The River Nemunas separates Lithuania and K'grad.

The grand entrance to Kaliningrad Oblast (the Russian exclave trapped inside the European Union between Poland and Lithuania) was, for us, marked by fishing militiamen and a dancing female border guard.

To set the scene, I have to tell you that we had a lot time on our hands there – nearly six hours, just waiting in the procession, first the 20th car in the queue, then the 19th, 18th, 17th…sitting in the car…standing by the car…walking up and down the bridge…pointing things out to each other.

I think it was Richard who first noticed the two militia officers (CORRECTION: it was Julija), down at the riverside, next to their jeep and in uniform (and presumably on the clock) with their pole in the water. And it was I who got the blue-shirted border guard shaking her stuff and grinning mischievously.

She was manning, as it were, the kiosk where people crossing the border on foot stop to flash their passports and papers. She spotted us loitering and came out to investigate, addressing me in Russian. Being Russian-less (save for some swear words wholly inappropriate at that moment) I pointed at the line of cars and made a wheel-steering gesture to indicate we were non-pedestrians, and hence, perhaps, beyond her jurisdiction.

No such luck.

To our delight, however, she pantomimed my “driving jiggle” (putting her own imprimatur on it), smiled, and told us politely and in no uncertain terms to scamper back to our vehicle. If they do a “Women of the Russian Customs Division” calendar, she’s my choice for Miss July.

Finally, long after sundown and many filled-out forms later, the gate – no fancier or sturdier than the ones you see all the time on condominium parking garages – opened and we were waved through. Within minutes of entering Sovetsk (once Tilsit, where Napolean signed a peace treaty with Russia in 1807), I knew this trip would be worth all the trouble and expense; the fascinations of this geopolitical anomaly (you’ll get the brief history lesson in Part 2) had begun to unfold.

Sovetsk is clean if poorly lit, with much intact Prussian and other worthy architecture.

Dresses, heels, hammers & sickles: Saturday night on the town.

The Rossiya Hotel (and Lenin out of view) dominates.

In one of the dim but ornamented boulevards, Oliver spotted a 35-ish woman in a white pantsuit smoking a cigarette outside a doorway. He talked her (Natalya was her name, and her rambunctious young daughter and drunken sailor of a father celebrating his 65th birthday also joined us on the pavement) into giving us a tour of the block.

As we walked, she described the history of the town, which she knew only a little about, and her boredom with Sovetsk, which was so overpowering that Oliver said later he was sure she would have ditched dad and daughter and jumped in the car with us, right then, had we just offered to take her out of that place.

That's Oliver on the right.

As charming as we found Tilsit, though, we left (sans Natalya) after an hour and half, pressing on to the big city of Kaliningrad, with Richard’s girlfriend Helen at the wheel ably battling darkness and raindrops (albeit on very, very good roads with an impressive lot of reflectors, reflective paint and reflective signs) ultimately rolling in to our guesthouse [recommended] at 2am.

The purported urban nightmare our crew had nicknamed K’grad as we planned the trip, this putative armpit of Russia, would be there for us in the morning.

And it would surprise us all.

Read Part 2.
Read Part 3.

In German, but you get the idea.