Quite a calm city crossword clue 6. The most peaceful places for peace and inspiration. Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Bavaria, Germany

It seemed to Moshkin that someone else’s shadow flashed on the asphalt next to his own. He shuddered, turned around - no one. He tightened his fingers around the plastic bag in his coat pocket. In this “the calmest city on Earth” (as the posters said) people slept soundly and long, and it was not customary to wander around in the middle of the night. Moshkin was sweating and biting his nails. There was no client. It’s not clear whether to wait further or rush home, stuff the goods into your pockets and leave. I desperately wanted something sweet. Moshkin thought about the sweets in the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers, and his mouth filled with saliva. The body required sugar.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Moshkin jumped up - he did not hear the man approaching from behind. You can't make out the hood, but Moshkin thought he saw it at a local diner. The man muttered: “I’m from Gavrila.” Moshkin thrust the bag to the stranger and immediately felt a package being dropped into another pocket. Now - home, to where you can lock the door and go down to the basement. Unwrap the package and count the candies to see if the client cheated. And then eat to your heart’s content of sweets, take out a box of goods from the hiding place and sit for a long time and look at every button. Moshkin remembered what time and on what day he scratched each of these tiny drawings with a needle: a chick in a nest, a mushroom or a cunning cat's face. He knew exactly where he picked up every piece of wood, pebble or piece of glass, so that he could then attach a loop to it or make holes, paint or varnish it.

It all started with my great-grandfather. When Moshkin was little, the old man often grumbled that it was not a good idea to give people two candies a day. Only two people in the family loved sweets - great-grandfather and little Moshkin. Sometimes the old man would suddenly bring a few extra candies from somewhere. Then the two of them climbed into the basement, ate them and looked at their great-grandfather’s box. It contained buttons, each with a colored design or a tiny stone. “This is all that remains of my business,” sighed the great-grandfather. Before the intervention, my great-grandfather had his own button shop and his own production.

Sometimes the mother gave the old man a dressing down. She locked the kitchen door and scolded him: “Stop teaching my son about relics of the past. He will be just like you. The twenty-second century is just around the corner, forget about business (Moshkin at the age of five still didn’t know what that was). He doesn't need to change the world. Dreams of success are for those with complexes, for neurotics, do you understand that?!” She thought Moshkin couldn’t hear. But he stood under the door, listened and didn’t understand why mom was swearing so much. And then one day my great-grandfather left - he collected his things in ten minutes, squatted down in front of Moshkin and whispered: “See you, guy. In this country you will be happier than me." And he quickly walked out the door. No one saw him again.

Moshkin was not worried about himself - it seemed to him that the problem was in everyone else

15 years have passed since then, and Moshkin did not feel happy at all. He was angry with his great-grandfather because he didn’t really explain anything, that he said so little about his buttons: why he made them, why he so wanted them to be beautiful and different, what kind of “business” this was, whom his mother protected so much. He was also angry with his mother - for scolding his great-grandfather, for being deadly calm and sweet the rest of the time. She didn’t wake up at night, didn’t bite her nails, like Moshkin himself. They were so different from her.

Moshkin generally thought that he was unlike anyone else. The psychotherapist said that a person cannot be somehow “different”, that one must accept oneself. And if something bothers you, you need to find the reasons. But Moshkin was not worried about himself - it seemed to him that the problem was in everyone else. In the evenings, lounging on Grishkin’s sofa (the devil knows why they became friends in the first place, probably because they lived next door since childhood), Moshkin asked: “Do you know that you used to drink a lot of coffee? They bought it for money, and they could write your name on the glass.” Grishkin replied: “But this is before the intervention. Personalized marketing. Some unfortunate, complex person really wanted to treat everyone to his coffee and promoted himself with the help of these cups. I don’t understand what’s interesting here.” Moshkin looked at Grishkin and saw on his face the same expression of blissful calm as his mother’s.

Since his great-grandfather left, he managed to attend school, and there he was taught what business and wealth are. Previously, many people opened their own businesses and sold people necessary, pleasant things or provided services. But even then, in the 21st century, scientists found that most successful entrepreneurs have mental disorders: they are neurotic and obsessed with ideas that the world can be remade, that one should always strive for the better - and their anxiety is transmitted to others like a bacillus. After a series of wars and international conflicts, intervention occurred, and the most peace-loving of the candidates became president of the country. His campaign consisted of the slogans “Psychotherapy in every home”, “Love yourself for who you are”, etc. Psychotherapists became the most sought-after specialists, the number of crimes decreased every year, suicide statistics crept to zero. At the same time, artificial intelligence was being introduced into production, and the need for workers disappeared. At first there was an increase in unemployment, but then the country was introduced to an unconditional basic income. Money was replaced by goods. Scientists have calculated how much each person, depending on his build and lifestyle, needs sweets and flour, how much protein food, how many sets of clothes he wears in a year. Things were the same - clothes and fashionable haircuts as a way of self-expression were of no interest to anyone, people began to prefer the internal to the external.

It seemed to Moshkin that Gavrila had always been there. He stood behind the counter of a local eatery, bringing tasteless pies and soups to customers. Gavrila was an old man, but he stood strong on his feet. In all surrounding cities, visitors to cafes and restaurants have long been served by robots. But Gavrila said that he wanted to serve it until he died. He told local authorities that this was the only way he felt happy and asked not to deprive him of his peace of mind. The authorities waved their hand - what will they take from him, the old man. He will work for a couple of years and die, and then they will put a robot in his place. But Gavrila did not die.

There were rumors about him: that before the intervention, his father had a restaurant, and visitors paid huge amounts of money to eat there. Gavrila started working in his father's restaurant when he was still a teenager, then Gavrila's father left, and the restaurant turned into a simple eatery, but Gavrila still worked there, now for free. They said that one day a tourist came to Gavrila’s eatery and complained that the pie smelled like rotten meat. And Gavrila did the unthinkable. He slammed his hand on the table and shouted: “What, did you pay so that I could buy good meat for the pies?” After that, he was given a warning: this would happen again, and he would be taken away. Everyone who started loud conversations about money, success, entrepreneurial passion, luck, left somewhere for a long time. There were rumors about some sanatoriums where, during intensive sessions of group psychotherapy, these people finally got rid of the remnants of the past.

Messages started coming one after another late in the evening. First: “DO YOU HAVE THEM??? HE LEFT THEM???” Second: “Tomorrow after closing, knock four times.”

Moshkin’s great-grandfather often visited Gavrila at the diner. When Moshkin was little, he and his great-grandfather would sometimes sit there until closing time: when the doors were locked, Gavrila would take out from under the counter sweets and delicious, fresh pies - such things were not served to visitors during the day. He and his great-grandfather spent a long time whispering about something while little Moshkin was gobbling up candy. Since his great-grandfather left, Moshkin had never been to that diner, but he knew that Gavrila still worked there. One day, a year ago, after another sleepless night, he could not stand it. He came before closing, waited until the last visitor had left, came close to Gavrila and whispered: “Tell me about my great-grandfather.” Gavrila looked at him as if he was seeing him for the first time: “I hardly remember him. He left 15 years ago, and I didn’t really know him.” He turned away and began placing plates on the shelves. Then Moshkin took out a tiny package from his bosom and left it on the table - next to Gavrilin’s phone. After that he walked out the door.

Messages started coming one after another late in the evening. First: “DO YOU HAVE THEM??? HE LEFT THEM???” Second: “Tomorrow after closing, knock four times.” Third: “Do you have any more buttons? You still love sweets, right?”

When there were very few of his grandfather’s buttons left in the box, Moshkin began making his own. Now, on sleepless nights, he did not suffer from idleness, but came up with new designs and colors, scratched patterns with a needle on small pieces of glass or wood. He met clients at night, always with a hood pulled over his head and a balaclava over his face. He gave away the goods in silence, so as not to be recognized by his voice. During the day, he met people on the street who had multi-colored buttons sewn onto their jackets instead of factory fasteners, and he felt pride and triumph. Now he knew that his great-grandfather was not crazy, complex and unhappy - he was a man who knew how to please others with unique, amazing things. After the intervention, he went abroad, taking all the money he earned. He probably died there. Gavrila said that Moshkin’s great-grandfather was a stubborn, energetic and quick-witted man; his store was the oldest in the world. Each button had its own design, and people from abroad bought my great-grandfather's products for private collections. “If you ever run away from here with a couple of THE SAME buttons in your pocket, you can sell them abroad and use that money to build your own factory,” Gavrila said that evening when he agreed to tell Moshkin about his great-grandfather. Moshkin was surprised: “What do you mean “I’ll run away”? Is someone keeping me here? Gavrila looked at him strangely and shook his head. He often did not answer questions at all. For example, he did not explain what would happen if you told everyone that it was Moshkin who made buttons and sold them for candy. He only said: “Never confess to anyone. Otherwise - a sanatorium. You don’t need to go there, boy.” This angered Moshkin, but he still came to Gavrila once a week. Gavrila found buyers, Moshkin finally felt happy, making buttons and receiving candy for it. He could eat as much sweets as he wanted, and this made him much calmer than when he meditated.

True, lately people have started looking at him strangely. The governor came to the City. He stopped Moshkin on the street: “Young man, tell me, wasn’t it your great-grandfather who owned a button shop?” Clients were increasingly delayed or did not come, and each time Moshkin’s heart sank into his boots. He no longer wanted to hide, he did not see any crime in making beautiful buttons himself and selling them for sweets. He wanted everyone to know about him, to talk about him, and often dreamed of magical world, where this is possible. There were no police in the country, and there were no laws prohibiting wearing buttons. But, according to Gavrila, if someone had found out that Moshkin was taking payment for his work, he would have been taken away for a long time - “to a place where there will be nothing left of you, guy.” Gavrila also behaved more and more strangely. Messages often began to come from him: “Don’t come today.” Strangers were hanging around Moshkin's house. He started biting his nails again and had trouble sleeping. One evening Gavrila sat very close and whispered: “If they come, run to the river. There is a border. Maybe you’ll leave on the water.” Moshkin didn’t understand anything, but that evening he chewed off his thumbnail to the root.

The governor came to the City. He stopped Moshkin on the street: “Young man, tell me, wasn’t it your great-grandfather who owned a button shop?”

That night, when the client made himself wait longer than usual, Moshkin felt uneasy. While he was returning, it seemed to him that screams were coming from somewhere. “This is an illusion,” he told himself. And then I saw smoke - from the side where Gavrila’s diner was. Moshkin quickened his pace - he was in a hurry to the house, to check that it was still standing, that the basement had not been opened, and that the buttons were in place. On the way, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and saw messages from Gavrila. First: “They know who you are, run.” Second: “Buttons. Do not forget". Third: “My great-grandfather left them on purpose. For you". Moshkin put the phone in his pocket and ran as fast as he could.

The wet grass made my pants and boots completely wet. Moshkin trudged through the forest for several hours; he fell many times and was covered in mud. There was a stabbing sensation in my side and my legs couldn’t obey me. At dawn he came out of the thickets to the river. In the morning fog the opposite shore was barely visible. Moshkin knew that the border was somewhere nearby, but had no idea how to get there. Moshkin was crying. He felt sorry for Gavril - throughout the night he never wrote anything else and did not respond to a single message. I feel sorry for my home, for the homemade buttons that remained in the box. I feel sorry for the mother, who probably won’t understand anything.

There were several of his great-grandfather’s buttons in his pocket, but he didn’t know why he needed them now. Maybe throw it in the water? He still won’t get out of here, they will find him and send him to a sanatorium, and God knows what will happen there. Maybe Gavrila was lying? Maybe both he and his great-grandfather are crazy old men, and in the sanatorium Moshkin will finally be relieved of all his worries and bad habits? Maybe it’s not for nothing that you can’t trade anything in the Country? After all, this only causes problems. Moshkin came very close to the water and reached into his pocket for buttons. And suddenly a strange object was washed right at his feet by the current. Moshkin leaned over to take a closer look. It was a half-soaked cardboard glass. There is some kind of inscription on it with a felt-tip pen. After standing a little longer, Moshkin straightened up and put his great-grandfather’s buttons back into his pocket - they would come in handy later. Unwrapping the candy as he walked, Moshkin quickly went against the flow - to where the glass with the inscription had come from.

After the fire, Gavrila almost never left the house. In the newly rebuilt diner, there was now a robot behind the counter. Moshkin was not found. When the commotion subsided, Gavrila tried to call him, but only heard that “the subscriber is out of range.” Gavrila hoped that the guy was already somewhere far away, building his own small factory.

Having washed the dishes, Gavrila brushed the crumbs off the table - it wasn’t enough for strangers to come into the house and guess everything. It was already late at night outside, but the time was now restless: strangers were walking around the city and asking everyone something. Grunting and holding his back, Gavrila went to turn off the light. “It’s long past time to go to my grave, and yet, like a boy, I’m participating in secret conspiracies,” he thought to himself and smiled. There was a knock on the window four times—two quick knocks and two long ones. Gavrila reached the door and unlocked the latch. A man in a black hooded coat slipped through the door and immediately closed it behind him. “I took out coffee, cereal, a whole pack. Will you give five pies for it? Gavrila went to put the kettle on: “Just take off your clothes, we’ll discuss it.” The man took off his coat. Instead of a zipper, his sports jacket had buttons.

Just 20 years ago, Russia was torn apart by economic and military problems, and then it seemed that there were simply no calm cities in the country. Now the calmest city in Russia, like its closest pursuers, are trying to do everything so that citizens do not have to worry about their lives and their own health.

The calmest and safest city in the country

Sociologists have repeatedly conducted research to identify the calmest city in Russia. The calculation took into account indicators on the crime level and the number of criminal units in the locality. Surprisingly, in last years The undoubted leader of this rating is the city of Grozny.

Despite its sad past, and the military conflicts that tore the country apart 15-20 years ago, you can now live in Grozny without unnecessary worries about your own safety. After the capital of the Chechen Republic was completely rebuilt and restored, blissful peace and tranquility was established here. The crime rate here is really low, and local residents They try not to stir up conflicts again.

The only thing girls traveling to Grozny should remember is that the customs of the country are very specific. Muslim culture does not allow women to wear clothes that are too revealing; they should also not behave provocatively on the streets of the city, so as not to run into problems.

The newspaper "Kommersant" also conducted research dedicated to the search for the safe city in Russia. According to research, this honorary title was given to Kaliningrad, where the crime rate was surprisingly low.

Some more of the safest cities in Russia

The list of cities best suited for a safe and quiet life, compiled by the Kommersant newspaper, also included Irkutsk, Krasnodar, Belgorod and Podolsk. It is believed that in these cities not only low level crime, but also created best conditions for business development.

Amediya is a small colorful village located on top of a hill in the Iraqi province of Dahuk. Amedia is 1000 meters long and 500 meters wide, while being 1400 meters above sea level. According to legend, Persian magicians and priests lived in the vicinity of the village, who were famous in the art of sorcery. It was from here, according to some researchers, that the biblical three wise men went to Bethlehem to worship and present gifts to the baby Jesus.

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