Domodedovodedovodedovo
I must admit, after my Beijing to Heathrow flight upon my return from the Middle Kingdom back in 2008, I was rather taken with the British Airways service. Granted, nothing really holds a candle to Emirates (and if you've never flown with them, I suggest you do if possible), but British Airways had come a rather respectable second in my estimations. Now, I'm a simple person, despite my delusions of grandeur; it takes very little to please me: food, the love of a good woman, an occasional beer with friends and, my one true hobby, film. Imagine my deep, unreserved horror when I found no films scheduled on my Heathrow to Moscow connection. Four hours listening to babies crying, old men farting and middle-aged women complaining loudly about the timing of the meal while trying to read is not an oft recommended form of entertainment during travel.
At the very least, a film can block out the noise. Especially if it's a bad film-your inner monologue rages at the inconsistencies in plot/character development, the voice screams at the logical fallacies the protagonist falls into time and again, you positively weep inside as you find yourself capable of writing the film after only three minutes of its 1 hour 30 minute run time.
Anyway. The flight was slightly late and I was slightly annoyed by the time I managed to get through immigration, then proceed to have my belongings scrutinised by Customs (yes, it's a desktop; yes, it's for my own personal use; no, I have no plans to sell it and get rich off the profits).
And yet these were mere sniffles before the big snottery gush.
I trudge through international arrivals with more baggage than a pregnant teen and, lo and behold, no placard with my name. Now, I could forego the cheerleaders, the Mexican wave and Russian national anthem to herald my arrival, but the prospect that no-one was there to pick me up filled me with sphincter-tightening dread. I had sent two emails to the school informing them of my arrival-one the week previous, and the other that very day to ensure that someone would be there to pick me up.
Must be some mistake, thinks I.
So I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
After twenty minutes (it's now nearly 9pm), I start getting anxious and decide to email the only contact I have from the school, hoping desperately that he'll check his messages within the next half hour; otherwise, it's going to be a taxi to downtown Moscow and a night in a ridiculously over-priced hotel.
I must admit, though, during those first twenty minutes, despite being (relatively) well travelled and entirely capable of visiting far-flung places on my own, I felt distinctly ill at ease. The language barrier didn't help, but most of all, I think, it was the sense of a faceless Other. Those dark, grim eyes peering at me behind years of Russian culture, regarding me as the hapless tourist, incapable of speaking anything but English and with nary a sense of how to conduct myself in their land. Taxi drivers' offers of 'you wan' taxi?' became threatening with a thinly veiled veneer of contempt; travellers merged into one faceless horde; security officials seemed cold, uncaring and to be avoided. I steeled myself against the panic that had taken hold and repeatedly told myself I'd been in worse situations (which I have).
With some luck, when I checked my phone for emails only fifteen minutes later, my contact had replied and thus began a series of international emails/text messages/phone calls which ultimately ended just after midnight with me being transported back to my new abode by a Russian who couldn't speak a lick of English bar "Problem nyet?"
Still. While I was waiting in the airport, for much of the three hours I spoke to a taxi driver by the name of Samir (from Kyrgyzstan, I think?). We talked shit for a while, as his English was pretty good, and he seemed like a really nice guy-just out trying to earn a buck. That helped put me far more at ease, thankfully. It's not without reason that I panicked so quickly though; Russia doesn't get particularly good press in the crime stakes, but chatting with old Samir helped me realise that not absolutely everyone is out to get you. Just 99% of people.
Fast forward two days. I've now had the chance to meet my flatmate properly, get a security pass for my building (don't ask) and found out where the local hypermarket is to be found. Granted-it was the run up to New Year, but I don't think I've seen so many people in a store before. There were actually areas of the store where around one hundred people were all in an aisle pushing and shoving in order to make their way through. I found, and still find for that matter, this really amusing. There is nothing much else to do than go with the flow. In Beijing, much the same mentality existed and it reminds me that if I were able to deal with that (not without some rabid cursing under my breath, of course), I'll be able to survive life in Moscow.
The Meal of Kings
Q: What do they call a Big Mac in Moscow?
A: ಠ_ಠ
I can't decide whether I'm lucky or unlucky-there are two McDonald's and one Subway near my apartment. My laziness knows no bounds, but it may actually be less hassle to cook than to walk the quarter mile or so in freezing Siberian temperatures for the sheer pleasure of tasting a bit of Ronald's meat.
Joking aside, I can actually remember as a child, just after the Berlin Wall had come down and the Soviet Union had collapsed, the queues to McDonald's were plastered across the BBC news: a testament to the all-encompassing power of capitalism. It's true that I would never be able to visit Moscow if it were still under Soviet rule, but the fact that I can get a cheap burger and coke only a stone's throw away from my apartment makes me feel a little sad about how much McDonald's has penetrated the country. It's what the people want, I suppose, and I, for one, can't bitch too much about it, because if truth be told, I really fucking enjoyed my "Big Mac Menyu".
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| Even after researching for half an hour how to order "take-away" on the internet, I'm confronted with blank stares. For future reference: с собой (pronounced "Saboy") should have the intended result. |
Red Letter New Year
Evidently my new flatmate didn't think that I would be interested in doing anything for New Year (Ah, God love the Australians cause no-one else fucking does), so a little self-conscious, alone and around 1800 miles from where most of my friends would be spending a drunken New Year, I set about reviving a lost tradition from my childhood: watching a series of films to ring in the New Year.
You might say that watching movies for me is like Bill Clinton hitting on women-hardly something to raise an eyebrow over, but bound to end in enjoyment nonetheless. The way I view it, is that creating your own tradition bucks the trend of what is expected of New Year: to be one of the best nights out EVER! And after years of doing the expected thing, I've (slowly) come to realise that a party with some close friends is far superior than going out, paying exorbitant prices for entry to some shitty bar/club, waiting in queues for half an hour at a time to receive watered down vodka lemonades and traipsing home at 2am when you realise that the night is never going to live up to the hype, only to repeat the exact same thing ad infinitum.
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| "Your vodka lemonade is, how you say, like swill to us." |
That I am lacking the very basic components for such a party (friends of any sort in the Russian capital), I spent the evening watching a few movies. Once the expectation to have a "NIGHT OUT TO END ALL NIGHTS OUT™" passed, I found myself having a pretty good time. Particularly as Red Letter Media (the inimitable creators of the Star Wars Reviews) had released their most up to date lambasting of Lucas' third and final prequel "Revenge of the Sith".
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| "MA CAREER'S DOON THE TOILET! Ah...who am ah kiddin'?" |
So, yours truly brought in 2011 by laughing at hammy acting, poorly written dialogue, terrible editing and plot inconsistencies, whilst all around it seemed Moscow had succumbed to World War 3.
The fireworks finally subsided at around 6am.
Check back soon for a hilarious misunderstanding at a Newspaper kiosk that netted me three Snickers Supers, while setting me back the ruble equivalent of about three quid!
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"Wait-what did you just say...about Mein Kamf?"
-D.
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