Tuesday

In Russia: Day 10

Tuesday starts slowly over eggs, sausage, toast, yogurt, and fruit. Setting out, we’re without Faith, our translator. We stop along the way to get trip photos developed; we have albums to fill for the kids. They’ll want to show their friends back at the orphanage the activities and the people they spent time with. Some of them have an inkling we’re doing more than just sightseeing, and they’ll want to show off their new mom and dad. We drop into a photo shop, and since the chaperone and I share about 100 words in common, none of which have anything to do with photography, it is a bit of an enigma if the clerk will understand how many copies we want of each print. She writes on a paper when we should return, and we eventually establish a price, which I think I understand.

We hustle to Red Square for one of Moscow’s quirkiest sights: the Lenin Mausoleum, a cubic pyramid safeguarding either the well-preserved body of Vladimir Lenin, or a good wax effigy, depending on whom you believe. Regardless of my distaste for communism and its poster child, I believe this is one of Moscow’s must-see sights; it’s not every day you see the well-preserved body of a long-deceased world leader. The mausoleum’s hours would make a banker blush; the rest of the time, the corpse stews in preservatives, and occasionally, undergoes a change of clothes. In spite of the care, rumors an ear once fell off circulate. Lenin hoped to be buried; eighty-five years posthumously in a post-Communist Russia, his wish may be granted. Communist Party demonstrators armed with bullhorns, placards, and vintage Soviet Union flags are frequent and fervent protestors outside Red Square, taking umbrage with plans floating to bury the mortal remains of their hero. I find the modern-looking pyramid architecturally dissonant in Red Square, though its design provided seating for Soviet officials atop the mausoleum, watching military parades on important Communist holidays. During the height of the Cold War, American foreign policy workers studied annual Revolution Day photos of the pyramid to determine who was on the rise in the Party by their proximity to Josef Stalin.

In my youth, years before the fall of the Iron Curtain, I read Lenin’s remains were publicly displayed. A history buff even as a child, I added the Lenin Mausoleum to my sightseeing wish list, never believing I would check it off. Twenty years hence, on my first morning in Russia, I visited the mausoleum, and if the sight itself was underwhelming, the fulfillment of a childhood dream was not.

Waiting in a line I feared interminable, filing through metal detectors, checking bags, and under advisement that absolute silence was enforced, we traipsed through an otherwise closed-off Red Square to the pyramid. It was dark inside; a large hammer and sickle, especially creepy in this context, welcomed us. Descending black marble steps in near-darkness, I wondered who you’d sue if you broke your neck. At the bottom, around a corner, there he laid, Lenin, waxy and encased in glass, wearing red tie and subtle smirk. As I paused to see how well the ears were attached, excusing my macabre interest as historical exercise, a humorless guard snapped his fingers and pointed the way out. Up more lightless steps, out the door, my youthful desire bore fruit, absent fanfare, in under a minute.

Exiting the mausoleum, the obligatory walk along the Kremlin walls passes the graves of many a Communist luminary, including Stalin himself. For a time, Stalin kept Lenin company, though today, he reposes outside the mausoleum under a bust labeled “СТАЛИН.” We marveled at the number of red carnations left there by fawning, and historically ignorant, admirers; usually, the Stalin grave has more flowers than do other premiers. His reputation has undergone a bit of a restoration of late, as those who remember first-hand his purges and gulags pass from the scene.

Today, in Lenin the kids see the face of the darker side of their country’s history. Those who are interested appreciate the spectacle; those who aren’t dislike the same. None connect the man to his deeds, and what he did to their country and countrymen.

We cross the square to eat pizza in GUM, then rush to make our tour time at the Armory, a treasure trove of Russian artifacts in the Kremlin. Fabulously ostentatious carriages, Ivan the Terrible’s ivory throne, Catherine the Great’s embroidered gowns, and priceless objets d’art shine in my favorite Moscow museum. It’s an expensive ticket, but worth it. It thrilled me to see my own kids’ pride to be Russian, as they saw the grandeur of the exhibits. Unfortunately, my companions today, both adult and child, are less moved. I am dismayed both by their relief as we depart, and their request to return to the hotel rather than use the Kremlin tickets I already hold in hand. But with seventeen votes for the hotel, one for the Kremlin, I acquiesce. On our way out, we pass a lone violinist in a road underpass, playing Vivaldi’s “Summer,” from the Four Seasons. His gloveless hands red, I shiver vicariously, wondering at the irony of his musical selection. Standing there as long as I do, etiquette demands I drop a few rubles in his open case.

On our way back to the hotel, we pick up our pictures. The quality is sub-optimal, but the order is correct, and far less costly than I thought we’d agreed to. In the hotel common area, we serve cake to the kids and sing “Happy Birthday” in Russian. It’s nobody’s birthday, but we want them to know we love them, and it’s too good an opportunity to pass up.

As I clean up the dishes, an Egyptian man staying in the hotel approaches us. “You Americans are fathers of the world,” he praises. “You even care for children of other countries.”

We’re a long way from home, but apparently exuding compassion. I appreciate the affirmation, but hope more than anything that his words are prophetic.

***

See photos and videos here.

I'm Lovin' It: Photos and Videos

In Russia: Day 7

See accompanying story here.

Gorky Park

Moscow Metro

Dima on the Metro

Down the Escalator at the Moscow Metro

Moscow Metro Crowds

Yuri Gagarin Monument and Cosmonaut Museum

Vladimir Lenin in October Square

Moscow McDonald's

World of Kindness



Lighthouse Kids Ride the Metro

I'm Lovin' It

In Russia: Day 7

Halloween dawns Saturday, but no one dresses up in Russia. Faith makes blini, thin Russian pancakes like greasy crepes, filled with a cream cheese-type mixture and topped with fruit and sour cream. When I know what she’s whipping up, my response is instinctively Pavlovian. Faith is a talented cook, and I love her authentic treats.

Leaving the hotel, we stop at Gorky Park. In summer, Gorky is crowded with families enjoying pricey rides, but today it’s abandoned, except for a man selling rides on a reindeer and a balloon saleswoman by the gate. I’m mystified who their clientele is at this time of year, and I wonder if they’ll find a single taker today.

The cold is everything you’d expect from Russia. The wide boulevards bustle with an eclectic mixture of Soviet-style jalopies, compact European cars, and high-end luxury sedans of Russia’s nouveau riche, so larger streets have underpasses where pedestrians cross. The Gorky Park underpass houses an underground art gallery, where we linger a spell. Confession: I’m less interested in the paintings than the warmth, as this one is enclosed and heated. Outside again, we wander through a humble statue park. The kids stand by an oversized globe called “World of Kindness.” It seems especially fitting for our international group, which is melding famously. At the end of the free park is the Soviet Statuary Park. I am fascinated and want badly to visit. It’s frigid, though, and the rest of the group is disinterested so I defer to them. Faith asks the kids if they know Stalin, Lenin, and Khrushchev. Serious Dima, twelve, and my star of the trip, raises his hand and says he has. Faith confides, “It doesn’t mean anything to them. He’s heard the names, but he doesn’t know the deeds.” She seems bothered by their historical ignorance, lamenting we only learn from history when we study it, but allowing it’s not the kids’ fault. Leaving, I plan I’ll return in January, when it’s even colder.

Europe’s largest city, Moscow is a sprawling metropolis, so we hop the metro to get around. Constructed under Stalin in the 1930s and 1940s, it’s a transportation wonder. Deep beneath the surface, the subterranean stations were intended to serve as bomb shelters during World War II. Unfathomably long escalators transfer passengers to the bowels of Moscow, where they catch their trains and reach their destinations expeditiously. Moscow’s metro is the busiest in the world, so efficient it’s rare to wait more than a minute for a train. A bargain at about 60 cents per ride, the metro is much quicker than navigating the Moscow traffic above ground. A destination in its own right, some stations are works of art, with mosaics depicting scenes from the life of Vladimir Lenin, statues extolling the wholesome virtues of the Soviet worker’s life, bas reliefs of cultural pursuits, chandeliers, and marble. My only reservation about the metro is the crowd. Our adult-to-child ratio favors the kids, and it would be easy to lose a child in the throng. Each time we exit a car, we do a frantic head count to ensure all are accounted for, and we breathe easier when we’re all together again. Faith cajoles the attendants at almost every entrance to let the small children on free, and they find her powers of persuasion irresistible.

We go to the cosmonaut museum, situated at the base of a giant rocket-topped monument for Yuri Gagarin, Russia’s first cosmonaut. Back in the 1950s, Gagarin was the first man in space, still a matter of considerable national pride. Faith asks the kids to name the first cosmonaut and Dima raises his hand, giving the correct answer. The cosmonaut museum surprises me; I would not have guessed such a state-of-the-art museum existed anywhere in Russia. At less than $1 for children and about $3 for adults, the price is right for potential adoptive families. The quality of exhibits is uniformly high, and the kids are mesmerized by the space vehicles and the interactive computer displays. Yulya, twelve, and Larisa, ten, listen with rapt attention as a guide describes a single exhibit to them personally for over 30 minutes. We see two stuffed dogs, Belka and Strelka, who went into space as canine cosmonauts. I appreciate the exhibit information in Cyrillic, since I feel no guilt for not reading all of it. The cosmonaut museum is a hit, and a sure destination for our January trip.

On our way to the Durov Animal Theater, we pass October Square, an electrical wire and exhaust-filled nod to the communists who long for the good old days of the Soviet Union. A large statue of Lenin, the only one still standing in Moscow, supervises a mess of traffic like Big Brother. Before the show, we try a different McDonald’s for dinner. Packed with Russians hungry for a taste of America, it epitomizes chaos. It takes brass to eat at McDonald’s in Moscow, at least if you plan to sit whilst you eat. Faith asks diners who look done if they are leaving. Not enough are, so she starts pleading if some of our kids can sit at their tables with them. I am appalled she asks, and shocked when all say yes. By the time we have our food, Faith has somehow finagled seating for 19 together. Sometimes I rue Faith’s brass; other times I am awestruck. My emotion now is primarily awe; otherwise, we’d all be standing with our Big Macs. For ease, I order ten Happy Meals for the kids, and the cashier is taken aback when told the quantity. She hears I hardly speak Russian, and she thinks I have misspoken. The number and industry of McDonald’s cashiers in Russia is staggering, so I document it for the blog while waiting. This act of international restaurant espionage elicits a passionate tsk-tsk from a guard I hadn’t seen. Russian businesses seem sensitive about photos; if you wonder if picture taking is permitted, take one and gauge permissibility by the response. When the meals come, I am most unhappy to learn a Russian Happy Meal is boxless and toyless. The kids don’t mind, and attack their fries and Coca-Cola with vim; I doubt they know they’ve been gypped. Eating shoulder to shoulder and bumping elbows with the twelve around our table for six, we marvel how McDonald’s tastes better in a foreign land.

Leaving the restaurant, night has fallen. We hightail it to the Durov Animal Theater, worried we’ll be late. I haven’t been to a single museum or performance venue in Russia where attendees keep their coats. Cloakrooms are ubiquitous in Moscow, staffed by blue-smocked attendants who seldom outpace glacial speed. I study them for signs of job satisfaction derived from repetitiously collecting strangers’ coats and hanging them on hooks all day, but find none. We sit right before the lights dim, in time to see a pig pull a wagon, a porcupine jump fences, a hippopotamus waddle in circles, pelicans fly from the rafters, and crows play basketball. The show is mildly amusing, but not enough for me to fend off sleep. In the darkened theater, I doze, only to awaken with a start when a loud noise indicates the end of an intermission I hadn’t known started.

At the end of a full day, we return to the hotel to regroup for tomorrow with our hearts full, our hands cold, and our cheeks rosy. Sunday we’ll find Russia’s most famous sight in our scopes, and I can’t wait to share it with the kids and families. In the hustle of our sightseeing, I wonder if anyone is falling in love.

I'm loving the trip, but can hardly wait to see the results.

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See accompanying photos and videos here.