It was much easier finding the hostel this time. I had also reserved a room from St. Petersburg. The trouble there made me a bit more cautious.
For lunch I went to McDonald's. It's good to have that available. I was eating outside when I noticed a poor looking boy ask a man and his wife for some food. They gave him the remains of a sundae and later some left over fries. I usually don't give anything to beggars, but I felt different this time. He was asking for food and not money and I wouldn't like to think of people not getting enough to eat. So as I was leaving I went in and got a hamburger which I gave to the boy on the way out.
I ended up in the Alexander Gardens, which is the nicest park I've seen in Russia. It should be since it's right next to the Kremlin. I laid down and took a nap on one of the benches. A steady stream of tourists filter by there, many who are Americans.
The old Korean/American man is still at the hostel. He does more talking about travel than doing it. He seems scared of things and spends much of his time collecting horror stories from travelers and using them as an excuse not to do anything.
I went to Santa Fe restaurant tonight with Mitch and Steve, two business types who just graduated from Wharton. The Santa Fe was an amazing place; I felt so at home with Coronas and the music. We started talking between ourselves about conditions in Russia, and it quickly developed into an argument between those two. We were joined by an American and Brit setting behind us who have lived here 3 and 4 years. They confirmed many of the impressions I have about the place. They indicated mafia influence is pervasive, extending to all areas of commerce and society. Nothing happens without their approval. Steve and Mitch arguing reminded me of the two in the St. Petersburg hostel the other morning that caused such a ruckus. Yes, it was them.
I met Mitch and Steve to go to the souvenir market this morning at 9. One had bet the other that I wouldn't show up. They were the ones who ended up being 15 minutes late. Some obnoxious American girls were supposed to come too, but didn't show up. I can't say I'm sorry.
I really didn't know where the market is, I followed those two blindly. Sometimes it feels good just to be led around. After having to make every decision yourself every day, it's good just to rest and follow someone else. I did alter the course slightly by suggesting we stop by Kombies on the way since I was hungry. That turned out to be a popular move.
The entrance to the market was several hundred yards from the Metro station. Even though it was kind of early in the day, the path was already lined with people selling things. Some of them were merchants, but most were amateurs; people selling their belongings. Nothing caught my eye, but if it had I would have found it difficult to do much bargaining with someone selling off their possessions.
The market was full of the traditional Russian souvenirs of matrioshka dolls, lacquer boxes and icons. Even though I already had some of those, I thought I might pick up a few more. But what caught my eye was the military hardware. They had leather flying caps and goggles, helmets, insignia of every kind, full uniforms binoculars and even night vision goggles. If I had had the money and transportation capability, I would have come away with a truck load of stuff. They also had many old cameras of the bellows type, and even gold plated Leicas. If I could have determined the value of those I would have certainly picked one up.
I couldn't put it off any longer. I actually went inside the Kremlin today. I walked right past the guard or whoever was supposed to take my ticket without a word. It wouldn't have been a problem because of the two tickets someone had given me at the hostel, I just wanted to try them out. I want to go back to see the churches so I'll probably use them tomorrow.
Several people have said you must see the Armory, so I decided to get that out of the way today. First there was the problem of finding it. I had a map, and even located the right building, but I couldn't figure out how to get to the entrance. On the church side were some ominous looking signs and a guard blowing his whistle, so I walked around the central compound to a road that approached it from the other direction. On that side was an even more serious looking guard who would only let people with ID's go down the road I needed to take. I sat down on some steps to consult the map and guide for clues.
There I started talking to a Swedish guy who was having the same problem. We began to wonder if the Armory was open on Mondays. We didn't have too long to ponder before a man with a red armband (red armbands always mean bad news) told us we couldn't sit down. That would of course cause disorder and eventually lead to political unrest and finally anarchy. We decided to try the other approach.
We walked around the other way and found some of his friends being taken on a tour of the place by a local guide. It turned out that the sign only prohibited passage down one side of the street. I'm sure one side of the street was much more preferable for some obscure reason. Or maybe Russians just love making arbitrary rules. The Swede stayed with his friends and I went towards the Armory.
There were a dozen or so people milling around outside of the Armory and the door was closed. I overheard some Americans, which isn't a difficult thing to do, who were saying that it would open soon. The two women were camped on the only seats around, which happened to be some unused steps. There transgression was duly noted by a red armband who informed them of their crime.
By some fluke, the Americans were admitted to the ticket room 45 minutes before they were supposed to, and I followed them in. I've become pretty good at blending into a group. They couldn't get tickets yet, but convinced the attendants to let us going into the museum shop. I went in too and even ended up buying a guide book on the Kremlin area. It felt nice inside and I was able to set up on a bench and read my book until time for ticket sales to start. Then, along with those Americans, none of whom I ever said a word to, we got our tickets before the mob outside was admitted.
They have a strange system at the museum- as at many other places in this country. Four times a day they let groups in for two hours at a time. Then they clear it out in preparation for the next group. I guess they don't want people staring at the treasures for too long a time.
Treasures they are too. There they have the imperial Russian regalia, thrones, carriages, clothing, and state treasures including Faberge eggs. It was something else to see. To my annoyance I was distracted almost the entire time. I was shadowing one of the most beautiful women of my generation. It was exciting just to look at her. Her perfect body was impeccably covered in a European style. I think she was Italian. She was wearing a white silk shirt that did little to conceal wonderfully mobile breasts. She broke my heart when she left with three guys. Although, in a way, that was better than leaving with one guy.
I spent the evening hanging out around the hostel. I was on the balcony and, disregarding the sign that said "Don't throw anything off the balcony or we'll throw you off," I threw something off. It was a great flight for a newspaper airplane and attracted the attention of another guy.
He was really excited about the performance I'd extracted from a piece of newspaper and he wanted to duplicate the feat. He got a Moscow Times and began construction. He did a credible job on the airframe and didn't ask for advice till it came down to the control system. I added elevators and adjusted them for a long glide. The results were even better than my original attempt. He asked about my aviation background. It turned out that, like much of the male population, he had wanted to be a military pilot.
As it was he had gone to Pitt and played water polo. He was familiar with the Academy through playing them so often. He had just graduated and was taking a break before joining in his father's mining business.
This evening I talked with Sandy and Stacey, an American mother daughter couple traveling Eastern Europe. Stacey had just finished up her stint as a Peace Corps worker in Poland. They both have North Carolina accents, which is nice to hear. We were joined by Bill; a nice, self proclaimed actor.
I got up a bit early (8:00) this morning so I could catch Sandy and Stacey to go touring with them. I've seen most everything I want to here in Moscow and would rather be passive this last day here in town. I ran into Bill this morning, and he's going too. The women first had to move to a new room, one with only the two of them. Sandy acted as if it was quite the adventure to share a room with males. Stacey said not long after they had settled in, someone had groaned in his sleep. In her semiconscious state, she thought something was happening to her mother so she jumped up ready for battle. They also said that the reason for staying up till 1 last night talking was the fear of going to bed.
The four of us took the Metro to Red Square. The arrangement of the square was much different than the other times I've seen it. There were no people walking through the square and the visitors to Comrade Lenin were lead along the edge, through the tomb, around and out through the back. That led me to image that some important visitor was expected or some other event was about to take place. We tried to stop and take pictures in front of the mausoleum, but the guard wouldn't let us. That seemed strange since most of the time there's a whole group of photographers out there taking pictures for money. I wondered what the occasion was.
I thought the stories about the strict nature of Lenin's keepers overrated. In the receiving room we kept moving, but slowly enough to get a good look. You could see much more of Lenin than Mao. There were far fewer people vying for a view of Lenin than his Chinese Communist counterpart.
Vladimir was looking fairly healthy for a person 70 years past life. Compared to Chairman Mao, he's looking downright perky. I saw an article in the Moscow Times which reported that an independent team of international scientists had examined the body and declared him to be in perfect condition. From another quarter; Scott, a Californian engineer, was going out with a scientist who knows one of the keepers of the body, and he gives the Leader of the Revolution a clean bill of health. But this is the land of deceit, so who knows?
Behind the mausoleum, along the wall of the Kremlin, are buried luminaries of the Communist era, including Stalin. The more important ones have a bust staring back at the tourists. I wonder what they would think of the changes they seen over the past few years and the discredit that's been heaped upon them? Would they appreciate the irony of a modern Russia trying to erase Soviet history, just as the communists tried to do to the Imperial regime? When we filed out to the edge of Red Square, we found the photographers and tour guides banished from the center of the Square. When questioned, they told us that the Square is cleared any time Comrade Lenin is receiving visitors.
Standing there surveying the situation, a guide came up and offered to take us around the Kremlin for $20. I wasn't all that interested, so I deferred to the others. Sandy said OK and that she would pay for all of us. That was fine for me.
The guide was the same one I had seen yesterday showing some Swedes around. She was cute and full of energy. I worked hard to keep my eyes off of her braless chest. We started with a walk around St. Basil's, and then around the back side of the Kremlin. When it came time to get the tickets, she took the task and left in a run, telling us to meet her at the entrance gate. The tour lasted something like and hour and I learned few things I didn't already know. Sandy seemed happy though and whispered to the rest of us that we should throw in a few extra dollars for a tip. I did, even though I was against it. We had agreed on a price which was far in excess of what a typical Russian could make in a day, much less an hour. Adding to that only warped further the distorted view Russian have of Americans. We shouldn't make a habit of throwing money around.
By the end of the tour all of us were exhausted. We hadn't really had anything for breakfast and our energy meters were nearing empty. Our guide pointed out a place that served roasted chicken in a fast food type setting. It wasn't the best food I've had in Russia, but it was probably the fastest.
I wasn't that excited about the idea, but Bill wanted to see the home of Anton Chekov. He's and actor and hopes to perform one of Chekov's plays soon. I have heard of Chekov as a travel writer, but didn't know he was a playwright. The house turned out to be near the American Express office, and not very difficult to get to. There were even placards describing each room in English, which is more than you can reasonably expect in any Russian museum. Bill was excited, even if I wasn't, and Sandy seemed happy that he was happy. Stacey and I sat very close together as we were reading the placards, and that made me happy.
Stacey wanted to see Pushkin Square. It wasn't much more than a small park with a statue of Pushkin, and a small area where people gathered in good weather. In fact it was the same place Scott and I had staked out the other night. But the weather wasn't that agreeable this afternoon. It started to rain and we fled to the safety of an underground tunnel. The area looked familiar, I knew the McDonald's from my first few hours in Moscow must be nearby. We poked our heads out one of the exits and I said "McDonald's" to a pair of policemen. They didn't understand. I scanned the area in desperation and caught a glimpse of the holy arches. It would be a hundred yard dash through the pouring rain. For hungry Americans in a gastronomically deprived country, that was no obstacle. Except for Bill; he wanted to search for theater tickets.
Somebody told me this was the largest McDonald's in the world. I don't know if that was true, but it was the most people I've ever seen in a McDonald's. Everyone seemed to be taking refuge from the rain as we were. After a thorough search of the labyrinth like restaurant, we found a seat in a distant section.
We were shortly joined by a man who identified himself as Australian. He went to bring his Russian girlfriend over. He was 52 and the woman about 25 years younger. She had beautiful eyes, spoke little English, and he little Russian. Sandy thought they were so in love, I think he is.
Sandy was tired and wanted to return, but Stacey and I were in the mood to look around some more. I liked the idea of having her alone a couple of hours before getting ready to go to the airport. That plan was soon dashed, for Bill located us.
I got directions to the airport from the management at the hostel. They said to take the dark green line to the end, leave the station, turn to the right and take the orange bus to the airport. I exited the station and immediately identified a problem. Directly across the street from me was another Metro exit. Right depended on which exit you took, and there were orange buses everywhere. I wandered around for a few minutes looking for a clue, but found none. Luckily the word airport is basically the same in English and Russian. I went up to the window of a bus waiting to start his route and said "aeroport?" pointing around as if asking what bus to get on.
He said something in Russian and pointed down the street. By this point I knew to get all of the information you can while you're talking with someone who knows what they're talking about. I held my hand out and made a motion like I was writing on it. He fished out some paper and scribbled on it. Handing it to me, I saw the number 522.
I thanked him profusely and walked in the direction he had pointed. Sure enough, I came to a bus stop with the number 522 on the sign. Ten minutes later a double long accordion bus rolled in and I piled on. I maneuvered myself and pack into a front row seat. I didn't have any Moscow bus tickets, and thought about risking it. Then I remembered some extra roubles in my pocket that I wouldn't be able to spend anywhere else. I asked those around me if they had any tickets and a man reluctantly sold me the two tickets he said I would need. I would have been happy for him to keep all of the money I gave him but he gave me back 10 cents change.
The ride was an unexciting one through the endless high-rise suburbs that enclose Moscow. We turned down the airport road. I could see the planes landing and taking off. But the bus stopped and the driver got out. He reappeared at the front door (the driver has a separate door) and started working his way through the bus checking tickets. I was glad I had mine.
Two Russian guys in the middle of the bus weren't so lucky. I didn't know a word of what was said, but I understood what was going on. The bus driver wanted them to pay a large fine. They quite reasonably argued that they didn't know it took two tickets to go to the airport. The only sign that said so was a small hand lettered one posted on the window separating the driver from the rest of the bus. They couldn't see it from where they were sitting. They refused to pay the fine and the bus driver seemed powerless to make them. He got off the bus and climbed back into his compartment. He shut down the engine that had been kept running while he was checking tickets. I didn't know what was going on for sure, but we appeared to be in a standoff.
Everyone sat motionless in their seats looking straight ahead as if we were still in motion. That continued for five minutes till an old lady in the back of the bus gave the young men a verbal dressing down. I imagined that she told them to pay up and quit making everyone else wait. The rest of the bus was silent. Five more minute went by. I was glad I wasn't in a hurry to catch my plane. One of the men got up and make his way to the bus driver's compartment. He started a negotiation. A few minutes later they reached an agreement acceptable to both, and money changed hands. The bus driver started the engine and we continued to the airport.
I didn't know which terminal to go to. The first one was all Aeroflot. I gambled, and guessed that wasn't mine. We pulled off and left the only cluster of buildings in sight. I didn't know where we were going, but at least there were other people with large bags aboard. That was a good sign. We were riding around the perimeter of the airport. I figured if I had missed my stop I could always double back and walk around the airport. How big could it be? I thought.
That reminded me of one other time I had decided to walk around an airport. It was about the same time of night, in Frankfurt. I had flown into the Air Force side of the airport, and needed to get to the civilian side so I could catch the Metro and get to the train station downtown. I started walking along the perimeter of the airport. I should have known that airports are bigger than they look, I've spent years within their boundaries. After lugging the pack for about 45 minutes, it was dark. The road wasn't built for walking, it went into a series of high speed, banked interchanges that were difficult to negotiate. Finally, some friendly teenage dependents stationed on the base stopped and gave me a ride. Another proof of the lesson I have yet to learn: Just because you can see it, doesn't mean you can get there.
The bus then arrived at what I assume was the international terminal. My guess had proven right, and I was to be spared another walking expedition. In the terminal, I searched for appropriate accommodation. It's a small terminal, especially for a major city. Many mid-sized American city terminals would dwarf it.
Quite a few people had the same idea I did. There were people sleeping all over. I found a place, spread my trusty red pancho, and beded down for the night. The floor was cold hard concrete, and the sleep was poor. It was a relief to get up for my plane, one of the first of the morning.
I wasn't free yet. I had an illegal business visa, that hadn't been validated as required. There were stories of people stopped and detained, and of bribes. I waited in the customs line nervously. It came my turn and I handed over my documentation, trying to look uninterested. The officer nodded, and I was on my way.
A short flight to Paris, a few days in the city of lights, and I was home, without job or prospects. Was it worth it? Without a doubt.
That's all folks. Thanks for reading