Why I still live in Russia after five crazy years
My feelings towards Russia are, if anything, complex. The winter may be grey, but every day here is an intense psychedelic ride of emotion, that somehow morphs into the new normal for my adrenaline levels.
I’ve ridden snowmobiles on the black beaches of Russia’s Pacific coast, bathed in volcanic springs by –18 degrees Celsius, drank vodka with metro drivers in suburb hovels, walked across the Neva river in February, fallen off a dogsled and lost some huskies, drank vodka on trains, been accidentally interrogated in a metro police cell, eaten dried fish while swatting mosquitoes at the dacha, had more vodka, met more Red Army generals than soldiers, held a gun, narrowly escaped a bomb attack, continued drinking vodka… If anything, it has improved my sense of humour.
“If you’re Russian and over thirty, you’ve already experienced enough social, economic and political turmoil to last a lifetime.”
It’s true that my perception differs a little from many expats, because I’m used to being the only foreigner in my company. Meetings and conversations happen in a strange bilingual code that we have established, where it’s okay to start a sentence in Russian and finish it in English. But my colleagues still think I’m a spy, otherwise, why am I still here?
Russians have an intangible secret wisdom about the world that shines a new light on things and sometimes they don’t, and somtimes they say things that make me want to jump down an elevator shaft. It depends on the day.
I’ve heard that people here don’t smile, it’s not true, it’s just the winter, peak time on the metro or maybe you just saw me on a bad day.
I’ve spent a lot of time in Russian homes, with the “locals”, so to speak. This is both a humbling and eye-opening experience for any foreigner, especially since many of us live within the cosseted world of Moscow’s city centre.
“mysterious tales of the secret metro line followed by some karaoke”
In a Russian flat, time often seems endless among the uniform 1980 soviet-issue furniture and carpeted walls, but in the good way. It nearly always includes tea, cake, conversation, vodka, chocolate, beer, food, dried fish, anecdotes, mysterious tales of the secret metro line followed by some karaoke.
“Going native” taught me essential one thing: “все будет хорошо” — everything will be okay — believe them when they say it, it’s true. If you’re Russian and over thirty, you’ve already experienced enough social, economic and political turmoil to last a lifetime. Life, work and even winter do eventually straighten themselves out, and that’s what I will continue to tell myself — even when my feet are wet and it’s snowing, again.
