Tag Archives: Moscow

Underground


Posted by Patrick Okens

Dec. 15 – Moscow 

It starts with the longest escalator rides you’ll ever take. Stand at the top, hit “play” on your iPod, and step forward for the steep ride down. While “Back in the USSR” pumps through your earbuds – all two-and-a-half minutes of it – you’ll see an endless line of Muscovites ascending. Expressionless faces, white in the lights, contemplating the day ahead. Sometimes you make eye contact – two seconds – before continuing your downward glide. Ringo Starr hits the cymbal one last time and the song ends, but the escalator still has half a minute to go. No one’s talking except the pre-recorded voice cautioning against some possible hazard.

The descent is controlled, requires no action. But arrival at platform level demands decisive motion. Pick a direction, go forward, don’t stop. Behind you, everyone knows exactly where they’re going and you can hear fast-paced clicking of stilettos on marble – Moscow’s ladies are fearless in heels. The commuters don’t rush but the pace is brisk. You’re deep in the commuter stream, which crashes into counter currents from right and left as trains disgorge their passengers. Even off-peak hours are crowded here in Moscow, which has one of the biggest subway systems in the world and up to 9 million daily users.

On the platform, a gust of air precedes the train out of the tunnel, and it rumbles in with a loud, descending yell. The older carriages are battered, painted dull blues and grays. The doors slide open with a hydraulic “Pffff!” and the wagons exhale their passengers, then inhale the people standing on the platform. At busier times, it’s elbows-up getting in, pressing forward. At full capacity, arms pinned in front, people squeeze together, eyes averted. The doors close emphatically, like a horizontal guillotine. Don’t worry if you missed the train, another will be along in two minutes.

The train accelerates, rolling, swaying. If you’re standing, hang on. Unless you have a solid surfer’s stance, riding hands-free will bump you into those standing beside you. There are four types of passenger; the dozer, chin on chest, who usually has a seat. The listener, earbuds in, may have the Beatles playing. But there’s no way to know as the wagon’s loud metallic shrieks and thumping “duddum duddum duddum” drown out normal-pitched conversation. The reader has a glowing electronic device in front of his face, or a book held close. The thinker is most inscrutable – is she pondering the realities of dinner, the fantasies of travel? I also encounter some of the Metro’s more awkward riders; the amputated beggar, rolling on a makeshift cart; the passed-out red-faced drunk; the alcohol-urine stinking vagrant sucking on a beer while holding a greasy sausage in his dirty fingers.

As the train approaches the station, the passengers shuffle into position to get out or get out of the way. The wagons shudder to a halt, the doors slide open, and the whole kinetic human swirl begins again. The stations themselves are beautifully designed, unique but somehow tragic. Like art galleries which few among millions stop to appreciate as they press toward their next appointment. Perhaps Muscovites don’t take their Metro for granted, though. Perhaps they take comfort in knowing the loud, crowded underground is unique and it’s theirs.


Procedural hurdling at the Olympic pool


Posted by Patrick Okens

Dec. 14 – Moscow

The Luzhniki sport complex looks tired anyway. But add wet snow and gloomy skies above, and take away all the people, and it’s a completely somnolent landscape. Big structures all hunkered down for the winter. At the entrance, I guessed right (which was wrong) and went past the Ice Palace where the 1972 Summit Series took place, past soccer pitches, running tracks, a driving range. I crossed vast, empty parking lots and then back around the big, beige Olympic Stadium before finally getting to the Olympic pool.

Here is how the pre-swim went:

  1. Go to the window to pay. Clerk scribbles “11:40”. A ten-minute wait.
  2. At 11:40, go back to pay, slide my passport and 300 Rubles ($10) through the slot. Clerks says “spravka”. I shrug my shoulders, she gives my back my passport and money. Nyet so far.
  3. I remember that at many Russian pools, swimmers must present some kind of certificate of physical fitness, and that this can be obtained on site.
  4. I wander the halls, and find a door with a red cross on it. Inside is an idle old man (a physician? a nurse?) in a white smock. I say “spravka?” hopefully. He nods wearily, looks at my passport, asks me some questions I don’t understand. I respond in English anyway. He takes a slip of paper, stamps and signs it, and gives it to me.
  5. Back at the window for a third time, I slide money, passport and oh-so-important “spravka” in. Success! I’m given a plastic claim tag.
  6. Across from the cash is a coat check. I leave my jacket there and get another plastic claim tag.
  7. I enter a corridor looking for the men’s changeroom, but find only the ladies’. At length, I’m directed to the other side of the pool.
  8. Before entering the changeroom, I’m made to remove my boots and put them in a plastic bag. Then, in exchange for the first claim tag, I get a locker key from yet another attendant.

About to swim towards the light.

The pool is being renovated, and the change and shower facilities are clean and new.  Access to the pool itself requires a baptism of sorts. Down some steps into the water, then underwater through a small gate and channel. A bit freaky, but keeps people from getting cold – it is an outdoor pool. Steam rises from the water as I swim, looking at the tiles on the bottom. It’s not crowded. Women and men stick to separate halves. Between lengths, I look up at the empty grandstands, and beyond at the Olympic Stadium’s roof. I decide not to put myself through a virtual challenge against the 1980 East German women’s swim team. Swim over, I go through the multiple-tag-returning procedure in reverse.

I walk along the silent, dark Moskva to the Novodevichy convent and cemetery. A UNESCO site, the convent is high-density worship. Inside the walls are four onion-domed churches, and one cathedral. The cemetery is the final resting place for Russian notables. Khrushchev and Yeltsin, not considered worthy of burial in the Kremlin, are here. Tourists enter, camera at the ready, as if they’re on some kind of famous, dead Russian safari. But it’s much too miserable and soggy to spend much time among tombstones. I’d rather be buying groceries, and leave.