A Day in the Life of a Foreigner in Moscow

On February 1^st, I woke up in a hostel on “Starii Arbat” and was surprised to discover that the sun was shining in my eyes. After three long days of sitting in a chair at the Fulbright midyear conference, my body reacted to the sun with one thought: ice-skating. I sent out the word to the Fulbrighters still in town and at 2:00 pm I met Dan, Lauren, and Julia to go ice skating in Gorkii Park. I had heard that it was a huge skating area; what I didn’t know was that they flood all the paths in the gigantic park. You can literally skate/stroll through the entire park. It was sooooo cool. We rented skates and went exploring through the park, which was so large that we barely made it through the entire park in the hour we were there. What’s more, there was a blue sky and happy, smiling Russians on skates: some played hockey, some were on dates, and some were just gossiping in the park with their friends. There are still, of course, kiosks in the park, so you can buy—well—whatever you want while you skate. We determined that what we wanted was beer and we spent the last 15 minutes skating with Nevskoe Pivo in hand.

After skating, Dan, Julia, and I rolled over to another metro stop to meet Liza [another community service Fulbrighter] for a belated birthday celebration. We went to a café that Julia had found earlier that week—it was underground and only had room for about 10 tables. All the food that you could order was sitting out in dishes on the bar—you could point out what you wanted and the woman at the bar would dish you up a portion and then throw it in the microwave for a few minutes. They also had Baltika 8 [my favorite beer in Russia] on tap, which I have never found anywhere else. We sat and talked loudly, scaring off what seemed to be the café’s main customers: old men eating chocolate and drinking cognac. They were so inspiring that we decided to do the same and thus we sat for another hour, sipping cognac and eating miniature chocolate bars, until we realized that we were late for our next event, meeting Liza’s friend Misha at his art gallery. Off we rushed again.

While walking to the gallery, Misha informed us that he needed to impress someone at the opening with his language skills and therefore we should speak only English with him there. After he introduced us 4 times not as Betsy, Liza, Dan, and Julia but merely as his “American friends,” we understood that we were invited primarily to be pimped out as Americans. A common occurrence in Russia? Certainly. But this time we decided to give Misha a run for his money. Standing in the middle of a room filled with grotesque art and with plastic cups of wine in hand, the four of us somehow ended up in an hour and a half discussion/argument/fight about abortion. We succeeded in offending each other at various moments and in almost shouting every few minutes. In the process, we shocked all the Russians around us, who were unacquainted with the typical American style of political discourse. Misha several times tried to change the topic unsuccessfully—in short, I don’t think we’ll be invited back as token Americans again.

Not ready to end the night yet, we continued onto an underground bar called “Agi”. It had a bookstore and a cobblestone floor and dimly lit tables. A “retro-dance band” was playing, complete with a piano, fiddle, bass, and a woman with Marilyn Monroe blonde hair and red lipstick playing on the accordion in the center of the stage. The music made me feel like I should be dancing on the streets of Paris or Chicago in the spring. While Dan danced with Liza, I ordered up the birthday margaritas. We sat for an hour, sipping our drinks and listening to the music, calm after the storm at the art gallery. We went home on the last metro car and when I got to my stop, I rode the 7-story escalator completely alone for the first time, making the day seem entirely surreal. For me, it belonged in a Hemingway novel but somehow ended up in my life. Moscow has overpriced hotels and crabby, crooked taxi drivers, but it also has skating parks, grungy cafes, and now a few pages of my journal.

In Siberia, It’s Always Friday

I am happy to introduce the newest feature of my blog: guest writers! Carrie Miller wrote up about our adventures in Omsk--enjoy :)

In mid-December Betsy and I boarded a night train from Ekaterinburg to Omsk. After 12 hours marked by bread, cheese, chocolate cookies, and something resembling sleep, we awoke and took our first steps into Siberia. Scampering across the railroad tracks, we were greeted by a bright turquoise train station and a good dusting of snow (at the time, Ekaterinburg was covered in thick mud). We hopped on a bus and headed toward the center of town to find a hotel. As our bus drove through the city, I saw Betsy’s eyes suddenly light up, and low and behold, we were driving by a T.G.I. Friday’s. Since “authentic” American food is hard to come by in Ekaterinburg (Russian’s can’t even make decent pizza) I promised Betsy that we could go.

Betsy’s roommate Josefina lived in Omsk for a year, so we went to a hotel that she recommended. Unfortunately, there was a sign on the door which read “hotel doesn’t work,” so we walked a few more blocks to a different place. Although this hotel was a little more expensive than we would have liked, it did have life-size Santa’s climbing on the railing outside, and while we ate our complimentary brunch, a guy walked around putting giant Santa hats on the backs of all the chairs. After getting settled in our room, Betsy and I hit the streets to find museums and other adventures.

Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, quite possibly my favorite author, was arrested in 1849 for being too liberal, given a mock execution, and exiled to Omsk where he remained for four years. The museum which bears his name is small but excellent, complete with some of Dostoevsky’s possessions and a few emotionally intense Russian paintings. Betsy was nice enough to pay the small fee for me to take pictures, and we were given a receipt which was marked and endorsed with no less than two official-looking stamps.

A little ways past the Dostoevsky museum was a Russian military museum, the main exhibit of which focused on World War II. I had never really thought about WWII from the Russian perspective, and it was really interesting to see anti-Germany war propaganda, which had a hard and distinctly Russian quality. I was also surprised by the large number of women pictured among Russia’s armed forces, some of whom were decorated WWII heroes. However, Betsy put forth the theory that the old women running the museum might have over-represented their gender in the displays.

After the museums it was time for dinner and American cultural imperialism a la T.G.I. Friday’s. While I can’t say I support the existence of American chain restaurants in foreign countries, it did warm my heart a little to see how happy Betsy was with her smoothie and plate of Cajun chicken fingers. I tried to order a “Top Shelf” margarita and was informed that they did not have any of the top shelf alcohol, and had to settle for the more modest version. And yes, the waiters were all wearing suspenders bedecked in flair and smiling, which is very uncommon in Russia. Another plus was the menu written in English. At all the other restaurants I ate whatever Betsy felt like translating for me.

The next day marked another culinary exploit: the candy café. Imagine, if you will, a small, brightly decorated shop filled with a varied multitude of delicious confections, none of which cost more than a dollar. The stoic yet friendly woman behind the counter was good enough to inform us that the “chocolate potato” did not actually contain any potato (I would have eaten it even if it did), and when we tried to order a pink heart-shaped cookie she refused, saying “why would you eat that when there are so many things that are better?”

The final museum of our Osmk adventure was an art museum in a beautiful old wooden building. The main attraction was an exhibit of Alexy Lieberov, a Siberian artist who was born in Tomsk and later lived in Omsk. The landscape of Omsk, which lies just north of Kazakhstan, resembles my best memories of northern Minnesota. Those really old memories in which everything becomes pristine and whimsical, and you can smell the cold in the air. I had a wonderfully visceral experience with Lieberov’s work, and I reckon Betsy did too, because we were freaking out looking at all the artwork, much to the amusement of the museum staff.

After kickin’ it at a Georgian restaurant and a café, it was time for Betsy and I to catch our late night train back to Ekaterinburg. Train stations in Russia are clean an beautiful. High ceilings, marble floors, classical paintings, and colorful exteriors. However, the people inside them can be real wild cards. As we waited to board, a crazy homeless man decided the quiet American girls in the corner would be good to talk to (or talk at?) and began berating us. I mostly ignored him because I don’t speak Russian, Betsy got frustrated and uncomfortable, and the young boy a few chairs away from us thought the whole scene was hilarious. Unluckily for Betsy, our fortunes did not improve when we boarded our third-class train car which was packed with sweaty, rowdy old men. As we set up our bunks a socially-aggressive man without a shirt kept talking to Betsy, most notably asking us why we were wearing money belts. This problem was resolved, however, simply by going to bed (signaling that all conversation was over for the night). I slept surprisingly well amid the snores and musty aromas, and we escaped Siberia unscathed.

Pictures from Carrie’s trip to Russia, including Ekaterinburg, Omsk, and “the country”: http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=9AbM2jZm0bsNO