Sneaky Russians

Pete really doesn't like to talk very much. I assume this is because he can't really hear for shit. Every time I walk into his barber shop it's the same routine; he asks me what we're doing, I tell him that I just want a 3 guard all the way around, and he quietly proceeds to buzz my hair off as instructed. When I first began going to him, I would make an effort to start up conversation with him. But I quickly learned that this was futile because, like I said, he can't really hear for shit.

A little more than a week before I was to leave for my vacation to Russia, I stopped into Pete's for the usual. Pete must have been in a rare mood because as he was finishing up, he asked me how I'd been and what had I been up to. I said in a consciously, almost obnoxiously, loud voice that I was planning a trip to Moscow. "Pardon?" replied the deaf barber. "I AM GETTING READY TO GO TO RUSSIA." This time he heard me. "Russia?" he responded. "Why would you go to Russia?" I loudly and briefly explained that I had decided to travel the world and that I already had a friend living in Moscow who could show me aroud. Plus, I remarked further, it would be nice to get there and see it before the bastards bring the iron curtain back down.

Pete, like almost every other person I had told about this trip, began to slowly shake his head. "You trust them?" he asked in disbelief. "The Russians?" I replied. "Sure. Why not?" Pete continued to shake his head. "I don't! They're sneaky!" He was being serious, but I immediately laughed. The first thing that came to mind was Boris the Blade (aka Boris the Bullet Dodger), the Russian character in the movie Snatch. The other characters are constantly referring to him as "that sneaky fuckin' Russian". I tried to assure Pete that I would be fine as he pulled the cape off of me and I stood up to pay. I gave him a twenty and he gave me a ten back in change. Later I would message my Muscovite friend, Sasha, and tell her how my old barber had warned me that Russians are sneaky. "It's true", she replied.

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It was my fourth day in Moscow when Sasha suggested that I might like to visit VDNKh Park. She told me that they had collected a lot of Soviet era monuments and such in this place. It was basically a museum (At least, that's how I understood it at the time. Upon returning home, I looked it up and found a distinctly different description). My interest was piqued immediately. She would not be able to go with me because she had to work, but she told me I could take the Metro to VDNKh Station and then, once I was there, I would need to ask someone for directions to the park. I googled the location and thought I had a pretty good idea of where it was. I pulled my Metro map out of my back left pocket. It was the only thing I carried in my back pockets after Sasha and her friend had flipped out on the first night when they learned I had both my wallet and passport in my backpockets. "Why would you do that?" Sasha demanded to know. "Why would you just leave it where someone could take it?" "Maybe Pete was right", I thought.

I walked down to the nearest Metro station which was called Sukharevskaya. Like VDNKh, it is an orange line station. This meant that I would not even need to switch trains. VDNKh was only four stops away. Easy. I made my way on to the car and found a seat. Then I concentrated on the little chart above the windows that showed the names of the stops. Almost every word that came over the PA system was gibberish as far as I was concerned. But I listened for the names of the stops and made sure I didn't miss my station. First was Prospekt Mira. Sasha had previously explained to me that this translated to "prospect of world peace". Then came Rizhskaya. Then Alexeyevskaya. Finally, I arrived at VDNKh. By the way, VDNKh is apparently an acronym. It stands for Vystavka Dostizheniy Norodnogo Khozyaystva which translates to Exhibition of Achievements of National Economy...in case you were wondering.

I ascended from the Metro and saw a little park. From my previous Google research, I knew that this little park was northwest of the station and that my destination was northwest of the park. I began walking. I very soon came upon what is a common sight in Moscow; a beautiful Russian Orthodox church. But this one had a graveyard. I had not yet, to that point, laid eyes upon a Russian graveyard. Each grave was fenced off from the next. I'd never seen anything like it. The yard was just a mess of iron rods, granite crosses, and various flowers, trees, and plants. When I later brought it up to Sasha, she joked that Russians are so tired of collectivism that by the time they die, they would at least like a private grave, fenced off from all the others.

I continued past the church and began walking down a road that I assumed would lead me to VDNKh Park. There were signs that said, in English, that they led to the "Russian Cultural Center". I figured that must be the same thing. I decided to follow these signs. They led me to a boulevard that was lined on both sides by somewhat run down Soviet era apartment buildings. Weatherwise, it was a lovely day and there were many people walking about. I took off my jacket and began to carry it. I began to get very thirsty. I figured I would hold out until I got to the park before I would bother buying any. I walked another block. And then another. The signs kept leading me onward. Another block. Another. The apartment buildings seemed to be getting worse and worse. But the people walking the streets seemed to be as nicely dressed as any Russians I'd seen. I walked on, getting thirstier with every step. "Where is this damn place already?" I wondered.

I had been walking for what seemed like an eternity when I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I needed water. My mouth was unimaginably dry. In my head I could hear Hank Williams singing about throats burned dry and souls that cry for water. Cool, clear water. I saw a sign that said "продукты" (groceries) and went inside to fetch a bottle of glorious H2O. The shop was very small and there were already a handful of other patrons in there. I made my way to the back where the cooler was. I opened the sliding door and selected a bottle and began to study it carefully. You see, in Moscow (and from what I've heard, most of Europe) many people prefer carbonated water to plain water. I'm not kidding. They really go crazy for that shit. But I, being a thirsty person, had no need for carbonated water. I wanted the real deal. The problem was that I have an incredibly limited russian vocabulary and could not decipher which bottle was which. I had already accidentally purchased the fizzy water on a previous day and was determined to avoid it this time. I shook the bottle ever so slightly (so as not to draw attention) to see whether or not it would fizz. It didn't seem to. Satisfied with my choice, I approached the register.

The woman at the register rang up the bottle and jabbered at me in Russian the amount I owed. There was no screen to show me the number, and I had no clue what she had said. "Vy govorite po-angliiski?", I asked. She briskly shook her head and exhaled a sigh of annoyance through her nose. At that moment, I noticed some shady looking characters entering the little store. They were dirty and not at all dressed like the pleasent people I had seen on the street. I tried to ignore them and focus on the problem at hand. I remembered that the price listed in the cooler was around 120 rubles. But I wasn't sure if they charged sales tax afterward like they do here in the States (turns out they don't). I had several rubles in coins in my pocket. But I decided it would be easier to just give her the 500 ruble note (about $7.50 American) that was in my wallet. I handed it to her. She looked at it for a moment and then began to jabber at me again while motioning to the register. I gathered that she was trying to tell me that she did not have enough change for such a large note. I plunged my hand into my pocket and presented to her all my ruble coins. I held them in my open palm like a child as she picked out the 20s and 10s needed and then completed the transaction by placing my change back into the same palm. "Spasibo", I said before exiting the shop and continuing in the direction that the signs pointed.

I turned the corner and smiled to myself. "Such nice people", I thought. They didn't care that I was an American or that our governments are currently in the middle of an extremely dangerous and completely asinine pissing match. This particular store clerk was not unique in her willingness to assist a helpless foreigner. I saw it time and again while I was there. The rude people seemed to be few and far between. There is absolutely no reason for any animosity between the American people and the Russian people. If it weren't for the power hungry assholes in Washington and inside the Kremlin, we common people would engage in peaceful trade and friendship with few problems. "I really like it here. I like these people", I thought as I twisted the cap off my bottle. I was so parched. I needed this cool water so badly. I took a giant swig of the water. It was carbonated. "Sneaky fuckin' Russians!" I began to pray for a nuclear war to put me out of my misery.