July 4 flashback: 30 years ago today, "Can someone please explain how the stars and stripes got up THERE?"

Barrie waiting to be weighed.

The following first appeared in 1987 as part of my summer-long revisit of the 1987 Europe trip.

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Previously: 30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: Changing an empty keg the Soviet way.

It is with much confusion that I attempt to describe the events of July 3 and 4, 1987.

My notes insist that the tour group arrived in Leningrad on the morning of Thursday, July 2, after a largely sleepless overnight train trip (described previously). The party began again on the evening of July 2, spilling over into Friday morning, July 3.

On Friday morning, we boarded a hydrofoil to Peterhof (Petrodvorets). Hangovers were rampant, but at least it was a lovely summer day to cruise the Gulf of Finland.

One of St. Petersburg's most famous and popular visitor attractions, the palace and park at Peterhof (also known as Petrodvorets) are often referred to as "the Russian Versailles", although many visitors conclude that the comparison does a disservice to the grandeur and scope of this majestic estate.

Photos follow, below.

Upon returning from Petrodvorets, there was a tour of the Hermitage Museum at the lavish former Winter Palace of the Romanovs, and in the evening, some of us went to the Baku restaurant to celebrate Nick's birthday.

By evening on Saturday, July 4, the group had wrapped its Leningrad tour in the morning (Piskaryovskoe Memorial Cemetery and museum of the WWII siege) and flown to Riga, Latvia for the next stage of liver damage.

The timing matters, owing to one of the most famous episodes of the journey, wherein an American flag abruptly appeared atop the Leningradsky Dvorets Molodezhi Hotel in honor of July 4, U.S. independence day.

It had to have happened at night on July 3, into the morning of July 4.

Seeing as I remember nothing about the Baku meal, it will come as no surprise that details about the circumstances of this flag's novel appearance in the USSR also completely elude me.

Furthermore, I've no idea how the flag was reclaimed, because at some point thereafter it was traded to a cooperative Soviet railway attendant for a tin of caviar the size of a football.

No photos survive of this flag, unfurled atop the brutalist architecture in Leningrad, and tolerated with remarkable equanimity by hotel staff. I wonder if we bribed them?

From July 3, two views of Leningrad's old Tsarist waterfront.

And incredible Petrodvorets, the Versailles of Peter the Great.

I believe the game was to see which stones activated the water jets when trod upon.

Next, Dom Knigi (Singer Company Building), where we loaded up on dirt cheap propaganda posters.

St. Petersburg's largest and most famous bookshop, Dom Knigi ("House of the Book") occupies one of the most beautiful buildings on Nevsky Prospekt - the Singer Company Building, an innovative and richly decorated Art Nouveau masterpiece.

The Neva River.

From July 4: 

Even today, St. Petersburg's Piskaryovskoe Memorial Cemetery continues to speak eloquently to the experience of Leningrad under siege by the Nazis in WWII.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and so we were able to witness the Soviet custom of newlyweds visiting the cemetery to honor the sacrifice of the populace during the siege.

The most significant monument to those who died during the Siege of Leningrad, this enormous memorial cemetery on the north-eastern outskirts of the city holds the graves of around 420 000 civilian victims of the siege, the majority of whom died of cold and starvation, and 70 000 soldiers who died in the defense of the city. On Victory Day (9 May), the cemetery is a centre of activity for the relatives of those who are buried there and anyone who wishes to commemorate the thousands of victims of what is undoubtedly the greatest tragedy in St. Petersburg's history.

In 1987, it had been only a little more than 40 years, and most families had suffered losses: "Nobody is forgotten, nothing is forgotten."

A final memento of WWII is this preserved sign, still intact today, reading "Citizens! In case of shelling, this side of the street is most dangerous."

Next: A brief Kvass digression.

30 years ago today: Queuing for kvass (an aside).

A glass of water at Leningrad's airport, bound for Riga.

Previously: 30 years ago today: Can someone please explain how the stars and stripes got up THERE?

On several occasions while in Moscow and Leningrad in 1987, we'd join the line for квас (kvass or kvas). In 2016, I wrote about kvass after returning from Estonia.

I was delighted to see both mead and kvass on the drinks menu, even if they’re commercially produced and not rigorously farmhouse-sourced. They paired nicely with my meal of sauerkraut soup and salted herring.

Kvass is a lightly fermented, traditionally homebrewed “soft” drink made from dark bread and yeast, with a myriad of other additional ingredients varying from kitchen to kitchen. We tend to think of kvass as Russian, though many Baltic and Eastern European countries have their own versions. In the Estonian language, it's called kali.

To create that tangy fermented flavor, kvas makers start with Russian brown bread. You soak it in water, and then add some yeast (other additions — raisins, honey, mint — vary from recipe to recipe). The whole mixture ferments for a few days, a process that creates a natural carbonation, as well as a distinctive sour flavor.

According to Russian writer Alexander Genis, that sourness is beloved in the region. "The sour is the taste of Russia — everything is supposed to be sour for Russian taste. Like sour cream, for example, or pickled cucumber. Cabbage, mushroom."

Given that one of the glories of Estonian cuisine is its dense, moist black bread, kvass/kali is a natural product line extension. It tastes like its principle ingredients, bread and water.

The commercial version of kvass available at the Golden Piglet Inn actually lacked the tang of what I remembered at a street stand in Moscow, circa 1999. It was sweeter but no less delicious, and would be an apt thirst quencher in summertime, so keep the lemonade and iced tea. Let’s cook some kvass instead.

No photographic evidence attests to the consumption of kvass in 1987, so you'll be compelled to accept my testimony. However, the scene was little changed from this view in 1999, when Barrie and I returned to Russia for a Moscow encore.

Looks like I was hungover in 1999, too. One big difference would be the plastic glasses, which weren't a part of the Soviet street scene 12 years earlier.

Next: Riga and Vilnius, as the Soviet portion of the tour comes to a close.

30 years ago today: Can someone please explain how the stars and stripes got up THERE?

Barrie waiting to be weighed.

Previously: 30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: Changing an empty keg the Soviet way.

It is with much confusion that I attempt to describe the events of July 3 and 4, 1987.

My notes insist that the tour group arrived in Leningrad on the morning of Thursday, July 2, after a largely sleepless overnight train trip (described previously). The party began again on the evening of July 2, spilling over into Friday morning, July 3.

On Friday morning, we boarded a hydrofoil to Peterhof (Petrodvorets). Hangovers were rampant, but at least it was a lovely summer day to cruise the Gulf of Finland.

One of St. Petersburg's most famous and popular visitor attractions, the palace and park at Peterhof (also known as Petrodvorets) are often referred to as "the Russian Versailles", although many visitors conclude that the comparison does a disservice to the grandeur and scope of this majestic estate.

Photos follow, below.

Upon returning from Petrodvorets, there was a tour of the Hermitage Museum at the lavish former Winter Palace of the Romanovs, and in the evening, some of us went to the Baku restaurant to celebrate Nick's birthday.

By evening on Saturday, July 4, the group had wrapped its Leningrad tour in the morning (Piskaryovskoe Memorial Cemetery and museum of the WWII siege) and flown to Riga, Latvia for the next stage of liver damage.

The timing matters, owing to one of the most famous episodes of the journey, wherein an American flag abruptly appeared atop the Leningradsky Dvorets Molodezhi Hotel in honor of July 4, U.S. independence day.

It had to have happened at night on July 3, into the morning of July 4.

Seeing as I remember nothing about the Baku meal, it will come as no surprise that details about the circumstances of this flag's novel appearance in the USSR also completely elude me.

Furthermore, I've no idea how the flag was reclaimed, because at some point thereafter it was traded to a cooperative Soviet railway attendant for a tin of caviar the size of a football. Nick, do you remember?

No photos survive of this flag, unfurled atop the brutalist architecture in Leningrad, and tolerated with remarkable equanimity by hotel staff. I wonder if we bribed them?

From July 3, two views of Leningrad's old Tsarist waterfront.

And incredible Petrodvorets, the Versailles of Peter the Great.

I believe the game was to see which stones activated the water jets when trod upon.

Next, Dom Knigi (Singer Company Building), where we loaded up on dirt cheap propaganda posters.

St. Petersburg's largest and most famous bookshop, Dom Knigi ("House of the Book") occupies one of the most beautiful buildings on Nevsky Prospekt - the Singer Company Building, an innovative and richly decorated Art Nouveau masterpiece.

The Neva River.

From July 4: 

Even today, St. Petersburg's Piskaryovskoe Memorial Cemetery continues to speak eloquently to the experience of Leningrad under siege by the Nazis in WWII.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and so we were able to witness the Soviet custom of newlyweds visiting the cemetery to honor the sacrifice of the populace during the siege.

The most significant monument to those who died during the Siege of Leningrad, this enormous memorial cemetery on the north-eastern outskirts of the city holds the graves of around 420 000 civilian victims of the siege, the majority of whom died of cold and starvation, and 70 000 soldiers who died in the defense of the city. On Victory Day (9 May), the cemetery is a centre of activity for the relatives of those who are buried there and anyone who wishes to commemorate the thousands of victims of what is undoubtedly the greatest tragedy in St. Petersburg's history.

In 1987, it had been only a little more than 40 years, and most families had suffered losses: "Nobody is forgotten, nothing is forgotten."

A final memento of WWII is this preserved sign, still intact today, reading "Citizens! In case of shelling, this side of the street is most dangerous."

Next: A brief Kvass digression.

30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: Changing an empty keg the Soviet way.

Previously: Beer, vodka and Leningrad.

I'm taking a few days off to escape the intensity of the recurring civic soap opera we know as New Gahania, and will return to the 1987 narrative this weekend.

Until then, here is one of the very first sights I saw in Leningrad on the morning of July 2, 1987.

There were streetside kiosks selling пиво (beer) just like for flowers or sausages. When the beer ran out, someone had to change the keg.

And this is how it was done.

Next: Can someone please explain how the stars and stripes got up THERE?

30 years ago today: Beer, vodka and Leningrad.

Last installment: 30 years ago today: The Trinity Lavra of St. Sergius, a renowned monastery in what was then Zagorsk.

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In the unstaged photo above, you see a much younger Publican nursing a bottle of genuine Soviet vodka, canalside, somewhere in Leningrad USSR. Strictly speaking, neither of these geographical entities exist any longer.

It was around 1:00 a.m. on July 3, 1987. We hadn't missed the White Nights by much. Also pictured are Kim Wiesener, our Danish group tour guide, and his bosom buddy Allan Gamborg, who was leading a tour group of his own. The groups overlapped in Leningrad, and one thing led to another.

At the time, I could not have foreseen that Barrie and I would remain friends with Kim and Allan (and later their close friend Kim Andersen) all these years since. In many respects it is through them that I know Europe.

Serendipity truly is everything, though looking back on it now, two more mundane considerations take precedence: The mosquitoes patrolling that canal were the size of wasps -- and I'd had only an hour or two of sleep in two days.

The brutal truth of the matter is that a stupendous intake of alcohol, crummy hotel beds and an overall lack of sleep are to blame for my inability to construct a trustworthy narrative of the post-Moscow portion of our 1987 tour of the USSR and Poland.

Granted, it's been 30 years. Then again, I'm not sure I could have done much better in August of '87. For two weeks, I let myself go to seed. It was an organized tour, and someone else was doing the heavy lifting. Hitherto, I'd been traveling alone and always charged with my own upkeep. This took discipline. On the tour, I'd pre-paid for beds and meals, and there were pros around to do my chores. It was like the proverbial busman's holiday.

Consequently, I wasn't paying close enough attention. Moreover, considering that Barr is one of history's consummate storytellers, the narrative of the group tour tended to rest with him. He complied merrily, though not always with a journalist's attention to detail. These many years later, it's impossible to separate fact from fiction, but I'll do my best.

The group came to Leningrad from Moscow via an overnight "sleeper" train. I'm glad the train slept, because most of the rest of us didn't. The train arrived so very early in the morning on July 2 that even allowing for the bus time to the hotel, it stood to be two to three hours before the rooms were ready for occupancy.

Most of our cohorts collapsed to nap on the floor, using baggage as pillows. However, my compatriot Nick already had an ambitious plan for roaming. His surname is Russian, and the family roots go back to imperial times when Leningrad was St. Petersburg. Nick also had a street address for (I believe) his grandfather's house -- long since passed from the family, but hopefully available for viewing and documentation.

We looked at a map, found the rough location of the street, linked together the public transportation connections, and realized we could manage it on our own. Off we went on a bus (or tram?) to the nearest subway station, and then into the center of the city.

The house had survived, or at least a building was standing at the address in question. Nick photographed it. On the way back, we saw this.

There were streetside kiosks selling пиво (beer) just like flowers or sausages. When the beer ran out, someone had to change the keg, and this is how it was done -- with a miniature/a> beer tanker truck, pumping beer into the underground tank, not unlike a gas station.

Later in the morning, having reported back to the hotel for instructions and being told that time was being allotted for group recuperation, Nick and I found our rooms and then went back out into the streets. This time we found an active beer stand with a full tank.

There were three, maybe four community mugs at the window. We paid a few cents per mug for four mugs of beer. The attendant cleaned the mugs by spraying them with water. They were filled with draft lager, and we chugged them as fast as we could, because after all, there were 25 thirsty men (almost never women in such places) waiting behind us for their turn.

The beer was flat. That's all I remember about it.

I seem to recall an afternoon group walkabout in the historic center. It may have included the Hermitage museum in the former Winter Palace. If so, I didn't go inside, as it had been on my itinerary in 1985. Or, maybe I did. All those years; all those beers.

(Note: It didn't. The Hermitage tour occurred the following day)

Seeing as I've written about Leningrad previously, those readers with an interest in the city can delve into it by way of these links.

Euro ’85, Part 29 … Helsinki beneath my feet, but Leningrad on my mind.

Euro ’85, Part 30 … Or, as it was called at the time, Leningrad.

Euro ’85, Part 31 … Leningrad in three vignettes.

Euro ’85, Part 32 … Leaving Leningrad.

Scattered images from July 2 include the pedestrian walkway without a floor, which kept walkers on their toes.

The Soviet brutalist Leningradsky Dvorets Molodezhi Hotel, built in 1975, obsolete in 1987 and still intact as of 2016.

The train of friendship might have been ours, but alas, the banner was unfurled for another visiting group.

I've always cherished this shot of Barr with the toy car.

At some point, with a belly full of vodka, I must have slept.

Was there food?

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Next: Changing a keg the Leningrad way.

The massive sacrifice of the Soviet Union in WWII.

My first visit to the USSR came in 1985, and among the sites my tour group visited in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) was the Piskariovskoye Memorial Cemetery. At the time, it was a favored pilgrimage spot for newlyweds. Sure enough, upon arrival, we saw a bride and groom posing for photos with the cemetery as backdrop. Somewhere I have a slide to prove it.

This may seem an odd ritual, but whatever else one might say about the nature of monolithic Communism, it remains that Russians are patriotic, too, and when it comes to World War II (the Great Patriotic War, in regional usage), they have good reason. In 1985, in Leningrad, it had been only a little more than four decades since the end of the city's 900-day siege, during which a half-million people dies, most of them civilians.

By contrast, Chicago experienced no such privation during the war. I'll merely note that a fairly dispassionate explanation of the Soviet wartime experience can be found here.

Why am I offering this information today? Primarily as a corrective to the jingoism and chest-thumping that accompany the July 4 holiday. History isn't that simple, and while WWII is now a distant memory, and vast chunks of the American populace knows little about it and will not consider the historical record on a day devoted to eating, drinking and varied debaucheries, it still matters to me. Russians paid a very high price to bleed the Nazis dry on the steppes.We shouldn't forget that, Putin or otherwise.

The successful 70-year campaign to convince people the USA and not the USSR beat Hitler, by Dylan Matthews (Vox)

... Assessing the "biggest contributor to victory" in a rigorous way is exceptionally difficult. They tend to devolve into comparisons of counterfactuals, and the truth is that nobody has any strong idea how the war would have turned out absent US involvement, or if the German-Soviet non-aggression pact had held, etc. But the case is pretty strong that the Soviet Union's successful resistance of Nazi invasion and subsequent reclamation of Eastern Europe was the most important of many crucial factors in defeating Germany.

The Smiths on my birthday, and a Soviet recollection.

Yesterday was my birthday, and a whole slew of Facebook friends wished me a good one. For these greetings, I'm sincerely grateful.

Clint Ackerman set the tone by providing a song by The Smiths: "Heaven Know I'm Miserable Now, " and that was enough to send me diving into the back catalog. The video above obviously isn't the original of "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out," but it's a favored cover by Neil Finn and Friends, including Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr.

A weekend spent listening to The Smiths was a very good thing, and some of the 1980s memories dislodged are quite remarkably fresh, like the story of how I first heard of the band.

My 25th birthday dinner in 1985 was taken with Mark, an Australian, one of a couple dozen fellow travelers on a four-day tour of Leningrad USSR (not Moscow, as I previously misstated on Facebook). He'd decided that a birthday should be celebrated the right way, and so we bribed our way into a restaurant. In typical fashion, the food was an afterthought, and the main course was limitless vodka.

Before Mark ebbed away into some deep cups (how did we get back to the hotel?), he was telling about his adventures working his way across the Commonwealth, and time he spent bartending in the UK, where fashionable new music was on the rise. Trying to explain what The Smiths sound like without any of the music handy for listening is about as useful as it (doesn't) sound. But at least he tried, and in the years to come, I learned about The Smiths.

Thanks again to all my birthday well-wishers.