My brief Russian encounter occurred during my latest stay at
the Queen Victoria Seaman’s Rest in East London. I must begin this account with
a caveat; I am not making a political statement, only telling a very short
story about my meeting up with a young volunteer at the mission, as many call
it.
I have had the pleasure of making fairly extended visits to
QVSR during the past four years. The buses stopping right in front go directly
to and from the center of London, the food is good, the rent is cheap, and the
people are very very interesting. Currently it is available only to men but
plans for co-ed are in the works. Most residents are ex-servicemen like me but
they accept anyone in real need. And they come from all over the world; England, Syria, Ireland, Burma, Somalia, Spain, Scotland. It was established by Queen Victoria in 1847. The building was recently repaired and largely rebuilt after the German
bombing of WWII. It is currently associated jointly with the Methodist Church
and the Salvation Army. Each year they have two volunteers for a one year period to assist in staffing. These young women serve without pay; their families
providing travel expenses and pocket money. The mission provides food and
housing. They seem to come mainly from East Europe and the Orient and most are
from Christian families or organizations. However, the regular permanent staff
of QVSR, about two thirds women, are of various faiths.
When I arrived in 2015 for my usual summer visit I noticed
one of the new volunteers was a tall blond very good looking young lady. She
seemed very quiet and didn’t have much to say. I tried to engage her in
conversation a time or two and noticed her accent. I asked if she was German or
from some other East European country. They had had a young woman the year
before from Romania. She said she was from Moscow. Her name was Maria. I still
did not get very much conversation from her.
One morning I decided to try some of my very limited Russian vocabulary,
so when I reached her as I was going through the breakfast serving line and as
she was dishing up my eggs, I said, dobroye utro (good morning). She
immediately brightened up and smiled. I asked her how to say ‘how are you?’ and
she gave me the words, kak dela. That’s all it took. From then on we could have
some real conversation – not in Russian I hasten to add.
It turned out that she had saved up a college fund that had
recently lost half its value due to the fall of the ruble after sanctions
imposed resulting from the Crimean takeover. She was struggling with the
problem of where she was to go to college after her stint at QVSR - certainly
not England, it was too expensive. I broached the idea of an American
university which she dismissed out of hand. She said she had pretty well
settled on Paris but the financial business was still unsettled. During our brief talks I asked her what she thought of Putin.
She said he was OK. I reminded her that he and his cronies seemed very corrupt.
Her response to that was most interesting. She said that all Russian
politicians were corrupt and that he was probably the best of the lot.
My last glimpse of her somehow gave me a little hope for the
world. One morning I was sitting in the lobby, as was my custom, when a very
handsome young Englishman in tennis togs carrying a racquet and a small knapsack
appeared at the front desk. He asked if Maria was ready. The girl on the desk
said she would call her. As he waited we
had a few words. I remarked jokingly that Maria was a very pretty young woman
but maybe a very dangerous one. He responded, “Yes, I know.” She soon appeared
and the handsomest couple I had seen in a long time disappeared out the front
door, tennis racquets in their hands.
Coda: A couple of pictures of the neighborhood: the first is the front of QVSR on East India Dock Road and the second a view across the street looking south toward the Canary Wharf development on the Isle of Dogs. The little pub across the street is Bum Daddy's, a very small seaman's pub, too small for food, run by a delightful 60 year old lady named Jackie. If you've only been in the West End around Parliament and Piccadilly Circus you haven't been to London.
