Uhhuhuh, you said...
Brest, a city on the Poland/Belarus border, is all, like, um, "leafy." Not that the Germans cared, because they sort of blew it all up. This stone soviet is having NONE OF THAT, YO.
And the Soviets, being Soviets, decided to commemerate their country being blown apart with morbid, frightening sculptures.
Yep, that's a big fucking head, in a big fucking rock, making a big fucking scary face. Makes that Vietnam War Memorial seem like a weekend in motherfucking Seaside Heights. Mike makes his Soviet face to commemerate.
The Brest War Monument goeth like so - you enter through this:
It's a star, except under it their playing some major league Minor key war anthem shit, and in the background is that morbid fucking giant stone head. You walk closer, you see some tanks, their turrets stoically pointed at some invisible, freezing Germans.
"If I...return...to Russia...I go...to Gulag."
The German Army could have used this eternal flame to keep warm at Stalingrad. TOO BAD IT CAME AFTER THE WAR. AHAHAHAHAHAH SUCK ON THAT, you fascists.
And in the center of the fortress, you have this. That fucking big ass head. Spot the hammer and sickle and you get a ration ticket for a free highlights magazine.
Yeah, there are a lot of pictures, we know, but this shit was fucked.
Yeah like dat. Brest was actually kind of lovely in that peaceful cute "we wish the CCCP were still together" sort of way. Check out:
"Boulevard Karla Marxa."
But all was good, really, and Brest was a perfect point of exit to our next stop, Bialystok, Poland, where on the train we met Bolat. Check out Bolat, in the train compartment, showing us pictures of Poland. He is Russian and he sells trees and gave us "Russian Hamburgers," something a Jew raised on chopped liver on rye bread can TOTALLY GET WITH. Say hi to Bolat!
Yeah, there we go.