|
|
|
“Zis your first time in Russia?” asked the woman behind border control at Domodedovo Airport. Since passing her my passport, the thin-lipped security officer had poured over the visa and immigration card as if expecting to find microfilm. She looked up and scrutinised my face. I kept it as neutral as possible. Looking or acting cheerful was not the done thing at passport control in Russia – apparently it was a sign of something to hide. Under the woman’s steely gaze, I soon cracked though. My mouth formed into an involuntary smile as I replied to her question. “Yes, this is my first time in Russia. And it’s hot.”
I was referring to the heat wave. It was thirty-nine degrees Celsius in the shade, and reports of drunken vagabonds throwing themselves into Moscow fountains to cool off but subsequently drowning was beginning to hit the British press. The woman seemed not to understand. Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Hot? What you mean…hot?” Behind, my fellow passengers averted their gaze as if sensing that Gulag Deportation Guards were being summoned. Swallowing hard, I gripped the metal bar in front, aware that the woman could see me doing this because of the mirror overhead. Her eyes flicked upwards in confirmation. “The weather is hot,” I managed to stammer.
Time seemed to stand still. The woman stared at me without blinking. Finally she spoke. “Yes, I think I see. Moscow is hot.” She passed me my passport and ushered me through. I had infiltrated Russia, but it had been a narrow escape.
After catching the 40-minute train into central Moscow, Jodie and I arrived at Paveletsky Station and soon came face to face with the famous taxi drivers. Hordes of them waited in the arrival hall chasing down any stray passengers, but with a determined glint in my eye, we got past them and headed outside into the searing heat. It was like a furnace, bone dry and scorching any exposed area of skin. We spotted a lone taxi parked nearby and headed towards it. A moustached man sat inside reading a newspaper. He looked up as we approached his window. Then another man arrived on the scene.
Ignoring him, I passed the taxi driver a piece of paper with the address of our hotel written in the Cyrillic script. Almost immediately, the other man tried to grab it out if his hands. An intense argument quickly broke out in thick Russian, forcing Jodie and I to wait in total confusion. Pulling and froing of my piece of paper ensued, but a minute later it died down, with the driver ushering us into the back seat of his prized vehicle. The other man walked away, gesturing and shaking his head. Feeling slightly uneasy, we climbed inside the battered old Lada.
“What was that about?” whispered Jodie as she searched for her seatbelt.
“God only knows,” I replied, noting without surprise that seatbelts were not included. And then we were off, driven by a maniac with no regard for any other person on the road. Insane swerving, lunatic speeding and screeching of brakes happened within seconds of setting off. We were thrown sideways and then a split second later thrust forward as the driver jostled for position on the Moscow highway. At one point I caught a glimpse of St Basil’s Cathedral, but then I was thrown back into my seat as the car screeched to a halt, narrowly missing the vehicle in front. Twenty hellish minutes later we arrived at the hotel, The Peter I, somehow unscathed, paying the man his precious Roubles. Welcome to Moscow!
The next morning, our only full day in Moscow, we started sightseeing in earnest. First stop was the world-famous Bolshoi Theatre. Built in the 1850s, it was the place where Tchaikovsky premiered Swan Lake. It didn’t look that impressive to Jodie and I though. Major restoration work covered up the vast majority of the exterior, so feeling slightly disappointed we headed off across the road towards Red Square and the Kremlin, conveniently located next to each other.
Red Square (not named after communism but after the red brickwork surrounding it) has a history that is almost staggering. I remember news footage showing military parades through while Soviet leaders watched on admirably from viewing platforms. But nowadays the parades have been exchanged for tourists. Moreover, in the winter, a gigantic outdoor ice-rink takes centre stage. It looked just as good as it had done on TV.
Along the square’s Eastern edge is the massive GUM department store, the only outlet not to suffer from shortages during the Soviet Era. Inside was equally impressive, with fashionable and chic stores selling everything imaginable. Back outside, Jodie and I joined a queue waiting at the entrance to Red Square itself. We thought it was the only way in. A man in uniform, wearing a dinner-plate cap was in charge. Every few minutes he gestured a few people through, and soon it was our turn.
. The queue we’d inadvertently joined wasn’t for Red Square itself, but for Lenin’s Mausoleum. Before we knew it, we were shepherded into the entrance of the small building and darkness engulfed our senses. And then we were in a dimly lit room with the tomb of Lenin in the centre, lit atmospherically. All chattering ceased, and everyone quickly walked around the square room, staring at the embalmed body in the middle - my first ever dead one. It was cold in the room, which was actually quite nice after roasting in the sun outside. Though the experience had an air of eeriness, I couldn’t quite shake off the notion that I was staring at a waxwork, and not the actual body of a man. And then we were out, into the hellishly-hot temperatures outside. We’d been inside for perhaps two minutes.
After collecting our cameras and phones (which were not allowed inside the tomb) we entered Red Square from another entrance, going past Babushkas peddling flowers and dolls. These women also staffed the toilets, looking every inch the proper Russian I’d imagined. They were in direct contrast to young Russian women. One word describes them – gorgeous. They reminded me of Anna Kournikova, the tennis player, and what struck Jodie and I was that they were all dressed as if they were about to hit the nightclubs. High heels and tight short skirts were almost as interesting to me as Red Square was.
Later that night another set of young Russian women caught my eye. They were a trio of prostitutes plying their trade quite openly in the lobby of our hotel. The Peter I, quite an upmarket establishment mainly catering for businessmen, obviously encouraged this behaviour – and as Jodie and I sipped our drinks, the women tried catching the eye of any stray men passing by. At one point, one of the girls, an attractive blond wearing a short clingy white cocktail dress, stood up and strutted a few steps. When she was sure she had some male attention, she bent over provocatively, making a show of adjusting her high-heels, wiggling about as much as she could. My eyes swivelled back to Jodie, who was shaking her head.
“Pervert,” she said, but I could tell she was as intrigued as I was by this odd behaviour.
Back in Red Square, we wandered up to St Basil’s Cathedral, a truly iconic and remarkable building. Apparently when it was completed in the Middle Ages, Ivan the Terrible (1533-1584) who had commissioned it, had the eyes of the architect gouged out. He didn’t want such a beautiful building recreated anywhere else. Who could blame him? Its onion domes of many colours were a wonderfully majestic sight of Russia, one that is recognisable around the world. Despite his name, Ivan wasn’t so terrible. He encouraged artists and artisans, and he was a skilled warrior, defeating the Tartars, which is why he commissioned the cathedral in the first place. Mind you, he did kill his own son in a fit of rage, and did found Russia’s first ever secret police, so perhaps his moniker was well-deserved after all.
The difference between rich and poor is hard to miss in Moscow. Black Mercedes lined the streets. Affluent folk went about their business whilst the young and trendy sat about in parks and cafes soaking up the sun. But on the periphery, not hard to spot, were the unfortunates. For instance, as Jodie and I sat on a bench enjoying the view just off Red Square, an old man shuffled over to a nearby litterbin. After rooting around for a moment, he pulled out an old McDonalds Cola carton. Pulling off the plastic lid he looked in, smelling the contents. Seemingly happy with what he’d found, he noisily sucked the remnants of the drink through the straw, before wandering off, a plastic bag his only companion.
A walk inside the Kremlin was an experience not to miss. Guards were everywhere making sure tourists never strayed off the official tour line. But this was fair enough; the Russian government was based inside the Kremlin.
Jodie and I saw all the famous sites: the golden-domed cathedrals, the Tsar Canon (one of the biggest cannons ever produced) and Czar Bell (with its missing chunk), the GreatPalace and of course the BellTower. All were impressive and iconic and all have been written about in detail elsewhere. We eventually left the Kremlin, heading back to the hotel for a quick break before heading out for the evening.
For our evening meal, Jodie and I decided to avoid the expensive restaurants and instead stop by one the many My-My (pronounced Moo-Moo) eateries that proper Russian people eat at. Knowing about this chain came about courtesy of an Australian travel writer called Peter Moore. He described his visit to one on his website. Inside My-My we collected our trays and then wandered along the self-service section, pointing to whatever took our fancy. Soon we had a plate full of tasty Russian food, all at rock-bottom prices. Highly recommended.
To finish off our last night in Moscow, Jodie and I ventured into the famous Moscow Underground. After buying a ticket for a few roubles, we entered the barriers and descended a long escalator into the bowels of Moscow. The station we were in was just off Red Square, called Revolution Square, and as we reached the bottom, we could hear the whoosh of the trains as they sped off along the platforms. We wanted to see were the bronze sculptures. They were everywhere. After a good look around, we headed back up to ground level for a few more drinks before retiring for the night.
The next morning, we headed back to the airport for our flight home. We met an interesting man as we waited to pick up our tickets at the airline desk. He was standing in front of us, in his late-fifties, with an air of eccentricity about him. He told us that we were the first English people he’d spoken to in about six months. He was a foreign language teacher in Siberia, and loved it. “It’s the best thing I’ve done in my life. I used to be an auctioneer, but I got jaded with it all, so I looked into something else. And so I chose Siberia!”
I nodded and smiled. “Fair enough, but why there? Are you some sort of mentalist?”
The man laughed. “A lot of people have asked me that. And when I first got to Siberia, I thought that too. And what was worse was that I was the only Englishman there. But I love it. I’m going back in a few months.”
And thus ended our trip to Moscow. And though it was a beautiful city, there will always be an undercurrent of sadness about Moscow for me, though not for reasons anyone would suspect. It would be the last trip Jodie and I would spend together. After twelve years together, due to a variety of reasons, we decided to go our separate ways. And Jodie, if you ever read this, I hope you’ll remember all the good times we had on our trips. We did have lots of them. Our minds were broadened by what we saw and did. Please don’t ever forget that.
previous travel blog entry
Jo-Anne says:
Excellent introduction!