Why Stay In When You Could Go Out?

Soundtrack – Stereo Maracana, Combatente

By now, my fair reader, you must be wondering about the famous, riotous Moscow nightlife – especially knowing me.  I have yet to post anything about that because, while it is famously interesting and fantastic, it is not the most striking thing Moscow has to offer. That said…

In Moscow you can find anything you’d like. You can eat sushi every night of the week, be it in a high-class restaurant or a coffee house. You can find 3 and 4 tiered dance clubs playing house, trance, pop, rock, hip-hop – every kind of music. My favorite part is that in nearly all of these you can find a man in a colorful hat who will bring you a hookah in every imaginable flavor, (kalyan po-russki) which you can sit and smoke while watching the endless parade of nonsense swirling at a dizzying pace around you.

You are more likely to find yourself in an exclusive spot, sitting at a reserved table with excellent service if you travel with a local – somewhere with huge, comfy, high backed couches, unnaturally tall tables, mirrored walls, low ceilings, perfect lighting enhancing the already cleverly designed look of it all, sweet music that is seemingly composed only to be played in this space, and beautiful waitresses who will bring you brilliant drinks until well past the sun has come up. (If, however, you are looking for a vodka or whisky with soda water, or some other simple drink, forget it. Soda water, and simplicity for that matter, does not exist in Russia.)

You can accidentally find your own rarity, usually after giving up on your initial evening plans either because you are lost, or tired of traveling. At this point you could even find yourself in a large warehouse with hundreds of people dancing to the beat of a famous dj (who, admittedly, you have never heard of.) One time, this warehouse also housed a bowling alley and billiards hall, and was encircled with full bars and attentive bartenders (this truly was a find!)

There are more chill places in Moscow, of course. Perhaps an unassuming coffee shop and bookstore that on the spur of the moment converts to a music venue and features an awkward, yet true, Russian reggae band in bright tie-dyed smocks with a variety of percussive instruments and a smooth and melodic Russian voice. It is possible to wind your way through a typical looking, empty nightclub/bar in the early evening and find yourself in a magical rooftop café, painted all white, and with lofted platforms, hammocks, deliberately placed sheer white panels hanging from floor to ceiling yet concealing nothing, small café tables and a variety of mattresses, pillows, and low tables on which to recline and chat and sip wine and eat cheese. These sorts of places you can only find by accident, usually when walking the exact wrong way from your search of some other destination.

There are also loud and smoky bars and clubs with music in varying shades of the obnoxious, familiar, distorted, and adored. Just as in the States it will take you 5-15 minutes to get a drink, including the time spent shouting your order at the bartender. The only difference here – the necessity of approaching the bar armed with a back-up drink order for when the bartender does not understand either your Russian or how to make the item you are ordering. (Nine times out of ten you end up with a beer for just this reason.) The guys that pick you up in these bars are markedly different. They don’t want your phone number or the chance to take you home that night, they want your email written carefully in their iphone so they can email with you and practice their English via the world wide web– very unnerving.

You find these places everywhere you least expect them. Up winding staircases, in basements at the bottom of dilapidated brick steps, sharing the building with a grocery store, or even, sometimes, past the three guards who will check, not your ID, but your attire before letting you enter. Upon entry, they, (the clubs) without fail, explode and then completely disorient you with a tangle of tables and benches encased with blacked-out windows to keep you from running for the metro when the sun comes up unnaturally early. They will consume you for as long or as little as you’d like, and usually only become tedious when the smoke or music is too much to handle.

It is interesting. I find the people watching to be much like that in the U.S., but with much shorter skirts, longer eyelashes, and higher heels. Any and all avoided public displays of affection in the States have been saved up and shipped abroad in order that they take place in Moscow. Incidentally, the men say the women are all prostitutes, and the women say the men are all underhanded scum, but they fight for each other’s attention all the same.

And the moral of the story of Moscow nightlife – wherever you go, you will not end up where you planned. When you get there you won’t know where you are, when you exit you won’t know what time it is or the direction of your house, if you have intended to go home. At some point you are guaranteed to find yourself at the mercy of the night. The best strategy at that point – cross your fingers, shrug your shoulders, and give in. I have yet to have a bad night in Moscow. And I imagine that if I felt one creeping up I would just switch it out for something more suitable to my tastes. It isn’t just what you make it, it is anything you want it to be.

Checkmate

Soundtrack, RATATAT, Ratatat

So it’s Friday night and I decide to leave school early so I can run a few errands and make it home in time to get some laundry done, eat some dinner, and take a nap before heading out. When I walked in the door with some groceries my host asked me (as she has become accustomed to doing) if I was going out to a bar with friends tonight. (This is always my stock answer, having a limited vocabulary, and she began to make fun of me for this about a week ago.) I said – to her surprise – that I didn’t know and I would be home at least for a while. I was in the bathroom mid first-Russian-hand-washing-of-the-clothes experience and trying to figure out how to get the last of the soap out of my jeans and there was a knock on the door. I was a bit surprised, and opened the door cautiously to find a tallish man, about my age, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and the beginnings of a moustache. He had absolutely no qualms about beckoning me from the bathroom with a knock followed by a sullen expression. I had never seen or heard of him before, and he introduced himself as Valode. He then said something to me in Russian that I could only gather was some kind of invitation. I heard from the kitchen, Maria calling me and inviting me in.

In the kitchen on the table there was this beautiful cake, three cups of tea and three plates. Valode was inviting me to join them for his birthday.

We sat and ate this very strange, but very good, cake that was layered with a peanut flavored frosting and this really yummy styrofoam-like pastry. And we talked about… dun dun duh dah! Politics!! This was a new kind of political conversation though. Valode said he had met many American men, but never an American girl, and he wanted to know my opinion of everything. I was asked how I felt about Obama (good or bad) and then both of them listed everything they thought was wrong with American politics. 1) Americans are not smart about the decisions they make and we have no sense of having real history, (my host being a history professor, this is something I have heard more than once.) 2) Americans have global control. 3) We don’t have any real strategy when it comes to international relations. Then I was asked what I thought was the fourth thing wrong with American politics… um… hmm… I love being put on the spot when people know that you are studying international relations. Especially when they know that you are in graduate school to study it. Not only do they want to know your opinion, but they have stacked every single question to set you up for failure. It’s a game really. “Well, this person is supposed to know everything about everything in the history of international relations (not true) so I’m going to stump them and then they can see I know more than they do.” Try playing this game in Russian… it’s even better. I mumbled something about our last president as my easy-out fourth choice (you can’t imagine how hard it is to explain these things with the vocabulary of a fourth grader). I then turned the tables and finally asked my host what she thought of Obama and Bush and American politics. She started talking about democracy and how once there was democracy and now there is not. How now people really have no choice, even though they think they do have a choice and that their votes don’t really count. Besides all of that, she said, the real power does not lie with the president, it is with all of the people working behind him. At this point I was actually a little confused as to whose politics she was discussing, and I was surprised to hear this was the way she felt about the United States.

The night goes on.

So back to Americans not having a sense of strategy globally. Valode says this is because we do not study chess when we are children. This is number 4, that Americans do not know how to play chess. He asked me if I know how to play chess. I do understand the basics of the game, but not wanting to invite another challenge to my intelligence and the intelligence of all Americans, I say no. And then it is settled. We are going to play chess and he is going to teach me. So on an unassuming Friday night, I learned the “classic” strategy of chess… in Russian! There was very little help from a dictionary. We played out all kinds of strategies and spoke literally maybe five English words all night. Two of these were something that he learned somewhere else – “cool move.” Every time I would make a good move he would say, “cool move,” slowly and in a very heavy Russian accent. And every time I was getting myself into trouble he would say ehhhh… I did have some help from my host, but in the end, much to Valode’s dismay, I won. (A secret victory for America.)

Valode then asked if I would like to watch a film with them (I think). He had been asking me all night who was my favorite actor, what was my favorite movie, etc. etc. For some reason in translation it was determined that my favorite movie was Capote (not exactly true) and they decided to download the film from the internet. I keep forgetting that you can do literally anything you want in Russia. I mean, generally with all offenses, in theory you could get caught, but then it is just really a matter of bribing the official to get out of it. My host, a very respectable woman, was telling me about these programs she has installed on her computer that allow her to download films for free. In fact, this is what she had been doing all night when I thought she was just obsessively checking email. She was explaining the technical process of downloading the films (in Russian – I have to keep reminding you of this) and asking me if I understood what she was saying. I told her I really couldn’t be sure that I was understanding, but in fact I was.
Something that is really pretty illegal in the States, something you can actually get in trouble for (everyone knows someone who knows someone who has been caught) is very streamlined and common here. I should have guessed that from the hundreds of bootlegged film vendors that set up shop on the sidewalks every day, but hey, I’m slow.

Soon Valode left (with a gentlemanly kiss on the hand and some more Russian that I just for some reason could not for the life of me understand) and my host and I began this longish conversation (at one in the morning) about international film and literature and what it was like when the Soviet Union fell and the world opened up to all kinds of cultural experiences that had been banned for decades, and were now suddenly bursting out of everywhere. She explained that this is why free media on the internet is so popular and important here because a free exchange of media and ideas was so forbidden for so long. What an interesting juxtaposition to go from a world that was completely closed, where the United States looked like a bastion of free culture, to one where thoughts and ideas are exchanged so freely and on principal really, making the United States look like such a strictly censored regime by comparison. I have always had a very authoritarian impression of Russia… and, well… you know what they say about books and their covers.

Metro and Militsia. - My first day of school.

Soundtrack – Au Revoir Simone, The Bird of Music

The thing is, no matter where you are going, at what time of day, with or without the most seemingly thorough directions, you will get lost in Moscow. I just plan in extra ‘getting lost’ time now every time I travel. But the first day of school, my second day in the city, was one of my more hectic and anxious experiences, completely lacking any sense of direction and totally at the mercy of this frantic organ that is the transportation system of Moscow.

I live only one metro stop from the university, where I am taking Russian classes for the summer. I’m about a ten-minute walk from my metro stop. After getting off the metro at the university I have only to cross the street and walk about the equivalent of 3-4 blocks through campus to get to class. Just to be sure, the girl who also helped me register my visa and get my student ID, walked me through the entire travel scenario just one day before. I walk out of the house thinking, sweet… Moscow. I’m checking out the sun and the great variety of people walking to work, walking home from a night out, trying to sell you bread and scarves and flowers and cab rides, handing you flyers about a sushi restaurant or a new clothing shop or a strip club, trying to sell you religious books, and begging for money while crossing themselves repeatedly or propping up missing limbs to evoke pity. Everyone around me is trying to elicit some emotional response as I take it all in and fall into stride with my soundtrack.

I navigate all of the signs to get into the metro and down the stairs and headed in the right direction and I see that there is a train already waiting there at the platform. I pick up my pace to make it onto the train before the doors close. Did I say close? I mean slam shut almost in hopes to catch some bit of clothing that the train can then steal from you. There are, incidentally, many things in Moscow, mostly related to the metro, that can close sharply on you and with a lot of force, leaving initiation marks and bruises.

I almost made it. There is a warning before the doors slam shut, but I was not at all accustomed to listening for it and even so did not have a prayer of understanding the announcement. I slipped in, the doors shut, and I turned to make sure nothing was stuck, already knowing that my purse was caught. Just as I turned a nice gentleman grabbed my bag to help me pull it out. (Turns out people are very accustomed to helping others pull various things out of these ridiculously unforgiving doors.) I was, of course, quite flustered and said to him (in English) thank you. Just as I was beginning the accompanying thank you glance, the train lurched forward and I was thrown back, literally on top of this guy. I had reached out for the handle near the door and missed it by a matter of centimeters. He was standing against the backdoor of the train car, and so luckily did not fall, but I was completely off balance and made full body contact before he could help me to my feet. I was then, of course, frantically grabbing for the handle near the door so I could stand myself up again and at the same time muttering thank you and excuse me and I’m so sorry, which made the perfect segue into staring in the complete opposite direction with a bright red and sweaty face, pretending that nothing had happened and thanking god I only had to go one metro stop.

Ok. I’m getting off the train. I’m flustered (especially because this was his stop as well) but somehow I wander out of the metro station on the correct side of the street and going in the correct direction. Things look familiar. I think I spot the street I have to cross. I’m recounting the directions given to me a day earlier and breathing deeply and starting to hook back into my soundtrack.

The thing about campus is that all the buildings look the same. Condemned-looking and with old Soviet emblems and signs that I thought would be telling markings when I saw them for the first time. I did, however, find the building. I pulled out my student ID in anticipation for the document check, and I even remembered which door I was to enter. Then I got into the entryway and saw panel after panel of slightly tinted windows banded with wood across the middle in the fashion of a handle. I remembered the first door was all the way to the right, and the second door was all the way to the left, with about 40 feet in between them. For some reason here all the doors are single entry, meaning that all traffic, in and out, must flow through a door that is one person wide. Under the watchful eye of the security guard I had a 50/50 chance that I would pick the correct panel and avoid the more extensive questioning and document check. There was no one coming or going for me to just follow in so I picked a panel and pushed on it. Then I pulled on it. I thought oh shit, I came to the wrong door, wait, maybe I came to the wrong building! And the security guard pointed to an adjacent panel and motioned for me to come through.

Of course my documents were checked. I was told my first day on the campus to never get stopped by these guys – or anyone in uniform for that matter. They will maybe hassle you or at worst question you and hold your ID. (These student ID things are like gold by the way.) The guy asked me some basic questions, which I (remarkably) could understand and respond to. Then he asked me what department I was studying in, and I said Russian Studies, which was where I was headed. I even explained to him that this was my first day. He told me that on my ID it said that I was with the Foreign Languages department and that was in another building, therefore meaning I had no right to be in this building.

At this point he is holding my student ID and speaking with increasing pace and volume and I, already flustered by barely making it there in the first place, start to stammer and speak with a horrible American accent and look around at other students, the majority of whom pass me by with little more than a glance. Finally a nice Russian guy, who spoke enough English to ask me what was wrong, stopped to watch the questioning and then interject on my behalf. Apparently he just raised his tone to meet the guard’s and told him it was none of his business and that I was a student and allowed to go into any of the buildings. I didn’t understand any of what was going on at this point. I had once again been thrust, full contact, upon the mercy of a random stranger who I could barely thank properly. The Russian guy explained to me what the guy was saying and showed me to my class, and added a little commentary about what people in uniform do and do not have the right to do.

The moral of the story. Don’t hop onto trains hoping to slip in before the doors close. It turns out these trains run literally every two minutes, sometimes sooner, and even when in a hurry there is no reason to rush train entry. And never, never get stopped to have your documents checked. These people truly do not speak any English whatsoever, and when flustered, I really think a native English speaker’s default is probably English. Any hint of an accent is a sign of weakness and they move in for the kill. This is not an exaggeration. I’ve since found that the best policy whenever you see someone in uniform is to look mean and walk fast. Flash documents and look offended if their glance lingers too long. Mmmm…