The Lenin Mausoleum: Descent

“This is hell. And there are Russian soldiers in it.”

I continued walking down the pitch black staircase. There was no handrail along the black marble walls, and the black granite steps were only faintly illuminated by a few stray rays of light coming from the door around the corner. I realized, as I descended, that this was intentional: the design of the tomb makes one bow one’s head on the way down.

The first soldier I encountered had waved me on – a curious, sidewards gesture with his ramrod-straight arm. This was not the wave of a proprietor welcoming a guest to his show palace, but a cold, impersonal invitation.

“You wanted to come,” it seemed to say. “Well, descend then.”

I couldn’t see the bottom of the staircase. The soldier watching my descent seemed to hang, frozen, in the air between the sea and sky of curiously un-reflective marble. His eyes held – not a look of blankness – but… almost a look as if it was he who was embalmed and stationed there.

I reached the bottom of the stairs. This soldier did not wave me on. A single turn to the right revealed a doorway with a curious red light emanating from it.

Through the doorway and on a plinth raised high in the center of the room stood the glass-enclosed coffin of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. The engineer of Russia’s misery does not face the viewer coming in the door. On the contrary. From the doorway one can only see his smooth peach-colored cranium.

Walking up the stairs – these now of red marble – there is a 270 degree view of Lenin: his face looking waxen in death, and in 80 years of repose under glass in Moscow. His eyes are closed, blonde lashes barely visible on the blank eyelids. His cold, precise, inflexible mouth is a small gash – like an accidental wound – in his blank, impersonal face. The entire face – the face of a murderer of millions - is… indescribable.

I felt as though this preternatural waxwork might suddenly spring to life, and a chill ran down the back of my spine as I stared at the rest of Lenin’s short body, soberly attired in a dark grey business suit and tie and cream-colored shirt in the style of the 1940s. Suddenly, I was jolted out of my reverie.

“Девушка,” said the guard. “Young woman!”

I had tarried too long (a second might not have passed since I paused at the parapet to look at Lenin’s closed eyes) and thus moved on.

The exit stairs, at least, were lighted. I passed another soldier and climbed the black granite stairs on the other side of the tomb, the red-lit chamber and dead face of Lenin invisible behind me.

Gaining the top, I was ushered by another soldier – female this time, unlike the young, perfectly-matched blonde-haired, blue-eyed soldiers inside the tomb - into a long alleyway where stand the graves of Party dignitaries, each topped by a twice-life-size bust of the deceased.

I read the names on each grave. Chazov, Kalinin, and others stared me in the face as I moved slowly – as in a trance – down the avenue. The last two busts arrested me. The fat, coarse face of Stalin, and next to him… a man who seemed a beautiful youth by comparison. The wide eyes, lush mouth, and strong chin stopped me cold. The name said Суслов.

Mikhail Suslov? Surely not! The one who led the coup against Khruschev? In his youth, perhaps. This young, beautiful man became… what every Communist became. A “leader of men…” to destruction. A leader of men to the slaughter.

They looked it. Those cold, red porphyry faces looked – every one – like killers. Except Suslov. Perhaps that’s why he was set there, portrayed as in his youth, at the end of the avenue.

Tucking my chin into the collar of my coat, I left the Tomb and crossed the cobbled street to the river..

The Day of People’s Unity – and the Russian Mindset

Soldiers guard the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier outside the Kremlin.

Moscow feels deserted. Yesterday, I went in to work at the usual Monday time, and taught my usual classes – to half the usual number of students. Yesterday was… Saturday. And yet it was also Monday. Whaa?

Let me try to explain the Russian mindset here.

Russia had a revolution, as you may have learned in school. This revolution happened in October, 1917. (Hence the Russian fascination with the term “Red October.”) Russians, when Russia was still the USSR, celebrated the anniversary of this revolution on… 7 November, for some reason totally unknown to me. When the USSR broke apart, it was considered bad form to continue celebrating the date of the revolution, so Boris Yeltsin renamed it to the Day of Accord and Reconciliation. Still celebrating the same thing on the same day, mind you, but in new packaging. Which is all that matters.

When Putin came to power, he moved the holiday – changing the name to “Day of People’s Unity” – back to 4 November, which is yet another anniversary, this time of the Muscovites throwing the Poles out of Moscow in 1612. The thing is, only 23% of Russians even know the new name of the holiday, and only 4% know what it’s actually meant to celebrate. And I wondered why, when I asked my students about the holiday, none of them could explain to me what it was actually for. Hm.

Basically, there’s a holiday now because there was a holiday in Soviet times and people wanted to keep the excuse not to go to work!

This “Day of People’s Unity” doesn’t celebrate unity at all. Instead, it’s a jingoist holiday full of xenophobia (people shouting “Russia is for Russians!” are very common, apparently), ultra-nationalism, neo-Nazism, public drunkenness, and general discord and factional in-fighting.

The interesting thing about the holiday, however, is what else it shows about the Russian mindset. Forget the jingoism. The timing is what’s so very amusing.

This year, 4 November falls on a Tuesday. Now, if the US or UK has a holiday which falls in the middle of the week, generally people are given the previous Friday or the Monday off instead. In Russia, however – because they want, by gum, to celebrate the Day of People’s Unity that only 23% even know the name of ON the actual day of the holiday – what they did was turn the previous Saturday (that is, 1 November) into a day of work (so the entire country is running on a Monday schedule), and then give the citizens Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday (2-4 November) off for the holiday. So people really only get one day off, because they’ve got to work on Saturday, but it feels like a longer holiday, see? And that way, the Day of People’s Unity that only 4% of people know the reason behind is celebrated ON the day. And everyone’s happy.

Confused? I know I was. Am. Still.

Standing at my window early Saturday morning, I saw legions of people walking to their cars with bags of food, bunches of flowers, and cases of beer or vodka. Headed, no doubt, to their dacha (the country house which even the poorest Muscovites seem to own) or on a mini-break to the Crimea. Given the fact that the communists are likely to march through Red Square chanting nationalist slogans… well, I’d evacuate to my dacha too if I had one. (Incidentally, I will be going to Red Square on Tuesday, camera in hand. I’m not one to give up a good photo op, even with the increased military presence restricting movement on the square.)

Even though Saturday was technically Monday, most people got a jump on the holiday. After all, why go in to work on a Saturday, even if your Fearless Leader has decreed that you’ve got to?

Jingoism, beer, fireworks (currently going off outside my window), and communists marching through Red Square. What else could you possibly want in a public holiday? Rossiya dlya russkih!!

In Yulya’s Kitchen: the Hunt for Krasniy Oktyabr

The red label atop the blue and white striped cardboard package said “красный октябрь.” Yulya bent over me.

“Can you read the writing?”

“Krasniy ok…” I began, haltingly. “What is this letter?”

“Te. This is handwriting – perhaps hard to read.”

“Yes. Krasniy oktyabr, then?”

“Da. And do you know what it means?”

Images of Sean Connery and big submarines momentarily flitted through my head.

“Red October?” I guessed.

“Hrasho. Da!”

Which meant the packet came – way back in the way back – from the Soviet chocolate factory just opposite the Kremlin. It had been sitting on the shelf in Yulya’s shabby kitchen since before I was born. Probably, too, before the birth – in that same run-down apartment – of my hostess.

“Mischa, there is not enough for three. Find the other packet there, on the shelf!” Yulya said, turning to her boyfriend.

Mischa gave a grunt and began loudly rummaging through the cupboard. I smiled and leafed through the book on the table. Again, my interlocutrice bent over me.

“And that?”

“Istoriya bizantiyeskogo filosofiya.”

That one was easy enough to translate. “A history of Byzantine philosophy.”

Yulya, like so many young Russians, is a student of both Russian philology – which she truly loves – and physics, which is what might enable her (someday, perhaps, if she goes to the West) to make some money. Both her degree and her dreams of going to the West, however, are on hold.

The chocolate was ready. Mischa poured it into cups. They began on their lunch – a cold salad of minced salted whitefish covered with pickled red cabbage and chopped hard-boiled egg. I refused, as gently as I could, the slice that Yulya offered me. Impolite, in Russian circles, but not quite as impolite as leaving the quivering grey and purple mass on my plate, had I accepted. I can’t say much for Russian cuisine.

“I am not sure where I’m going to go to have the baby,” continued she, taking up the subject we had left before the chocolate packet appeared. “The Soviet medical system is not good. Doctors always want to cut you – make operation. I have a friend in Lisbon. Her mother is… I do not know this word. She brings babies.”

“An obstetrician?”

“Yes. Perhaps I go there. Or perhaps can go to India.”

“India?”

She smiled at my surprise.

“Yes, Catholic hospital there is good. But they like to cut white women – make operation – because it is more money for them.”

Yulya sighed. She looked around for Mischa, who had momentarily left the room. Seeing we were alone, she said,

“I don’t like baby.”

Surprised for the second time in as many minutes, I suddenly remembered the ikons dotted round the house. I had been too quick in judging that these belonged to Yulya’s mother. I realized in an instant that it is Yulya and Mischa, not just their parents, who are Orthodox. No birth control, therefore. And no abortions. At least, in a few years, she might get the payment (heavily advertised in the metro) that Russia gives out to women who have 3 or more children. Can that be said to be the bright side?

I sipped my chocolate, which was bitter. Mischa had forgotten the sugar. I wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“After baby, I will have nothing to do. We will go to live in dacha. Perhaps you can visit?

“Perhaps.”

I continued to look around the kitchen. Originally I’d come to Yulya and Mischa’s flat looking to rent a room. The room in question, which Yulya dismissed as needing “remont” – the Russian word for renovation – is nicer than where I’m currently staying, though nowhere near as convenient. The metro, at that moment, was admittedly not at the forefront of my mind. I was beginning to rethink my decision to move when she spoke again.

“You don’t want to live here. Ugly area, though very safe. Center is nicer for Western people. Things going on there. You look at other places, yeah? Perhaps come back to visit us, for Russian lessons – you call me, yeah?”

“Sure, I’ll do that.”

“Now… here is Russian book. Soviet, but good system for learning Russian. Let’s say alphabet together…”

So we did.

Hours later, sitting in my current flat – which makes me entirely understand Oscar Wilde’s last, valiant struggle against his hideous wallpaper – I’m still thinking of Yulya, and the remnants of Communism. The horrendous hospital system, the universities which turn out thousands of physics graduates into a labor market which has no room for them, thus forcing them to either leave Russia or take menial jobs, the black hole that is Russian Orthodoxy… and one more baby, born into a shabby apartment in the southern part of Moscow to reluctant parents and a civilization which seemingly hasn’t changed since the Byzantine era that Yulya and I have both made our life’s study.

Like the krasniy oktyabr, the thoughts – though perhaps they should be sweet – are bitter.

10 Things That Surprised Me About Moscow

People outside the GUM department store on Red Square.

Having been in Russia for a little more than a fortnight, I wouldn’t call myself qualified to drone on at length about The State Of Modern Russia. Able? Yes. Qualified? Maybe not so much.

I can, however, call myself qualified to explain some of the things (both positive and negative) that surprised me when I first got here, and the ones which continue to surprise me now.

Negative Surprises

There are quite a few negative surprises I encountered, most of which have to do with the general feel of the city, and the habits of its inhabitants.

The Soldiers – They’re everywhere! Hordes of them! Of course, I knew that military service was compulsory (unless you bribe a doctor to say you’re unfit) for males between the ages of 18 and 25. What I was not prepared for, however, was the huge presence of young males in dark green uniforms with extremely large hats just about everywhere I go. There seem to be 4 or 5 stationed at each metro stop. Many more patrol each street. It doesn’t feel as though the city is militarily occupied… but it’s close. I don’t know about you, but when I see a short, pimply-faced 18-year-old kid who is obviously armed and seems to be either on a power trip or extremely bored (there are both kinds – and I’m not sure which one is worse) I don’t feel that my security is being enhanced. Maybe that’s just me.

The Rudeness – I’ve asked my students what they like about going to other countries, and they invariably say that one of those things is the politeness of the people there. So… why can’t Russians seem to avoid being rude? If you come to Moscow, prepare to be shoved around. I was. By a babushka. I wasn’t walking fast enough for her in the metro… so she pushed me onto the escalator. Calm down, lady! A train comes every 2 minutes. You will also be crammed into metro cars at rush hour in a way that makes the jam-packed feeling in the New York City subway system an absolute luxury car of infinite space by comparison. People muscle their way into cars here. With their elbows. What didn’t surprise me, though it seems to surprise a lot of other people, is that Russians are very laconic in their speech. If you ask a woman at a shop for something and she doesn’t have it, she’ll say “nyet” and walk away. That’s it. If you think about it, an effusive apology does nothing to ameliorate the fact that she hasn’t got what you want… but if you come from the US – or especially from the UK or Japan – you might be a little nonplussed.

The Fact that Everyone Smokes – I mean really. They seem to start at 15 years old, here. There are always gangs of teenagers hanging out smoking in broad daylight outside the high schools here. 95% of my students – adult and teen – smoke. Cigarettes are about $1 a pack, so it’s not difficult to see why. However, if – like me – you gag at the smell of cigarette smoke, Russia is probably going to be sub-optimal for your respiratory health. And I thought everyone smoked in England. Whew!

The Way of Life – This is comprised of little things (for instance, it seems that there aren’t any power poles here. Electrical cables are just draped from building to building) and also big things – the prevailing Russian attitude of “If it ain’t broke – and even if it is – don’t fix it,” for example. The way of life of a place takes a lot of getting used to anywhere… but Russia has a greasy, metallic, post-Communist taste all its own.

The Amount of Control - Government still exercises a huge amount of control over its people. Not only in the “you’ll get shot if you criticize the leaders” sense… but in the sense that even the ordinary Russian citizen – even when he’s in his own home or talking to people on the phone – won’t say anything bad about Russia. Will barely even talk about anything personal over the phone. It’s almost as though people expect (and maybe they do expect) there to be a tap on every phone and an informer in every cafe. Maybe there is. But even if there isn’t, it’s disconcerting.

The English-speaking Surcharge - If you speak English or look like you’re a tourist, you’ll be charged more. Everywhere. There are literally signs at some places giving one price for native Muscovites, and one price for everyone else. The price for everyone else is invariably 3x higher. This goes for art galleries, theatres, museums, cultural landmarks, long-term flat rentals, dining out, and almost everything else. To get around this, always have a Russian buy your tickets for you, no matter what the ticket is for.

Positive Surprises

Admittedly, there are fewer of these. I probably haven’t been here long enough.

The New Construction – Several large skyscrapers are currently under construction in Moscow. I’ve counted at least 5. The majority of these are lovely buildings. They’re in the modern style, not in the sort of Stalinist Concrete Monolith one. Skyscraper construction is always the sign of a booming economy… though now that the price of oil is down to $65 a barrel I’m not sure how many more new buildings will be constructed.

The River - I love visiting the waterfront whenever I go to a city. How the waterfront is kept is usually fairly indicative of the way a city is run, and how its inhabitants feel about it. Though there’s usually an oily film on the water, there are a number of beautiful places where you can walk along the Moskva. Well worth visiting.

The Ease of Navigation – Not the ease of actually finding places (which is pretty hard to do because of an asinine address system and the fact that most buildings are built around courtyards, so the numbering system is really unhelpful), but the ease of getting around here without speaking Russian. This is actually helped by the fact that everyone is pretty rude, so you don’t need many words to function. Things in grocery stores usually have pictures on them – and you can read the numbers on the cash register when it comes time to pay. There are English-language newspapers listing English-language cultural events. The metro maps inside the carriages (not the signs in the stations, but the ones in the actual subway cars) have transliterated station names on them. Pretty spiffy! Of course, if you don’t want to end up paying the English-speaking surcharge (see above) it really does help to learn to speak Russian.

The Metro – Yes, it really is as clean as they say. Yes, it really is as fast as they say. Yes, most of the stations are really as nice as they say. I didn’t believe it before I came. Now I’m a believer. Take that, New York and London!

Vorob’evy Gory, sunset.

The metro station at Vorob'evy Gory

Moscow can only really be said to be beautiful when one stands by the Moskva River watching the sun set at the end of the day. As the sun sets pink over the water, the water reflects the sky back to heaven, and the lights of the buildings – new and old – seem to wink and dance in the wavering current.

I reached Vorob’evy Gory at the end of a long afternoon. The metro station of the same name, suspended over the river, offers beautiful views of the water and the rising towers of the oligarchs – Moscow’s new rich, its 27 billionaires – in the distance, towards the city center.

Walking down the stairs from the metro station to the embankment that winds along the river, I passed kissing couples, kiosks selling coffee, sandwiches, and beer, teenagers playing with yo-yos, and people returning the other way from a stroll along the river. I decided to walk towards the new construction.

The river Moskva curves three times through the city to which it gave its name. Like most rivers, it was once (and still is) the heart of the city – the beating artery of commerce and transportation which allowed a little medieval settlement to grow into the sprawling metropolis it’s become today. It is still very much a working river, carrying on its ancient purpose.

I wanted to walk along the river today. I find I like doing this. No matter where I am – New York, London, Moscow, or anywhere else – walking along the river through the city makes me feel almost at one with the place. Or at least at peace. At home. I find it very hard to fall in love with cities. After all, skyscrapers are skyscrapers, no matter where you go. Each river, however, has a character all its own. The Hudson is chock-a-block full of traffic – very hectic and dirty, like the city around it. The Thames is fenced in by monuments. Ringed round by history. And strewn with litter. Much like London. The Moskva seems clean until one notices the oily film clinging to the water along either bank. It seems almost a lonely river – a blank and isolated mirror surface – until you realize that kilometers of road run along its banks in other parts of the city, and that there is life on it… from which you are utterly cut off as you go along. Sort of like Moscow.

There are few places where you can walk beside the Moskva for any length without being in danger of getting run over by the legendary Moscow traffic. Of these, Vorob’evy Gory is by far the nicest, and certainly the easiest to get to. It’s on the red line, two stops down from the ring. Change at Park Kultury if you’re coming from other parts of Moscow.

Willows wept their yellowing leaves into the river as I walked along. Stalks of silver birch and oak trees displayed stubbornly-clinging leaves in hues ranging from green to gold to russet to amber. Couples holding hands strolled before and behind me. Mothers pushing prams with children stopped to look at the river. A coal barge passed, no doubt on its way to deliver its load to one of the orange-and-white smokestacked factories which dot the riverside.

It takes about 45 minutes to stroll from the metro station to the end of the embankment, where a bridge crosses the Moskva and a motorway begins. The walk is pleasant in any kind of weather, though after it has rained the pavement is always quite muddy, and dotted with miniature lakes in places. One part of the embankment is low – so low, in fact, that you can stoop down and touch the water. As the river curves, however, the embankment runs uphill. Several sets of steps lead down to the water at various places, and are freely accessable – not blocked by gates of any sort, as they are along the Thames, for instance.

As I walked further and further, the oligarch’s towers were no longer visible over the tree line. One can never, however, forget they are in Moscow when walking along the Moskva. After the oligarch’s towers disappear, 4 of the Seven Sisters appear in front (and one more behind) the pedestrian, like grim Soviet-era sentinels. It’s here that the beauty of the river and its park end, as one reaches the end of the embankment.

Realizing what the buildings were, I felt a bit of a chill which had nothing to do with the late-fall air. I turned back.

The sun was setting as I returned to the metro station. The lights had come on in the oligarch’s towers. I looked back over my shoulder to see a three-story tall replica of a heart positioned in one of the unfinished buildings. It hung there beating, lit red and surrounded by steel girders. One-two, pause. One-two, pause. “We are the beating heart of Moscow, we new skyscrapers,” it seemed to say. “We are the city’s future.”

No, no, my friends. There is another heart of Moscow, one far more ancient and more savage than those orderly collections of steel and concrete. It lies in a broad expanse and curves once, twice, thrice through the city, only pretending to be quiescent between its walled banks. The river – like its sister rivers in cities all over the world, as they have from the beginning of the world – unites old and new.

I turned again, leaving the glaring heart behind. A pleasure boat passed as I turned, decorated for a wedding. The bride appeared on deck, followed by her new husband. They kissed. I smiled.

Priorities and Viewpoints: 8 Differences Between Russia and the US/UK

Looking towards the State Historical Museum on Red Square.

My flatmate’s parents have come to visit. She’s from Bath – which, they tell me, is about as sleepy and middle-class as southern England can get. Last night, the 4 of us (along with a friend and fellow teacher from Manchester, UK – a decidedly un-middle-class town from the UK’s industrial north) got into a discussion about differing priorities and viewpoints between our home countries (which have just about everything you can imagine in common) and Russia.

Coming here has been a big surprise for me. It’s like I’ve stepped back in time to 1965. Everything from the buildings to people’s attitudes seems stuck in a time warp. It’s confusing, sure, but fascinating: and the Russian viewpoint isn’t necessarily the one that’s wrong or backwards.

Let’s delve into some of the differences between Russia and the US/UK.

Environmentalism

Recycling is unheard of in Russia. If you ask a Russian where the recycling bin is, he’ll look at you as though you’re from another planet. “Recycling? I do not know this word.”

In the US and UK, getting bashed over the head by environmentalism is an almost constant occurrence. Carbon offsets. ANWR drilling. “Sustainable” this, that, and everything. Overfishing. Rainforest destruction. Endangered species. Building projects being stopped because some rare spider or other nests in a proximate sand dune.

Your average Russian has never heard of a carbon offset. “Recycling” does not have an equivalent Russian translation. Stories about sustainability don’t make the news. This can be fairly disorienting for people who come to Russia – as it was for me and the 4 Brits gathered around the kitchen table last night.

Food

Food in America is cheap and abundant. Portion sizes are huge. Grocery stores come jam-packed with exotic foods from around the world. There is a gourmet culture in the US – and in the UK, with food celebrities like Gordon Ramsay and Nigella Lawson building international empires. There are many people (including myself, at one time) who live to eat.

Not so, in Russia. Food is generally expensive, and/or of low quality. Meat is displayed on grocery store shelves for general consumption that would be absolutely rejected by the food inspectors – not to mention shoppers – in the US or UK. Organic food? Never heard of it!

Imported food, which is generally of better quality is extremely expensive. Russian food, which is pretty bad (think of sausages which are in fact mostly grain, veg which is either coated in an inch-thick layer of pesticide or has bugs all in it – we had a bad experience with slug-laden celery) is cheaper, but doesn’t make for a good long-term diet.

Portion sizes in Russia are small. Meals generally consist of meat and veg. There are very few carbs in most Russian meals – unless you count brown bread and alcohol. The entire country, I think, is on the Atkins diet. Perhaps that’s why Russian women are – again, in general – stick thin.

The first thing that a Westerner will notice, however, is the amount of salt that’s put on everything from fresh cucumbers and tomatoes – to be eaten raw – to cooked salted green beans with chopped hard-boiled egg which seem to come with most meat dishes.

Russian cooking can be very tasty, but the agricultural revolution and the era of cheap and plentiful good food – not to mention the passion for all things organic, and the gourmet cult-ure – has not yet reached Russia. And… yeah, in reality, the food is usually kind of disgusting.

Fashion

Rolex ads line Tverskaya - a popular shopping street.

Russian women dress – to most British eyes, and certainly my American ones – like sluts. I’ve never seen so much patent leather, diamante, animal-print, skin-tight jeans, mini-skirts, 4″ stiletto heels, and big jewelry in my life.

This is not to say that Russian women are whores. Quite the opposite! They seem, interestingly enough, to be much more in-touch and even comfortable with their sexuality than a lot of women I’ve met in the US and UK. There is, however, a bit of a demographics problem. There are only 9 males for every 10 females in Russia. Could that have something to do with the way women dress? Quite possibly.

Men, too, wear some outlandish things. Pointy-toed shoes are all the rage – usually in black snakeskin. The trousers of their Armani suits glisten in the light from all of the starch that their maids put in them while ironing. Want Lurex thread woven into your suit jacket for that extra sparkle? Come to Russia!

Brand-names are also king here. The noviy russkiy have an all-consuming passion for Versace jeans, Prada shoes, Coach bags, Rolex watches, Italian suits, and anything else they can use to flaunt their wealth. Possibly because very little from the West filtered into Russia during Soviet times, Russians seem to have gone brand-mad after Putin ushered in the new era and oligarchs started popping up everywhere during the 90s.

This is a good thing for international fashion houses, but it does cause Westerners to look like… well… tourists. Trainers simply aren’t worn here – unless they’re patent leather Moschino trainers, that is. Russians dress extremely formally, so if you want to try to look like a Russian, bring every short, patent-leather, leopard-print thing you own.

Standards of Living

The stairwell in my flat block.

Those women you see in Prada heels? They probably didn’t walk out of one of the new glass and steel high-rises that are being built everywhere in Moscow. They probably walked out of a dirty, half-crumbling, depressing Stalin-era apartment block. That’s what most of the housing is here. Roads become mud puddles after about an inch of rain. There aren’t any power poles, either. Electrical cables are just draped from building to building once you get outside the city center.

Western-style refit flats are very rare here, and carry a rental premium which puts them far outside the reach of the normal Russian. Such flats cater mainly to wealthy expats and even wealthier Russian oligarchs.

There seems not to be a huge insistence on refurbishment here. Russians do have a word for refurbishments, but they also have an attitude that can be summed up in the words “If it’s not irreparably broken – and even if it is – leave it alone.” Since people can still live in Soviet-era flats with electrical wiring installed in 1950, why should they be refitted?

This is in stark contrast to the US and UK, where everything seems to be refitted every 5 years. Flats that are highly desirable in Russia wouldn’t even be considered for use as council flats in the UK. (I have lived in a council flat in the UK which is much nicer than some of the “Western refurbished” flats I’ve seen here in Moscow.) Living in Russia is, in large measure, like stepping into your grandma’s living room circa 1965.

Family

It’s king, here. And yet… not.

Russian women very rarely continue in their careers after they have children. With the vast majority of Russian women I’ve met, their main priority is to find a man to marry, have children, and settle down to a life at home raising them. If they work, it will be out of economic necessity, and not desire. This is a foreign concept to a lot of women in the US and UK. The “have it all” culture that began in the 1980s – the one that told women that they could have a career, a husband, and children all at once without sacrificing anything – is still pretty prevalent… everywhere but in Russia. My flatmate calls Russia “The land that feminism forgot.”

Every 40 minutes, a woman is killed by domestic violence in Russia.

A begging babushka stoops to pick up a dropped coin in Red Square.

Old people seem to be treated much better in the US and UK than in Russia, despite the latter’s seeming worship of the family unit. There aren’t too many nursing homes in Russia. Old-age pensioners get about $200 per month, which isn’t even enough to feed them, let alone house them. Therefore, you see a lot of begging babushkas (grandmothers) around. They line Red Square, holding out begging bowls. They sell whatever fruit and veg they can from blankets laid out on the ground in all weather. They clean houses, offer Western tourists rooms in their flats, find part-time work in grocery stores, and other menial tasks to make ends meet.

As for the old men… well, there are very few of them around. 60 years of smoking and drinking and military service – 60 years of living under Communism and trying to support a family – will do that to you.

Country

Russians don’t talk about Soviet times.

If you ask any of the older (and even most of the younger) Russians, they’ll turn around to look over their shoulders and become silent really quickly. The FSB still scares a lot of people into silence

They usually don’t say anything bad about Russia – especially to foreigners – even if they think it. Ask them what they like about living in Russia, and you’ll get an effusion of feel-good stories about the economic boom (that used to be) going on in Putin’s New Russia. If you turn the question around and ask them what they don’t like about Russia, most of them will smile and shake their heads ‘no.’

Russians have always been quite patriotic, it seems. Take a look at the writings of Tolstoy, if you don’t believe me. Latterly, though, this love of the fatherland (problems though it has) seems to have morphed into a glassy-eyed denial. Or maybe that’s just because I’m from the US. What Russians talk about when they’re with other Russians remains a mystery to me.

This contrasts sharply with the US and UK where political satire and people who are at least willing to talk about the idiocies and evils of the State – if not to end either of them – are fairly common. Whereas there you can talk about the clusterf*ck that is Bush’s war in Iraq without fear, in Russia if you criticise the leader, you might end up like Anna Politkovskaya. Or Aleksander Litvinenko, for that matter. Or a number of others one could name.

Religion and Science

Looking up from below at the onion domes of St. Basil's Cathedral, Red Square.

“Hah! Darwin! He funny man.”

Those were the words of a Russian woman on seeing Darwin on the back of a British bank note. When asked whether those were just her feelings or the feelings of all Russians, she said:

“Darwin big joking man in Russia. Funny joke. We all laugh.”

That pretty much sums it up.

Religion is big in Russia. The entire country is littered with Orthodox Churches. School, commerce… everything stops for 8 days at the beginning of January for Orthodox Christmas. Most shops aren’t open on Sundays at all – unless you’re in one of the big touristy areas. The Orthodox faith is absolutely huge in Russia. It’s one of the defining characteristics of the people, despite 60 years of officially-atheist Communism.

Ikons are everywhere. They decorate walls, doorways, people wear them round their necks… and there are even Ikons over the doors of the GUM – the State-owned department store. And despite being an officially-secular republic, there’s little enough separation between church and state here. Prime Minister Putin, for example, is known to be extremely devout.

Science education is good, but it’s mainly in the areas of physics and chemistry. Biological theories like evolution are scoffed at. Despite the excellent science education that most students receive, there is a real disconnect between the belief in the efficacy of the Scientific Method and its application in the area of religion.

Racism

“He’s Azeri, you know.”
“What does that mean, Anna?”
“Well… he’s Azeri! Do I need to say anything else?”

That’s a friend of a friend – the nicest woman you’d ever want to meet – talking about her dark-skinned neighbor.

Racism is rampant in Russia – but not in the same way it used to be in the US. Nobody burns crosses on anyone’s lawn or goes around in a bedsheet with a pointy hat calling himself the Grand Wizard. The average Russian, when talking about someone of color, or someone whose facial features make them look Asian, will whisper the words in an undertone – like my grandmother used to do when speaking of blacks… even though she had black friends. The “I have an Indian doctor… but I can understand every word he says!” type of implicit – though not necessarily ill-meant – bias is what you usually encounter.

This usually translates into dark-skinned males getting stopped by the militsia and asked for their papers, while light-skinned women will very rarely – if at all – get the same treatment.

Of course, it happens in the West, especially after 9/11. In the US and UK, the bias is against Arab-looking males. Here, it’s against Asian-looking males. But in the US and UK, even this bias is usually acknowledged to be a bad thing, and there’s lots of talk about the evils of racial profiling. Here… not so much. Think of the US in the 1950s – pre-Martin Luther King – and you’ll pretty much have an idea of the quality of the racism in Russia.

Conclusions

Sunray on Lenin's Tomb.

There are a lot of things in Russia to shock the first-time visitor. The climate, traffic, language, and character of the city are all quite different. However… what can be most unsettling for visitors is the culture of Russia – the set of beliefs, ideas, biases, and superstitions that characterize Russia and Russians.

The culture here is not necessarily inferior to the culture elsewhere. It’s simply different. And, lord knows, the US and UK have enough superstitions and mythologies to fill an entire blog. But, I must say, the culture is about 90% of what makes a place interesting. After all, a building is a building and a city is a city, no matter what building or city it is, or how pretty it is.

Russia is a fascinating cultural study – part modern society, part… well, part of it is still stuck in the Middle Ages. Like everywhere else in the world, I guess.

Survival of the Fittest: How to Cope with Your First 5 Days in Russia

image courtesy of PnP! via flickr.

So you’ve gotten the visa, packed up your stuff, gotten your travel tickets, and now you’re in Russia, standing at the airport or train station, and you’re wondering…

“How the HELL did I get myself into this mess?!”

Maybe just a liiiiiiiiiiiiittle bit more research could have helped you out of that jam. So, without ado, here are 5 tips to help you cope with your first 5 days in Russia:

Become Literate

The Russian alphabet looks extremely complicated and difficult to learn, but that ain’t necessarily so. There are a number of online resources (like this one, and this one) which will help you learn the sound (or sounds) that each letter represents.

Why go to all this trouble? Several reasons. The most important is that it helps in navigation. Moscow has an excellent metro system, but unless you know the Russian alphabet, it’s utterly impossible to navigate. (None of the signs are in English, and the militsia who patrol the stations usually only know two words of English.)

Connect with Others

This is especially important if you will be in Russia for any length of time. Expat message board sites such as Expat.ru have listings of meet-ups, classes, and cultural events that are all conducted in English. The attendees are usually a mix of expats, native Russians with good English-speaking abilities, and people just passing through. English-language newspapers like The Moscow Times also have listings of events conducted in English. You can find the Times online or in print form at various places in the city.

Try your best to meet the locals, too. They can show you where to get things (and get you the Russian – not the expat – price on theatre tickets) and give you cultural information that you won’t find in a guidebook. Ever wonder why there are so many brides in Red Square every Saturday afternoon? Ask a Russian!

Keep in Touch

Missing your friends and family? Call them! This might be easier said than done, given the lack of internet cafes in the city. Those who can’t get on Skype, however, can get a phone card at any kiosk for about 100 roubles ($4). This will allow you about 60 minutes of talk time to an overseas landline phone. The major player in the phonecard market is Arktel, but there are others to choose from. Point to the one you want, and say “spasiba.”

Take Some Time…

…to meditate, read, or do something else that re-connects you with yourself. “Homesickness” is the symptom of not taking enough time to adjust and reconnect with yourself. It’s not a malady in and of itself. Before you leave, try loading a couple of guided meditations on your iPod. Sounds a bit fruity, but it really works. The same goes for eating right, exercising, etc. You try to do it at home. Don’t abandon it on the road!

If You Wouldn’t do it at Home…

…don’t do it in Russia. This doesn’t apply to things like sightseeing, theatregoing, etc – but to safety. If you wouldn’t walk down a dark alley at night when you’re at home, don’t do it in Russia. If you wouldn’t go out without any money or with less than no idea where you’re going when you’re at home, don’t do it in Russia. Some people, when they travel, forget to pack their common sense. Don’t be one of “those guys.”

Trust your instincts here. If a situation looks dodgy, it probably is.

Meta: Posting Schedule – Starting 21/10/08

So I’m going against my proposed posting schedule to talk about… the posting schedule! In order to keep mixing it up a bit, I’ve decided on the following:

Tuesday – Advice. The practical stuff. How to get there, how to get around, what to take, what (not) to do, and all of the inside “stuff” from someone who’s actually out there making the mistakes that – hopefully! – you won’t make after reading this blog on Tuesdays.

Thursday – Soapbox. Everything besides advice and philosophizing. This is user-defined content. What do you want me to write about? I’ll tackle it here.

Sunday – Philosophizing. Thoughts from the road. “Inner” travel, as opposed to outer travel. Musings on personal development, lessons learned, and other slightly navel-gazey but quite useful and interesting stuff.

“Through travel I first became aware of the outside world; it was through travel that I found my own introspective way into becoming a part of it.”
-Eudora Welty

What is “My Country” ?

The view over the downs at Lewes.

I took leave of my friend J tonight after spending the day with him and another friend in Lewes. The fact that only 26 hours separate me from the time I’ll be heading out to Heathrow didn’t quite seem real when sitting on the downs high above the beautiful town, with the long grass blowing, the sheep placidly grazing, and the river winding away into the misty valley below us. It didn’t quite seem real on the train back to London, when I looked out the window over J’s sleeping form to see the full moon rising, as Tolstoy’s account of Prince Andrei seeing the beneficent sky for the first time since Austerlitz in the presence of his friend Pierre played on my iPod.

Sitting next to J in the tube, however, it hit me. As I embraced him for the last time and watched him disappear into the swirling crowds at King’s Cross (I looked back – he didn’t) the realization struck a deeper blow: I am leaving London. I am leaving my friends. I am going to Moscow.

A couple of days ago, I received this email from my visa coordinator:

Dear Charlotte,
Please take the photocopy of your passport and visa before you leave your country. Our welcomer will ask you to give him/her these photocopies and the original of your migration card (if not please give it to him/her yourself). I need these documents asap to register you in Moscow within 3 working days.
Thank you in advance!
Regards,
T

Two words in that email struck me: your country. My country? What is my country?

T meant that before I leave London I should photocopy my passport info page and the visa. I have only lived in London for 3 months – and before that had only visited London once. Is London – is England – my country?

I like London. I like England. I could easily choose to live here – for a time. Not forever, however.  The city itself exercises no pull. I cannot feel attached to buildings. Land is just dirt. As I walked back to the flat I’ve been sharing, I could hardly believe myself to be here. London? Why, this could be any city on earth. These Georgian rowhouses could be Brooklyn brownstones instead. Where am I? The sense of dislocation made walking home almost a miasmic experience.

England is not my country.

Is America my country? I was born there. America is the only country where I have “citizenship.” It’s the only place I can work without jumping through hoops. I have lived in several cities in America. I certainly know it better than I know any other place. My accent, culture, family, and everything which – we are told – make up a person are uniquely American.

However, I don’t really want to return to America. Yet again, I cannot feel attached to buildings. Land is dirt. The rulers of America do not represent me or my feelings – and can never do so. If I had been born in South Africa, I’d have South African citizenship. If I’d been born in Afghanistan, I’d have Afghan citizenship. An accident of birth cannot make America “my country.” And when I left it, I felt no great sadness or remorse – except on account of my leaving friends behind.

America is not my country.

Is Russia my country? I am choosing to live there. I have always wanted to go there. My temperament is faintly Russian – certainly my tastes in art, literature, and history are so. I find the country fascinating… and yet I have never yet set foot in Russia. I’ve no friends there. No strong ties whatever. And, eventually, I will leave Russia. I will go elsewhere – perhaps leaving a part of my heart behind, but never the whole.

Russia is not my country.

Is this, then, simply a long-winded way of branding myself a stateless person? Most other long-term travelers that I’ve met have a “home base” – somewhere they go back to. An apartment or house full of goods waiting for them. A core group of friends centralized in some city or other. A lifetime, or at least several years worth, of memories. Civic, social and economic relationships to be renewed. I haven’t any of that. I have a suitcase and a laptop bag, and friends spread out over many cities. No “home base” to speak of.

At least not a physical one. And there, I think, is the great secret of it all. Does “my country” need to be a physical one? The sort that has men with machine guns patrolling the borders?

I’d like to explore this in some more depth. For now, I will say that I do not have a country… but yet I am not stateless. Not without roots or ties. The roots and ties, however, are not to dirt or buildings or high-flying uber-patriotic jingoism.

The great task before me is to define what those roots and ties are.

New Article on Matador

This one is on learning languages. I’m hoping to write a bit of a series on learning Russian for VB – once I actually get to Russia and start making mistakes.

Link ahoy!

The 5 Ways We Learn Languages – and Which Style is Right for You