Metro
I have my first experience of the famous Moscow Metro on my way to the office for breakfast this morning.Although my anticipation is deflated temporarily by the ticket-seller asking disparagingly "Chitat' umeyesh?" ("Can you read?") and pointing at the price list when I enquire about the cost of a one-way bilet, the Metro itself more than fulfils expectations: every stop has palatial proportions, high arches leading onto platforms slathered with marble and mosaics, statues and stained glass. Unlike the London tube, life underground here is more sociable,, a place for people-watching – the girls are dressed to impress. Friends turn to face each other and chat on the ride down the endless escalators, lovers embrace shamelessly, to the sound of public service announcements listing the dangers of improper escalator etiquette. There are some dozen stipulations on how not to use these stuttering steel-toothed stairs, of which I can remember only one – not to sit on the steps – because the girl in front of me was doing just that. The walls on either side are lined with posters promoting the virtues of the family, and the evils of cigarettes and alcohol, clearly meant to buoy Russia's shrinking population. An advertisement for 390-rouble sandals looks tempting, until I read the fine print: “footwear may be of substandard quality”. There are booths at the foot of every escalator, where security guards are meant to be watching screens, presumably an anti-terrorist measure. The guards, however, tend to be elderly ladies, one of whom is actually having a nap when I walk by. But who knows, the nap may be a clever ploy, and the Kremlin may have discovered that the Chechen fighter's greatest fear is being told off by his grandmother.
I also have my first experience of getting lost. It's relatively mild, compared to the one which awaits me in a few days' time. I simply walk in precisely the opposite direction to where I ought to be going. Yet it feels so very right. We have such a talent for convincing ourselves of the rightness of the wrong way. I meander down Denezhny Pereulok, an idyllic vision of pastel-coloured early 19th century buildings, pink, blue and green embellished with white columns and stuck-on stucco ribbons. Small white puffs of poplar seed drift down like mysterious snowflakes from a clear blue sky.
Finally I begin to feel that even if this was the right way, I've definitely gone too far, and perhaps it isn't the right way after all. I ask for assistance from the least threatening-looking person in the vicinity, who happens to be a man in a traditional dancing costume – shining high black boots and wide red trousers. Big balloons high on helium pull vainly at the strings clamped in his right hand. I feel like I've fallen through Moscow's old alleyways into another fairytale. He strokes his noble handlebar moustache and thinks I must be confused when I say I want to find Noviy Arbat. All the tourists flock to the old Arbat, the former bohemian quarter, now choked with matryoshkas and amateur portrait makers flattering their subjects. Noviy Arbat, on the other hand, is a loud long neon-lit terrace, the home of the casinos before they were banned in Russia, now lined with overpriced restaurants. Dance music blasts from outdoor speakers there day and night, carefully muffling the expensive conversations taking place below.
Later, carrying a box of white chocolate-covered offering, I ring the next door bell, only to be greeted by the gasp of a middle-aged woman who seems aghast at the sight of me standing there with a suddenly congealed smile. An uncertain pause. I worry that I've breached some code of conduct, the chocolates are obviously entirely the wrong colour... But she quickly recovers and explains her surprise: it's her birthday, she's waiting for the guests to arrive, and instead she sees a foreign stranger coming to congratulate her. We laugh at the clever timing of my gift. She introduces herself as Nastia, her husband as Nikolai Dmitrievich.
