From Russia with...

... stereotypes.

8 pm in central Amsterdam.

It isn't exotic at all these days, but for a Cold War baby like myself there's still a ring of clandestine about meeting a couple of Russians underneath the monument on Dam square. Especially since I'm exchanging goods for money and I get paid in American dollars.

It's dark, it's raining. I've put my hoodie up for good measure. I approach, we shake hands and decide to go for a drink.

They look American. Shorter than the average Dutch male, the two Moscovites wear puffy jackets, baseball caps and trainers. Only K. has 'typical' Slavic features, but there is nothing stealthy about the bright yellow colour of his jacket.

He doesn't say much, but L. has good English and is very similar to the only other Russian I've met. Is it a Russian thing, a Moscovite thing to talk and ask, but not listen?

What do I know about Russians? No more than I've read in trashy spy novels, like Gorky Park: they are prone to melancholy, say 'Fuck your mother' and they drink a lot.

L. and K. do very little to dispel this notion. They're a bit short with the waiter who is really quite friendly for a Dutchman, letting them taste the local beer before ordering. 'Pint or regular.' he asks. 'A pint, of course,' they say.

Of course.

They tell me about their flight, the purpose of their visit and complain about getting served milk for lunch, instead of alcohol. L. explains he must have alcohol before going in to work. I laugh when he shows me the Dutch clogs he bought for his girlfriend.

Just before we part they ask me where they can buy a bottle of vodka. I leave them as they turn into the late night supermarket.

Fifty dollars in my pocket, enough for some cheese and tulips.