At least he was straightforward.

So I'm in Kievskaya Stantsia metro waiting for someone to go on a boat tour of Moscow. I'm early for a change, and I sit down on a bench. The young man (henceforth MCh) sitting next to me turns to me and says,

MCh: What time is it please?

I've been thinking in English all day and I'm not feeling very good, so I just take the lazy way out and hold up my watch so he can see the face. Note: It's 6:40. I'm meeting Ksenia at 7.

[Pause.]

MCh: Tell me, please, what metro is this?

Me: This one?

MCh: Yes.

Dude, are you serious? You're sitting here in a metro station that's well marked and where there are actually three connected stations all with the same name and you're asking me what its name is? I'm still processing kind of slowly and having none of this.

Me: I don't know.

[Pause.]

MCh: Where are you from?

Me: From America.

MCh: America?

Me: Yes.

[Pause.]

MCh: Do you have a morsh?

Me: A what?

MCh: A morsh, do you have a morsh?

Oh man, is my Russian really this bad? What the heck is a morsh?

Me: And what's that?

MCh: Morsh, morsh, morsh. You don't have a morsh?

He seems to think this is a really obvious word. Wait, is he saying muzh? Oh my, that's direct. I start laughing, which is the wrong thing to do. He probably thinks I'm flattered rather than flabbergasted.

Me: No, I don't have a husband.

MCh: Would you like to meet one?

Me: What?

MCh: Would you like to meet one?

Man I KNEW there was something I wanted to do in Moscow. I can't believe I almost came back home without a Russian husband!

Me: I'm sorry, I don't understand you.

MCh: Would you like to meet one?

Me (Shouting over the train): I can't hear you! I don't understand you! I don't speak Russian very well! [All previous protestations to the contrary aside.]

MCh: ...

Me: I'm sorry! I don't understand!

The conversation ends there, but I'll be darned if I'm giving up my primo seat on the bench to avoid this guy. So I sit there stubbornly for the next 15 minutes until my friend texts me.

In retrospect, I would kind of liked to have seen him in action with a Russian woman. I wonder if he just hangs out at Kievskaya asking women in they're married, like the Dan Hammond of the circle line. On another note, the other day when I was standing in line at the Kremlin ticket office, I heard some overaged frat boys asking the Russian woman in front of them where her wedding ring was. I thought at the time that it was a ham-handed, language barrier-inspired pick-up line specific to Americans. Dear overaged frat boys: my apologies. Also, dear man I spurned: I bet you feel silly for approaching possibly the only woman in the whole station who didn't understand the word "muzh."

If you get through this post, I will show you the best song

So Sunday I went out to ВДНХ/VDNKh with someone I met at Ira Glass' lecture. Some clarifications are in order.

1. VDNKh is the All Russian Exhibition Center; it's a large chunk of land with gardens, various monuments, a small souvenir mall, and a fairgrounds (or at least a ferris wheel). My guidebook says that "No other place sums up the rise and fall of the Soviet dream quite as well." That's quite a tagline. Let's see how it did, shall we?


Pamyatnik to Soviet space efforts. That's a rocket ship at the end of it.































Giant statue of Lenin.





I guess our evaluation has to end there, because it was raining, so I myself didn't see much more of it than that.









2. "Someone I met" is the Russian who sat behind me and talked during the lecture to his companion/on his cell phone. Yes, he answered his cell phone and carried on conversations. Maybe three or four times; honestly, I lost count. Anyway, he SOMEHOW sussed out that I was an American and asked for my number because he likes to practice his English, which I'll admit is quite good. The correct answer was, «I don't have a Russian cell» (seriously, can you imagine another time when you can legitimately pretend that you just don't have a phone?), but I'm here to try new things…like becoming acquainted with be-mulleted, insistent men.




Here's me; that grim line my mouth is making = "How did I get myself into this, and what are we supposed to do now that it's raining?"





3. Answer: we huddled together under my umbrella, wandered across the fairgrounds, and then sat down at McDonald's, where he attempted to pay for our lunches. I would call it a date, if not for my antipathy and his condescension.

I wasn't offensively eager to end the afternoon (hell, I wasn't offensively eager to start it), but that's more a reflection of my diplomatic nature than my true feelings. Why? Let me give you a few sample exchanges that run the gamut from awkward to openly racist:


him: "I have trouble understanding your English because of your accent. You're Southern, right?"
me: "…"

[Prerequisite knowledge: he is shorter than I am.]
him: "So what do you think, are Russians taller or shorter than Americans?"
me: "…"

him: "No, Russians don't really like Michelle [Obama] as a woman. Because she's black, and tall, and also big."
me: "… ..."


[Sidenotes: First, no ellipses can properly convey my emotions. Use your imagination/experience with my indignation/knowledge of Michelle-crush/your own indignation as guides. Second, I don't know why you guys all give me so much grief for being quiet. Sometimes it's best to just let other people's comments speak for themselves. Sometimes there's no way to respond to something. And sometimes, you just can't say something nice.]


But the best part was when we got on a metro car that was decorated with quotations about authors (for example, “the writer’s job is to tell people the truth.” Right, until Stalin has them killed), and illustrations aimed at children – bright, colorful, simple.

him: “Can I call this… 'bling-bling’?”
me: “No.”



And that about sums up the afternoon.



You need something to wash that taste out of your mouth, don’t you? Did I mention that it's been rainy? Well as a result, I’ve been thinking a lot about a movie we watched last summer. And a particular song from that movie. It’s not especially relevant, but it a). mentions summer rain, b). shows the Moscow metro escalators in action, and c). is suuuuper catchy. It was the only thing that could lift my spirits on Sunday afternoon, and I’ve been humming it ever since. I promise you won't regret it.

Dyevushka: (unmarried) girl (and a form of address)

I met Sophia last weekend, and although her English is better than my Russian, she was good enough to always speak Russian with me, showing extraordinary patience in the face of my accent. She introduced me to: her friends, blinis, the notion that both Luke Skywalker and Ramzan Kadyrov (who is he? -- no, really, this is an important link) could be considered hot, and a whole host of characteristics that fall under the general category of Russian womanhood (as far as I can tell, valuing female friendship, matchy-matchiness, generosity, importance of lipstick, audacity, posing correctly for photos, ability to wear fantastic -- verging on the Conradic indescribable/inscrutable -- footwear, and Pantene commercial-quality hair all belong there).

Our tour of Alexandrovsky Sad and Red Square was somewhat shorter than the usual tourists'; we hit 1. the gardens for pictures and 2. red square for pictures, 3. rolled in and out of a souvenir shop, 4. turned around well before Lenin's tomb, 5. attracted the attention of numerous babyshki in the shadow of the Kremlin with our conversations, 6. tried to go to MacDonald's (as usual, huge line) but settled for sushi, and then left.

Let's take a look, shall we?

Exhibit A:


Dark, somber dress
Genuine photo smile
Diffident, somewhat awkward pose
GIANT horse fountain in background








Exhibit B:


Bright, vibrant dress
More of a smirk, really
Badass pose (strictly standard, I promise)
Beautiful flowers in background







Dear readers, I can only propose that, in the interest of bridging this cultural divide, further research be done on the questions of blinis and relative hotness of world/galactic leaders (the Obama-Medvedev-Putin meetings should prove instructive); I will do everything in my power to retrieve the secret to the Pantene hair and footwear, although the latter may be sadly inexplicable.

In the meantime, happy Fourth to everyone (even you, Kanadka)!

Turisty

Yesterday Danielle and I hit all the high points of the Kremlin:

1. Ticket office, where the woman refused to honor my Harvard ID as a real student id, even though the sign (alas, only in English) promised a discount for foreign college students. A bilingual shouting match ensued, with me, pointing at my id: "It says student!" Please note what I actually said was, "It says студент!" as if that would help. And her saying, "ISIC only" very sternly. And then me saying, "The sign says student!" All of this took place through the tiny window at the bottom of the glass, which forced me to stoop awkwardly in order to talk to her (doubtless a set-up deliberately constructed to demoralize would-be troublemakers). We went back and forth for a while until I was shamed into handing over the extra 150 rubles.


2. I'm sure this is blasphemous, but this (the State Kremlin Palace) is maybe my favorite building there:




It's very downtown Cleveland 1965, which I know is not really the point here, but I still love it.












3. After the cathedral square, we moved on to “The Secret Gardens” (I can’t say this without hearing the only Springsteen song that makes me cringe). It was here, amidst the elaborate flower patterns and in the brilliant Moscow sunlight, that I had my first taste of Russian morozhenoe. It was magical; I don't know if you can tell, but that goofy look on my face is actually one of bewildered wonder.


How to describe the taste? There aren't true flavors -- one's first impression is simply of intense fakeness rather than any specific taste. This is quickly followed by overly sweet, delicious vanilla, like syrup (in my case -- there is chocolate as well). The texture is similar to a marshmallow's, but it's chilled. I imagine Russian children must believe that this is how clouds taste. For me, I would describe it more as... vicarious nostalgia.

[Actually, I'm thinking: I am totally trying all the other flavors.]

The only thing missing was Dimya; we could have a picnic and I’d tell him my views on free media. He would swoon over my brilliant analysis, buy me ice cream, and ask me to accompany him through The Secret Gardens. I would admire his navy suits, tower over him, and garble my syllables. We would be perfectly awkward to/for each other.


I won't bore you with the rest of the details of our tourist activities, but I will say that Annunciation Cathedral smelled like Widener's stacks, I really enjoyed the circa-1993 wedding gowns we saw, and the secret to Moscow fashion appears to be combining as many different trends as possible (Jodhpur/cargo/harem capri pants? Fabulous. Mullet/mohawk/braided rattail? Super chic.).