Back in the USSR

Actually, an entire generation has neither heard of that song nor of the USSR. The name of the country disappeared 15 years ago along with other Cold War relics like practicing hiding under your desk to survive a direct nuclear hit (those desks were pretty strong in those days!), and Commie propaganda which has shifted from Pravda to the pages of the New York Times.

When I first slipped in behind the Iron Curtain in 1989, it was called the USSR and a few years later, following too much Perestroika, Glasnost, and cheap vodka, the union splintered into several free floating semi-countries and the place was renamed the Newly Independent States – or, the Empire Formally Known as the USSR. Then some weighty thinkers thought it would be better to call it the Commonwealth of Independent States, but there was too much independence in the states so they, whoever “they” are, agreed to call themselves whatever the hell they wanted. So up popped Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Azerbaijan, and maybe even Trashministan. For the moment, though, I am officially in what is now called Russia. Again.

I haven’t been to Russia since 1999 and Moscow since 1996. To say things haven’t changed would be to say that I haven’t eaten too many pizzas in my life.

When I first landed in Moscow lo those many years ago, I essentially landed in the dark. There were few lights on the runway, even fewer in the bowels of an empty terminal, and fewer still along the streets headed into town. The storefronts were dingy and dark, most of them selling nothing because nothing was available. The only “Western” hotel was an oasis built by Armand Hammer which was there mostly to cater to Japanese businessmen who needed a $400 per night hotel and $15 cup of coffee to feel at home. Now I wish I could find a $400 per night hotel; it would be a bargain.

The airport has a new terminal and lights. So do the streets and shops. Once crumbling apartments with falling chunks of cheap concrete are now dwarfed by new high rise apartments with foreign concrete. They also run about $2,500 per month and up or, i.e. Manhattan prices.

The people have changed too. Twenty years ago people dressed in drab, gray clothing and sulked along without expression on the city streets with what was called a “perhaps bag,” aptly named because as they walked, perhaps there would be bread or shoes in the stores to buy. Now even the middle class dresses like a typical American; full of color, well-coiffed hairdos, and fancy footwear. The rich are a different matter. The men look as if they just walked out of a Guys and Dolls rehearsal, donned in hats and zoot suits, and the women apparently go shopping after bathing in a tub of Elmer’s Glue and then run through various designer shops and wear what ever sticks to them.

Tonight I went on the main ring road which I can’t pronounce and neither can the taxi drivers, who find it more convenient to drive me all over town and watch the meter spin, pretending to be lost. I met up with an old friend named Joe who is running a taxpayer funded boondoggle to ensure Russia wants to run politics like we do; which is a scary thought. Just to cover the cost of food and lodging in this town, he gets a per diem of $256 per day which works out to ummm….something like ….. ummmmm well, a lot per month. I’d eat at McDonalds every day and pocket the balance.

Despite the fact the city is lit up like a Christmas tree and has a casino on every block, there remain some obvious charms about Russia. Fall has fallen and the trees are a mélange of brown, yellow, orange, red and green, punctuated by long wispy birch trees that look like the long-legged blonde who keeps knocking on my door at midnight looking for a match (just kidding Gail). Oh, hey, Michigan just beat Michigan State 34-31! Anyway, the natural beauty of the place is worth the trip alone and always has been. One thing about nature: it cares very little about political systems, it only knows to be. And on this crisp fall day, what it is, is very beautiful.