Don't Talk to Strangers

Do not talk to strangers and certainly do not get in their cars. That is what I have been taught all my life. Yet, getting into a stranger’s car is exactly what you have to do in Moscow, if you want a ride from point A to point B. Taxis in Moscow are almost non-existent. You can order one over the phone, but it will take considerable time for it to come and pick you up.

Entrepreneurial car owners work hard to fill this deficit in licensed taxis. If you stand on the curb and stretch your arm out, a private car will inevitably pull over. You give the driver your destination and bargain over the price. Once you agree on the price, you can get in the car. If you cannot agree, you try your luck with a different car and driver.

Russian society is still rather male dominated. A lone woman hailing a car late at night would not surprise many. However, a woman, accompanied by an able man, yet still doing all the talking, and making decisions herself does put the drivers on guard. Since Nick does not speak Russian, I had to talk to the drivers, while they stared at Nick clearly wondering why they had to deal with a woman.

As on our previous trip, when coming back from our friends’ house late at night, Nick and I decided to get a car. Our friends expertly flagged down the car, settled on the price, and ushered us in. Since all the required conversation with the driver was finished, I let Nick get in the front in hopes of preserving appearances.

The minute we got in the car, the driver yelled at Nick for closing the car door too hard. I apologized profusely, while Nick, all flustered, kept trying to buckle up. “You don’t need to buckle up,” said the driver. “He likes to,” I squeaked from the back seat. “What is he, American or something?” So much for appearances. I had to admit that Nick was American, and thus a can of worms was opened.

While speedily weaving between traffic and swearing at his fellow drivers, our driver proceeded to tell me the story of some distant relative of his wife, who moved to Anchorage, Alaska, after marrying an American woman. Six children later, this relative left the woman because she gained 200 pounds. The story did not end there. The woman’s second marriage, 3 more children, and a divorce were all presented to prove the inferiority of American women.

I tried hard to keep quiet and agree with everything the driver said. The conversation soon shifted to comparing salaries and the cost of living in Russia and US. One careless statement from me, referring to “our country” when talking about US, and my last secret was out. “What, you live there too?!” “Yes actually, that is my husband sitting in the front.” The driver’s interest only perked up, and more questions about money, jobs and real estate prices followed.

At some point we started talking about taxi cabs. I had to explain that if I tried to flag a car down in Boston, only licensed taxis would pull over, and that I would never get into a private car even if one did stop. He was surprised to hear that I was weary of being assaulted or kidnapped when getting into a stranger’s car that was not a licensed taxi in any city including Moscow. The driver laughed when I asked him if he was afraid of being assaulted or robbed when picking random people. He said that unlike in other cities, people in Moscow were very friendly—in the past year he has been assaulted only 3 times. “My point exactly,” I thought to myself and felt very thankful that we were almost home.

The Omnipresent Shoehorns

What is the last time you saw a shoehorn in US? Yet a shoehorn is something no self-respecting Russian can live without. Or at least so it seems.

Our friends in Russia always offered us a shoehorn on our way out. (It is customary to take your shoes off when entering someone’s house in Russia). The little apartment we rented in Moscow did not have a cork screw in its “fully equipped” kitchen, but it had a two foot long shoehorn. The Red Arrow train overnight kit included a shoehorn along with a toothbrush and toothpaste. Even the Domodedovo airport had a shoehorn for passengers to use after they had removed their shoes to go through security.

Back when my parents and I lived in Russia, we had a shoehorn too. It hung on the coat rack by the door. My parents did not use it often—it was mostly for guests, but my grandparents on the other hand used their shoehorn all the time.

Ideally you want to slide your foot into a shoe without damaging its back. You could step into the shoe, and jiggle your foot until it goes in, but that is not ideal for the shoe. You can also help your foot with your hands, but you need to bend down to do that. This is where a two foot long shoehorn comes in very handy—no need to bend down, and no need to bend the shoe.

Moscow and Portable Toilets

How did Moscow solve the common problem of people in need of answering the call of nature while walking around the city? In a very simple way—porta-potties.

Porta-potties of every color pop up all over the city. Upon first seeing the porta-potties in Red Square, I thought that the authorities brought them out to accommodate the crowds expected on Victory Day. However, as we spent more time in Moscow, we encountered similar facilities almost everywhere we went.

Prices varied depending on the location. The closer the porta-potty was to the city center, or a major tourist attraction, the higher was the fee to use it. Strangely enough we saw some free ones along Nikolskaya Street, but nobody was using them. Perhaps they were locked—I did not check.

Each row of porta-potties was attended by a woman, often an older lady, who collected the money and kept the units relatively clean and stocked with toilet paper. Every porta-potty attendant had her own port-potty. In other words, in a row of porta-potties, there was one never used for nature calls. Instead, it was furnished, probably by the attendant herself, to provide a comfortable shelter from the elements. The ones I happened to see were often decorated, and always well stocked with cleaning supplies, food, newspapers and magazines.

The porta-potties definitely provide an excellent and cheap solution to the common problem of people looking for a public restroom while walking around in Moscow. However, despite their colorfulness, they do not add to the beauty of the city.

May 9th in Moscow

In Russia World War II is referred to as the Great Patriotic War. Growing up I remember being taught that Russia single-handedly defeated the Nazis and won World War II. So naturally, May 9th, Russia’s Victory Day, is a very important holiday celebrated by everyone in the country. In Moscow, the day is commemorated by a parade in Red Square, as well as many smaller parades all over the city. Fireworks brighten the skies in the evening.

When I was little, I remember celebrating May 9th very well. There were always special pre-holiday events at school. On May 9th, my family usually gathered at my grandmother’s house in the afternoon for dinner. My dad or my grandfather would take me to the nearby sports complex to watch a local parade and other festivities taking place there in the morning.

Early May is a beautiful time to be in Moscow. Lilacs, apple and cherry trees are in bloom. The greenery is still of that tender green color, not yet tainted by pollution. Beautiful tulips are nicely arranged in flowerbeds all over the city. It is possible that this year particular care has been put into making the city center look nice and clean, because the new president of Russia, Dmitry Medvedev, was inaugurated in Kremlin on May 7th.



Also for the first time since the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, tanks rolled through Red Square as part of the Victory Day parade. Nick and I could not pass up the chance to see the tanks. Of course, Red Square has been closed to ordinary people since the day before, so watching the parade itself was out of the question. However, all the heavy artillery had to drive to and from Red Square, though the route seemed to be a mystery not only to us—foreigners, but to many Muscovites as well—more on that later. We finally saw the tanks along Sadovoe Koltso, each one bigger and more powerful then its predecessor, as they returned from the parade.

Later in the day we saw a small parade along Arbat. World War II veterans surrounded by family and supporting each other, many of them carrying flowers, walked with gloomy faces behind a small military marching band. All over the city I noticed many people carrying bunches of flowers. They would give single flowers to veterans passing them by on the street.

Блинчики

While in Moscow, Nick and I ate a lot of blintzes. We ordered them at the restaurants and cafes. We bought them ready made at grocery stores. We ate the at my friends’ house. Plain, filled with meat, tvorog, mushrooms, red caviar, or smoke salmon, they were delicious.

Unfortunately, here in the US blintzes are not as readily available. So Saturday morning I decided to quench my nostalgia and make my own blintzes. I followed the recipe from Victor’s Café, making 1/3 of the amount and adding a little extra sugar. Starting with a few somewhat thick and slightly darker ones, I managed to produce a few round thin blintzes. Nick and I opened a jar of red caviar, made some tea, and relived some of the best moments of our trip.