Day 14: Where Indeed

MOSCOW — "Where are you from?" asked a tall Russian man on his way to the hostel balcony for a cigarette. We had stepped off the train at 4 a.m., found our way to the hostel a few hours later, and were loitering in the living area until either our beds were ready or we got the energy to go outside again. A woman who looked very unhappy to be awake told us maybe 2 p.m. was possible. Another man reminded us that, seeing as it was now 8 a.m. on a Thursday, it was very, very early. (Even I know that's not that early on a weekday, but these were college students. Supposedly.)

"Alaska," I replied to the guest who had asked after my home, thinking he'd nod and keep walking. I wasn't prepared for his response. 

"Ah! So you are Russian." 

"Ahhh...almost," I said. Not sure exactly what I meant by that. 

He proceeded to tell us the detailed story of his recent vacation to Brazil. Do you feel like that was a random transition? ME TOO. Alexander seemed to think this was the appropriate time and place for it though. So be it. This is both the joy and hazard of hostel travel. 

Alex was not the last person that morning to educate me about my Russian heritage. Just a few hours later, as I purchased some sort of bread something filled with some sort of berries and cream cheese something from a street stand, the woman carefully wrapping my pastry also asked where I was from. Unlike Alexander, who spoke English, she spoke only Russian. Yet she seemed undeterred by my claim to "only speak tiny bit in Russian understand very badly I'm sorry."

"Alaska? You are Russian then," she said, in apparently our native tongue. She went on to tell me, I think, that when people ask where I'm from, I should not say America. I should say, I am Russian. Then she told me I even LOOKED Russian, pointing to her own round face beneath its flowered scarf, then mine. She turned around to grab the other woman unpacking the day's oval loaves and butter-slick treats. 

"This girl is from Alaska," she said. "Doesn't she look Russian? She looks Russian. Look at her beautiful face." 

The other woman grinned and nodded, turning back to her bread. I thanked them, and slowly backed away, as they continued to chat and laugh and encourage my Russian-ness with many gestures. This made me immeasurably happy. 

We spent much of the rest of that day walking up and down Arbat Street, one of Moscow's oldest routes, over which sat our third-floor hostel. 

Arbat Street. 

Today the Arbat is dedicated to pedestrians, street artists and a range of souvenir shops and restaurants, and closed to Moscow's heavy traffic. While a person can't walk a block without seeing a sale on matrioshka dolls and Putin T-shirts, in centuries past the district was a Moscow cultural center, home to literary masters like Alexander Pushkin and Leo Tolstoy. And it certainly hasn't lost all its charm to modernization, at least to these tourists. The buildings are ornate and beautiful, music and laughter is plentiful, and the artists are, mostly, genuine. 

After an overwhelming round of souvenir shopping, I needed to find a dress. Kristina and I had tickets to the ballet, but there was some discussion regarding the validity of my plan to wear yoga pants with a long cotton shirt thing that looks kind of LIKE a dress. (I should note here that when my mother heard via email I'd be looking for a dress, she quickly replied with the advice that I let Kristina, who she had never met, pick it out please.)

Me, trying to get into our Moscow hostel at a very early hour. This outfit — yes the one where I have one pant leg rolled up and one rolled down, and yes the one I'd been wearing the last four days on the train — is incidentally the same outfit I wanted to wear to the ballet. 

So we found a shop with reasonably priced women's clothing, and set about finding something dressy that I could tolerate on my body without bursting into flames. 

The first few candidates, several floopy things printed with stripes the width of my arm, made me look like an anime character on steroids. Like I should be riding a unicorn that puffs little rainbows from under its tail part. Those weren't a yes for me. 

Then Kristina brought me a few that she thought would fit my "hippie style." (Let it be known I reject this label.)

"That dress has kiwis on it," I said to her hopeful face. 

"I thought you would like it! It's ruffled, kind of flowy...?"

"F@$king kiwis," I said, maintaining disdainful eye contact. 

"How about this one?" She held up the other arm, again, looking optimistic.

"Oh yeah, peaches. That's better."

"Oh great!" she said. Really?"

"NO." 

The winning number was a black and white shift-type dress with some black leggings. Here's a picture where you can almost see it.

Kristina and I in front of the Bolshoi. 

Next we had to find dinner. Kristina wanted to go to this restaurant that seemed to be impersonating an enchanted cottage. It seriously could have been the wicked witch's gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel, but across from a Starbucks instead of in a deep dark forest. I told Kristina that I was skeptical of places that seem overly themed. That it could end up being like a Golden Corral or something.

So instead we ate here.

This place was recommended by the front desk girl at the hostel. She said it had Russian food and was cheap. Kristina, patient as she is, went along with it. It wasn't until we were seated and eating that she calmly pointed out the irony of our choice. I had turned down the place she wanted to go, due to potential Golden Corral-ness and decor skepticism. And instead we ate in a place called "Moo-Moo," famous for the giant cow planted in front of it, where you shuffle through a buffet line to get inexpensive fatty foods. Kristina: 1 Hannah: 0, plus award for Queen of Arbitrary Judgement Calls. 

(Incidentally, the fairy cottage place had fabulous food, though it was outside our budget.)

But that night wasn't really about the food. With just three days in Moscow, Kristina and I decided we should try to gather as many culturally rich experiences as possible. Our first night in Moscow happened to be the last night of the Russian National Ballet's production of Swan Lake. While the famous Bolshoi Theater was closed at the time, the theater we did visit is also in Teatralnii Ploshad (Theater Square), adjacent to the Bolshoi, and an integral part of the vibrant performing arts tradition Moscow is known for. 

The ballet was exquisite, and it would be difficult to truly translate it into words. But I will try to give one example. 

While the large company of dancers represented a group of clearly very talented and graceful people, the lead ballerina seemed in a different class of movement all together. Her face held all the drama of Odette's journey into love and darkness, and her body bent and extended like a blade of grass that could move at will. She was long and light, illuminated on the stage to show each torque of muscle and frame that turned her into a swan. Her neck was straight, but here and there she tilted her head just so, then shook it slightly, like a bird shedding water. Her movement so captured the air and light around her, so held the story she was tasked with telling, that her body did not stop at the ends of her fingers and toes, or at the crown of her head. Instead she seemed an extension of something larger, some spirit of grace and allegory that allowed her to float, filling the room, far beyond the human limits of her fine bones, her lithe body.