There is some low cloud over the Moscow suburbs as we descend towards Domodedovo. Fingers of evening light caress the landscape, making the roofs of the clustered houses glitter. The first sight of these villages, intertwined with vast fallow fields and pine forests, leaves a delicate imprint of emotion which I can't define, except that I know I have not felt this way before, about other arrivals in other places. It is a smooth landing.
The runway is surrounded by unkempt greenery and half-built structures, the airport when we enter is quiet and empty. The scene feels worryingly close to the image of Russia which we in the West are trained to expect, still a forbidding wilderness.
A middle-aged woman shouts at us in grumpy Russian to go up to the second floor, showing no mercy for English-speakers. My heart sinks – here again is the confirmation of a stereotype! Will I be spending the rest of my time in Moscow cowering under an onslaught of angry babushkas? I am relieved to see that the customs officers on the second floor offer a stark counterpoint to the dictator below, an array of pretty round-cheeked girls spanning the full spectrum from blonde to russet to brunette. I wonder for a moment if they are chosen specifically to dazzle the foreign visitor with the cream of Russian youth, but any thoughts of a pleasant welcome are quickly dispersed; the brunette says not a word in response to my smiling greeting, and affects a disapproving severity, almost comical when artificially imposed on her young features.
The fog of foreboding closes in further at the sight of a sinister red notice hanging over the baggage claim belt, warning tourists not to take private taxis – “There is no guarantee against fraud”.
Feeling relieved that someone will be meeting me, I walk slowly past the greeting line, but among the flower-clutching relatives, there is nobody with the promised piece of paper reading “AF 8”. I try to suppress a rising anxiety. This is the very scenario which my imagination, always helpfully inclined to expect the worst, has been replaying for the past few days: stranded at the airport, with my phone battery indicator blinking red, and not the slightest notion of where I need to go.
I pace back and forth searching in vain for my elusive guide, manfully concealing my distress under a veneer of wild-eyed panic. During my wanderings, at least five cab drivers, sensing easy prey, approach me saying “Devushka, taksi?” Their refrain takes me back to my former life, a firelit front room, and a long-haired Welsh sprite telling me that the only Russian she knew was “Eto taksi? Da, eto taksi”. The phrase, which we found hilariously random at the time, now seems particularly apt, given the need to distinguish between the real taxis and the impostors.
Still, the drivers are friendly, nothing like the shifty ogres conjured by the threatening sign. One of them even offers to let me use his phone so that I can contact whoever was meant to be picking me up. “They should have been here by now!” he observes, not very reassuringly.
Just as I am beginning to evaluate whether I will be able to get a good night's sleep by putting two plastic Domodedovo chairs together, my saviour appears: Anya, from the programme, holding the long-awaited “AF 8”. I have a strong urge to hug her and jump up and down squealing, but manage to maintain the dignified demeanour required of a serious professional.
In the van, Anya decides that she wants to buy some strawberries from a roadside vendor. The driver mentions that there is a kolkhoz nearby where you can pick them; if you fill five baskets for the collective, you can keep one for yourself. A relic of the old Communist ethos...
Those two elderly women weathered by the fumes of the highway, on the other hand, are undeniably the product of the capitalist revolution: entrepreneurs in head-kerchiefs. We stop beside baskets of strawberries displayed in the skeleton of an old-fashioned baby carriage. Anya hops out and returns with a large bag of fruit, bruised and sweet.
As we start to pull out from the gravel shoulder, the second vendor waves us over. Anya sighs and descends from the van again to inspect her wares, but comes back empty-handed. Before we can drive away, the woman pokes her head into the car and offers a plastic cup full of malinovka, tiny wild strawberries, “only 150 roubles”.
“Too expensive,” Anya retorts.
“What do you mean? It takes hours to find these in the woods.”
Unperturbed by our reluctance to make a purchase, she chatters cheerfully with the driver about the early cucumbers growing on her windowsill. “My daughter came and said, mama, they are THIS big!” In the end, we buy some raspberries.
We pass by a very different indicator of Russia's capitalist development, a banner explaining that a Volvo factory will soon be constructed in what is currently an impenetrable thicket of evergreens. This leads to a discussion about cars and status. Apparently, nobody in Russia would be caught dead driving a Russian car – a peculiarly Russian kind of nationalism. If you see someone driving a Zhiguli, you know that it's because he really cannot afford anything else.
The driver asks if I had seen clouds from the plane when we flew in; he is going to his dacha on the weekend.
“You should pray for good weather in the morning,” Anya suggests.
“Why not in the evening?”
“In the evening too – and all night as well!”
“But does God speak Russian..?” I start to say. Then I notice that there is a wooden cross hanging from the rearview mirror, and hold my tongue.
The streets grow wider as we enter the city. The traffic is dense and chaotic. We are tossed around the van, veering from one lane to the next, avoiding rogue motorcyclists who screech past. Russian roads are notoriously treacherous, with something like 30,000 accidents each year, but neither Anya nor the driver are wearing seatbelts.
“There is the Metro station,” Anya says, “And there is your building – the one with the XYZ Bank.”
I laugh incredulously. Sure enough, my benefactor operates a branch virtually on my doorstep, proving that corporations must be persons after all, since they have a sense of irony. (Another irony during the trip came when Anya, seeming to temporarily forget who employed her, told me that banks are all zhuliki, thieves, who dupe people into accumulating debt without even letting them read the contract they sign. “Prosnulsya – uzhe v dolgu”, our driver added emphatically.)
We were warned that the apartments may not be 'Westernised', so it is with a tinge of trepidation that I squeeze into the elevator next to my enormous suitcase. We stop on the 6th floor outside a massive door made of beaten metal, black and gold. There is a small entrance hall, where the neighbours have placed a vase of white and purple roses on a stand. Two further doors, padded and upholstered in studded faux leather, lie between me and the apartment. As Anya struggles with the ancient inner door, I steel myself for the inevitable revelation that the flat is a ramshackle Soviet disaster and that I'll be filling my bath out of a kettle for the next year.
Instead, I step into light and airy space, large rooms and high ceilings, far nicer than any of my previous 'Westernised' rental abodes in mould-ridden, pre-mixer-tap-era Britain. The gleaming bathroom is beautifully tiled in soft shades of sandstone and terracotta; the bedroom has a low bed, just the kind I like. Walking into the kitchen, I am touched to see that someone has hung a housewarming gift on one of the cupboards, a carving of a little log izba, saying “Schastye v dom” (bringing happiness to your house). The counters are covered in new crockery, cutlery, pots and pans, including an object described as a “100% Klassniy Chainik” (100% Classy Teapot). When I turn on the light, the round glass lampshade glows like a piece of striped yellow candy. Looking down from the window, I can see a small park overgrown with trees, concealing a children's playground.
To my surprise, I discover that I feel at home.
