But by way of a booming Putin-era economy—and all the prosperity and gold-plated Land Rovers that are included with it—the times of the grateful Russian bride are fading fast
it’s 6:30 p.m., and every person is crowded in to a gloomy, nondescript space from the very first flooring of Kiev’s St. Petersburg Hotel. Tonight’s impresario, Jack Bragg, appears frantic, and also the perspiration is seeping through their bandanna with all the miniature Confederate flags in the mirror next to the coat check—and the interpreters, all women, are on their cell phones or talking to one another on it, and the men look edgy—they’re straightening their ties, straightening their eyebrows, staring at themselves. Bragg, that is perhaps not really a little guy and appears like a Hells Angel together with sunglasses and goatee, is gesticulating extremely, and their vocals seems like a timpani.
Downstairs, when you look at the hotel’s cellar banquet hall, are seventy women that are ukrainian dolled up and dying to be met. “Big evening,” Bragg tells their troops. “Big evening.” Some of the guys check their flies; another asks their neighbor if there’s such a thing in their teeth. Bragg is describing how exactly to juggle girls. “Now, state Svetlana would like to dancing and also you state, ‘Svetlana, I’ll party with you. Merely minute, Svetlana.’ However you like to speak with Tatyana, Natalia, Alisia. And that means you visit your interpreter and state, ‘I want figures for Tatyana, Natalia, Alisia.