Moscow: seen, loved and missed
Getting back from Ostankino to the Sholkhov campus felt like being in the streets of Dhaka in Moscow. The tormenting traffic which i had left behind in Dhaka was now after me. Perhaps the only common feature between Dhaka and Moscow is the traffic. During the daytime it’s more than unbearable but after 6 it thins. After 9 you can dream to have a ‘fast and the furious’ drive. Being a victim of Moscow traffic too, is not bad for another reason. Beside the imported newest models of Mercedes, Jaguar and BMWs, it’s also easy to spot the classical models of Lada Nivas and Trabants. President Putin too has a Lada. (With a German engine) the old Dacia and Skoda models still wander about the streets of Moscow. But unlike western cities, they don’t look flashy and well maintained, but looks rather dusty and tired of service.
As our driver parked the bus in front of the Moscow State University Campus, an ugly but flamboyant Limousine brushed past me. It was a hideous and made to order 30 plus feet long Hummer SUV Limo. The car itself spoke of the owner’s peculiar taste. How could one simply have a hummer turned into a Limo? However, that’s none of my business. As it’s my last night so i should try to get pleasure from every bit of it. Enjoying Moscow is incomplete without having a walk along the old and new Arbat. (Read street)
The kilometre long Arbat is a vintage piece of Moscow. In the past, it was the Arbat that elegantly defined the dwellings of Russian nobility. With political transformation Arbat too had changed. Napoleon’s army may have destroyed it but failed to eliminate its importance. After having survived destruction it was rebuilt for a different genre of nobility – artists, novelists and the Nouveau riche , before it became the hub of high ranking officials of the ‘Communist nobility’.
From the first few glimpses, i couldn’t help, but calling it: a cross between oxford street and Knightsbridge. It’s attraction of being a pedestrian street of lanterns and statutes; old and new buildings and innumerable restaurants reminds of the fact, every city should have their own Arbat. The designer brand shops are not meant for this author, but their exterior designs clearly shows how fiercely they’re competing with London and Paris. The Arbat is also the meeting point for today’s’ ambitious and rebellious Russian youth. They’re almost everywhere.
Apart from the Pushkin House-Museum and the ministry of foreign affairs (one of Stalin’s Seven Sisters) it’s the Melnikov House that seemed utterly outlandish within the Arbat vicinity. I don’t want to proclaim if it’s good or bad. Its abnormal features speak of an eccentric architect. To put it simply, it looked like, as if a watchtower has just been converted into a big torture chamber; a small Gulag of sorts.
I couldn’t relate to many things when i was there, but it was later learnt that if one tries to relate the Arbat with names, then they actually represent numerous Russian artists, musicians and writers. Regrettably, as i was not on a personal tour so couldn’t found out more. Perhaps this is the trick of a government funded short trip. It tempts you, allures you to some forbidden rendezvous and then the very next moment you’ll have to get back into the bus for your next destination. The lure to come back again only gets stronger as time passes. Regarding the Arbat, note this: you have to explore it twice, both by night and day.
On our way back to the hotel we took a final pass by the Moscow River that overlooked the Kremlin area. Through the loosely frozen river, a glitzy yacht gently cruised to its destination. Its lavish guests, carrying champagne glasses were haughtily peeping out of the glassed walls in esteem. As if Moscow in the dark was ‘for their eyes only.’ The yacht was soon out of sight; leaving behind a jealous mind in a city tour bus.
On reaching restaurant, i was informed by Tatiana to be picked up by a volunteer called Julia in the morning to be taken to airport. Tried to assume how Julia would look like and the time came for wrapping up my Moscow trip folowing a gala dinner party. Of our group everyone performed brilliantly by displaying some piece of their cultural heritage. Some sang, some said a story and some even participated in chorus - except me. I miserably failed to make the audience laugh with a Joke. The joke, translated from Bangla to English somehow mystified the audience or perhaps our jokes are far too serious for the Russians. Nevertheless, my English interpretation of the national anthem earned me some clapping which at least consoled me.
After packing my things, I purposely opened the window. The frosty wind hit me in the face as Moscow was fast falling asleep. In a few hours I will be heading home. I had shut it after a while and went to bed.
Knock at the door and it was time to say good morning to Julia. Nothing is more gratifying to the senses than being woken up by a dazzling young beauty.
The blonde Julia (without the Roberts) was clad in all black and like the many I had seen, had high cheekbones. She had arrived to ‘escort’ me to the airport. Bad luck was that her English was near nowhere and interpretation had to be done by her Smartphone’s translator. We had reached the airport in less than an hour.
Moscow airport has some cues, leading to banners written in the most orthodox English. The banner leading to immigration says, ‘SUBMIT YOUR PASSPORTS WITHOUT THE COVER’. In reality, you can’t do that without tearing off the cover so you have to read another way. ‘Open the visa page when you submit it’. Another banner of a cue says, ‘PASSPORT FOR RUSSIANS AND ITS ALLIED STATES ONLY’. It felt like, being in the midst of an ongoing war. The last time I came across the term ‘Allied’ was, when I was reading Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich some 20 plus years ago. It’s not criticism for being archaic, but it’s typical Russian. Beyond the customary norms, they like to choose what fits their taste.
To sum up my Russian experience, I have actually missed most of the ‘Magical Moscow’. Maybe that magic is stored for a future visit. My advice, for the ones keen to travel in Russia is: throw away your beliefs about the Russian vodka and roulette. These are too trifling an element that defines Russia. Moreover, very few among the ones I had met, actually drank regularly. A piece of note for the one who enjoys drinking is that due to Rouble’s falling value, the price of liquor is almost the same as in Dhaka. In a Moscow bar a peg of Chivas is more expensive than Dhaka club.
As i kept musing, the Qatar airways jumbo shot up to its maximum speed to take off.
In less than a minute, far below, everything appeared snow-white. I felt sad, I lamented for not seeing much of Moscow; I tried to hide my grief but i couldn’t cry as I believed in the title of Vladimir Menshov’s famous film in my own way: Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears .
The writer is Current Affairs Analyst, The Daily Star
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