A Monday Morning in Moscow
Experiencing Moscow’s winter wonders and unexpected moments through a first-time visitor’s eyes
I was in the Russian Federation for a 17-hour layover. It was raining, almost as if we had brought the raindrops from up above. Five hours after we departed from Cairo, the plane touched down in Moscow at 4:45 am. My heart was racing. My efforts to locate myself on the map didn’t account for how remote this country is for a Chilean, an unknown region I was about to explore.
Шереметьево. Those were the first letters in Cyrillic I ever saw, and was able to read. The Eastern-Orthodox Slavic peoples language was welcoming me in a humid-hazed Moscow (Москва).
At the money exchange booth, a lady greeted me in Russian. I handed one of the one hundred dollar bills I exchanged in Zamalek (الزمالك) before leaving Egypt (مصر). I received some 7,000 Russian Rubles. I went outside to the Terminal F pick-up area. I tried to connect to the airport’s WiFi to catch an Uber, but it did not work. I became nervous as I thought I wouldn’t find a way to get downtown because everything around me was in Russian. It was windy, and the temperature was in the zero range.
In the freezing cold of Moscow winter, I figured that I could try getting on a public bus. I had read online that there was a bus that you could take from the airport to the closest metro station, but I did not know how to pay the fare. When the bus came, I saw a bunch of people getting on the bus without paying. Right then I realized Russians and Chileans were not that different after all. Nobody paid the fare. Those who did were very few. I wonder if this has to do with the fact that Russia is a socialist nation.
I was reminded of all the times people evaded the fare in the Santiago bus system. What does this say about the society? Is there compliance with authorities or are they prone to fight for their rights? All passengers were wearing thick, fluffy winter jackets, mittens, scarves, and winter hats. Aboard the warm temperate bus, there was no time to take any of my layers off. It was so hot, and no windows could be open. Along the way, some people got off and I was able to find an empty seat.
Then it happened.
From the left side of the bus, staring through the window, I saw the sun come out. It was Monday morning, and I was starting the day with regular Moscow residents. It made me feel part of the society I was visiting. It made me imagine what it would be like to live and work here, getting up early to catch the metro and reach the office. This became one of my most memorable experiences.
The 949 bus took me to Belomorskaya (Беломорская), a station in the outer-city of Khimki (Химки). I headed to KACCA, the metro ticket office. I hesitated for several minutes. Embarrassed, I approached the teller to get a Troika (Тройка) card. She pointed at the map of the Moscow metro and asked in broken English where I was going. Depending on where I wanted to go, I reloaded the card and began to descend to the platform.
Moscow’s metro system is one of the proud achievements of the Soviet Union. Designed after the classical Russian architecture style, Moscow metro stations display unique art. It is one of the busiest and deepest in the world, though when I was there, I only saw three or four people in the entire train.
The metro looked like a bunker. Infinite escalators descend for several minutes into deep tunnels of concrete. Expressionless passengers waited on the platform. Inside the train, nobody talked, chewed, or showed any kind of emotion. Their flat facial expressions made me think that life in Russia must be hard. Black and white dominated wherever I turned to look. Grey Montgomerys, black boots, and white scarves were in fashion. They projected a frigid, aloof, and Siberian fashion.
I was extremely excited. The iconic image of St. Basil’s Cathedral had always been in the back of my mind as representing a very distant place for someone from Chile, hard to impossible to reach. I couldn’t believe that in just a few stations I’d make one of my childhood dreams come true. After a short ride on the metro, I made it to the Red Square. I pass in front of an illuminated Bolshoi Theater and it doesn’t take long to find the Karl Marx monument. My eyes are in awe looking at St. Basil’s Cathedral at the end of the square. I go inside and take a tour, walking up and down the nine domes representing nine different chapels. Outside the church, the GUM mall is decorated for the festivities, and there is a Christmas-themed fair. It’s December 23, and I feel so lucky to visit during this time of the year.
The rain creates a unique atmosphere this day. It’s very melancholic. It’s cold and I feel the need of a warm place.
I take refuge from the rain at a Starbucks, and a memorable experience unfolds. As I sat at the large table in the café, a lady, around forty years old, sits across from me. She takes out a large white canvas from her tote bag and begins to draw a portrait of me. Without having exchanged any word, she is entertained by her art. As time passed, I figured that she must do this for a living, so I have to tip her well. I treasure that drawing to this day. Nobody had ever drawn a portrait of me before. It made me have a deep connection with a country I had erroneously thought of as a nation lacking emotions.
The day is getting dark and it’s time to go back to the airport to catch my next flight. I walk to Savyolovsky railway station (Савёловский вокзал) and take a few minutes to figure out how to buy a ticket in the machine. While I wait for the train I buy a small coffee and a muffin from the kiosk. The departures board is in Russian.
I head to the platform with destination Sheremetyevo — the only word I could decipher from the all-Russian sign. I get on the train and look at my location on my phone Google Maps. As the train moves, I notice that it is heading in the opposite direction from where the airport is. I am in disbelief: I have taken the wrong train. I don’t have much time to spare and become anxious about reaching the airport and going through security on time. I get off at the next station, change platforms, and wait for the correct train. It starts to rain more heavily and it’s just me waiting alone in the platform. I have no umbrella. It takes several minutes before the train comes. During those moments I revived the memories I would be taking with me from this short-lived visit.
The lady at the migration counter takes a detailed look at my Chilean passport. She mentions that it is rare to see one of those. Russia didn’t seem distant anymore. I had lived a day, a Monday, a working day, as a regular citizen. The warmth and vision the Starbucks lady painted, and joining a crowd of regular residents on the bus to the metro revoked my view of Russia as a cold country. While I wait to board, I walk the terminal looking at all the different gates. I stop at the gate for Ulaanbaatar and observe the passengers. Mongolia is an exotic destination. I daydream about being able to be there in just a few hours.
With my eye mask on, I hold my monkey stuffed animal I have carried throughout all my trips, and begin to shut down. I haven’t slept for two days; though exploring the city for a day made it totally worthwhile.
6665 kilometers separate Moscow from Seoul. I close my eyes to rest and regain energy to explore Korea tomorrow.
