The man struggles against his captors as they drag him up the stairs. I can't help but cringe as his body thumps like a sack of potatoes against each step. I do nothing just like everyone else. As soon as his feet disappear around the marble corner the world regains its natural motion. The bearded man next to me buries his nose back in a newspaper as a woman ushers her children back through the sliding doors. I instinctively follow, stepping in just moments before the doors slam shut. I look back at the now-occupied bench where the man had lain only minutes before.
Stepping onto the metro 15 minutes ago I hadn't immediately noticed the shoddily dressed man lying on one of the benches. The metro hasn't been as crowded today as I've seen it in the past. Everyone to my right is looking in one direction with palpable contempt etched onto their pale faces. I step closer to two men, both donning similar styles of mullet. I see the target of everyone's brooding; there's a man taking up an entire bench to himself. His beard is thin and graying. The brown beanie atop his head is a few shades darker than his muddy coat. He's cradling his head in the crook of his right arm while his left arm is dangling toward the floor. It's easy to visualize the empty vodka bottle beneath his fingertips that has since rolled away.
I wonder why no one has said anything to him as I silently retain my distance. The whine of the wheels drops an octave, signifying an approaching stop. When the doors slowly pry themselves open the sound of a whistle immediately draws everyone's eyes out into the underground hall. Those of us by the gaping doors rush outward in tandem like a rehearsed flock of birds. Running past me in a camouflage blur, the policemen stomp onto the train as those still aboard back away. Without a word, one of the policemen begins kicking the slumbering man furiously. Sitting up slowly in shocked inebriation, the man is grabbed from behind by the second policeman and pulled brutally off the bench and out of the train.
Watching the one-sided scuffle taking place only a few feet away, I backed away toward the old man and his newspaper. The complete silence of the metro is broken by Travis' voice, "That was weird."
I glance over my shoulder to face him. Keeping my voice down to avoid unwanted attention, I reply, "Yeah, it was."
Turning away, another train flies swiftly by. The others' faceless images stream along like colorful shadows inside the light of the other train. I'm sure that we appear the same to all of them.
Showing posts with label Russia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Russia. Show all posts
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Monday, December 6, 2010
Queen of the Port-a-Potties
I'm standing on the bus gazing out the grimy window. In the florescent light I can see the oily residue of too many hands on the bar that I'm grasping. I thank myself for putting on gloves before getting on. Currently I'm wearing black shoes, a black jacket, a black beanie, black gloves, and blue jeans. The snow which fell all night has become a gray sludge blanketing everything outside. I've learned to assimilate myself during my time here: a black wardrobe and a closed mouth are confrontation-free.
Finally the brakes creak as the bus lurches to a halt. Hoping that this is where we want to be, I hop off first just before a few locals. We've been following the directions closely enough, and this seems to be right. No one argues with me, leaving any potential blame for an unintentional detour solely on me. I have to be careful not to slip going down the stairs leading into the tunnel. Homeless children lobby for our attention in the dimly lit subterranean refuge. Handouts. Any change? Just a few rubles? Vendors sell their shampoos, calling cards, magazines, and candy at increasingly lower prices through windows lining the walls. Another slippery stairway signals that we have at last crossed the enormous street.
We're running early and are now confidently on the right track. I see a large shopping center across the plaza which probably offers some additional warmth and accordingly inform everyone. After crossing the street I notice that there are two port-a-potties on the corner. Upon closer examination I learn differently. Inside one an elderly woman has created a home for herself; she has a small recliner which doubles as a bed, a plethora of blankets, a lamp hanging from the ceiling, and a small stove. She is the owner of both port-a-potties. One she has fashioned into a home while the other is her lone source of income. Half a ruble buys you a visit to her john. A resourceful but ultimately miserable way to eke a living off the streets of Moscow. I can't help but stare. She must think I'm considering a visit to her port-a-potty because she begins to wave me over as if saying that's it's currently free for my business. The idea inexplicably repulses me as I turn away. I feel the urge to escape her vision.
The shops are obviously for the wealthy; it's clean inside, well lit, well heated, and security guards stand as sentinels in the vestibule. At this time we know to speak up in our American English. Being American gives us the right to be in high-end stores: we surely have money. The girls step onto the escalators and begin their ascent toward a few clothing stores of which I've never heard. Having reached the top floor a bit later I find a bench. This eastern flank of the roof is glass. I find myself staring again down at the babushka and her port-a-potty home. There's not a chance that she can see me here, but I still feel a pang of guilt. How is it that I, due simply to the language that I speak, am allowed in this beautiful building while she sits there in her plastic hut only a few meters away?
The home is a man's castle. Home is where the heart is. One man's garbage is another man's treasure.
Finally the brakes creak as the bus lurches to a halt. Hoping that this is where we want to be, I hop off first just before a few locals. We've been following the directions closely enough, and this seems to be right. No one argues with me, leaving any potential blame for an unintentional detour solely on me. I have to be careful not to slip going down the stairs leading into the tunnel. Homeless children lobby for our attention in the dimly lit subterranean refuge. Handouts. Any change? Just a few rubles? Vendors sell their shampoos, calling cards, magazines, and candy at increasingly lower prices through windows lining the walls. Another slippery stairway signals that we have at last crossed the enormous street.
We're running early and are now confidently on the right track. I see a large shopping center across the plaza which probably offers some additional warmth and accordingly inform everyone. After crossing the street I notice that there are two port-a-potties on the corner. Upon closer examination I learn differently. Inside one an elderly woman has created a home for herself; she has a small recliner which doubles as a bed, a plethora of blankets, a lamp hanging from the ceiling, and a small stove. She is the owner of both port-a-potties. One she has fashioned into a home while the other is her lone source of income. Half a ruble buys you a visit to her john. A resourceful but ultimately miserable way to eke a living off the streets of Moscow. I can't help but stare. She must think I'm considering a visit to her port-a-potty because she begins to wave me over as if saying that's it's currently free for my business. The idea inexplicably repulses me as I turn away. I feel the urge to escape her vision.
The shops are obviously for the wealthy; it's clean inside, well lit, well heated, and security guards stand as sentinels in the vestibule. At this time we know to speak up in our American English. Being American gives us the right to be in high-end stores: we surely have money. The girls step onto the escalators and begin their ascent toward a few clothing stores of which I've never heard. Having reached the top floor a bit later I find a bench. This eastern flank of the roof is glass. I find myself staring again down at the babushka and her port-a-potty home. There's not a chance that she can see me here, but I still feel a pang of guilt. How is it that I, due simply to the language that I speak, am allowed in this beautiful building while she sits there in her plastic hut only a few meters away?
The home is a man's castle. Home is where the heart is. One man's garbage is another man's treasure.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Sweet and Sour Smoke
I hand the border control officer my passport while thinking, "I hope everything is fine on that visa, because I can't handle taking a flight straight back to Germany right now." It's dark outside. Really dark. I can see a few stars through the clouds as the woman behind the glass scans my paperwork and visa, assuring herself that everything is in order. She hands it back to me, glares at me for good measure, and I walk off. "Russian hospitality, real nice," I murmur to myself. Walking into the concourse, I can see the Aeroflot jet that carried us from Frankfurt to Moscow through a window on my right. I hadn't realized how small it was until now. It's pathetic in comparison to the behemoth of a plane that bore us all from Chicago to Germany a matter of hours before.
After a few minutes' wait at the baggage claim, both of my bags arrive unscathed and apparently untampered with. I yank them both off of the conveyor belt and stand back out of the others' way. It doesn't take long before everyone has their bags except Travis. We wait, but not for long before Gulya arrives and hurries us away toward the exit of the airport. "What about my bags?" Travis asks in his Canadian accent, sounding to me as if he's asking about his "begs." Gulya assures him in a heavy Russian accent that his bags will surely show up soon, at which time she'll come fetch them. Within several days, this will present an interesting scenario for Travis, seeing as how the only clothes now in his possession are the orange pajama bottoms and the black hoody he's currently wearing.
Once outside, my senses are bombarded with the unexpected. The air is utterly frigid and oddly pungent. It reeks obviously of cigarette smoke, but this particular scent is extremely foreign. This new brand of cigarette smells sweetly sour and a bit tangy. I know I'll have to adjust quickly, because right now my olfactory nerve couldn't possibly be more irritated. Gulya leads us straight to a van and has us climb in, luggage and all. We've volunteered to come to Russia to teach English, and this van is the "schoolbus" for our school. Apparently, schoolbuses here aren't yellow. Instead they are gray, caked in murky-brown ice, and are actually large vans with rainbow-upholstered seating.
Our chauffeur races through Moscow's streets. Really racing. He swerves around other cars and slings us around corners. I memorized the Cyrillic alphabet on the flight over, but we fly past every neon sign too quickly before I can sound out any of the strange words. Within half an hour, we pull into the school's driveway. It looks more like a prison to me than anything else. There's a large fence surrounding the grounds and every window on the bottom floor is protected by threatening iron bars. "We'll be teaching and living in this building for the next six months? Great." I say. Gulya glances over, having misread my words for ill-favored sarcasm, and informs me that the principal of the school, Sergei, has turned several of the smallest classrooms on the top floor into apartments for our use.
Inside I'm reminded of an old warehouse. The walls are thick and whitewashed. The decor is simple and sparing, at best. All the doorways are wide and evenly spaced, just like the red-tiled hallways which they border. The school has one small elevator, for use "only by teachers and the final-year students." Luckily, we fall under the teacher category and pack the elevator. It crawls toward the sixth floor, creaking along the way. It groans to a stop, jerks, immediately drops six inches, and the doors finally open wide. Emily couldn't be less happy with the experience. "Whoa, they were NOT kidding when they said the elevator's not in the best shape. I am never stepping foot on this thing again!" I found the elevator ride less traumatic than she, so I make no such promise.
Travis and I wheel my bags to our "apartment," a small room with one window, two twin beds that are awkwardly pushed together, gray tile, and a single armoire made of sagging particle board. We trade questioning looks, and immediately pull the beds to opposite sides of the room without saying a word. Weird, but whatever. The walls in here are plain white, just like the rest of the building, and rough to the touch like sandpaper. I sit down, pull off my shoes, and investigate our floor of the school. Nextdoor to our apartment is the preparation and supply room for the English teachers, a room that would become our refuge from the rest of the city. The bathroom lies behind another door nearby and all the girls find themselves in similar "apartments" on the opposite end of the sixth floor.
It's been dark outside for many hours already, and it's only 8:00 in the evening here in Moscow. I walk back into my room, watch for a moment as Travis stares longingly at my intact luggage, and lie down on my bed. The wind and snow are blasting and howling against the thin window. I soon begin to doze off.
After a few minutes' wait at the baggage claim, both of my bags arrive unscathed and apparently untampered with. I yank them both off of the conveyor belt and stand back out of the others' way. It doesn't take long before everyone has their bags except Travis. We wait, but not for long before Gulya arrives and hurries us away toward the exit of the airport. "What about my bags?" Travis asks in his Canadian accent, sounding to me as if he's asking about his "begs." Gulya assures him in a heavy Russian accent that his bags will surely show up soon, at which time she'll come fetch them. Within several days, this will present an interesting scenario for Travis, seeing as how the only clothes now in his possession are the orange pajama bottoms and the black hoody he's currently wearing.
Once outside, my senses are bombarded with the unexpected. The air is utterly frigid and oddly pungent. It reeks obviously of cigarette smoke, but this particular scent is extremely foreign. This new brand of cigarette smells sweetly sour and a bit tangy. I know I'll have to adjust quickly, because right now my olfactory nerve couldn't possibly be more irritated. Gulya leads us straight to a van and has us climb in, luggage and all. We've volunteered to come to Russia to teach English, and this van is the "schoolbus" for our school. Apparently, schoolbuses here aren't yellow. Instead they are gray, caked in murky-brown ice, and are actually large vans with rainbow-upholstered seating.
Our chauffeur races through Moscow's streets. Really racing. He swerves around other cars and slings us around corners. I memorized the Cyrillic alphabet on the flight over, but we fly past every neon sign too quickly before I can sound out any of the strange words. Within half an hour, we pull into the school's driveway. It looks more like a prison to me than anything else. There's a large fence surrounding the grounds and every window on the bottom floor is protected by threatening iron bars. "We'll be teaching and living in this building for the next six months? Great." I say. Gulya glances over, having misread my words for ill-favored sarcasm, and informs me that the principal of the school, Sergei, has turned several of the smallest classrooms on the top floor into apartments for our use.
Inside I'm reminded of an old warehouse. The walls are thick and whitewashed. The decor is simple and sparing, at best. All the doorways are wide and evenly spaced, just like the red-tiled hallways which they border. The school has one small elevator, for use "only by teachers and the final-year students." Luckily, we fall under the teacher category and pack the elevator. It crawls toward the sixth floor, creaking along the way. It groans to a stop, jerks, immediately drops six inches, and the doors finally open wide. Emily couldn't be less happy with the experience. "Whoa, they were NOT kidding when they said the elevator's not in the best shape. I am never stepping foot on this thing again!" I found the elevator ride less traumatic than she, so I make no such promise.
Travis and I wheel my bags to our "apartment," a small room with one window, two twin beds that are awkwardly pushed together, gray tile, and a single armoire made of sagging particle board. We trade questioning looks, and immediately pull the beds to opposite sides of the room without saying a word. Weird, but whatever. The walls in here are plain white, just like the rest of the building, and rough to the touch like sandpaper. I sit down, pull off my shoes, and investigate our floor of the school. Nextdoor to our apartment is the preparation and supply room for the English teachers, a room that would become our refuge from the rest of the city. The bathroom lies behind another door nearby and all the girls find themselves in similar "apartments" on the opposite end of the sixth floor.
It's been dark outside for many hours already, and it's only 8:00 in the evening here in Moscow. I walk back into my room, watch for a moment as Travis stares longingly at my intact luggage, and lie down on my bed. The wind and snow are blasting and howling against the thin window. I soon begin to doze off.
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