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A mixture of shop fronts, colorful souvenir spots, walking human ads and all manner of restaurants look designed to make you lose your path. The spot that your mobile app leads you to is instead occupied by a lonely and shivering street vendor of ushankas, nesting dolls and Lenin and Trump, for some reason statuettes.
He was just finishing up with the previous visibly impressed group. Pereverzov dutifully unhooked the red barrier rope, and I was let in. Immediately I was surrounded by pre-war contraceptives, bras and panties and other things, producing a sigh of excitement within me. Fortunately, this proved unnecessary - as was walking around: this museum, with its ruble admission fee, occupied such a modest area that your entire movements are restricted to turning degrees on your heels.
The walls are adorned with photographs of th century prostitutes, books are strewn around the floor, together with bits of doll figures. The shelves are littered with various knick knacks, while a red toilet seat for some reason has a male chastity belt hanging over it.
A palm tree protrudes from beneath. I had time to survey my surroundings three times while the owner was finishing up an excited discussion with friends, involving a night out that turned bloody and included skinheads. According to him, the museum must elicit a sense of filth, awkwardness and shame.
I was suddenly surrounded by drying laundry, with a jar standing nearby, containing what looked like a human body part preserved in alcohol. And he was just here moments ago. Similar feelings you get when visiting a prostitute. With the introduction over, I asked how long it took Pereverzov to collect his exhibit - at least the part that could be categorized as antique, as opposed to a garage sale.