In November of 1994, I had finished working in Amsterdam and found myself doing some traveling. I went to various countries in Europe and Central Asia simply bouncing from one place to another, but one of the true destinations that I wanted to see was Moscow.
Moscow is an incredible city. The color and design of the buildings are incredible and I've never seen anything to compare with them. I know that people who visit Moscow have a lovely time – the history, the sites, the sounds, but that’s them. Here’s my Moscow in 1994….
Once I landed in Moscow, I had to find a way to the hotel. Evidently there was a bus that would take me, but I couldn’t locate it and instead took an outrageously expensive taxi ride to my hotel. Ahh..there is nothing like starting a trip than walking out of the airport and being “legally” robbed by a local taxi driver. I’ve grown to truly hate taxi drivers over the years because of this practice. It is one thing to tip a driver (even if it is too much), but another to be outright lied to for an enormous amount of money. But I made it to Moscow! Let the games begin!
I eventually arrived at the “Intourist” hotel - a monolithic cement structure especially built for tourists in the Soviet period that the new government decided not to update. The furnishings, the décor and the management style were perfectly preserved since the time of Brezhnev. But again, as long as they had a bed and a shower, I would be happy. So I registered with the front desk and left my passport with them (as according to the law at the time). I’m shown to my room by the floor’s key holder/hall monitor and decide that I would to rest up a bit before exploring the city. Thinking back, the whole experience of a hall monitor who kept your key when you left, etc. was rather retro and much as I expected the Soviet Union to have been like. That is, it was…basic. No flare. No bells and whistles. No trust of the guests. No this, no that and definitely none of the other. It was like walking into a John le Carré novel. Humming the “James Bond” theme to myself as I looked over my new quarters, I half expected to find listening devices in the walls and video cameras behind the mirrors. I then learned how to operate the East German made television in the corner that I could only receive two channels: one of Russian pop concerts and the other was the film "Calligula" which I later discovered was being played 24 hours a day. I suppose “Calligula” was rather fitting if you think about it: I’m in a 1970’s Russian dormitory and a banned 1970’s American porn film was on and old East German television. Well, as “riveting” as “Caliligula” is, I decided not to waste my time in Moscow and tore myself away from the television and explore the city.
Being the first day there, I decided not to wander off too far from the hotel for fear that I might actually get lost and I didn’t want to get fleeced by the local taxi mafia anymore. So, instead, I saw wonderful sights around the hotel and did some shopping at a local bazaar, etc.
When coming back to the hotel I saw that the tourist agency offered some tours of the Kremlin and Red Square, etc. so I decided to book myself on a nice tour of the city. Something…carefree, where I don’t have to worry about doing anything. If there are problems, they take care of it.
The next day I awoke in plenty of time to get dressed and have breakfast – the most God awful, post-Soviet breakfast you could have ask for: To try and provide you with a mental picture of the experience, it is best to describe the overall environment of the dining area. It was a large, relatively dimly lit dining room that could have easily seated 200 people, with rows of tables – very much in a “barracks style” seating arrangement. Keeping with the “Spartan” style, there were old curtains and no décor or paintings on the jaundice colored walls. In one corner there was a Sony turntable (switched off), next to the kitchen were three, older waitresses (and I use the term loosely whose apparent job was to chat with each other in a hushed cackle and stare at the clients), and…me. I was the ONLY client in there. So I walk in and ask where to sit down. They stared and said nothing. So I took a place that looked comfortable. One of them sighs, uses her knuckles and forearms to push herself up from the chair and managed to drag herself over and asks what room I was in. I tell her and she dryly replies:
“You’re in the wrong place. You cannot sit there”
In the wrong place?! I can’t sit here?! What?! Is she joking?! There is NO ONE in the room but me! Was she expecting a last minute breakfast rush of 200 clients and they were they afraid of getting the order mixed up?
“Oh I’m sorry. Where is my seat?” So much for a snappy comeback, but after all, I was a guest in the country. “Over there” she said sucking air through her gapped teeth and motioning with a sharp nod of her head to the far back corner next to the Sony turntable system.
Now what’s interesting to note is the power of silence as I never really paid attention to it before. When you’re in a situation surrounded by silence – I mean true silence – time slows down exponentially, distances actually increase by at least 64.3%, your senses have shot up and peaked to 100% animal efficiency (which is a combination of when you can watch and hear a flies wings beat and extreme Chihuahua-like paranoia) and all action is now in slow motion. So when I stood up from the “incorrect” spot, the sound the chair made on the tile floor echoed off the walls like it was a cosmic rip in the universe.
SCCCRRRUNNNNCH!!!
And I slowly walked as in slow motion to the corner as the eyes just glared. Every footstep echoed and vibrated off the walls (mental note to self – need new shoes)
THUD!... THUD!... THUD!... THUD! Although I thought this was my footsteps, I soon realized that it was my heart that I was hearing. To make it worse, “my place” seemed to be moving further away to the distant horizon. Oh dear Lord! I’ll need my passport back just so I can sit down to have a cup of coffee!
Turning around and pointing again in slow motion
“Ooovveeer heeerrree??”
The waitress just stood there as I finally made to my seat. After getting comfortable she comes over with the silverware and plate and “sets” it down in front of me. CRASH! BOOM! CLATTER! (again that echo) She then stands there and looks at me and says
“Don’t touch the Sony”
Uh…Huh? I’m sorry, but “don’t touch the Sony”?! Where did that comment come from? I wasn’t even looking at “the Sony”. I’m sitting in a hall all by myself. What did she think I was planning to do? Plug in the Karaoke and belt out my rendition of “Hotel California” or “Don’t dance on my blue suede shoes” (one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go cat go!)?
“uh…I…uh…wasn’t planning to” Although now I wanted to after being told not to.
“You want tea or coffee?” she demanded
“Well, I think that I’ll have a cup of…”
And she walked away before I could finish my sentence! She didn’t take the order. Evidently this was lottery day at the breakfast meal and I was going to get whatever they served.
Which now brings me to the breakfast they served. Mind you, breakfast is THE most important meal of the day and mine consisted of a cup of weak tea, 3 (3! count them! 3! And they DID count them) small slices of stale bread, a partially cooked egg, an undercooked hot dog and some butter and jam. Now, I don’t mean to make it sound as though I expected a lush banquet of exotic fruits; you know, something where they split an cantaloupe in half and white doves fly out or plates of hot, steaming, sweet and savory delights to adorn my table, but what I received was the sort of meal that even the hungriest Russian peasant who just was released from 20 years of hard labor in the wintery tundra of Siberia would have turned down. I now fully understand why vodka is the national drink. Served this on a daily basis, I’d become a raging alcoholic as well. To their credit, the jam was rather nice and because I was planning to be out most of the day, I ate the bread (all my 3 slices) and jam and wanted more.
“excuse me” I called out “may I have some bread please?”
The same bear of a waitress looks over, looks at her colleagues, sighs, puts her coffee down and stands up and comes to the table.
“what do you want?”
“May I have some bread please?” more timidly now
“You ate the bread”
Actually, I didn’t know if that was a statement or a question. It could have been that she was amazed and really asked “you ATE the bread?” meaning that I lived to tell the tale and would want more. Or it could have been a statement of the obvious. Either way, it left a created a rather uncomfortable pause in the conversation.
“uh…yes, yes I did. May I have some more please?” At this point I’m beginning to feel like a character from “Oliver Twist”
“more bread?”
“well…yes…if it’s not….”
And AGAIN she walked off before I could finish my sentence! Not knowing if she was planning to give me bread, I thought more and more about why I was the only one in the dining room. Obviously, everyone else forego the “Soviet breakfast dining experience.” Slowly sipping the incepted tea, she did come back with bread…ONE SLICE! One small slice of bread on a plate.
“here” she mumbled as she slid the plate towards me and walked off.
So, that was breakfast.
To make sure I didn't miss the upcoming tour I asked the receptionist directions of how to get to Red Square (where the tour started from). She told me that all I had to do was take the metro (nearby the hotel) and it would take me directly to Red Square, followed with a look that could only be described as “its so simple that even a blind, deaf, mute, half-witted orangutan could do it. What I should have remembered was the expression “all roads lead to Rome.” In Russia all roads lead to Moscow and in Moscow all roads lead to Red Square (basically). So I suppose given the ease of finding Red Square, the look was well deserved. Needless to say, I never found Red Square that day. I'm sure it would have, if I could have found the metro station. Instead, I accidently walked right past it to the tram station. Unfortunately, the tram didn't go anywhere near Red Square and in fact, took me close to the "COSMOS" hotel in some other part of the city. Lost, confused, without a map and having no clue about how I was going to get back to my hotel, I decided to make the best of it and wander around and explore.
I then came across what looked like an old University that was changed to a giant shopping complex. It was truly amazing and rather sad to see what had happened to this once great place. On the same token, it was nice to see the building being used for something and not being left derelict as well. Having missed my tour I decided to continue exploring on my own and eventually found the Metro station.
For those of you who don’t know, the Moscow metro is a bit complex (“complex” for me means that it actually has more than one line to follow), but once you understand it, I can tell you it was one of the best system I've ever seen. The trains are incredibly frequent and the stations were amazing. They are clean and beautiful; adorned with statues and fine architecture. Truly breathtaking and is considered to be one of the best in the world.
A few days later I did find Red Square and most of the time I simply wandered around the city, exploring it at my own pace and aside from my dining experiences, I can easily say that Moscow is one great city. If you are interested in using up your life savings, having a poorly cooked food served to you by humorless waitstaff with a personality of Atilla the Hun’s mother on a bad hair day, all in a beautifully ornate setting then Moscow was for you. Granted it may be different now…but not the service. The quality of service is ingrained into the Moscovite culture. Regardless, I'm convinced that I saw as much of Moscow that I could in the few days that I was there and I hope to go back some day once I make my first billion.
The worst problem that I had in Moscow was actually when I was actually trying to leave the city. I don’t mean any emotional attachments to the city left behind, but trying to physically leave the city. Earlier during my wanderings I made a reservation on Lufthansa to leave for Berlin so I could take a train to Belgium (my final destination). But to get the most out of my time in Moscow, I was planning to leave on the final day of my visa. So when my day comes, I decided not shave as I would be in Europe in a few hours and dressed in my typical utilitarian style – black pants, black coat, black hat – not a fashion statement mind you, but something easy. After “breakfast” I looked at the metro guide and saw that there was a metro stop that said "airport." “Great! No need for a taxi!” I thought. So I packed my bags, checked out of the hotel and got on the metro.
When I got off at the "airport" stop, imagine my surprise to walk out and find the busy "Lenin street." "Where the hell am I?!!! There’s no airport here!" In other European cities when the metro stop says "airport" it often means that it drops you off at or near the airport. Evidently, what the guide stated was that this was the stop used to take the bus to the airport. The first phase of panic sets in - I have no clue to where I am and/or how to get to the airport, my flight was scheduled to leave in a couple of hours and my visa expires that day. Completely lost, I wandered to a nearby University and knocked on several doors until someone could tell me where the airport was and how to get there. Now, if my rant about the breakfast service didn’t clue you in, I suppose I should point out now that the overall social climate of Moscow was not like London. If you get lost in London, the British will go out of their way to assist. If you get lost in Moscow, you’ll be lucky if they don’t set the dogs loose on you. With a reference to Billy Connely, I can easily tell you that helping a total stranger in Moscow in 1994 is “about as welcomed as a fart in a space suit.” Yet, I suppose if you look desperate enough – as I did – eventually someone will help you.
It was eventually explained to me that all I would have to do is take the bus to the airport. No problem. I still have plenty of time to catch my flight. Remember now, it is November in Moscow. It is cold and snowing and I’m looking rather “ethnic” carrying a large suitcase, dark clothes and speaking with an accent. So I drag my suitcase to the depot and get on the bus to the airport. TWO HOURS later if finally arrives at the airport, but I’m not too worried – I still have time.
I go inside and look for the Lufthansa ticket counter. It's not there. No office or ticket counter; it's just not there. 3…2….1…Confused and in a panic, I run up to information
-"Excuse me, where is the Lufthansa office?"
-"Lufthansa? There is no Lufthansa office here."
-"uh…what? There has to be. I made a reservation with them a couple days ago."
-"Perhaps they're on the other airport. Get on the next bus and it will take you there."
They “OTHER” airport?! Damn! I forgot that there was two airports in Moscow : Domodedovo and Sheremyetovo. Ok, ok, no panic. I just needed to take another bus to the OTHER airport. The bus comes and I verified that it was going to the airport and not back into the city. It was – great! I get on. Now something that struck me as odd was that I was the only passenger, but I didn’t think too much of it as I thought that other people obviously knew how to get to the airport and didn’t make my mistake. So as we (the driver and I) approached the airport, I looked out the window and thought that this couldn't possibly be it. This was an old building in the middle of a field. This couldn’t possibly where we are going. I was partially correct as “WE” were not going there. The driver decided that he didn’t want to go to the airport and wasn’t going to let me off near the door. Instead, he stopped on the road (I was thankful that he actually stopped the bus) and told me to get off followed by an ethnic slur as he thought I was from the Caucasus.
The airport was perhaps a kilometer or so from the road and Oh! did I mentioned that it was snowing. To update: I’m lost in field somewhere in Moscow up to my mid-calves in snow (without boots), it’s cold and it’s snowing and my visa is running out.
When I finally reached the station I stumble inside and look around. Again, no Lufthansa signs! “What the hell? Lufthansa is like the stealth airlines” I begin think. So I wearily go over to information and have the exact same conversation as I did at the first airport. Unbeknownst to me at the time, there are actually THREE airports in Moscow and I’m at Vnukovo – an old military airport that was converted for civilian use. No, no Lufthansa flights from here either. What can I do? Again, it was explained that I should go back out to the road and wait for the bus to take me to the third airport. Either the patron saints of Moscow were trying to keep me there as they were determined not let me leave the city. So I make the epic trek across the field of snow again to the road and wait for another bus.
I eventually made it to the third airport, but by now time was seriously running out on the visa! Being stopped, harassed and possibly arrested by an overly zealous border guard was not something I wanted to try. All senses fully alert I search out for the ticket desk “Lufthansa? Lufthansa? Lufthansa!” I ran up to the desk! Give them my name and throw them my credit card to have it….rejected! "What?!!! You’ve got to be kidding! That can’t be!" I gave them three credit cards and they were all rejected! It seems that the Patron Saints decided to toy with the computer system that day as well. By now my panic level has reached level “orange,” but I remembered that I had Russian rubles on me.
“We don’t accept rubles”
Of course not. What was I thinking? Here in Moscow, you don’t accept Russian currency? Quel surprise! Yes, makes perfect sense. “Be right back!” Springing into action, I started to look for an exchange booth.
When I reached the exchange bureau two windows closed and the one was open wouldn’t exchange Russian currency. THIS is why they separate you from the cashier with a thick plane of glass because I would have murdered the cashier there in the airport! Time is flying by and I am sweating profusely. I run to a different exchange bureau and chatted up the lady behind the counter who agreed to assist me and accommodate my business. I rushed back to the Lufthansa desk with cash in hand and asked for my ticket. The woman didn't even look at me
"You're too late, it just left."
I almost passed out and I would have if my visa wasn’t about to run out. "I can't stay here! My visa expires in a couple hours! I have to find a flight Europe!" Because I had nowhere else to turn I asked them if by chance they had a flight to Brussels. They did!!! And it was two hundred dollars cheaper than the flight to Germany!!! My great-grandfather used to say that "Sometimes your bad luck is your good luck."
Now I told you that story to tell you this one….
Because I missed the early flights, I arrived in Belgium late at night. Too late for me to take the train back home to Waregem so instead of wasting money in a hotel, I decided to wait in the station overnight and take the earliest train out the next morning. I put my luggage and passport in a pay locker and went into the waiting room to lie on the one of the benches like other people were doing. Placing my hat over my eyes, I started to take a nap when a couple minutes later I heard some people talking rather loudly. What caught my ear was that one of them was from Holland and was pretty upset about something, but they weren't talking to me so I went back to sleep. I was suddenly awakened by a very loud "SMACK!" noise as my stomach was the receiving end for a nightstick. Having the wind knocked out of me I fell off the bench. Looking up, there were four policemen standing over me.
"What are you doing here?"
"Sleeping"
"Why?"
"I was tired"
"Where are going?"
"Waregem"
"Be sure your on the next train."
What the hell was that all about? It was like talking to the Belgian version of John Wayne. Meanwhile the Hollander who's about nineteen is watching and once the police leave starts up a conversation. He explains that they were giving him a hard time is because he was Dutch (which I believe is true of many Walloonian policemen in Brussels). Ironically, he was mugged outside the station an hour ago and the police wouldn't help him. He needed money and was afraid to walk to the bank machine alone and asked me to come along for the security and company. At first I thought that he'll mug me as soon as we get the door, but I reminded myself that I put most of my money and my passport in the locker so if he did mug me all he would get it a couple dollars worth of Belgian francs.
We walked about three kilometers to the nearest machine and it was true that he really was mugged and scared. Once he received money from the machine he turned and asked I was going to mug him. I told him "yes" and took his money. That will teach him to trust a stranger. Ok, so I didn’t but thought that would have been pretty funny sideline in a movie. Actually we found a bar and drank a beer before going back to the station.
After he left I sat there and waited for my train when two other policemen came up to me.
"What are you doing here?"
"Sitting"
"Why are you sitting here?"
"I'm waiting for my train like everyone else."
"What nationality are you?"
"American"
"Where's your passport?"
"I didn't want it to get stolen so it's in a locker."
"Go get it."
"Go get it? I had to put money in locker. If I open it up for you which one of you is going to pay for me to lock it up again?"
On that they looked at each other and decided that they didn't need to see my passport, but instead threatened me to leave as soon as possible like before as they didn’t want gypsies loitering around the station. GYPSY? I’m not a Gypsy! I look nothing like a Gypsy…ok, I guess I did look like one unshaven, dirty and wearing all dark colors and thought not worth the bother to press the issue and just boarded the next train to home in Waregem.
I stayed a bit longer in Western Europe, but eventually it was time to return from Never Never land and return to the States. Granted I didn't do all the things I had hoped to do and go all the places I had hoped to go (I’ve never been to Romania and know of their treatment of the gypsies), but I was out of money (well, that I’d figured that being beat up by the police, lost, robbed, etc. was enough for the time). Before I left I vowed that I would return and go to the places that I missed before. So much trouble to get into…so little time to do it.
No comments:
Post a Comment