious work demanding patience. And I am not going to salt them for winter. I will eat time - another - and on this wood thanks.
Having come home, I right there am accepted to cleaning of the reaped crop, and in an hour I understand that to me not to overcome such quantity of mushrooms within the next week. And in a week I will leave, and mushrooms or will be gone, or it is necessary to roll up them in banks, and I am not able any more. Therefore the rest - kilogram I carry one and a half to the neigbour that extremely pleases her.
I boil the cleared slippery jacks and I fry with onions. I eat one portion for dinner, I leave the rest for tomorrow. I wanted mushrooms pies long ago. I have flour, kefir - to mean to be to the simple test, is not worse at all than what is used in our cookery. That is to be to pies.
Than me butterfishes, so it the fact that the mushroom gentle on taste and does not need long heat treatment are pleasant. Hour - on cooking, hour - on suppression - and you have a remarkable independent dish. And a dish - snack, and a stuffing for pelmeni, vareniki, pies.
By the way, me many which on my place would drag off everything that could from the wood are familiar, and could not. The same neighbor, that bragged of the mushroom good luck, told later me about three full packages of the gathered mushrooms. Mushrooms fried, salted, rolled up in banks. Put in a cellar, the next year. And on the subsequent. And as: more - it is always better, than it is less.
The same and with berry. Row it from the wood, poor, with both combs and chesalka, together with vershoks and backs. Take out buckets and boxes, without allowing to ripen. What will not get into itself, will be processed on jam or sold. Recently at a stop one woman of the huge sizes, on all Ivanovskaya told how they all family gathered five buckets. Also froze, and in banks closed, and still sold. And such petty-bourgeois pride streamed in her crashing bass that I terribly wanted that it as - nibud choked on one of the cans. That to berries forever discouraged it.
By the way, immoderation in everything, when norm - everything, what is a lot of, very remarkable quality at many, especially at people simple, so to speak, rural. After war all of them grew, perhaps? Only they cannot gorge on in any way. One my acquaintance, the woman living a solitary life kowtows on two big kitchen gardens every summer in the evenings, collecting, according to her up to hundred kilograms of cucumbers, and it is slightly less than other vegetable: beets, carrots, onions. Then all this wealth as she tells, between fits of anger for the hard work, is processed, milled, rolled up in banks and jars that at the exit fifty cans of it, fifty those, and the fifty third turned out. Some bottles blow up, some are given to relatives and acquaintances, some are eaten by the owner. But the most part remains in a cellar. Probably, on a case of nuclear war.
By the way, at me and the grandmother just the same. It still stores banks of twenty-year “endurance“. And though nobody eats its apples in sweet syrup for a long time - well unless I am time in half a year and that from courtesy, - it still drags home everything that can be picked up. Tabout the fallen apples from a neighbour`s apple-tree, sour and small, some cherry plum which covered with itself the dirty route, the cucumbers - overages whom urodit this year not in a paunch. And then chokes with them, sentencing “It is necessary to eat, and that will be gone“. Also it is eaten not because there is a wish but because it is necessary.
I had to see cellars from which I came almost to sacred horror. Present a cold bag of the size of the hall covered with ten shelves and shelves, filled with ten barrels, cans and tubs. On shelves there are hundreds of cans with various fruit and vegetables. In barrels and tubs cucumbers, cabbage, soaked apples. Ten bags with potato, beet, a radish. I tried it was necessary to present what enormous energy to spend for collecting and preservation of the granaries to two dry owners of this vegetable bunker. Also could not.
Somehow in adolescence I stayed with the aunt. And once, when I had to spend the night to one in her empty house, I got into cases - whether behind a blanket, whether behind what, and encountered a store room from clothes and footwear. Ten boxes where the footwear only of two sizes - winter was stored, summer, demi-season. And also clothes - tens of trousers, shirts, jackets. Everything strict two sizes. It became clear later that all this intended to her sons. For about ten years forward, I so understand. And rather well-to-do people were, on the abroad went. Here such paradigm of thinking.
It is possible to call it thriftiness. It is possible economy. Only this is represented to me greed. None of them swell with hunger long ago. And the majority also did not know hunger. And they are distributed extensively, just, on the contrary, from an irrepressible gluttony. And nobody practices modesty and moderation, even for the sake of own health. Tear to themselves navels on the “five cities“, from there straight and bring some to a cemetery. And they are proud of still terribly working capacity. It is a pity for me for them. Though, maybe, they are also happy the simplicity of thinking, and just, feel sorry for me, useless.
Hi, the Homeland - the ugly creature
In a week, I, as well as planned, together with the daughter, jerked on the “ridnu Ukrainu“. Long travel by trains and a beads, nervous standing in turns on border, a sleep debt and bad food did not frighten any more, and were accepted as inevitable, with humility and a tranquil pleasure of the forthcoming meeting with the far childhood.
Noisy Ukrainians are the shopkeepers loaded with any junk up to the eyebrows, and shouting at all street to the workmates on business “Galya, go syuda!“, or “You here not bulo!“, did not cause that surprised delight mixed up with sense of shame for the ill-bred fellow countrymen any more as earlier.
However, two times I all - had to come up from the lethargy. The first time, loudly, in reply, I bellowed at those who were behind me and aloud commented on my long standing at a window of the customs officer who was slowly studying our passports. And the second, already in the car of the Ukrainian barakhlovozka when the old man, naked on a belt, declared that that wooden bench on which we wanted to get up is already occupied. On what, on “their“ surzhik I to it threw: “Perhaps and all car is already occupied?“.
For the rest everything was as always. It is better and it is not worse. As before, all two-hour travel on “independent“ unruly Ukrainians scurried about to and fro, chewed “kovbasa“ and the yellow resung pickles, talked loudly. And I was not surprised to such obvious distinction of national characters of two fraternal peoples any more - Ukrainian and Belarusian. To the shouting difference in manners and the general appearance.
As before, despite terrible closeness, usual rudeness which is called “ńďčëęóâŕíí˙“ here and unfavourable landscapes of some half-ruined enterprises behind a dirty window, on heart was good. It is good because I came back home. Because there was a summer, in a pocket there were couple of coins, and I was on holiday. Also it was still a little sad. Sadly from those facts of life which beat you let also in a holiday anesthesia, on eyes. From ruin, a dullness, rudeness.
Having reached about one of Sarna, we, together with a crowd of dealers, descended from the train, and on knurled, went to the bus-stop. Was hot, the station thermometer showed +35, and I, on the road, solved, on a habit again, “with arrival“ to take the Ukrainian beer. Having bought “plyashka“, I took an interest at the shop assistant whether it is possible to drink beer on the street. On what she only smiled and shrugged shoulders. Having left shop, I glanced for a corner, and saw the local cop, in a tenka who is slowly blowing “Lvivsk“. “Time cops pivasit, means and it is possible for me“ - I thought and a move devastated the bottle. Later I learned that, as well as in Belarus, forbade to drink beer on the street and in Ukraine. But unlike obedient bulbashy, disobedient Ukrainians from above not really followed this order.
We went on the smashed sarnovsky sidewalk, through shady park, by big church, and at heart it was joyful and pokoyno. By already familiar clumsy Ukrainian faces scurried about. Passed a dirty beads and cars of all colors, from accurate “Mercedes“ to antique “Cadillacs“. Dilapidated houses - slums with the peeled-off paint and the falling-out bricks adjoined to brand new luxurious markets and small restaurants. Ukraine, as before, as well as always, was slovenly, noisy and still such native.
First I felt a little constrainingly. It was from everywhere heard local surzhik, a mash from languages: Ukrainian, Russian, Belarusian and even English. And I though understood everything, to talk on it weaned. Also something turned out at me it seems: “Affect, be caress, to be bus station?“, it is natural with deep-rooted Russian accent. Those whom I addressed, having distinguished in me the visitor, with interest examined me, and in detail explained every time how to me there to get. For a faultless pronunciation of ordinary phrases, as before, week then the stranger in me was recognized only by appearance, but any more not on a manner to talk was required for me.
Having reached to bus station, the driver politely explained to us where to us to move further. As well as always, never in relation to Russian, Belarusian and any others I saw any unfriendliness. Though the Ukrainian and Russian rags and dazzled with headings about ardent nationalists in Ukraine, acts of aggression, vandalism and to that similar. I, personally, among simple people never saw them.
One of features of any Ukrainian station, besides dirt and the rumpled travelers, this existence vagrant, or “adopted“ by workers of the station, animals. Enter the building of the station, and bypass it from all directions, and you will surely encounter cats and dogs whom, highly without philosophizing about harm and advantage, feed up and is old, and mlad.
And on bus station of Mr. Sarna, nearly in the middle of a small zalchik, the jet-black cat - mummy with the five of the same black kittens who stuck to it imposingly reclined. The people carefully bypassed them, and nobody shouted, kicked with a leg.
In provincial Ukraine as is once in Russia, tolerantly treat blessed, drunk and vagrant animals.
At a window of cash desk we took an interest as it is better for us to reach Rokitno about one, and to us, as before, politely and in detail explained how to us there to reach.
Having sat down on the necessary minibus, we still an hour and a half shivered on uneven Ukrainian roads to descend before put and an hour more to trudge on a heat to a final destination. Thank God, the road was familiar, and, despite hard load, I with unfading interest examined as as changed for a year of our absence.
My heart, despite of fatigue, joyfully sings, and at the same time there is a wish to laugh and cry. The first day of arrival, is always day of truth. This day there is no place to petty thoughts of that, well or badly how many earn and as live. This day feelings are bared also nepoddelna. It begins already then weighing good and not really, and search of interest and benefit. Though, not always.
At last doshkandybav to the house, we is noisy and joyfully became hollow inside that, as well as it is necessary to be rained kisses and strangled in embraces in appearance not of so powerful women.
All, as always. The same two modestly arranged rooms and the same, appear, at all not grown old women. Mother and grandmother. The same kitchenette which is filled in with the sun on which incredibly tasty hash browns with sour cream and fried potato with sour milk, “kvasolyany“ soup with dried borovichka and exclusive grandmother`s peas pies which “mochatsya“ surely in garlick “bast“ are so fine eaten. The same photos young and beautiful mothers and grandmothers, on an old furniture wall. And same spirit of a cosiness and heat.
The first day as it was already told, the most important. It is necessary to bypass everything, everywhere to come, to touch everything. To reconsider thick photo albums of family history for the 100-th time, to study books on shelves. To come to a balcony, and having overhung to glance to neighbors, and then to try to make out what is there, on a kitchen garden. To come to the yard and “to podobrydenkatsya“ with the neighbors sitting on a bench. To take a view of everything around, and about itself to note, what became better, and what is worse. In the first day, despite fatigue after a long trip, it is necessary to plunge into everything to understand that the dulled your feelings any more not in forces to give adequate estimates, and impressions overflowed reason long ago.
We sit down to a table and modestly we eat. Foods most on are simple, but why they are so tasty? Perhaps because, that are filled with love and attention them prepared? Or because, that their ingredients it is more tasty, more useful?
We eat and we speak, we speak and we eat. Then, the feeling of fatigue takes up, and, having been given on his favor, I fall where it is necessary. I am awoken, force to rise to lay a bed. Then I flop on already white sheet again and, without taking cover, I lose delightful consciousness.
The city of the childhood
U of everyone is the favourite city of the childhood. It is not necessarily that city in which you were born or long lived. It is just that city with which your best memoirs are connected. Not to destroy this illusion, illusion of the best city on the earth, having left it, it is better not to come back to it. Because it became better there or worse, all of you will be equally disappointed. Just because having joyfully jumped in the wake of the childhood, you there will hardly find it.
To me so there was every time where I would not come back. The best corners of my past always betrayed me. Huge houses were dwarfs, wide streets very narrow lanes, childhood friends boring petty bourgeoises. And still, I over and over again trudged in all these corners and zakutochka, and my pleasure was if at least something reminded me of my childhood.
For me, is once the best city on the earth, the city with the long name “Starokonstantinov“. Nowadays dusty, cluttered up and shopkeeper`s, then big and fine. City of my heroic grandfathers. The city of my cousins whom I so wanted to resemble. The city on the river Ikopot to which we jumped from the bridge and floated by the boat. Where we ate the most tasty ice cream in wafer cups for twenty kopeks. Where from all windows the bit - a quartet “Bravo“ sounded and Sandra mariyamagdalenit. Where we bought the real barrel kvass, having lowered on a rope a 3-liter jar with ruble inside. Here and this time, I am let on the river of the childhood, almost without finding the tape passing through this city what my silly heart so waited for.
My children`s role model was the first whom on arrival this time we saw. My senior cousin. As well as hundred years to that, it did not get out of jeans shorts, was organic and natural in the related manifestations. Any city manners, all this alluvial hypocrisy. It did not seem to me any more as high as once, twenty years to that. Only is eight higher than centimeters, but not on whole fifty as it was represented to me. First of all it dragged me … Where how you think, the Ukrainian on Saturday or Sunday can hurry in the morning? Of course, pokhmelyatsya. I to admit and itself was not against to dzyabnut a beer glass: the atmosphere whether you know, promotes. We came into some vegetable marrow, took on a glass, local dried rudds (not young ladies), and slightly poured out at each other the lived years. According to stories of the mobster I understood that he, in the city, a figure sign, terrible. His stories were, as well as hundred years to that, about fights, women and grandmas. No, everything did not go at all and not angrily. Just like that also was.
While I procrastinated the glass, bratanya managed to blow also the second, and I understood that, as before, I lag behind again. Not in growth, so in number of the drunk alcohol. Then this receptacle of local filth dragged me on ruins of local fortress on whose walls as the cousin relative assured, images of Saints acted. Really, having arrived to the place, on one of walls I uvidat two semi-faces. One in a fullface, another in a profile. The brother raged, assuring of miraculousness of an event. I, as always, approached a miracle skeptically, but to disappoint “sayntifiky“ did not become.
In the evening all gathered at a table. The younger cousin came from work. There was his wife. All were genuinely glad. Here what is not present in simple people, so it pretense. All took seat, and let`s press bubbles. Well, maybe, on - Ukrainian it is called “Happy reunion after long separation“, and the longer separation, the surovy quantity of the crushed bubbles, only in my case it was the cruel booze. But only in mine. Present when the first bubble is drunk, so to speak, in the form of compote, for warm-up, before all others. Then follows it is unknown from where undertaken the second, ten bottles of beer, still something … By the way, beer of the local, abused by all beer factory, excellent. The present which is not pasteurized, with big, the correct geometrical form bubbles, but not covered with a carbonic acid dioxide cap.
I remember, after a dinner we go on the river bank to prepare a shish kebab, there are some tipsy persons with some feed bags in which alcohol, fish, crayfish. We fry this fish, we cook crayfish. Dzyabayem on - related for that and for it. We wash down all with beer. Well … Further I do not remember.
Woke up in the morning. Somewhere. The head still goes around. But mood excellent, and the soul demands continuation of a banquet. One cousin at work. Another snores in the neighboring room. And women do not abuse me. That`s great. I go on kitchen. I find a bottle of mineral water. I drink a half. I go further to examine dreams. I wake up approximately in two hours. In total still. I pull trousers and I go for a walk on the city. The head is still turned, but from it it is more amusing.
By the way, it is noticed: from the drunk quantity not there and not then, I would appear in a gepatitny coma. But in the homeland, for some reason, my organism becomes stronger, and the hangover is softer. I am living, and even I move with legs.
I to a kandybach on the embankment of that river to which I flew the head from the bridge down more than once. It is necessary to tell that at the general disgusting impression which on me was made mine by the “best city on the earth“, this place, as they say nowadays, exclusively. What is only cost by figures of the Neptune and mermaids from a metalwork. Uncontrollable flight of fancy. Explosion of thought. And that it is more surprising - the embodiment in reality. I just okhrenivat from what was seen, and I pokhmelno trudge further.
The beach is filled up with a clean sand. Catamarans. Beauty. I pass under the arches whether the church remains, whether still what charitable construction. Further, on a habit, I go to the house which was built by the grandfather and in which we temporarily lived. Actually, there two houses: one dominoes, another pridomok, with a greenhouse. I remember how having arrived then, the grandfather brought me in the domain, and I remained several days with it. The house was solid: four rooms, workshop, cellar, attic. Now in it, in the manner of nouveau riches, new residents were fenced off. I pass by. Here nothing changed. Same fence, the same Krinitsa, everything, as then. Heart begins to ache like a dog quietly. I leave somewhat quicker.
I take a detour, I go through the bridge, razoch againI arovyvatsya. At the bridge, from cars as once from vehicles, water-melons and melons are on sale. The price is ridiculous. Chirring on a local dialect, I buy the biggest, I trudge home. Houses - anybody. Only snore of the senior brother. It is boring for me. I again to a shkandybach on the yard. I decide to buy a beer small bottle. But: “it is mute eleven times - it is not possible“. I am surprised. Where I? It is Ukraine or Germany? I go to a stall in the neighbourhood - there will sell also a pig. To Bor to beer liter, I go home. And houses already the worker - the younger cousin. Arrived on a break. What break at eleven o`clock, I do not understand. The cousin chews a water-melon, I happily blow beer, we talk. The brother tells the same, as I can tell: the chief - a goat, at work - a nonsense, life - shit.
I listen to purring of its surzhik and to me it is as good as never was. I do not judge him, he does not judge me. We are brothers, and everyone accepts another it what it is, be each of us though the last drop.
There are our women. Were in the market, bought any useful junk. Are happy. And we are happy. Eh, life! Well - that as!
It is terribly interesting to me to travel by the Ukrainian trains. Unlike Belarusian where generally all on - are European reserved and equally law-abiding and where nothing occurs, in the Ukrainian trains to me never happens boringly. Always there is the one who will entertain and will make laugh. Always something occurs. And the traveler lyud will never be ashamed to lay out before you all the life, past and present, having decorated it in all colors of a rainbow. The Ukrainian travelers it is not so fresh uniform as Belarusian. Near you there can be a fallen bum with trousers on a rope and in a torn sheepskin coat, despite a heat, and in a minute the most very interesting lady on hairpins and all in gold, the little man from top to down glancing at fellow travelers including on you, and already through two devout views accurate with the psalter in calloused hands, something muttering to himself in a beard will already be your neighbor in an inconvenient carriage wooden bench.
By you continually will be, as well as in the ninetieth, to shpatsirovat the playing music beggars, with accordions, guitars and without it. Will sing compassionate songs, and not always by bad voices. The carriage pedlars loaded with very heavy feed bags singing as if the acathist “Chips, pyvo, a vodychka“ will be unsteady to and fro. Or a portly type of the matron on all car ridiculously shouting “Pirizhki, to whom pirizhka!“.
The conductor, having learned that you on ignorance bought the ticket not to a terminal point, will suggest you to pay one ticket instead of three, without beating out “fiskalnogo the check“, and lovely smiling, will put a money to himself in a wide pocket.
Your fellow travelers opposite all road will knead the chips bought in the car, ice cream, “pirizhka“ for both cheeks, washing down all this with liters of poisonous aerated water so at you will cramp cheekbones - how many it is possible to guzzle?! And neighbors at the left all road will be to wear the present power, however as well as former, and even future, with ease I operate with the utter fried facts about activity of those who at a feeding trough as if they held a candle.
If pritomit you on the way in the Ukrainian car, safely, without taking off boots, be extended on a rigid seat: you will never be reproached with lack of culture. And if you have just tasty a dinner some road dzhank - in foot, safely throw out its remains directly in a window. Even if you will also get pieces of paper from chips to the next window, it is enough to tell “Vybachta“. And it is possible to pretend that packing of “Lay`s“ came on a silver platter, and you here not and.
However though Ukrainians are also brought not so up and cultural as their brothers are Belarusians, their behavior does not carry a shade of aggression and rage as, for example, at their brothers - Russians. If you were pushed around or pushed, before you will hardly begin to be scattered hot in apologies, - can not notice an event, so serious for you. But once you make the remark, you will see in the opinion of the repentance which was guilty sincerity, and not so cold comme il faut.