Is very joke!
Moscow gets an eyeful
"Ring! Ring!"
"Hello?"
"English want Russian for sex? Giggle."
"Uh, no thank you. Giggle."
"Giggle… click."
It's our first evening in Vega Block, one fourth of a giant, four-building hotel, built either for the Olympics or to help prostitutes hone their phone skills. From the 21st floor, Moscow is an ice-crystalled cement carpet. The residues of past oppression and unfettered capitalism mix thickly in the spaces between Orwellian government towers and neon-festooned casinos.
It's not that the city's two downtown hostels were terrible, we simply got off on the wrong foot: "At least the maid did wait until I was completely nude to barge into the washroom," said my wife, returning to our room from the shared facility the night previous. Arriving later that day at the other hostel, we were greeted by travelers we'd met in St. Petersburg. The cockroaches had at least waited until they were completely nude to barge into their washrooms.
Off we all trekked to the Ismailovo Hotel Complex. Despite the crapulence of an artificial-moss encrusted lobby fountain, Vega Block's rooms proved to be first-rate, yet cheaper than those at either hostel.
Soon we were exploring the neighbouring Ismsailovo Craft Market. A sprawling complex of ornate, bare-wood kiosks, it is a crafts paradise. Amid angora scarves, amber necklaces and Soviet memorabilia, we were struck by one object: a KISS matrioshka doll. The wooden figure is a take on the traditional Russian nesting doll. Inside, Gene Simmons hides Paul Stanley and so on – in full makeup!
"Is really music faces!" laughs a stocky young man wearing a tuque. He introduces himself as Alex. "My friend has business in Boston. I send him this one, he asked for me to send 50. Is very joke!"
But Alex, isn't this sort of thing a slap at tradition? "This is not traditional," Alex explains, pointing to a more familiar flowery green doll. "This is traditional: red, black. Green is not traditional, but people like green."
Next stop: Red Square and the mausoleum displaying Lenin's waxy, yellow corpse. The Soviet strongman's body may not rest much longer in this state. Because (a) the traditions of the U.S.S.R. are fading away, and (b) people like green.
We were admiring St. Basil's Cathedral when a small, worn-out woman holding two wooden eggs painted with flowers approached us. "I have only small pension," she said, flashing a couple of gold teeth and a look mournful enough to melt granite. "I make just two eggs in one month. Is very beautiful."
"How much for just one egg?"
"Please buy two eggs."
"But how much is just one?"
"Please," she said, hand on my elbow, "you must buy two eggs. It is very difficult to sell just one egg." With each over-priced pair of eggs: a free lump in the throat. We handed over the rubles.
We make for a Kremlin gate. The metal detector bleeps. A guard asks my wife, "Do you have any guns or firearms?"
"Uh, no," she laughs, surprised.
"Do you have any weapons or pistols?" he continues – not laughing. She is never heard from again. I with my hefty bag (don't laugh yet, that's not the joke) of freshly purchased, metal souvenirs – St. Basil's pocket watches, U.S.S.R. whiskey flasks, KGB lighters – am waved through. I guess "No, I'm just happy to see you," translates. Cue Boney M: Oh those Russians!
Inside the Kremlin's red stone walls we (including my wife. Ha ha! Is very joke Honey! Uh, Dear, is that a pistol, gun or weapon you're holding?) line up to view the Diamond Fund, an exhibit of national treasures, the centrepiece of which is the Russian Crown Jewels. Security is tight. No cameras allowed inside. In the entranceway a guard stops a white-haired German man who grips bulky video equipment under one arm. Insistently he thumps his passport with an index finger. "We are friends! We are friends!"
"And you're happy to see him!" I whispered the magic words. He didn't hear.
"You must check your camera," the guard repeated several times without inflection. The German shouted his refusal. We were waved inside. As we stood admiring the warmly lit display case housing the jewel-studded headgear of the tsars, the German friend sheepishly crept into the exhibit room sans camera. What'd he expect? Nobody wants the family jewels photographed.
Back at the hotel, I'm in the bathroom about to step into the shower. My wife answers a knock at the door. The maid says "Excuse me!" Before anyone knows what hit ’em, she, two burly repairmen and a ladder are in the bathroom. I, yes, am completely nude.
"Uh, you must check your camera." Cue Boney M.
Next month: Good Listener tours Europe.
Good Listener is a monthly column devoted to eavesdropping. |
