The bus got us to Red Square easily, whizzing through wide boulevards of non-existent Sunday morning traffic, apparently the only time these streets are ever unencumbered with jams of far too many cars, a litany we are hearing from city dwellers all over Eastern Europe. It’s -25 C (with wind chill, it’s gotta be -40), and we are uncomfortably cold. Let’s quickly take a group shot in front of the outrageously pretty and famous St. Basil onion dome extravagance. The skinny gangly girl in the tiny ski jacket is standing on alternate feet in an attempt to get her feet off the cold stones. Are those ballet slippers or actual shoes you’re wearing? Our inside dog back home used to do that on our driveway until visitors from Britain bought him cold weather Muttluks to wear on frosty Manitoba mornings. But I digress. We needed to hurry, because the Полиции or Cheka or KGB or police or military (standing everywhere) would come and disperse us. Apparently it’s OK to take pictures of a few people at a time in front of the church but not groups. Why do they disallow it? Elizabeth: “Because they can.” We managed to snap a few hurried contraband pictures, and then we headed for the GUM department store which flanks all of Red Square, opposite Stalin’s and Krushchev’s famous viewing stands, in front of which the tanks and missiles would rumble by in the glory days when they still had impressive May Day Parades. GUM was closed. It was the first time Elizabeth swore that morning. So it was seriously time to look for a café to get these skinnily (but rather fashionably) dressed kids out of the cold. Every place open was too small and/or expensive, although we did fake a looooong decision process in the lobby of one tiny bistro to thaw out some toes and fingers. Well, in the distance, artfully blended into an ancient wall just outside the Kremlin, shone the Golden Arches of our salvation! Breakfast has rarely been so rewarding of our efforts at survival and perseverance. Nikita, our cherub-faced resident native Russian lad of the group, came into his own translating our hearts’ desires into the McItems on the cyrilic menu for the pretty teenage girl at the cash register—much more fun than simply pointing at the pictures. Once emboldened by McCaffeine and energized by sufficient McFat, we decided that a visit to Lenin’s tomb was in order. As was a possible visit to a souvenir shop. The group from Istanbul was with us as well, and, curiously, all the Bucharest kids wanted to see Lenin, and all the kids from Turkey wanted to go shopping. One pony-tailed dolly from Istanbul (read this with teenage inflection): “I didn’t know John Lennon was buried here!?”The lineup began some hundred meters distant from the entrance to the mausoleum area. We assumed it was to get us into a contemplative mood for the augustness of the vast experience we were about to enter, this sanctum sanctorum of all things Communist. While the Russians no longer subscribe to that dogma, or are no longer forced to, they still seem to enjoy the quasi-religiosity that accompanies it. A stern uniformed Russky then escorted us silently (the kids had been suitably forewarned to be reverend) to the airport security-style entrance. All electronics, cameras, etc. needed to be coat-checked into nearby lockboxes for that purpose. While we awaited our turn through the gates, ballet-slipper girl stood on my feet for warmth. And the sun climbed higher and higher, incredibly reflecting golden off the variously shaped roofs and finials of the towers all around us. Fabulous. That’s when you wish you had a really wide-angle lens. The mausoleum was deep underground, well, appropriately more than 6 feet under, and warm! Wouldn’t want the old boy to freeze now. He looked rather exactly like someone might who has been dead and pickled for 80 some years, and who has his body cleaned and re-waxed every five years. Mustn’t linger. Stern snap of fingers, nyet stopping. Unsmiling guards everywhere. Just outside the tomb, I put slipper girl on my back to get her off the cold stone. Now that must have jibed well with the authorities, who evidently decided that Lubyanka just around the corner was a little severe for this infraction of protocol, and let it go. A popular joke is that the Lubyanka is the tallest building in Moscow: Siberia can be seen from its basement.
Well, mission accomplished, let’s hurry to the bus and warm up seriously. We needed only to step out of this area and retrieve our accoutrements from the lock box and be on our way. Nyet! We were herded to the left instead of to where we wanted to go, by another stern uniform. This was the second time Elizabeth swore. “Ms. Hunt, we can’t use language like that in class!” “We’re not IN class; we’re in Russia!” Now we scooted RATHER irreverently and quickly past a whole line of graves. There’s Papa Josef Stalin, there’s Nikita K, etc. Now that was done, and the bulk of us could head back to the bus, but Elizabeth and our young translator, Nikita also K, would retrieve our lock box stuff. Nyet! No cutting through here. (Swear, swear, offer of a bribe, refusal. This was all related to us afterward.) So they began to run. Every time they attempted to shorten the distance, and were redirected by an omnipresent stern uniform, there would be more frustration colorfully expressed by Elizabeth. I think kids are hard wired to be reactionary to agitations in an adult. As all parents know, this can manifest itself in diverse ways, but Nikita, sweet kid that he is, got more sympathetic by the moment. The more she cussed, the more his encouraging chatter. “Don’t fall, Ms. Hunt! It’s slippery! It won’t be much longer, Ms. Hunt! That’s the way police are here in Russia!” They were redirected around the entire square, until once more they came into the original lineup that led them to this “Russian Experience” in the first place! From there of course, it was a simple matter of getting to the security gate where we were before, and retrieving our belongings. Nyet problem! And why do the authorities make these arbitrary decisions that make your Russian life so difficult?? Elizabeth: “Because they can!”
By now, we were late to get on the road to the airport. Our Toyota bus blasted down vast avenues and connecting roads, construction everywhere, fabulous and massive buildings impressive on each side, and promptly got to the airport by a Russian miracle—uncharacteristically light traffic. But the Russians, as you know by now, are fond of making things difficult (because they can), and had placed the bottleneck of a luggage X-ray station right in the doorway of the airport terminal. Another anomaly here: an older man in uniform who spoke excellent delightfully accented English, had an actual smiling face and acknowledged our plight of urgency; he lifted the barrier, and let all ten of us through, sans security check. In no time at all we were checked in and now had free time. I commented to Liz that this last considerate gesture could seriously skew her tally of rude things that routinely happen to one in Russia, but she was confident that the day was not yet over and that her decision to have moved out of this fabulous, fascinating and frustrating country had been indeed the right one. Then, just as we were about to enter the gate into the departure lounge, a large well-dressed Russian brute literally shouldered her out of his way (did the Russians invent the hockey body check?) and he made his important way up the stairs and out of sight. Her point having been forcefully made, we metaphorically shook the snow of that country off our feet and boarded the craft for our return journey to Bucharest. Would I go back? In a heartbeat, but let’s try it in the spring or the fall next time.
These pictures were all taken in the palatial stations of the Moscow subway system:
Incredible mosaics, paintings, and sculpture to help with the propaganda of Stalin's glory of Communism:
On the world's longest indoor escalator, perspective changes after a while. The ride from top to bottom--a full three minutes!
Young men far out of touch with the former Communist ideals pictured in mosaic above them:
