It's Not in the Guidebook

It was one of those rare occasions when the guidebooks had failed me. Not one chapter there dealing with how to graciously say no to a gold-toothed, inked Byelorussian proffering Absolut on the porch of a youth hostel. Damn guidebooks I thought. Who cares that roses in odd numbers are the accepted gift to give a woman on a date?
Saint Petersburg, Russia. The Hermitage comes to mind. Kresty Prison does not. Yet there I was right next door to Russia’s most notorious jails. Another church. No gold leaf there. And you would keep walking.
Across the street, the Olgas and Larissas show off tanned legs of weekend swims in the Finnish Bay while shouting above the rushing traffic. Sailing through the air, whirling missiles are hurled by some mysterious propulsion and hit her chest. Perfect aim. The volley comes from none other than her man, in the cell above. Whirling paper cones hide messages. “Get me cigarettes.” “I’ll be out soon.” The girls gesticulate in Cyrillic sign. The pantomime continues.
I sit uncomfortably on the bench sticky with spilled warm beer and chat with the British guys. Hostel-speak.
Under the passageway leading to the balcony was a shadowy figure flanked by two youths.
“I Byelorussian. Drink.”
“Nyet spasibo,” I said as I stared at his teeth.
Insistent, he continued. “I Byelorussian. Vladimir.” His exposed arm showed his prison tattoo “Boba.” Vo-va. Vo-va.
I knew better than to refuse. Turning to the British lads for assistance, they raised their beers and said cheers. Lovely, no assistance.
“Minya zavut Phil,” I said.
Out of ceremony, Vova, took the first swig from the bottle and then handed it to me. Bottle gone. Easy.
Unfortunately, I did not see Dmitri, Vova’s nephew steal away, and return with two more bottles. The last bottle of potato juice was almost empty and I felt a dizzying relief until a new twist was added; arm wrestling. I lost with my right arm, but won with my left. Vova was silent. That’s all I remember.
I awoke mid-day to a bloodstained pillow, a throbbing head, and the thought of bodily injury came to mind. I was supposed to meet Marina whom I’d been writing. I noticed the gash on my own bald head. Vodka reeked from my pores. My heavy eyes hardly looked above the pavement as I walked to the metro.
There she was. Lovely. Fresh-faced.
She would not listen. Another drunk.
Guess I should have bought three red roses. The hell with the guidebook.