Au Diable Vauvert

Kars is a lightless town where the few rays of sunshine that reach it are swallowed by the black basalt architecture that has been sitting motionless, holding its ground, since the hoary times of Russian occupation. At the foot of the horse statue at its town centre, tiny street boys with grown-up macho manners squirm under the burden of their superstition as you pat their heads and tell them how cute they are before you don't let slip that saving "mashalla". You're only having them on, you'll finally buy one of those pens or packets of tissue that they sell out of these rough cut hands that should belong to adult craftsmen, not to creatures with such squeaky little voices.

Kars even has its own "village idiot" (as she was presented to me), a strumpet called Sultan, famous all over the place for her appearance. You can't help but notice when the Russian entity strides past you on the main boulevard: peroxide blonde, garish make-up (thick powder on her nose making it look plastic-like, a lipstick as pink as you would not even choose your baby daughter's playthings to be), and clothes that have her boobies bouncing out as if there was a dwarf beneath them juggling with wobbly globes three times his size. At this point you may well find yourself unintentionally exclaiming "Jesus Christ, I have never seen a prostitute before!".

At the end of the day, more or less recent literary fame notwithstanding, Kars is a bland, unexceptional town at the centre of barren flatness. A quick escape should be appreciated.