I am shuffling into routine. My neighbour has kindly shown me around the area and signed me up for a card at Utkonos, the online grocery store which conveniently has an outlet behind my building. It's right next to a mint green early 19th century layer-cake of an edifice that houses the offices of Edinaya Rossiya (United Russia), Putin's political party. I only notice this after a few weeks however; until then, I remain perplexed by the fact that there are road signs everywhere saying “Access reserved for members of United Russia”, which seems like a decadent social injustice. In any case, I'm very pleased that online shopping has arrived in Russia, it's essential as I'll need to buy two 5-litre bottles of water every week, too heavy to carry home. … takes me past the sauna where she used to go as a child. A low structure of crumbling red brick. Men wrapped in white towels make conversation by the entrance. I make a mental note to come back and have an authentic banya, if I feel brave enough to submit to being beaten with the traditional venik of branches. Maybe in the winter. Right now the stifling 35 degree temperatures are already providing me with a more than sufficient sauna experience. But I don't mind, not yet. I'd feel guilty complaining about something as mundane as the weather when every day I see things that remind me how lucky I am.
The two boys, not more than thirteen or fourteen years old, sodden drunk, filling the metro car with the stink of alcohol. They slip around on the seat, taking gulps from a warm bottle, yelping with sharp tragic laughter as the other passengers look away.
The figures hiding in the corners of the metro, displaying discreet placards offering “Diplomy, attestaty” (diplomas, affidavits). How many officials are occupying positions of responsibility and making decisions that will affect me with these false credentials?
The nischiye, the beggars: elderly, crippled, orphaned.
The legless veterans balancing their painful stumps on makeshift cardboard platforms all day long, leaning against a lamppost for support, sometimes you don't notice them until you almost trip over them, because they're half your height.
The old women holding religious icons, bowing and crossing themselves, bowing and crossing themselves, again and again.
Worst of all, the woman crouched on the ground with a drugged baby, most likely not even hers, wrapped in tight rags, its pacifier hanging out of its mouth. The sight makes me physically ill, I wish I could erase it but I know it will stay with me always.
I hear from several different sources that there's no point in giving them money because 90% goes to the organised crime gangs that control them, sometimes 100% if the beggar gets paid in vodka, that Moscow is carved up into strict criminal districts where each nischiy has his allotted spot. I don't know if this is true, or if it's an excuse to assuage the conscience. Still, it's odd that the signs they hold all look identical, the same white background with the same block print script in black marker: “My son is dead, left three children” - “My mother is dead” - “Pomogitye, help me”.
