February 1992 was an exciting time to visit the former Soviet Union. And not just because I got a jaywalking ticket in St. Petersburg.
I’m not typically a scofflaw, but that trip was marked with run-ins with the authorities.
It started off innocently enough. Riding the Moscow subway, I was standing and holding the overhead strap. Seated below me was a Red Army general, reading a book, like most people on the train. What I didn’t realize was that my coat had gotten caught on the stars on the general’s shoulders. The train jolted, and a star came right off his epaulet and dangled from my coat. I had felt nothing, but the general heard the rip and raised a loud commotion. A trainful of passengers stared at me, disparagingly, while I stuttered cluelessly. Before I could figure out what had happened, it was his stop, and he stormed off. I never had the chance to give him the star back.
A week later in St. Petersburg, I foolishly crossed the Nevsky Prospekt in the wrong place. Sure enough, a police car came out of nowhere, turned on its lights, and pulled over next to me in the gravelly median. Two incredibly tall policemen proceeded to verbally unload their discontent. I didn’t understand a word. Unsurprisingly, I got the gist. Finally, they issued a ticket for jaywalking. I paid my 5 ruble fee – worth five cents at the time – on the spot, holding back a smile. They made me walk back to where I started.
But far more frightening was a late-night run-in with Russian border guards… after I had left Russia more than one week earlier.
We were traveling from Vilnius, Lithuania to Warsaw, Poland. It was around three in the morning when the train ground to a halt. Nothing unusual about that – night trains often take longer breaks. But when I leaned up and pulled aside the curtain to see where we were, I saw Cyrillic letters on the sign outside our train. I felt my heart drop. The station we arrived at was Kaliningrad. I was back in Russia.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. We booked two tickets from Lithuania to Poland, and we even pointed to the exact route we wanted on the map. The ticket agent nodded, but alas, they sold us an indirect trip – with a detour through the tiny sliver of Russia that’s not physically connected to the rest of the country. Oops.
Seconds later, the door opened, and a gruff passport inspector demanded our travel documents. (I assume that’s what he asked for, since I understood no Russian.) Alongside him was a young, pimply-faced Russian teen, a new recruit for the Red Army, holding his Kalashnikov automatic rifle at the ready.
Maybe the inspector was irritated that anyone should require his services at such an ungodly hour. Maybe he was upset that people seem to forget the Kaliningrad zone’s existence. Either way, he was unhappy, and we weren’t going to make him any happier.
Our passports looked fine, but… the visa had expired one day earlier. The inspector flew off the handle. He summoned a colleague and they proceeded to yell at us, at the top of their lungs. We didn’t understand a word, but we got their point: Even though we were just transiting, we were illegally entering Russia.
The inspector pulled us out into the hallway. The pimply-faced soldier was ordered to guard us, and he pressed the tip of his barrel into my chest. The compartment had been really hot, and I had stripped down into my skivvies. No longer protected by blankets or the darkness, I stood there in my underwear, with a gun drilling into my sternum.
Meanwhile, the inspector opened my bag and started rifling through. He found nothing of interest, but I held back a chuckle as I saw him bare-handing two weeks of dirty socks and underwear. No wonder he was cranky.
The officer dumped out the bags in the middle of the room, yelled at us some more, and then tore up our expired visas. The pimply soldier nudged me back into the compartment, then pulled his weapon away. Nonetheless, the yelling continued. The inspector issued us a citation, yelled some more, kicked a stray dirty sock back into the compartment, and then slammed the door shut.
Thankfully, the train started moving again soon after, and onward into Poland. My lawbreaking days were finally behind me. And I’ll never forget Kaliningrad again. http://www.upgradetravelbetter.com
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Don’t Forget Kaliningrad
February 1992 was an exciting time to visit the former Soviet Union. And not just because I got a jaywalking ticket in St. Petersburg.
I’m not typically a scofflaw, but that trip was marked with run-ins with the authorities.
It started off innocently enough. Riding the Moscow subway, I was standing and holding the overhead strap. Seated below me was a Red Army general, reading a book, like most people on the train. What I didn’t realize was that my coat had gotten caught on the stars on the general’s shoulders. The train jolted, and a star came right off his epaulet and dangled from my coat. I had felt nothing, but the general heard the rip and raised a loud commotion. A trainful of passengers stared at me, disparagingly, while I stuttered cluelessly. Before I could figure out what had happened, it was his stop, and he stormed off. I never had the chance to give him the star back.
A week later in St. Petersburg, I foolishly crossed the Nevsky Prospekt in the wrong place. Sure enough, a police car came out of nowhere, turned on its lights, and pulled over next to me in the gravelly median. Two incredibly tall policemen proceeded to verbally unload their discontent. I didn’t understand a word. Unsurprisingly, I got the gist. Finally, they issued a ticket for jaywalking. I paid my 5 ruble fee – worth five cents at the time – on the spot, holding back a smile. They made me walk back to where I started.
But far more frightening was a late-night run-in with Russian border guards… after I had left Russia more than one week earlier.
We were traveling from Vilnius, Lithuania to Warsaw, Poland. It was around three in the morning when the train ground to a halt. Nothing unusual about that – night trains often take longer breaks. But when I leaned up and pulled aside the curtain to see where we were, I saw Cyrillic letters on the sign outside our train. I felt my heart drop. The station we arrived at was Kaliningrad. I was back in Russia.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. We booked two tickets from Lithuania to Poland, and we even pointed to the exact route we wanted on the map. The ticket agent nodded, but alas, they sold us an indirect trip – with a detour through the tiny sliver of Russia that’s not physically connected to the rest of the country. Oops.
Seconds later, the door opened, and a gruff passport inspector demanded our travel documents. (I assume that’s what he asked for, since I understood no Russian.) Alongside him was a young, pimply-faced Russian teen, a new recruit for the Red Army, holding his Kalashnikov automatic rifle at the ready.
Maybe the inspector was irritated that anyone should require his services at such an ungodly hour. Maybe he was upset that people seem to forget the Kaliningrad zone’s existence. Either way, he was unhappy, and we weren’t going to make him any happier.
Our passports looked fine, but… the visa had expired one day earlier. The inspector flew off the handle. He summoned a colleague and they proceeded to yell at us, at the top of their lungs. We didn’t understand a word, but we got their point: Even though we were just transiting, we were illegally entering Russia.
The inspector pulled us out into the hallway. The pimply-faced soldier was ordered to guard us, and he pressed the tip of his barrel into my chest. The compartment had been really hot, and I had stripped down into my skivvies. No longer protected by blankets or the darkness, I stood there in my underwear, with a gun drilling into my sternum.
Meanwhile, the inspector opened my bag and started rifling through. He found nothing of interest, but I held back a chuckle as I saw him bare-handing two weeks of dirty socks and underwear. No wonder he was cranky.
The officer dumped out the bags in the middle of the room, yelled at us some more, and then tore up our expired visas. The pimply soldier nudged me back into the compartment, then pulled his weapon away. Nonetheless, the yelling continued. The inspector issued us a citation, yelled some more, kicked a stray dirty sock back into the compartment, and then slammed the door shut.
Thankfully, the train started moving again soon after, and onward into Poland. My lawbreaking days were finally behind me. And I’ll never forget Kaliningrad again.
http://www.upgradetravelbetter.com
Mark Ashley, Contest, 01/25/2008