From Russia with Lunch Read Free Page B

the trophy. Moreover, this was a mere shuffle towards propriety from the previously held Miss Disability and Miss Prison Inmate competitions held in Lithuania. Such endeavours were not only politically incorrect and in questionable taste, but they were also unashamedly intriguing and unapologetically silly. Perhaps these were my people after all.

1
    If it ain’t baroque …
    In the 1920s a Jew travels from his small Lithuanian shtetl to Vilnius. When he returns, he tells his friend of the wonders he has seen: ‘I met a Jew who had grown up in a yeshiva and knew large sections of the Talmud by heart. I met a Jew who was an atheist. I met a Jew who owned a large clothing store with many employees, and I met a Jew who was an ardent communist.’
    â€˜So what’s so strange?’ the friend asks. ‘Vilnius is a big city. There must be over a million Jews there.’
    â€˜You don’t understand,’ he replies. ‘It was the same Jew.’
    The standard interrogative pattern of a travel agent taking a new brief is ‘Where?’ followed by ‘When?’ In my case, it was ‘Where?’ followed by ‘Why?’ Since I had only recently figured out the answer to the second question myself, I gave him the ‘my people’ spiel, complete with the Miss Long Haired Lithuania kicker. His response was one of deep and abiding ambivalence. Which was supplanted by, ‘You know you can’t fly direct to your people.’
    No matter, Maurice had travelled via the hub of London and I would do likewise to the Lithuanian capital of Vilnius. Albeit through a Dutch nexus. A fine and noble theory. Several weeks later, I would put it to the test. The flight from Sydney to Amsterdam via Kuala Lumpur takes twenty-four hours and by the time I arrived in Holland’s capital, I was all hubbed out. Jet lag was the school bully and she had held me face down in the sandpit until my eyes were raw and gritty, any sense of orientation was lost and I desperately wanted to dob. Still, there were five hours to kill at Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport, which turned out to be a distracting microcosm of all things Dutch.
    Between the terminals stood an outpost of the marvellous Rijks Museum exhibiting some two dozen works of Dutch realism. It was a theme that was extended into the duty-free shop next door where, alongside the Playstations and perfumes, stood rack upon rack of hardcore pornography. Who buys X-rated material in such abundance that they feel compelled to save on the duty? Still, it made for interesting browsing with my favourite titles being Pirates of Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl Necklace, Pulp Friction and Million Dollar Booty.
    One’s first impressions of Lithuanian Airlines are not promising. Originally, my itinerary stated that I would be taking a De Havilland aircraft from Amsterdam to Vilnius. The words alone were enough to have me conjuring noir scenarios still bearing icicles from the Cold War – where Dirk Bogarde, in a trench coat and dyspeptic disposition, would stop me on the tarmac (engines slowly whirring to a halt in the background) and request my ‘papers’. He would then address me in code to ensure I was not an impostor. Coolly scanning my eyes, Dirk would say, ‘A mute fawn cannot rumba in a gaberdine trench coat.’ To which I would equally coolly reply, ‘Yes, but a blind doe in gingham can still hear the beat.’ Hours later, of course, he would be warning me about the torch song diva we were pretending not to notice between shots of vodka and Cole Porter.
    You can thus imagine my disappointment when I was greeted by a Lithuanian Airlines attendant wearing a threadbare pants-suit of Pantone magenta. The outfit was complemented by swathes of chartreuse eyeshadow in such profusion that it made drag queens look like dedicated make-up minimalists. That said, the flight was comfortable and although I knew the novelty would soon