Moscow, so far

After two weeks of intensive training, I knew one metro stop, one nearby bank, one nearby eatery, my favorite pastry stand at the undergound street crossing, and a coffee house with internet access. Luckily, I’ve expanded my borders somewhat this past week now that our training sessions have given way to actual jobs. I have discovered two more parks, a few beautiful metro stations, a McDonalds with free internet access, and a bus-van that reminds me of the days of yore in Irkutsk, back when I had to shout out “at the next stop please” whenever I wanted to get off.

For all the capitalism and money this city has accumulated, it is, in appearance, still communist. The same flower kiosks adorn most streets, the same shopping kiosks are squeezed together in the underground walkways. There are no neighborhoods to speak of, just sprawling streets, ten lane highways, cement, parking lots, and the same apartment buildings, cloning themselves into infinity. There is no reason for me to like this city, especially compared with San Francisco, which has its views, walking routes, and, most importantly, distinct neighborhoods. In our search for a Moscow apartment, we had to keep reminding ourselves that one neighborhood was no better than another except in terms of proximity to the center. In New York City one’s neighborhood becomes one’s world, or so I am told. Each resident has his/her own Manhattan. Moscow is as big (bigger?) than NYC, but its neighborhoods are not nearly so independent. Even the most far flung areas reach inwards, trying to be as close to the center as possible. Every resident seems to strive towards the ring, the circular series of metro stops that divides outer and inner Moscow. As far as I can tell, outer Muscovites are physically self-sufficient outside the ring, but their spirits are left unsatiated if don’t make an occasional foray into the center.

As a city lacking in charming back roads and hidden corners, I don’t expect to find a warm café where I can fill out my graduate school applications, and I don’t expect the women at the market across the street to smile as I walk by. I don’t expect to heartily greet my neighbors, or feel any sense of community. But the city excites me nonetheless. I have yet to lose myself on the metro, seeing as there are no express trains that unexpectedly land me in Brooklyn. The lack of sights and quaint cafes is more than made up for by unexpected encounters. Today, for example, an extended political/philosophical discussion, begun and held up by a homeless drunk man, ended with his introducing us to the 18 year old boy sitting on a nearby bench. “Boy! What is your name? Igor? Igor, you are sitting next to two American girls, did you know that?!?! You should take advantage of the situation and ask them questions. This is Sarah, and this is Liza. Talk to them.” The man stumbled away, looked back, saw that we were not talking and that Igor was laughing uncomfortably, stumbled back over, physically pushed Igor over to our side of the bench, and demanded that he talk to us. Igor uncomfortably asked how the weather was in America. Once we were truly left alone, though, we did in fact befriend Igor.

It is not only the unnatural scenes that come with being a foreigner, though, that excite me. I am excited when I stand looking at advertisements and people on unbelievably long escalator rides. I am excited when I get home at 11pm, full of stories from the classroom, how I yelled at 12 year olds for speaking English. It is sometimes hard to believe that we have started a life here, have found an apartment, called realtors, argued with bank clerks, found our favorite cheese. These are all the things we should do at this point in our lives and at this age. But doing them here makes the effort seem heroic and the results, when they are successful, deserved.