Leaving Moscow and Entering the Unknown

I pulled myself out of bed this morning, 5 hours after getting home from the club. I hurriedly packed my stuff because today I was going to Kiev. I said goodbye to Alisa’s mom and thanked her, the only other time I saw her was the first day. We walked out to the street and caught one of the taxi-vans and took it to the metro station. We took the metro to our stop and Alisa and I waited in the station for a half hour for Liliya to get there.
I always like sitting around in the metro stations because you can look around and see the faces of normalcy. It’s interesting though because it is not normal to me, it is normalcy in this alternate Russian reality. In general, that is what is so fun about travelling: seeing what normal is to different people. That is, unless you’re going on some adventure or recreational vacation like climbing Mt. Everest of skiing.
Liliya finally shows up and we pile into another taxi-van to the airport. I said goodbye to the girls at passport control and walked off feeling that same bitter-sweetness that I felt last time I left. Geez, it was good to be back.
Liliya handed me a little present and told me to open it on the plane. I opened it on the tarmac and it was a picture of me in my blue-tinted cocaine dealer sunglasses with my arms around her and Alisa. She wrote a nice note too. I love that girl.
Taking off from Moscow the pilot made about six sharp turns in the air. I wonder if that’s to avoid no fly zones over the Kremlin or something. Somewhere over Ukraine I started to notice the cloud cover diminishing and I was amazed when I looked down and couldn’t see any snow! Landing in Kiev, there was no white in sight! Moscow was covered, of course, but what a difference a one hour flight makes!
After passport control and customs I walked out into the main lobby of airport expecting to see some expectant Ukrainian holding a “NovaMova” sign. But, there was no one there and I couldn’t find any indication on anyone’s face that they might be looking for a young foreigner.
There was a taxi booth right next to the waiting area so I went over to it for lack of anything better to do. A pretty girl in her mid-thirties was working the booth and looked pretty bored, so I decided to give her something to do and asked if she knew where I could make a phone call. She thought for a second and then asked “какой номер,” (what number) and whipped out her private phone for me to use. It was very kind of her, but I realized that I didn’t know who to call.
I pulled out my little information packet and found the name and number of the coordinator and read it to the girl. She handed me the phone and pretty soon a little boy answered and started going off in Russian. I bumbled around trying to explain to him that I didn’t understand much of what he was saying and that I needed to talk to his Mom. He eventually trailed off and sat the phone down ostensibly to go get her. About 3 minutes later she gets on the phone and I explain my situation. She tells me the driver is parking and is on the way.
Thanking the taxi-lady I took a seat and waited. After about 15 minutes a hurried looking young guy comes into the waiting area holding a sign with “NovaMova” on it. I presented myself, he apologized for being late, and we were off in his Lada.
The driver’s name was Sergey and he was really friendly, but only spoke Russian. He gave me an enthusiastic mini tour of the city, explaining how the EuroCup (big soccer event) was coming to Kiev and that all kinds of new things were being build for it. Driving through Kiev felt like being in Moscow, which is great because I love Moscow.
We arrived at the place I’m staying: a 16 story Soviet apartment block in the middle of a grove of other 15-20 story Soviet apartment blocks. These huge outcroppings of apartment buildings make up a rayon, or neighborhood, and each neighborhood is serviced by its own set of cafes and grocery stores and even a disco club called Splash. These neighborhoods were the subject of many jokes in Soviet times because they all look the exact same whether you are Kazakhstan or Ukraine. There’s a certain charm to it though, if that’s what you want to call it.
My host came out to meet us in the front and I followed her into the elevator and up to the 11th floor, apartment 74. I was a bit nervous to see what I’d be walking into, hoping it wouldn’t be some dreary apartment that hadn’t been touched since the state stopped paying for repairs and remodeling. I was relieved to see that the place is really modern with all new kitchen appliances and a nice bathroom.
Something about old kitchens and bathrooms is really depressing to me. Maybe it’s because most of the socializing in my house (both in Clemson and at home) is done in the kitchen, and the kitchen is supposed to feel comfortable and clean. The accumulated grease and scraps and spills in old kitchens remind me of decay and death, so I
Old bathrooms remind me that I’m mortal because as I sit there and look around at the browning fake marble countertops, the weird inset soap holders, and the clouded plastic shower curtain rings I think that just like style of this bathroom, I too will age and wither.
Luckily the place I’m staying isn’t like this!
My room is nice and homey with a Persian rug and a huge oak cabinet. There’s a nice painting of a naked siren chatting it up with some Zeus figure, while another guy is blowing on a conch shell in the foreground next to some cherubic children swimming in the ocean. I am going to be sleeping on a pull out couch (as I predicted), so we’ll see how that goes. I have a nice view of the adjacent apartment block, but it’s kind of interesting to sit here and count the number of lighted windows.
My host is a vivacious lady full of energy, probably around 55 years old. She talks a lot, which means something coming from me, and speaks no English. I can already feel my Russian improving.
She was very concerned about me learning how to open and close the front door without setting off the security system. We probably practiced the whole routine 6 times. She had me step out, shut the doors and lock them, and then re-enter using the key. Then we practiced arming the alarm system and how to not set it off. Over and over and over.
I had borsch for dinner but she didn’t have any sour cream, only mayonnaise. There is way too much mayonnaise here. She made me these other things that I forget the name of, but it’s basically rice pilaf wrapped in a leaf of cabbage. As you might imagine it is one of the blandest dishes ever. She insisted I eat everything on the plate! That’s normal here though, and I’m not complaining.
My Russian is really coming out today, it’s inexplicable. I feel like I understand almost everything she says. It’s fantastic.
I took a short hop over to the shopping area to get some necessities. They have these mall type setups here where lots of individual vendors get together in a big complex and sell their wares. I passed one vendor who was selling pistols (.38’s, .22’s, etc. from the looks of them) and knives. The cheapest pistol cost about $70. I went into a music store and found a guitar for $50, so I may go back and buy it.
The good news is Ukraine is really cheap and there were also a lot of pretty girls walking around. Looks like I’m set!

Moscow: A World of Filth and Sin

ended up sleeping in a lot as I was getting adjusted to the time change. It doesn’t matter that much though because it’s not like you can ever tell what time it is this time of year anyway. I woke up one day at 9 and it was dark grey outside. Another day I woke up at noon and it was the same dark grey. It stays dark grey all day until 4:30 when the sun sets. Even at night the city is so well lit it hardly makes any difference. So, I didn’t regret sleeping in that much because I got full days in after hours.
I went back to my home metro station Petrovsko Razomovskaya, where I lived last year. I passed the lady on the bridge who always stands out there advertising for some shopping center over a megaphone. Entering the underground crosswalk I started hearing the familiar sound of the accordion music being played by my favorite bomsch (homeless) guy in town. He sits in a wheelchair and I think he might be missing a leg or something. He looks like a veteran judging by the camouflage pants he wears, but who knows. I slipped him 100 rubles and stopped to talk a minute, which was probably a mistake because he immediately told me to take the money I just gave him and go buy him a small bottle of vodka. I was hesitant at first because the guy looks like the last thing he needs is more alcohol; his breath already reeked of liquor and I am certain he is a hopeless alcoholic. But, he was persistent! I don’t know if it was right or wrong to do it, but I went into the store and bought him a bottle for 96 rubles ($3).
The thing is, the guy was going to buy vodka with the money anyway and there’s nothing I can do about that. I know he’s an alcoholic, but it’s not like you can just stop drinking cold turkey after years of abuse. It must be an arduous struggle to get that wheelchair up the icy ramp up to the street, so I definitely saved him a trip. Maybe I’m rationalizing. The reality is that guy probably won’t be alive the next time I come to Moscow. Sad to think.
I also went to the grocery store where I used to shop and talked to the lady who weighs the fruit. She remembered me and seemed glad that I came in to say hello. Unfortunately, the shawarma (like a pita) lady wasn’t working, but I bought one anyway from the Tajik guys.
I met with a friend of Liliya’s named Anton, because everyone else was busy working or something, and we walked around in the center for a while. He was a cool kid who just started learning English which meant that most of our conversation was in Russian. He was interested in my travels and he had travelled a lot himself. He told me he had hitchhiked from Moscow to Vladivostok. That’s about 6,000 miles for those of you who don’t know, and it took him 3 months living out of his backpack to do it. That definitely ranks as one of the coolest travel adventures I’ve ever heard.
Anton and I went and grabbed dinner at that Georgian restaurant where I got ripped off last time (see old blog), but it was good this time. In spite of what Russians may tell you, Georgian people are generally really friendly, at least to Americans. Georgia is one of the places where American foreign policy has been a big hit and very welcome.
We returned to Petrovsko Razomovskaya to meet with Liliya and Valera so that we could go together to the club. Outside the big dormitory I ran into a couple of old friends and we started chatting when my old girlfriend walked up. To be honest I didn’t leave things so well with her because after I left Russia I got back together with my old American girlfriend and then I wasn’t in such a good position to keep things up. Anyway, I guess it hurt Diana’s feelings because she seemed very standoffish and was in a rush to leave. Oops.
I met with my old neighbor, Rustam, who is also the maintenance guy in the building. Last time Shelly and I gave him a gift card for the American themed Starlite Diner in Moscow, which was apparently a big gift. So Rustam comes down with his son, who’s probably about 7 or so, and we chatted it up in the lobby. Apparently the kid speaks English now because out of nowhere he chirps in and translates some word I didn’t know—I was really surprised.
Around ten we headed to the center of Moscow to a club called the “All Time Club.” Valera had invited one of his colleagues, another American guy from Iowa who had just gotten to Moscow. I asked him how he liked Moscow and he said “It’s just like America really.” Then he told me that he’d only been there for 2 days and hadn’t left downtown. I guess he won’t be there long enough to be proven wrong.
We drank some and talked and danced—the usual club stuff. At about two we left and went across the street to a 24 hour sushi restaurant. They put us in a small back room, which was good because we all started singing “Ee Lenin, takoy molodoy, ee yunie oktyabr vperedi!”
By the time we went to leave the restaurant it was 3am and the metro was closed, so we crammed into an unmarked taxi driven and were on our way.

Back in Moscow with the good old droozya (friends)!

My friends met me out in the terminal and we had a joyous reunion. Liliya, Alisa, Max, and Maksim were all there to greet me. It felt just like old times. Alisa’s dad brought his Land Rover to take me to her flat, and I knew I was in Russia when I saw that he had a baseball bat and a bottle of liquor in the pockets of the back seat. I jokingly asked if he played baseball, to which Liliya responded “it is for defense.”

Alisa lives with her Mom in a Soviet era apartment block, built probably in the mid 80’s. It’s a comfy place with two bedrooms and another bed in the living room (where I’m sleeping). Alisa’s mom had made us Borsch, which I struggled to put down. It was good, my stomach was just a bit unsettled from being tired and from eating pills all day. The bathroom (shower and sink) is separate from the toilet in the typical Russian fashion, and there are potted plants sprawled out across every windowsill. I’ve mentioned this before, but Russians love flowers and greenery more than any other group of people else I’ve ever seen. There are as many flower shops in Moscow as there are pharmacies, which is to say that there are flower shops on every single corner.

The floor of Alisa's apartment has holes in it where you can look down and see the concrete base, so I have to be careful so that I don’t get my foot caught in there. The walls were bare and the drapes were made of that kind of old-lady lace in Grandma’s house. It’s not that I usually notice stuff like home décor’, but it’s so glaring in Russian homes that it always catches my eye.

It’s funny because in so many ways the flat is so distinctly Russian, with all of the typical layouts and quirks. But then all of the bathroom appliances are new and very Western and have that girly lime green and pink color scheme. The front door is wooden and modern—replacing the Soviet bank-vault door that the neighbor still has. Alisa has enough girly foo-foo make up and shampoo stuff to rival any girls’ back home.

Anyway, when I got there I went to sleep for a few hours. Alisa woke me up around 9pm and we went and met a bunch of old friends at one of the “Il Patio/Planet Sushi” restaurants that are all over Russia. It’s an interesting setup in these restaurants. One side has a Japanese theme and the other side an Italian theme. You go in and tell them what you’ll be eating—or what most of your party will be eating—and they sit you accordingly. You can still order the Italian food when you’re on the Japanese side, which is funny because the waitress will come deliver your spaghetti wearing a kimono. You can also order cigarettes off the menu, of course.
As usual, we took forever to order and forever to eat and then sat around at the table for another hour or two chatting. We probably took 3 and a half hours to go to dinner, but that’s normal here.
Here I am, back at my second home.


Day 2:
I took two Benadryl last night and slept soundly until 11a.m. Alisa woke me up so that we could make blini, or Russian pancakes with her friend Yuliana. We made a stack about 7 inches high, which is pretty big because Russian pancakes are wafer thin. It was another lazy and lengthy meal with ice cream on the pancakes and tea.

We went to Yuliana’s house after a while and I drank some more tea in the stuffy kitchen and sang a commie song on the guitar for Yuliana’s mom. They had a tiny teacup Chihuahua that was the smallest dog I’ve ever seen. It was mean too and growled like crazy when I touched its pillow (which Alisa said was “his girlfriend”). I don’t really care for those kind of dogs.

There was a cross-stitched picture of a bare-breasted woman hanging on the wall and when I started laughing at it Yuliana’s mom said, “that’s me!” Interesting! I guess I don’t understand who the hell cross-stitches naked pictures? I mean, naked paintings or black and white photos are tasteful sometimes, but I thought cross-stitching was pretty much reserved for bible verses and pictures of English gardens. Apparently it’s a respected artistic medium in Russia, go figure.

We went skating that day down by the WWII memorial park. I bought some apple cider in the little café and as I was walking to the table in my skates I spilled it all over my hand and scolded my thumb
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Alisa asked me later if we had skating rinks at home and I said that we only had one. She started laughing hysterically and when I asked her what she was laughing at she spits “One!? You have only one?! We have hundreds, probably thousands. Every school, every neighborhood has one!” I guess that’s funny.

We went and ate at a Central Asian restaurant and I got talked into ordering some big dumplings instead of the spicy fajita looking thing, which was a little disappointing. We somehow got stuck sitting underneath a huge projector screen playing ridiculous Russian music videos. Every single video was just a series of clips of fast cars, shots of the male love interest doing something manly, like boxing, and then the almost-naked cute girl singer dancing suggestively against a fast car or her male love interest. It’s a formula but somehow none of us could stop watching, even when they replayed the same set of videos twice.

Leaving the country again for a non-yet-determined amount of time

We sat on the tarmac for a while as the maintenance guys repaired a broken cable on the door of the airplane. I was impatiently flipping through the New Yorker trying to get interested in some story about a Florida Senator. I woke up this morning feeling a little sore and feverish, probably an oncoming flu. What a day to be sick! Twenty four hours in transit nursing a head-ache. I will take some Benadryl and try to pass out on the flight to Copenhagen.
Looking down as Charlotte began to disappear beneath the clouds was surreal as I remembered that it could be another year and a half before I return. A year and a half out of my country, away from my friends, family, dog, and house. I question the wisdom of this adventure. Liz, the dog, is getting old and the other dog, Tom, died last time I left. Grandma is getting old and I don’t want the last time I see her to be over some mediocre Panini in a noisy deli when I am struggling to maintain conversation because I am hung over. The house might be sold by the time I get back, which I am ok with, though I would like to have a say in packing my things.
The pre-adventure nerves were really kicking this morning. I woke up feeling melancholy as I took a shower, ate some eggs, and petted the dog for the last time…until I get back. No matter how adventurous one is, leaving the comfort and the niceties of home is always jarring. In Ukraine I will probably be sleeping on an uncomfortable bed and breakfast probably won’t be what I’m used to. I dread the day I run out of peanut butter— I only brought 3 pounds along. I really hope this flu goes away because I do not want to be achy and sick in an unfamiliar place with no one around to whine and complain to except my Russian speaking host-mother. On the bright side, this could be an excellent opportunity to work on my Russian medical vocabulary.
Anxiety. What if I don’t meet anyone I like in Kiev? What if I make some faux pas and am ostracized for the rest of the time? What if I miss my friends from home too much? This isn’t like last time. I am not going with an organized group. There won’t be a Shelly, a Marie, or a Maxime. I won’t have kids my age next door and I won’t have English speakers around to escape the Russian world. I don’t think I’ll even have internet in my room. What on earth am I going to do!?
Humbug. Gibberish. Nonsense.
This is what travel is about. The anxiety is what makes it exciting, at least for me. I’m glad that I’ll be stopping in Moscow for a few days first to see my friends. I’ll be staying at Alisa’s apartment. Last time I was at her house I tried salo, a Ukrainian dish of salted pork fat (the white part of bacon, basically) that you eat on bread with a shot of vodka. I’m expecting a warm reception at the airport from a lot of old pals. They said that they would bring some vodka so we could start drinking immediately, but I will probably be too tired.
Here comes a Moscow whirlwind tour. I hope I can hit my favorite Indian restaurant with the Russians in tow. They don’t like Indian food much, but that’s because they haven’t tuned their palates to the finer culinary intricacies and complex flavors that Russian cuisine lacks.

Anyway, I just got off the flight from D.C. to Copenhagen and I am killing time in the airport. On the flight. I sat next to a nice German girl and an American guy who lives in Denmark. I tried to get some sleep hunched over with my pillow on the tray table, but in that position I just ended up drooling all over myself and swallowing a ton of air so that when I sat back up I burped like crazy. The flight was not so bad, though the meat-loaf dinner left something to be desired. At least there was free beer. There were a lot of Danes on board (I was flying Scandinavian Airlines) and they are a pretty bunch of people.
I am exhausted. I’ve been popping ibuprofen every few hours but my neck is still sore. Damn this flu. Damn small airline seats. Damn the hand-rests on the benches in the airport that prevent people from stretching out all the way.

As it turns out, I shouldn’t have complained about the benches, because I found a four-seater with no hand-rests and passed out on it. I was soundly asleep when three Danish police came and woke me up to tell me to take off my shoes. Danish police: enforcing tidiness.
I sat next to some Russian girl and her little sister on the flight, but I only exchanged two words with her before I conked out again. I probably weirded them out drooling all over myself in my sleep. People shouldn’t expect too much composure when someone’s been sitting in upright airline seats for hours 8 hours straight.
Moscow had total cloud cover as we descended. I knew that the cheery sunlight above the clouds would soon be blacked out by the endless grey of the wintery Moscow sky.
They had evidently just received a good dusting of snow as the view out of the window was of a ubiquitous white. The grey snowy drear filled me with radiant joy. Back in Russia!
I was pleased to find that my bag hadn’t been lost in my extremely short layover in D.C., and I was pleased when the customs officers didn’t pay me any attention. I never know what kind of things have to be declared. I brought a bottle of whisky and some nice perfume as gifts and I was a bit worried that they would be seized. Also glad they didn’t find the kilogram of cocaine I had in my backpack, whew!

W.W.L.D. What Would Lenin Do

I’ll touch on a topic here that has probably been worn out by every observer to have ever stepped foot in the Russian Federation with even the tiniest bit of culture-consciousness. And that is: the contrast between contemporary Russia and Soviet Russia.
Moscow is the largest city in Europe, and as one would expect to find in any Western metropolis, there is a lot of flashy consumption. All over Moscow we see luxury automobiles driven by fur-clad young women sporting the newest model of iPhone. Similar to New York, most of the younger crowd seems to be very fashion-conscious with many of the Russian girls paying for professional photo shoots. Interestingly, everything American seems to be popular: we went to McDonalds last night (Sunday night at 8:30 or so) and it was packed with teenaged folk. Surely they don’t like hamburgers that much; it seemed like MickeyDees was just the place to be.
Really, I would say Moscow is a bit ritzier than New York, in some ways at least. The last time I was in New York I was with a pal of mine, Vasily, who normally lives in Moscow. We passed a really nice Bentley parked on the side of the road and English and I stopped to gawk at it: it’s rare that I see a $200,000+ car. But, Vasily just looked and chuckled, “oh yes, we have a lot of those in Moscow.” Sure enough, I’ve seen several here. Of course, that’s anecdotal.
I’m certainly not complaining about any of this, I welcome the rise of Russia. Hooray capitalism! But, to get back to my point, all of this contrasts sharply with the lingering Soviet tint.

Most of the central Moscow metro stations are ostentatiously adorned with bronze statues, stone inlays, magnificent mosaics, and elegant chandeliers, all built for the glory of the proletarian everyman! Many of the mosaics and statues depict scenes with strong communist undertones. The hammer-and-sickle icon is ubiquitous. I have seen several large portraits of Lenin in the stations as well.
What irony that the revolutionary infrastructure is being used by today’s generation to skirt back-and-forth between its bourgeois proceedings!
Last night I was riding on a particularly busy train and sitting across from me was an old babushka. The old women in Russia are funny: they all wear drab colors, no jewelry, no makeup, and most of them cover their heads with hijab-type scarves. I assume that this modest dress stems from an upbringing where preoccupation with appearance and other such dainties were considered counter-revolutionary. Why spend time getting pretty when you could be studying political literature. I can’t say I disagree with that logic, honestly.
Anyway, I couldn’t help but wonder what this old woman was thinking as she watched us young folk going hither and thither without a second thought as to the ideological implications of our actions! It must be disconcerting for the old people to live under what was considered “the bad guy system” when they were growing up. Just imagine if it had been American capitalism that had fallen to the communists instead of the other way around: my grandmother’s generation would be beside themselves, I think. Of course, if they took a short lesson in economics then maybe they could appreciate the shift…maybe too late.
One of my Russian friends told me a story about their friend’s grandmother. She said that every time they visited her they would bring sausages. At the next visit, several months later, grandma would pull out these same sausages and put them on the table for everyone to eat. Turns out, she is still in the habit of hoarding in case society collapses or nuclear war breaks out or something. Apparently there is just no breaking the old people of these habits.
I’ve heard that many of the old people still have great reverence for Comrade Stalin. I guess Khrushchev’s de-Stalinization efforts were no match for the cult of personality. Lenin is, of course, popular also.
From what I’ve gathered, most Russians of my generation could care less about Stalin, Marx, Lenin, or the USSR. It is no more interesting to them than the politics of 20th century politics are to the average American 20 year old. “But guys, this was one of the most notable political undertakings in the history of civilization!”
What would Lenin do if he were growing up today? Well, if he were one of today’s youth, I doubt he would have ever fallen into radicalism. His brother would have never been executed, he would have never been exiled, and he probably could have never convinced Muscovites to stop eating at such exploitative establishments as МакДоналдс and Бургер Кинг.


Some relevant pictures