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Among the Russians: Vivid and Poetic Travel Writing on a 10,000-Mile Journey Through Late Soviet Culture and History

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Colin Thubron
Colin Thubron

Colin Thubron, a British writer born on June 14, 1939, is renowned for his in-depth cultural insights and delicate narrative style, primarily focusing on the history and culture of Asia and the Middle East. more

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“Every soldier who fought put on a uniform and gave up two, three, four years of his life. He worked, he fought, sometimes he bled. Sometimes he lost a limb-but above all, he gave America those years of his life. And America said, "We won't forget you." That's simple justice. Now they're back. Most veterans are bitter men because the simple things they ask-a home, a job, security-they cannot have. But what, I ask, is it like to be a Negro veteran? You fought, if you are a Negro veteran, to tear down the sign "No Jews Allowed" in Germany, to find in America the sign "No Negroes Allowed." You fought to wipe out the noose and the whip in Germany and Japan, to find the noose and the whip in Georgia and Louisiana.”

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“One of the women was a blonde from Eastern Europe who wore sweaters interwoven with gold. She had the loveliest uniform out of all of us, a tunic with a cinched waist and diagonally arranged buttons. Her mascaraed eyelashes curled upwards and her contact lenses gave her blue eyes a shimmering sparkle. Glamour Puss had come here for a break from the adolescent brood eating her out of house and home, and maybe also because of her own worn-out feet. She'd gone through three pregnancies in her high heels. She originally came from Georgia but had been living in a town in the Erzgebirge Mountains for years.”

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“The primeval home of every shy and ticklish, tentacle-waving form of sea life and mud life, the coastal Georgia salt marsh is one of the Earth's rare and moist sunny places where life likes to experiment. Because it is flushed out twice daily by the systole of saltwater tide and diastole of alluvial tide, the marsh looks new, as if still wet from creation.”

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“The town of London, Georgia, was on a grid, with the old-fashioned town square in the center. Smack in the middle of the square, the courthouse rose above the other buildings. Constructed of red brick, with white ionic columns lining the front, the courthouse sported a clock tower with a copper dome that had developed a green patina after years of oxidation. The residents jokingly called it the “The Tower of London” for the historic castle in London, England. But while the English tower housed the Crown Jewels, the Georgian tower graced the building where citizens of London paid their parking tickets. The only Beefeaters at this Tower of London were the retirees who ate steak and eggs and played checkers at the diner nearby. Established by a few founding families who had sailed over from its namesake city a couple hundred years ago seeking religious freedom, London leaned into its Anglophile origin. On the corner of the town square sat the Olde Towne Shoppe— and that was “Shoppe” with an E at the end— which sold everything from “Werewolf of London” tees to English breakfast teas. Rumors abounded about the religion the founding families had needed freedom to practice, and people whispered that the families hadn’t just brought old-world culture and Christianity but also old-world demons. The blood-sucking, fangy ones. Londoners didn’t put any stock in the vampire tales, but they provided great fodder for tourism, much like trolls in Norway and Mothman in Point Pleasant, West Virginia. The Shoppe took tourists on walking tours called “Legends of London: A Bite on the Town,” sharing stories of the macabre and selling fruit punch in pouches designed to look like blood bags from the Red Cross. Yet there were other stories that floated down from generation to generation— ones that weren’t touted on the tours, about mysterious deaths and other odd happenings in their town. Londoners whispered of people disappearing overnight and secret rooms behind bookshelves where the undead hid their victims. When Mina’s third-grade teacher had passed away suddenly halfway through the year, kids swore weeks later that they’d seen her lurking around the playground at night. Mina knew this was all just folklore but still loved to hear the stories. Maybe because she considered herself a mystery of London.”

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