(no subject)
Also, on the drive out of there the first trip, on the stretch of wide country road that's puzzlingly still cobblestone and everyone has to creep along instead of 90km/h, there was a Schnauzer running around who'd obviously been freshly dumped from a car. Panicked, running in circles on the road, shying from passing cars. But we had animals in the car already, and no box. I drove on till night with my heart in my throat. I should have turned back. Fuck the ferry fuck the other animal, I should have turned back.
The second trip when I got out the not small airport and entered a parking lot some 30 meters away from the entrance, there was a cock crowing in a wild garden and discarded barrels by the side of the road and I remembered how it was and felt I'd returned home.
At a party I disconcerted the ladies before they left halfway through and impressed the menfolk who also all excused themselves before me, by drinking vodka like a normal person while being the wrong sex and 1/3 the size. Sat next to me was a sad, rad, scared and forward village drunkard who drives a truck for a living and spoke minute amounts of Russian for it so we could nearly conversate. He kept pouring shots to drink to the health of each of the 40 guests, and everyone kept discreetly moving their glasses and all the bottles away. He would just get up, fetch the damn things and go on pouring. Later in the week he'd called the host as usual to thank him for the party but had apparently just managed to go on about me. Also the village ladies had been calling the next day asking if I'd had to be hospitalized. The host told them I was out jogging ("alone? IN THE WOODS?"). I think that sad victory impressing a bunch of rather tame fifty-year-olds by drinking some booze and being forward despite wrong sex constitutes my greatest social success in life. Still, I'm heartened.
The host shone my shoes on the sly and ironed my shirt before we left. I told him off for it ale lyudi nuzhna pomagaet. When we returned I patted him on the belly and told him to go to sleep.
The guns I shot were some army Glock, FB Beryl and a some cop-use pump-action shotgun.
The second trip when I got out the not small airport and entered a parking lot some 30 meters away from the entrance, there was a cock crowing in a wild garden and discarded barrels by the side of the road and I remembered how it was and felt I'd returned home.
At a party I disconcerted the ladies before they left halfway through and impressed the menfolk who also all excused themselves before me, by drinking vodka like a normal person while being the wrong sex and 1/3 the size. Sat next to me was a sad, rad, scared and forward village drunkard who drives a truck for a living and spoke minute amounts of Russian for it so we could nearly conversate. He kept pouring shots to drink to the health of each of the 40 guests, and everyone kept discreetly moving their glasses and all the bottles away. He would just get up, fetch the damn things and go on pouring. Later in the week he'd called the host as usual to thank him for the party but had apparently just managed to go on about me. Also the village ladies had been calling the next day asking if I'd had to be hospitalized. The host told them I was out jogging ("alone? IN THE WOODS?"). I think that sad victory impressing a bunch of rather tame fifty-year-olds by drinking some booze and being forward despite wrong sex constitutes my greatest social success in life. Still, I'm heartened.
The host shone my shoes on the sly and ironed my shirt before we left. I told him off for it ale lyudi nuzhna pomagaet. When we returned I patted him on the belly and told him to go to sleep.
The guns I shot were some army Glock, FB Beryl and a some cop-use pump-action shotgun.