Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Day 15: Too many things to distill into one title

MOSCOW — One of my favorite things and saving graces in large cities — in which I am fundamentally uncomfortable — is the metro. It is logical, requires a minimum of person-to-person interaction, and the signs are plentiful and clear. It allows me to move simply through a place that overwhelms me, a sign that maybe my life needs more metros. More movement. Warm, flowing air is constantly boiling up the long escalators and into the city streets, pushed in part, I imagine, by the trains rushing in all directions through the terminals many floors below. 

Moscow happens to have one of the most wonderful metro systems I've ever encountered. (No matter that it's one of the ONLY metro systems I've encountered.) Each station is based on a different theme and full of elaborate art pieces and beautiful finishings on the walls and ceilings. They usually celebrate a historical event, city landmark or person; dedicated to theater, science, learning, wars...you name it. 


So of course, this is how we traveled to the long list of today's city sites — National Lenin Library, Red Square, St. Basil's Cathedral, the Church of Christ the Savior, a bridge with a view of the Kremlin (though not IN the Kremlin), the Pushkin Museum of Fine Art, an ornate shopping mall called GOOM, and finally back to our temporary home on Arbat Street. And we barely scratched the surface of Moscow's historical attractions. 

 St. Basil's Cathedral in Red Square

View of the Kremlin from the Moscow River. 

Church of Christ the Savior

Me at the museum.

As always, food was a major component of our day — shocking. And it was an odd one on many levels. We started the day at a fifties-style diner, zeroing in on their three-dollar breakfast. I don't think I've even been in a diner this American in America. Happy Days played silently on a TV above our heads, while classic American tunes prompted finger-snapping harmonies. The waitresses wore short, pastel collared dresses with neat aprons over them. There was a tiny, working jukebox ON our table. I had a little bit of guilt, yes, about seeking out the most American place in Moscow for my breakfast, but come dinner, I was happy we'd gone for the deal. 

We had become accustomed to the fact that there's no such thing as free water in Russia or China, but it was usually no more than a few dollars for a bottle. We were thirsty when we walked into an Arbat bistro, and each ordered a large water without looking at the menu prices. How much could it possibly be? 

24 DOLLARS. That's how much. Yes, we had managed to order the fanciest water on the planet. It is my distinct hope that it turned my stomach lining to gold as I digested it. Even though it came in a large glass container, and mine had bubbles in it, I still don't understand the logic of charging 24 dollars for two bottles of water. It hurt. It hurt bad. But that's the price I pay for my habit of drinking clean water for free every time I so much as purchase a piece of toast. 

On the way back from dinner, Kristina had one of her more special moments of our journey thus far. We had an ongoing debate regarding three gentlemen we'd seen lurking down the street from our building all day both days. Two of them were in full soviet military regalia, while a third wore a black wool suit and simple cap. People were taking pictures with them throughout the day. Kristina thought they were street performers staged for tourist entertainment, impersonating Stalin, Lenin and one other guy. I thought this was crazy and told her so. "That would be wildly offensive," I said, "how could that possibly be the case?" 

Apparently someone else agreed with me, we found out, as we watched a Russian woman scream at these three men for a solid 15 minutes from our vantage point at dinner. "Maybe you're right," I begrudgingly admitted. 

"Want me to ask them?" said Kristina, to which I replied an emphatic abso-freakin-lutely not. I assured my dear friend that I would abandon her should such things take place. And thank God I did. Following dinner, as she approached the gentlemen's bench, I, as promised, made a B-line for absolutely anywhere else, ending up behind a painter two blocks down. What I missed was this: Kristina asks who they are, they confirm that they are indeed Stalin, Lenin and the other guy, she asks twice how much for a picture, they encourage her to sit without answering, three pictures are taken with her camera, they ask for 90 dollars, Kristina says nope definitely don't have that, they demand she open her purse, she does, offering them the 100 rubles (3 dollars) she does have, reminding that she had asked the price before hand, an argument ensues, they utter an insult we still haven't been able to translate, and she walks slightly dumbfounded but victorious down the street, with her 3-dollar picture. 

DEAR...LORD.

After an intense day of site seeing, and a tear-inducing dinner bill, we turned in early. While we were staying in a lovely hostel — inexplicably decorated in a Nantuket style mariner theme — the young, stylish college students that were temporarily living there weren't as enthusiastic about our stay as we were. Conversation stopped when we entered the room. There were long sighs and glares when we DARED to stir from our bunks before 10 a.m., waking the sleeping beauties from their rest. When Kristina was briefly using one of the several shared bathrooms, someone standing outside repeatedly flipped off and on the light switch (located just outside the bathroom door), only turning it back on when Kristina knocked loudly from the other side. There was no one there when she came out. What was the point of this? Another girl in our room seemed particularly resistant to clothing. I saw her take no less than three showers throughout the course of one day, lounging around the hostel in between them wrapped in a small bath towel, perpetually brushing her long platinum hair. She swayed slowly from room to room, one small movement away from revealing her bits and pieces to the other lodgers. I have no proof, but I think she's the light bandit. 

But this was a weekend night, so come 8 p.m. the college students were gone for an evening out, and we had the room to ourselves. With the windows open wide to the night air, we were privy to a whole new audio aspect of Arbat nights. Several dozen hardcore-looking motorcycle enthusiasts gathered at the sixties diner across the street to flex and pet their rides — and I'll have you note this is a whole different establishment than the fifties diner, one block away, where we ate breakfast. A street musician entertained the evening crowds with acoustic renditions of Hotel California, and Red Hot Chili Peppers hits. The bar down the street played the Cranberries for hours. We were certainly in an international city, a mix of things distinctly Russian and things distinctly not constantly available to the senses. I fell asleep to Zombie, wondering what tomorrow could possibly bring. 

Pictures from Arbat Street. 

(Again, many thanks to Kristina for the wonderful photos.)


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