Drive into Moscow

Drive into Moscow

As the capital of the erstwhile vast Soviet Union, Moscow is a meeting-pot for myriad races. Besides the Muscovites, thronging Red Square for a floodlit celebration or strolling in Gorki Park, there are peasants up from Georgia on shopping expedition, tan-skinned, skull-capped Uzbeks from Central Asia, and slant-eyed Yakuts from Far East. Opulent, spectacular and grandeur city of Moscow has been the epicenter of the canvas of the global civilization. It has been the epicenter of some of the most critical events of history that shaped the world.  Drive through the streets of this city of world’s imagination to collect the impression of its historical past.

Driving into Moscow from the airport, you notice the first huge area of the post-Soviet era with its new blocks of flats. You drive into the centre along the wide and spotlessly clean streets, although, the traffic is growing with each passing year, but humanely, not as fast as the capitals of Western Europe, and it is not yet a problem here. Then you may notice the smell of poor quality petrol, which always tells the visitors: ‘You have arrived. You are here’. The corridor of your hotel – whether new or old – will have a long strip of narrow carpet down its parquet length, and your wash-basin will have no plug: Russians consider it hygienic to wash in running water. Well, it is better to be Roman, when you in Rome. On the landing sits the dezhurnaya, in charge of the floor, who will hand you your key with flash of a stainless steel tooth.

You will have your first Moscow meal, with an interminable wait for service, a deafening band, delicious soup or black caviare, toughies’ meat, and then, one of the best ice-cream in the world, to wash down all in a bottle of Caucasus mineral water. Visit the sanctuary sights and glimpse the izbas – the picturesque old log cabins – which are as the flats are built. Notice the huge drainpipes for the winter snow, the double glazing, the chauffeured Chaikas driving party leaders hidden behind curtains, and of course,  the lack of advertising and neon signs, the hand-painted cinema posters.

The people have sallow complexion; the babies are done up in lace and blanket parcels and carried instead of pushed in prams; square woman labourers drives steam-rollers or shovel or shovel tar – while other women have executive positions. Your eyes are caught by the red machines selling fizzy drinks in the streets at two pence a glass, by the portraits and statues of Lenin, by the political slogans and banner, by the loudspeakers, by the druzhniki or volunteer police in their red armbands. Badges may be pinned on you proclaiming ‘Peace and Friendship’. You learn that tourist always takes priority over Muscovites - ‘our guest’, as we are also called, and the children seem to have the most privileged class: even old people stand for them in the metro or on buses.

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