The sleeping compartment on the Red Arrow was relatively large, with two fold-down bunks side-by-side. Each bed had a mattress, sheets, two blankets and two huge pillows. My compartment-mate was already inside, and barely acknowledged me as I slid past him and sat down on my bunk. He was stout and squarish, with thick, turtleshell glasses and two enormous moles, one on each cheek. I greeted him, “Dobra Viecher” (Good Evening), and he returned my greeting, but kept going about his business of stashing his many bags. I didn’t know it at the time, but those were the last words he would say to me until we reached Moscow.
I examined our little home on wheels; light wood paneling on the walls, double-curtains and a windowshade over the window, the two bunks and a large luggage area over the door which extended back on top of the corridor. There was a bottle of mineral water for each of the occupants on a little table by the window, and the provodnitsa, or carriage attendant, brought us each a clear plastic box full of breakfast food just before we set off. She also handed my friend, the mole man, a red plastic device about the size of a paperback book, which I later discovered was to be placed over the door latch to keep unwanted intruders from entering the compartment after we bedded down.
As we pulled out of the station, the mole man stepped out into the corridor for a cigarette, so I took the opportunity to stash my bags under the bunk and began to prepare for sleep. I had given some thought as to how best to survive this and the upcoming 60-hour train trip to Tashkent, and had purchased an eyeshade, ear plugs, and had obtained a prescription of sleeping pills from my doctor. If I could have procured a discreet gas mask too, I would have, as I figured it wouldn’t take long for the smell of dirty socks to permeate a railway compartment. In any case, I laid out my sleeping gear, tossed one of the pillows up into the baggage area, and began to settle in for the night.
Mole man reentered and silently went about getting out of his street clothes, and I, unsure of what one does on a Russian first class overnight train, followed his lead. Soon I was under the covers. I swallowed my pill, put the earplugs in, eyeshade on, flipped off my reading light, and fell swiftly to sleep as the train sped across the Russian countryside.
The night passed while I slumbered peacefully, and in the morning light I awoke to see birch forests and small villages passing by our window. Mole man was up before I was, and again I followed his lead as he broke into his food box. The railroad had provisioned us with a cup of yogurt, a couple of rolls, tea, sugar, a pack of salami, cheese and butter. More than enough for me, as I left half of it uneaten.
Outside the birch forests had given way to a more industrial scene as we neared Moscow, and soon we pulled into Leningrad (yes, Leningrad) station in Moscow, where mole man slipped wordlessly out of the compartment. I gathered my bags and stepped out of the coach to be greeted by a large garrulous fellow named Vladimir. Unlike mole man, Vladimir kept up a steady stream of Russian at me, totally ignoring the fact that to almost every apparent question I would shrug smilingly and say, “Ya nye panimayu.” (I don’t understand). That’s the one the phrase that I have down pat.
Still, I did manage to pick up a few bits of things during the drive to my Moscow home-stay hosts. As we passed a statue of Lenin, he shouted, “Lenin, banDEET!” and showed me his gold teeth. And every now and then he would interrupt his constant stream of chatter and point out this or that item of interest, some of which I actually recognized from my research. We wove through the wild morning Moscow traffic in Vladimir’s Zhiguli, past throngs of Muscovites making their way to work. The city looked more modern than St. Petersburg did, more commercial and less elegant, too. And lining all the streets, and overhead, suspended on wires, were banners and signs proclaiming Moscow’s upcoming 850th anniversary.
Signs of the anniversary were noticeable in the freshly painted facades of the buildings, too, and the many workers plastering over holes and repairing streets. The celebration was less than a month away, and I guessed that I was seeing Moscow in better shape than it’s been in years, maybe ever.
My new home-stay hosts, Alexander and Ludmilla, are pensioners living on the tenth floor of what I imagine is a typical Soviet-style apartment block near the Moscow University. Both had been teachers (and party members) so I gathered that their situation was better than most retired Muscovites. They greeted me warmly and ushered me into my room overlooking the main thoroughfare, Kosygin Street.
Though I already had breakfast, they insisted that I sit down and eat another huge meal of eggs and sausage, bread, cheese and tea. I did my best, but I could tell they were disappointed by my meager intake. But I was stuffed.
After my second breakfast, I asked permission to use their phone line to check my e-mail. Vladimir and Ludmilla agreed, and when I set all my stuff up, and managed to get some mail from Vilma, they were mystified, but fascinated by it all. They kept asking if Vilma was on the other end of my connection, typing back at me, and where the letters I was sending went after I sent them. I tried my best to explain the intricacies of the Internet to them, but sometimes I’m not sure I even understand it myself.
At one o’clock, Vladimir rang the bell to pick me up for my city tour. He talked at me again all the way down to the Kremlin, where we picked up my guide, Sonya. The contrast with Sveta in St. Petersburg was immediately apparent. Smartly dressed and officious, Sonya was all business. She bossed Vladimir from the start, telling him where to drive and park, and in between pointed out various historical sites and their stories to me. It was only later, when she revealed that she had spent fifteen years as an Intourist guide that I began to understand the reason for her manner. She was one of those shrill, leather-lunged shrikes I had been glad to avoid in St. Petersburg. Now I was her captive.
St. Basil's Cathedral on Red Square
We began by walking across Red Square, and she rattled off a litany of stories and facts about the famous square. Most of it I knew already, but I didn’t feel I could stop the spiel she had obviously recited so many times before. When we got to the south side of the square, and she had finished explaining in intricate detail the history and architecture of St. Basil’s Cathedral, I asked her to point out where the German pilot had landed his Cessna back in the 80s. She scolded me and said such a thing did not happen, that he landed at a nearby bridge. But I had seen pictures, I protested. “Well,” she argued, “if you saw pictures, then they were obviously faked.” End of discussion.
And so it went, as we drove around the city. Sonya reciting her tract, and dismissing all of my questions and comments as either ignorant or foolish. I longed for the tour to end. Though many of the places we went to were both architecturally and historically interesting, the Novodevichy convent with its beautiful chapels in a park-like setting, the many Stalin-era monstrosities, the Bolshoi and Checkov theaters, the Lenin Hills with their panoramic view of Moscow, she managed to make everything we saw ordinary and dreary.
Finally, Vladimir pointed his Zhiguli back toward the apartment, and I thanked Sonya and hopped out as soon as he pulled up to the door. Ludmilla had a huge supper of soup, chicken and potatoes, cucumber salad, bread, cheese and tea prepared. I tried to stuff down as much as I could, but again I could tell I came up short in their eyes.
Then I asked permission again to check my e-mail and spent some time trying to make a connection. For some reason it didn’t go as easily as it had in the morning, but eventually, I got connected. No mail this time, though. Bummer.
Then we sat up and chatted for a while, and when my eyes began to droop, I told them that I had just about had enough of this day. “But you must have some dinner with us,” they protested. It was now about ten o’clock. “Dinner?” I asked, “ I thought we already had dinner!” “No, that was tea!” they said, “Now you must eat something!” I couldn’t. If I had any more to eat, I’d pop. So I begged off despite their protests, and with their hurt looks causing me great gobs of guilt, I slunk off to bed.