This morning, Lena and I had breakfast, and her
brother-in-law drove us to the American Home, since I had my suitcase for the
Vanderbilt group’s Moscow trip this weekend. (We would leave directly from the
American Home around noon, and it was easier to just grab my suitcase and go
rather than unpack my suitcase and repack my backpack, the only other and
smaller bag I’ve got. I tried to defend this to Lena, but she laughed: “Is this
typical for Americans?” [In truth…kind of.])
After our morning lesson, during which Lena and I read some
short Russian poems and she had me try to translate stuff, the group had tea
before settling in downstairs for our last lecture of the week, and perhaps the
most awaited one yet: “Who Is Mr. Putin?”
This lecture was given by a professor Roman who’s spoken to
us several times before now on different topics about Russian politics,
geography, demography, and history. He teaches in Vladimir and brought two of
his students with him to join us today for the lecture. As he talked through
the topic of Vladimir Putin, the man and the politician, he often asked
questions to “poll the representatives” of America and Russia--that is, us and his students, respectively. For instance, he
had us take a sheet of paper, fold it in half, and write anything positive that
comes to mind about Putin on one side and anything negative that comes to mind
about Putin on the other. He told us that we didn’t have to write anything on
both sides; if our opinion was fully leaning in one direction, we should just
put that. We then went around reading from our lists, and this was interesting.
The two Russian women, who study political science and had joined us, both
wrote only positive things about Putin. Our lists were more a mix, with most of
the “negative” thoughts pertaining to Putin’s past as a Soviet KGB officer and
the way this is interpreted by the West.
Right after the lecture, the taxis arrived, so we grabbed
our stuff and were driven off to the train station. We got a quick lunch (beef
cutlet—like German Boulette, basically just a hamburger patty—and rice, plus
blini with raspberry jam) before heading to the actual station, where we
stopped for a bathroom break. Normally, bathroom breaks are less than
noteworthy, but… Shock. Nervous giggles. Almost-tears of disbelief.
PIC
A picture’s worth a thousand words:
the [Soviet-era?] toilet in the women’s room.
After this humbling, confusing, utterly dumbfounding
experience, we walked—introspective, defeated, continuing to laugh nervously, heads hung
low—to catch our train. Most of the train ride I slept, as I’d snagged a window
seat and brought along the travel pillow that I took (stole? It’s unclear
whether in-flight pillows, like the seatback magazines, are also free for the taking.) from my
flight from Atlanta to Amsterdam earlier this month. For about five minutes I
devoted myself to reading over some Russian vocab, but I hadn’t slept much the night
before, so back to sleep it was.
Soon enough, we were leaving the rural landscape behind for
the urban one of Moscow. We hurried off the train and were greeted by a
veritable snowstorm of pollen. (I haven’t actually seen the trees the pollen
comes from, but it’s flying around in big clumps everywhere!)
It was a draining, slightly agonizing 30-plus-minute walk to
the hostel through the city. We were tired, hungry, hot—so warm here this
afternoon!—and dragging big bags through narrow, winding passages and
cobblestone, puddle-filled sidewalks. But finally we reached the hostel, where
we settled in, all six of us into one room. Abby and I are sharing a bunk bed;
I’ve got bottom bunk. :)
Quarters are tight, but we managed, so we set out walking
again after changing clothes and taking a minute to recharge. We walked another
20 or so minutes to a cafe called My-My (“moo-moo”), which is a cow-themed
(again, why not?) chain of restaurants here. As David explained it to us, it’s basically “a
glorified [Soviet-style] cafeteria,” but the food was really good. The ambiance was neat, but honestly
it was just nice to sit down somewhere, anywhere, and chill out for a bit.
On the way to and from My-My, my friends and I were stopping
every several meters to snap a picture of something. Just like Vladimir, Moscow
is very colorful, but there are many more and much larger buildings, and it’s
extremely large and busy. So far, it reminds me of [my limited experience with]
New York City, only even more hectic, if that’s possible. My first impressions
of Moscow were: (1) This is insane; and (2) I want to go back to Vladimir! At
first, everything just seemed out of control—the drivers, the pedestrians, the
noise, the signs and advertisements, even the pollen.
After dinner, we walked to Red Square, passing various
administrative government buildings along the way. Soon enough, a red brick
wall showed itself, and we were there—the Kremlin!
Walking up to Red Square was one of those moments when every
thought or memory related to the place started running through my head:
learning about Red Square in school, seeing mentions of it on the news, hearing
references to it in songs and movies...
We stayed in Red Square long enough to take pictures and listen
to the clock-tower bells, which ring every 30 minutes. For such a stunningly
beautiful sight, the chimes were eerie and ominous—out of place, yet at the
same time fitting, considering the history and the fact that the tomb ofVladimir Lenin and the grave-sites of Stalin and many other big Soviet names lay
scattered throughout the Square.
Police were everywhere, patrolling the area,
but hurting no one. This was an occasion where I realized the fears and biases
I, as an American, brought with me on this trip: I stood there looking around,
taking pictures (including of the police and other guards), and I was excited
on two levels—first, just to be in Red Square, but second, because in my mind
it felt like what I was doing was risky. As an American abroad, it’s like I had
the expectation that I couldn’t act “normally” without running into some sort
of barrier to the freedoms we pride ourselves on so much in the United States. Like
in the movies, I expected that simply taking a picture of a cop or zooming in my
camera lens too much on government buildings would arouse the suspicion of “the
Russians” and get me in trouble. I was born two years after the dissolution of
the USSR, yet Cold War messages and stereotypes still managed to color my
worldview and my expectations when abroad. As it turns out, I was just one of
probably thousands of people this evening walking around and snapping pictures
of anything and everything in sight, with no consequences. It was fun but
unbelievable to actually stroll through such a significant plaza. Although Red
Square is a major tourist destination, this has been my experience so far in all
of Russia: Nothing I did was risky, and the only threat to my freedom was my
own paranoia, as an American abroad, about somehow losing my freedom.
I think that the American sense of exceptionalism—of being
the only place in the world that “does/has/thinks/values X”—is an attitude we
would be well to examine. It would certainly make traveling to other countries
easier. That said, as is clear from the picture of the toilet
above, there are some things that I am really missing about home right now.
First, free public toilets. Whenever you want to go to the bathroom here (like
in the rest of Europe that I know of), it costs. It’s just pocket change, and
you’re paying for the restroom attendant to be constantly cleaning, but still—I
miss not having to pay to go to the bathroom at the mall, for example. Second,
free water in restaurants and cafés. This was my other complaint in the other
parts of Europe I’ve been to, too. I don’t understand how people here aren’t
perpetually dehydrated, because it’s relatively expensive to get water (or
other any other drink, for that matter; tonight, a 2-ounce glass of juice cost
me 140 rubles/about $4), and drink containers run small.
Ah, so back to talking about Red Square and the Kremlin:
Whilst walking through a big garden-ish area behind the outer side walls of the
Kremlin, we encountered a long row of memorials to the Soviet soldiers who
fought to defeat the Nazis in World War II. There was an eternal flame lit,
followed by a bunch of markers indicating the names of several Russian
battlefronts and Soviet “hero cities.” A few meters later, a large column
jutted out of the ground. Upon closer examination and with the help of David to
translate the finer points of the engraving, it was a marker celebrating the
300th anniversary of the Romanov dynasty—each tsar’s name is listed,
including the final and fateful Nicholas II toward the bottom of the column. With
such a long personal history with the Romanovs, dating back to when I was 3 and
dressing up as Anastasia and “researching” Alexei with my dad, it was unreal to
be standing in Russia, reading in Russian an official monument dedicated to the
actual imperial family.
After this, our group walked on to the Old Arbat district,
which is filled with shops, restaurants, cafés, etc. It’s a big plaza with lots
of street artists, some musicians, and craftspeople. We just strolled around,
and en route we’d stopped to get
tickets to a performance tomorrow night by the Russian National Orchestra.
Though they won’t be playing Russian music—Mozart’s Requiem, I think—it’ll still be an entertaining experience in a
beautiful music hall. Apparently, tourists go to the Bolshoi, and locals go to the Moscow Conservatory, so if anything we can just say we’re being more “authentic.” :)
After spending time in Old Arbat and grabbing some free
samples from Wetzel’s Pretzels, we returned to the hostel, where I’m writing
from now with a really weak Internet connection. It’s been a long day.
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