The Birch, Fall 2005

Dispatches From Moscow

Nadya Strizhevskaya

There are a number of peculiarities about the Moscow transportation system. Take, for example, the buses. Every time I have been here, I have always gotten giddy pleasure out of boarding any bus through the back or middle door and getting a free ride. No one really checked whether I bought a 30-cent ticket and then punched holes in it to show that it was used. Sometimes buses had "conductors" who would (when there weren't too many people) go around asking newly boarded passengers for their tickets or "passes," which said that they could legally ride for free. This February, I was shocked when only the front door opened. Surprisingly, my fellow riders, whom I expected to be more prepared than me, were equally appalled. And so every day I board the bus, listening to people who complain loudly about the new system. "Those authorities! They think they are doing the people good! Why don't they just open the damn doors? We have to crowd around like roaches…." The dynamic became even more interesting once I get up the few steps into the vehicle. About one quarter into the bus is a turnstile. Near it is a place to either dip a paper slip that resembles a metrocard or to scan your special pass (for the elderly, students, and people with friends in the pass-making business). If you don't have a card in advance, you can purchase one from the driver for 15 rubles (about 60 cents). Many people start to do this without noticing that on that very bus is that old conductor, selling the same tickets for the regular price of 11 rubles. But there's no way of knowing when you'll meet the figure who lets you save four rubles. The idea behind this new system is that in order to exit (any door except the front) you have to pay for your ride. So here I am, witnessing senior citizens honestly scanning their passes and then sitting down in front of the turnstile, basically allowing the next passenger to go through for free. Most of the time, however, the next person doesn't realize this is happening and pays anyway. Then, when it is time to leave, little old men and women push through the boarding passengers and get out of the entrydoor. One time, I got on the bus without a ticket and sat down in front to take out my wallet. At the same moment, my phone rang and by the time I was done speaking, my stop had almost come up. I honestly handed the driver a 50-rouble bill and asked for a ticket, to which he replied grouchily, "I don't have change!" He threw the bill back at me and let me out of the front door.

The metro system is a slightly different world -- quite hellish in the intervals between nine and eleven a.m. and fiv and seven p.m., especially for people with claustrophobic tendencies like myself. In order to enter the station, I first have to be shoved through a large crowd, getting pressed and hurt from all angles. No one apologizes. (Last night I was on the phone with New York, discussing the intricacies of the Russian life with my dad. I noted the following: in America, I am greeted by the automatic smiles of strangers, which have no substance or heart in them. In Russia, people make me feel like grime and send me to hell for no reason on a daily basis…but they do it with the full force of their Russian soul. An ideal place to experience this is, unsurprisingly, the underground.) Next I take the endless escalator ride down to the station, reading the eclecticism that is Moscow metro advertising on the way down: "Eat your heart's full at Elki-Palki," "Female razors just 500 rubles at M-Video!" or my favorite -- "Give women flowers!" The latter is unconnected to any store or company…just a friendly reminder to Russian men, I suppose. On the platform, I wait for (at most) one and a half minutes for the next train and finally board, or rather pack myself into the train car. As soon as the doors close, someone in back or to the side of me inevitably asks, "Are you getting out at the next stop?" I reply no, and they begin to shuffle in front, pushing and kicking, so that they can safely place themselves in front of me and ride that way for another three to five minutes, knowing they are 30 cm closer to the door. I, by this point, have had my bag knocked off my shoulder and realize that a strange tall man is resting his elbow on my neck. In the evenings, all the same rules apply, but there's an added bonus: When I first have to descend a staircase to get to the turnstiles, I am met by city workers who are mopping puddles of dirt (melted snow) with devices that resemble huge windshield wipers. They start at the top step and work their way down, pushing the black waves until they reach the sewer-openings at the bottom. And unless I get stuck in another crowd, the smartest thing to do is race to the end before the dirt cuts me off.

Finally, there are days when I leave the house and tell myself, "Today I am willing to spend 50 rubles ($1.80) to avoid the turnstile scenario, or maybe even 150 rubles to bypass public transportation altogether and be taken directly to my destination. Today I will catch a cab." These are the days I am feeling a) a bit richer, and b) a bit more sociable -- for all taxi rides turn into short-lived friendships. Catching a cab means that I stand at the edge of the sidewalk and raise my arm, waiting for absolutely any car to pull up. Well, not any car. I know that the Honda speeding by will never pull over, since the owner would hardly benefit from my alms. Instead, I wait for the "kopeiki," that loving term applied to old Soviet cars that are as small as a kopek and probably cost the same. Most of the time, the person who pulls up is on his (never her) way somewhere and wouldn't mind making a little money along the way. I step over a puddle and open the passenger door to ask him if he can drop me off at my destination. "Za skolko?" ("For how much?") For a moment I struggle, not wanting to offer too much. "Fifty?" If my call is too low, I get an angry bark: "Malo!" ("Too little!"), after which I slam the door shut and raise my arm again to wait for the next kopek. If my answer is appropriate, I get a subtle inviting nod, which I take as my cue to hop in the car. Together we drive away, he with his eyes on the road and I with my eyes searching my new surroundings. The keenest sensation first hits my nostrils: the stale (or is it sour?) smell of cigarettes is an integral part of every cab ride, and it is usually kept alive by the smoking driver. Most of the time I am asked if I mind the smoke and I cough back an insincere "Net!" because, well, how do I tell this forty-year-old man who is on his way to work just like me that he can't smoke in his own car? He takes this as a sign to also crank up the radio, and my ears tune into "Nashe Radio" (Our Radio) playing DDT, or more typically, "Radio POPSA" (Pop Radio) playing something uppity about bunnies in the forest and her love being like the wild wilderness. I settle back and take note of my companion's choice of cigarettes: always Marlboros or Camels -- it's rarely anything else. Through my coat I feel the bumpiness of those old seat covers -- the ones made of brown wooden beads, perhaps strung together even before Brezhnev’s time. On the dashboard in front of me, I meet the typical testament to Russian (read: Orthodox) nationality: a plastic triptych depicting Jesus, Mary, and St. Nicholas the Wonderworker (i.e., the protector of those who travel by sea and land). Soon enough we strike up a conversation, usually beginning with, "Did you see that idiot? Those kids in their dad's Mercedes think they can do whatever they want on the road!" Typically this is followed by questions about where exactly I'm going, what I'm planning to do there, etc. As I struggle to explain, the driver helps me with modern terminology. "Are you a menedjer?" Usually I resign myself to this definition, not wanting to go into the details of study abroad experiences. One evening, though, going into the center of town, I decided to speak first by asking the driver about the cross hanging from his rear-view mirror. It looked like the Armenian hatchkari, and I was right - he was in fact Armenian.

“Yes, you are right, that is the Armenian cross. You know we're the first Christian nation in the world! People don't usually know that…"

“Actually, I've studied the region, so--”

"...but don't think that just because I am dressed like this and unshaven that I am struggling in life. I sell Armenian cognac in Moscow -- I'm the representative here."

"Oh!" Strange, did I say anything about his appearance? More importantly, do I need to say anything or will he just continue?

"The top politicians in Moscow buy from us. Every month or so, Zyuganov, the head of the Communist Party of Russia, sends his people to our factory. He has great taste in cognac. If you want, I'll show you a $1,500 bottle…it's in my trunk."