Spring blogs: 5) Moscow

Anyone who decides to start their first trip to Russia outside of Moscow will be steadily bombarded with others' pre-chewed impressions of the capital. I was one of these people. I spent almost six months in Russia before I even considered a trip to Moscow. My Armenian friend told me that it was just a cash sucker: the place where newcomers could make their money, start to live well and then forget about paying for the development of their relatives back in more provincial locations. An other friend, a psychologist from Yekaterinburg, told me that Moscow was synonymous with 'dirt, traffic jams and pointless striving towards money and power'.

They didn't half mince their words.

But the more I heard about this 'dirt', this 'selfishness', this 'striving', the more I became convinced that these negative elements could not exist in a vacuum. In all places I have travelled, there have always been similar, although sometimes better hidden, quantities of human warmth. Under the factory clouds of Magnitogorsk I was given food, a bed and a philosophy on art. Along the Stalinist prospects of Minsk I found a middle-aged women who opened her home and plied me with sunflower seeds. In Riga I met a shy girl who made me vegetarian sandwiches, defended me from a religious drunkard and explained post-Soviet linguistic conflicts. In Cambridge I saw troubled academics dance in frantic circles with creative madness in their eyes. Even in the oppressive environment that is any man's home time I found unique sparks of humanity every day, even though I chose to leave. 

As a result, I became more and more interested in forming my own limited impression of Moscow, if only for a few days. I wanted to at least add my own subjectivity to the millions of subjectivities that form the capital of this huge land mass. In the end, this subjectivity was much different from what I had expected, but no less beautiful.

I arrived on a train from Kazan in the morning. The night before I had made the acquaintance of three women. They had almost immediately noticed that I was a foreigner: in the open 'platzkart' compartments of the train everyone can see you making your bunk. And if you're a poorly train-travelled foreigner with a natural predisposition towards awkwardness and a complete lack of hand-eye coordination, setting up your bed linen will provide great confusion and hilarity among your fellow travellers. At first they'll give you stares of doom, thinking you're an idiot. Then, once you say that you're a foreigner and ask for assistance, they will laugh kindly and proceed to help. This was the case when I failed to realize that I was in possession of a mattress and just assumed that the rolled up oddity at the end of my bunk was some form of bulky, slightly mutilated pillow. I put my bed sheet directly onto the leather bunk and was ready to climb into my uncomfortable nest before I was informed that no, in fact, I was doing everything terribly wrong. I apologized (even though there was no need for apology), resorted to the 'Oh I'm just so helplessly foreign' trick (rather than admitting I'm just a spatial idiot) and was showered in food, tea and curiosity: did I like Russia, what was I doing here, why do I speak Russian, is Ireland really that green, had I been to Moscow before etc.. The lights went out before midnight and our conversation faded into a muffled choir of 'spokoinoi nochi'. Once again my well-versed accounts of why I had chosen to move to Russia had been given yet another polishing: I've started to have automatic answers to these questions, like a GCSE oral exam, but I do try to be more spontaneous sometimes. It feels only human and honest to make my stories a little bit more personal for each individual. In the morning, I was handed more cucumber sandwiches and wished 'good luck' and 'success' by the cohort of friendly women whose names I never learnt and whom I will never see again.  

It was past rush hour when I arrived at the station. Nonetheless, I was still greeted with crowds of mildly-organized chaos: masses of people in huge coats and warm hats were streaming through metal detectors. Some put their valuables in the little designated boxes, undid their belts and unbuttoned their coats. Others seemed to just barge on through. I followed the rules and wasn't stopped. I picked up my mobile, books and loose coins, placed them roughly into the many huge pockets of my winter coat. and walked slowly away from the crowd into Moscow. I saw my first sky scrapers in the station square, admired them for half a minute, too tired for beauty, and then climbed down the steps to the metro. I travelled to my accommodation -- which bore the very Russian name of 'chillax hostel' -- locked my valuables in the safe and placed my books under the pillow.

The hostel was located in central Moscow, but on a quiet, calm street. The buildings around me were relatively tall, but felt empty. The windows had no souls peering out with curiosity and there were next to no cars on the street. I was shocked by the tranquillity of such a central place: wasn't Moscow dirt and crowds? Where on earth was the pointless striving for power and money I had been promised? Where were the greedy bankers rubbing their hands in glee as the poverty stricken workers eat lavash in  a traffic jam? Where were the unwashed crowds of  'uncultured gastarbeiter' (guest workers) Russian people loved to warn me of? Instead of waiting for the hyperbolic realization of others' stereotypes, I remembered one of the beautiful things I love about the huge metropolises that I have come across so far: as expensive and hectic as they can be at times, they give you the possibility to move from different worlds of cultures, lifestyle and wealth just by crossing street boundaries. I was in the centre of the mayhem and the centre was tranquil. Outside I knew that there were various rings of life: areas of chaos, areas of order, areas of ethnic diversity, areas of wealth, areas of poverty: rich men buying their wives necklaces, homeless druggies making crocodile in their squats, parents teaching their two year old children to feed ducks by the pond, grandmothers brewing borsht in their former communal apartments, spectacled students studying till late in the Stalinist towers of Moscow State University, teenagers falling in love on park benches and all the varieties of life that could lie between. The wonderful feeling of diversity and opportunity that strikes any smalltowner on the first day in a large city struck me. 

It took only twenty minutes before one of these opportunities had landed, quite accidentally, into my lap. 

When talking in Russian to the receptionist, the door bell rang. A pink-faced, cute featured, green-eyed slightly stoned young man walked in and started to talk to the receptionist in a very informal manner, swaying relaxed back and forth against the counter. He wanted to know whether the two English girls who were staying at the hostel would like him to show them Moscow.

'What do you mean?'

'The English girls. I want to show them Moscow. Can you tell them I've come to show them come cool places?' (He opened up his laptop and proceeded to show us a pretty interesting website that showcases unusual corners of Moscow.) 

'Do you know these girls?'

'Yes'

'Do you speak English?'

'No. Learnt it in school...but I screwed it up and can't say much.  Well, about from 'hello' and stuff like that' (Nervous self-conscious giggle...)

'You know, those girls don't speak Russian...'

...but I did. 

And so it transpired that for the next five hours I would be the translator for Viktor, an antiques collector. 'urban alpinist' and avid cannabis user from Moscow;  two enthusiastic English party girls from the North and a slightly grumpy, but also surprisingly smiley Australian.  As far as the girls were concerned, Viktor had met them by chance in a McDonalds. Noticing they were drunk, he and his friends had just joined along in the party. The girls had already been shown half of Moscow by really enthusiastic Russians looking to practice their English and so were already used to friendly advances. They gladly invited the guys into their life, especially when they knew they could get a spliff and some relaxed times. Viktor told me he had seen them check-in nearby on facebook and so had decided to go meet them. Not many English girls partying in Moscow, I guess. They had managed to communicate pretty well in the intoxicated atmosphere of party and with one bilingual speaker, but now Viktor would be on his own and he asked me, a smiling and compliant stranger, to help him translate. In return he would show me some odd, abandoned corners of Moscow. 'Screw Red Square,' I thought, 'I might as well go help an antiques collector climb abandoned buildings.'

The abandoned building which we climbed.

'So, what's his job then?' one of the girls asked me as we walked down the street.

I asked Viktor the question and then stumbled over the translation.

'He...umm...manages climbing...well... um...the way he put it is that he manages urban alpinism, which I guess means he helps people to climb buildings.'

'Oh, that's cool!' they enthusiastically cried back.

I had to admit, it was pretty cool and I felt a positive buzz at bringing people together who otherwise would never have found a common tongue.  On the other hand, however, my first real experience of interpreting for several hours at a time was, apart from the aforementioned communicative buzz, strangely exhausting. I sort of ceased to be a person: I very rarely was asked questions about myself. I simply transferred information from one source to another. I learned much about Viktor and the girls' stories, but they would never really know mine. 

Viktor had moved from Irkutsk as a child to live with his grandmother in some sort of stagnating town in central Russia. He had finished school and somewhere between compulsory military service and the rest of his life, he ended up in Moscow: a place that gave him much more freedom to follow his artistic passions, but now, after a few years, it  felt more and more restrictive and was beginning to choke him. After the army he had spent a year 'not doing anything': not working, not studying, just thinking and smoking. Now he was back in work again, but felt ever more trapped by the confines of his city, his language and his country. He needed to 'learn English and get out'. And now, by coincidence of fate or facebook, two pretty representatives of his perceived world of opportunity had just waltzed into his life. 

Viktor decided to take us to the top of an abandoned multi-storey building in the centre. He promised us that on top of the building we would be greeted by a beautiful, panoramic view of Moscow. As we approached the site, the Australian was dubious. 

'Is this even legal?' he asked.

'Doesn't really matter if it's legal,' I said giddily, 'it's Russia. There'll be a way to do things.'

The puppies!

A grey concrete block with broken windows and streaks of decay rose high above our heads. We started to walk towards a barrier to enter. A security guard from the next building came out, shouted at us asking what we were doing and after mumbling something about 'wanting to show tourists the building', Viktor walked off into a corner to talk to the guard one-on-one. Two minutes passed, a discussion was held. Maybe there was a bribe. In any case, the guard soon forgot his stricter tone and became a friendly, compliant type. He was very smiley, quite well-rounded, grey-haired and rosy cheeked. He reminded me of that friendly old uncle who makes jovial puns at Christmas and plays the role of the doughnut-eating cop in American films. He showed us a litter of cute Andrex puppies (i.e. little stray baby golden retrievers) who seemed to be living under a huge barrel in the courtyard and then gave us instructions on how to safely get to the top of the building. He knew where all the stairs where. Maybe he had done this before...  Viktor knew the way without any guidance. He liked to smoke and relax on the roof. He came here quite often.  

Inside we were met with huge grey stairs, elaborate graffiti murals, poetry we couldn't understand, fairly dangerous holes in the flooring and loose wiring. This was obviously a hang-out place for some pretty creative people: they had decided to let their graffiti and art decorate an abandoned mess of greyness.

The building interior.

The poem we tried to decipher. Including looking up the word 'eaves' in the dictionary. Apparently modern day man doesn't understand what that is anymore. I wasn't the only one. 

We reached the top of the building and saw a pretty good view. Nothing too special, though. There was still a bit of ice and snow on the roof and it had the potential to be mildly dangerous. Then we wondered were Viktor had gone, turned round and realized that there was another level to the roof: an old wooden step ladder and then a relatively steep ledge would take us to the very top. The girls happily took Viktor's word that 'it isn't really that scary, you just have to do it' and were soon up. I hesitated, formed a one minute conspiracy with the Australian, both agreeing that it wasn't for us, and then eventually caved in and climbed up, guided by Viktor's hand. The Australian guy came up about 5 minutes later after the same assistance from the same hand and lots of repetition from the girls about how it was worth while, and so much better up here, and you wouldn't even feel it, and you just had to do it. He did it. We sat on the very top of an abandoned multi-storey building, took in a considerably more beautiful view and listened to punk on Viktor's laptop, whilst he read us out his newest English vocabulary from a phrase book he had just bought. He was learning a dialogue between Mr Smith and a hotel receptionist. It was a beautiful start to Moscow.

One of the English girls (who looked really like Rita Ora) braved the ladder. The steep ledge above it was much more scary.

Later that day I decided to leave the girls and Viktor; tired from constantly interpreting, and walked Moscow alone. I was so pathetically bad at getting orientated that I walked for 40 minutes and still didn't find Red Square. At one point I even got on a bus that said 'Red Square' on it, but then realized I had absolutely no way of paying for my ticket, so just awkwardly stood beside the driver as he drove to the next stop, where I got off. It saved me 50 metres, I reckoned, and at least now I could follow the bus's path. But, naturally Sod's Law dictated that by following the bus I actually walked away from the square, not towards it.  When I realized my mistake I comforted myself with a ridiculously overpriced coffee and finished the night in some club with people I barely knew doing things that weren't that special. It was worth it for the 5am walk home, though fresh air and for my bragging smile towards the frustrated early birds of Moscow. But I still don't know why I had forced myself, once again, to go against my nature and attend an environment that wasn't appealing to my mood. I hope it's just the standard masochistic party complex a lot of young people seem to have. I'll probably grow out of it. I really hope so.

A man at the club found me mildly attractive and gave me his phone number. He was a Socialist Revolutionary who strongly disliked the current system and government, but more strongly hated the West. When he talked about the government of Putin, I sensed a huge amount of dissatisfaction, concrete examples including low pensions and lack of opportunities. When he talked about the 'patronizing Western imperialists', however, I saw a much more intense rage. I was a little bit scared he would hate me, just because I came from those parts. I often feel afraid when certain Russians strongly criticize the West, with unbridled anger in their eyes, not because I don't agree with some of what they're saying (yes, I'm also anti-war, yes, I'm also anti uncontrolled capitalism and yes, I'm against a lot of patronizing 'let's help out your poor little people' western style politics.), but because I fear that soon the lines between politics and people may completely disappear. Russians and Westerners need more contact with one another, to remind each other that each side is human, that each side has the same amount of good and bad people, and that the issues are political. Otherwise I fear that the dehumanization of the enemy will create misery and unpleasantness. I know a few Westerners who think Russians are barbarians, and quite a few Russians who think Europeans are part of a huge gay conspiracy to spread immigration (as if that's a virus) and to undermine Christianity and conservatism. Quite frankly, both sides petrify me, and so when people virulently attack either Russia or the West, I often become nervous, fearing that soon they won't just be attacking the politics, but actually the citizens on the other side.

 My conversation partner had a developed sense of nostalgia for the Soviet Union, which seemed a contradiction in terms. I told him that if he was a real revolutionary, he would have recognized that the last 50-60 years of the Soviet Union were just a barbarism and manipulation of the initial goals of communism and of the people who actually dreamed of a fair revolution  He agreed to some extent, but still said that at least his parents had felt safe and secure. He underplayed  Soviet political persecutions, reminding me that 'all states everywhere persecute and imprison their opponents'. We changed topic and he told me about his origins.  He came from Vladivostok and had arrived in Moscow to study and work.  In 2 years he hadn't been able to afford the train journey home to see his family. On the way here, he had fallen in lust or love with a 'straight boy on the train to Moscow. During the 6 day train ride they had developed a strong bond. They spoke a great deal and found out a lot about each other. He had decided that he would try his best to make the boy love him, and, in fact they did end up in bed together a few months later. But their relationship never passed that line. His story faded off.

We bade farewell. I thought I might invite him to dinner some night if I got bored. He had very clear, pleasant Russian articulation. 

The next days consisted of nothing more than me exploring the city by my own and with an English friend. I grew to love it and to love the freedom of just walking with no need for a goal. At this point my narrative of Moscow becomes a lot  less linear and fades into certain memories that I can't order particularly well and so will treat individually (as I often do in my blogs).

I remember...

1) Having a discussion in Spanish in my hostel kitchen with an illegal Cuban immigrant called Luis and a Colombian woman, who was having a mid-life crisis. Frustratingly, I could understand everything they said but found it very difficult to reply, not having practised Spanish for two years. I was forced to be a passive listener.

The Colombian woman's story was simpler. She had studied well and received one of the best educations in her country. She had a good, stable job in Bogota. She was a lawyer or something financial, I can't remember which. But she couldn't find meaning in her life at the moment. Her boyfriend made her feel stuck: beautiful, kind, warm and, as she repeatedly reminded us, making emphatic facial expressions as if she was orgasming right then and there 'so, so, so good in bed'. But still she wasn't happy. And so she had taken a one week holiday to Moscow without him to relax and 'figure things out'.

Luis' story was more complicated. He was working in Moscow as a salsa teacher, although ideally he would have preferred to act and sing instead. 'I'm a three-part act,' he told us in a warmly camp voice. He gave off an energy that somehow infected me with bizarre giggles. He was a good man. Maybe not on the same wave length as me.  Maybe on a far off Cuban salsa wavelength. But it was a well-meaning, positive, radiant wave-length all the same. He was making good money in Moscow and living in the hostel, because it was very practical: cheap, in the centre of town and he already had made friends with some other people who permanently lived there, including Spanish speakers. The only problem was that he was 'an illegal'. 

He began to tell us some shocking stories about his past.  He had left Cuba with an allowance to go to Russia for a month and decided to stay longer, putting himself in risk. He assured us that even in Russia (a place he didn't seem very fond of and whose citizens he depicted as quite cold and brutal),  life was better. Like a lot of emigrants, he wanted to provide for his parents and create a better future.

'Lots of Cubans do this. I know so many of them in  Moscow. Russia is the only country that lets us in. We're supposed to come only for a month. We buy return tickets, but we all stay for longer. We live as illegals. We don't have any rights, but even that is better than Cuba, than feeling you have no opportunities for the rest of your life....'

He told me of two of his transsexual Cuban friends who lived in a flat in Moscow and always entered and exited in disguise at odd hours in case the neighbours started asking two many questions.

He told me of a group of men who had temporarily kidnapped him, asked for a bribe and taken him to Ukraine, before he could escape.

He told me of rich Muscovites, who took him into their lavish world and showed him luxury.

The details of his stories have faded and I fear recounting them for lack of detail; but all I do remember a complete disbelief. A complete saddened disbelief that this person, who had suffered so much, who had the most elaborate, bizarre, surreal stories of misery that you normally encounter only in film...that this person was so positive and ready to share.

'It's what we Cubans are like,' he said with a warm, but nervous laugh, 'no matter what happens to us. No matter how much pain or suffering or horrible, indescribable things, we are always laughing and smiling, looking for parties and friends. We are very strong. Muy fuertes.' 

Unable to fathom words to reply (both through shock and linguistic restrictions), I tried to convey warmth through my eyes. Our conversation partner, the Colombian, was probably much better at this than me. Like many Latinos I know, she had the ability to naturally empathize with the speaker, to mirror his emotions  in her face and to convey huge sympathy and love to a man she barely knew. They seemed like brother and sister. Maybe it was the common language and shared cultural elements. Maybe it was because they were touching vulnerable topics. Maybe it was just my illusion.

'It's a shame. A disgrace that we Colombians turn back Cubans when they come to us. They're suffering,. and we speak the same language, are like brothers and turn them back. It's horrible' 

They were beautiful moments. 

2) I remember...

a large group of Spanish speakers discussing gay rights in Russia suddenly becoming very silent when they realized that I was staring intently at them with great interest. Too embarrassed to reveal I could understand everything they said, but couldn't form the words to make any meaningful comments, I just kept up the facade of a very nosey Russian and watched as they hushed their conversation and said 'he might understand some words. It's dangerous to talk about this in front of Russians.'

If only they had known...

3) I remember...

meeting a man for breakfast and being awe-struck by his ability to pay for a life of luxury. He was the first rich man I met on my travels, and he didn't even think he was rich. I guess our standards differed. For me, being able to buy coffee at 220 rubles a piece alongside breakfast in an expensive restaurant; to make the taxi wait 20 minutes every morning whilst he slowly got ready and to live in a pretty good apartment in central Moscow is a fairly good token of wealth. He seemed oblivious. We continued to drink our expensive coffees on his bill and waste taxi drivers' time at his expense.

He was a good man. We spooned in the end. No sex, just spooning. I can't remember which spoon I was though. I do remember feeling very warm and fuzzy at the first real, genuine, sincere human warmth, skin against skin, I had felt in a long time. 

What a lovely stereotypical Russian couple walking
through Moscow:
a man in a fur hat and a beautiful woman in heels

4) I remember...
wanting to invite the socialist revolutionary for dinner before I left, but confusing his number with Viktor's. We had a long phone conversation without me even realizing that I had got the wrong voice. I was very shocked when Viktor showed up, asking why I had been so keen to see him. We ended up having a very platonic dinner together as he asked me about what the best way was to learn English and whether he would be able to leave Russia. He was so thankful for letting him communicate with the girls that he gave me a collection of about 5 political journals from the period before and just after fall of the Soviet Union. Glasnost and Perestroika were real, vivid terms. I took them proudly. A very good reward.

5) I remember...

almost falling over about 4 times on the way to the airport. I had lots of bags and was hurrying along the newly formed ice. I was like the crazy grandmother who buys 16 plastic bags full of cat food for her home and then teeters along, perilously, over road surface. It was a strange moment in my life.

And so I formed my subjectivity of Moscow. A few memories, a few beautiful moments, a lot of time alone and vague impressions of the street contours and scale of the city. 

It remained a subjectivity. Something thoroughly incomplete. Something that gave no answers and didn't even seem to welcome questions. It just was.

But at least it placed one persistent urge in my belly: a desire to return, again and again and again. To collect these subjectivities, to place them in little rows of misunderstandings and meanings and half-truths and perceptions. I won't ever understand Moscow, but I'm not even going to try. I'll just keep spinning webs of memories and odd little moments of time. I will collect them for as long as I can, returning as many times as I can. A seed has been planted.

The view from the first part of the abandoned building. Doesn't really show the best of Moscow, does it?

SPRING BLOGS (6): SOCHI

[Message to readers: I have many plans for blogs about my travels in the last month. Many are in progression, but I can't keep them in order chronologically for the time being. As a result, let's skip from 1 to 6, and reinstate the ordering at a later date. I wouldn't want to keep you waiting.]

Sochi Train Station

I spent three days in Sochi, but it is probably one evening that I will remember until my dying delirium. All the elements of madness came flowing together -- by the sea, in the night, beside the palm trees -- and spelt out a kiss on our foreheads: the Chechens, the alcohol, the beautifully-odd hiphop boy, the 'little salad' girl and the empty station at dawn.

 It was February and I had decided to come to Sochi in the interval between the end of Olympics and the beginning of the Paralympics: all the hotels and hostels had free spaces, the foreigners had more or less left, and I could find a place to stay. I had been invited to Sochi by my friend, Pasha, a psychologist-in-training from Belarus (I made reference to him in my post about Belarus in March 2013), who was working in the culinary department of one of the many new hotels built in Krasnaya Polyana, the ski resort outside Sochi.

I took a night train and arrived at 5am. I walked out of the station with no fixed direction and only one goal in mind: to get rid of as much fruit as possible as quickly as possible. Before the train ride I had coincidentally bought a huge stock of fruit for the next week (apples, bananas and pears galore) and then, running late, had been unable to bring said fruit home before leaving for Sochi. Now I wouldn't be able to fix my mistake: the fruit was doomed. I knew that before getting on the special service trains (named 'lastochki' or 'swallows')  to Krasnaya Polyana or the Olympic Park, I would have to go through security checks equivalent to those at airports. This, of course, would involve throwing out all my food and any liquids. Bananas, Pasha had said, were considered dangerous items. He didn't really know why, but they hadn't let his yellow fruit pass, and that was that. We can safely say that no bananas have ever graced the swallow trains of Sochi. Maybe that's a good thing. Bananas, as comics around the world regularly remind us, are famously slippery and would have been a huge impeding peril to our Olympic athletes. There would have been countless news reports about banana-injured hobbling figure skaters crying in despair at the gates of the Olympic Park. This would have been unacceptable.

 I shoved as much fruit as possible down my nutritional trajectories and with great regret threw the rest, with a clang, into a metallic bin.  The swallow was waiting.

 Pasha and I met just after dawn in Krasnaya Polyana -- the mountains rose before us, half-covered in mist.  I was exhausted and erratic in my words. Memories are blurred: my art-inclined mind finds it hard to keep things accurate, scientific and ordered in any circumstance, let alone in such a state of deprivation. Nonetheless, before I move on to describing the evening of madness, I will recount some memories of my brief encounter with an old friend.

This is a bit like what Russia looks like. (No relation to the blog. It's just cool.)

 
I remember...
climbing up to the hotel village on the furnicular railway. Before us stretched out a range of raw mountains -- sharp, snow-covered peaks and forests, which soon became completely blurred by the rain and dampness, so that almost nothing was visible. As we rose, Pasha handed me a set of post-cards showing the Belarusian city of Mogilev before the War. I took them gladly and fumbled through them, bemused at my attempts to pronounce the Belarusian language on the postcards' descriptions, and  whilst commenting on them (in Russian) tried to avoid showing any traces of a foreign accent. Admittedly, this mainly consisted of me being completely silent and limiting my signs of approval to nods and the words 'vot eto da, krasivo' ('Oh, that's pretty, indeed'), but nonetheless, I felt proud. Pasha had told me it was important that our fellow furnicular passengers shouldn't find out that I was a tourist: we hadn't paid the ironically steep visitor fees to go up, because, given that all the tourists had gone home, they just assumed everybody was a worker in the hotel village and didn't check our passports.

I remember...
drinking coffee in Sochi and becoming ever more delirious with tiredness as Pasha told me about his views on Gandhi, Buddhism and Hesse. I resolved once again to make an effort to actually read more about Gandhi, Buddhism and/or Hesse. I like these topics. He reminded me that it was important to aim towards honesty and to follow your own path. For the 70th time, I vowed to write a novel based on these principles. We will see when and how my promises to myself are fulfilled or whether I just keep reading the blurbs on the back of oriental books until my dying day.

I remember...
sleeping like a homeless man on the hard back seats of the bus from Krasnaya Polyana to Sochi. My head rested on my bag and Pasha took pictures. People stared at me. 'They probably thought you were a migrant worker. Worked hard all day, built the Olympics with his bare hands, collapsed on his bag, fell into unconsciousness.' 

I remember...
saying goodbye to Pasha as I finally made it dead-eyed and drained to the hostel, ready only for sleep. We promised to meet again, but it didn't happen. He started working, I slept for almost a whole day...

The next memories involve walking alone under the palm trees, getting lost many times, meeting a man who bought me a greasy sandwich, and rushing to the Lastochka. It was 9pm and I was going to Adler (considered a district of Sochi, but really quite far away) to meet someone who claimed to be an artist.

He looked pretty and hopefully hipster on his internet profile. He even seemed to have a bright blue tattoo of a kitten on his arm, he wore bright clothes and he knew how to skate. I thought I'd try to get to know him as I had nothing else to do. His name was V.

We went to a bar that was normally reputed for being 'cool' (his words), but today, unfortunately (once again his words), the locals were out. They were a cataclysmic force, shedding their inhibitions like the old snake scales of the passed Olympics. There were women shouting, and men roaring, and people with sweat all over their anatomies, and people laughing, and really sassy waiters and waitresses who told it like it was and made the kind of quick-witted comments you'd expect in some sort of stereotypical film about independent Afro-American mothers in New York. It was pretty funny. And surreal.

V. sat very close to me on the bar seat, right at my side. I was surprised. He was very 'masculine'-acting and I had expected him to keep a huge distance for the sake of a more safe public persona. But no, it was close, and quite quaint. He told me about his mother: she gets high a lot. He told me about his father: he's a businessman and the reason why V. has lived in many random corners of Russia. Now he lived in St. Petersburg and was working temporarily in Adler.

'When did your parents divorce?' I asked.
'They didn't. They still live together.'
'But you said your dad is very career-minded and hard-working, and your mother just gets high on lots of different drugs a lot.'
'Yeah, he likes her.'

With my prejudice about the feasibility of a relationship between a drug user and a business man exposed, I swiftly changed topic. Actually, no, I didn't. I kept talking about his mother for a long time and then about the effects of magic mushrooms.

V: 'I had a friend who took mushrooms, had a bad trip, and now he's lost his mind. He's sitting in the mental hospital and doesn't know who he is. Or who anyone is.'
'Do you take them?'
V: 'Oh, only a few times every few months.'
'Aren't you afraid you'll also lose your mind?'
'Nope. I don't imagine that happening in the future, so that probably won't happen. I don't think about it.''
'So your friend didn't lose his mind because of the drugs?'
'Nah, it was definitely the mushrooms that drove him insane. It happened just after that time. But no, I don't see that happening in my life.' 

It won't affect me, because I just don't see that happening in my life. 

Ok, I thought, I'm going to run headfirst into a freight train, because I just don't really see myself dying. It just doesn't feel like my destiny.
Then I'm going to eat 40 kg of pineapples in one sitting, because I don't really see myself getting hives. Hives are not in my fate.
Then I'm going to not eat fruit for 6 years and travel the seven seas on a salty diet, because cholesterol and scurvy are really not for me. I just don't see myself as a scurvy kind of guy.

But I moved on. I like to interview lots of interesting people and he was a friendly, pretty boy. I didn't let myself judge. He'll probably survive the mushrooms.

One of the sweaty-faced local people came up to us. He made us toast to his beer several times. Then, stumbling, he asked a question:
'You're gays, right?'
He stared at us.
We didn't answer.
'Defo queer.' 

'I'm bisexual,' V. popped up.

'I respect you.' (A surprising answer. All the memories of the gay-friendly taxi driver came rushing back...)

'You're a couple, right?'
'No we've only just met.'
'Oh, well, your boyfriend is the passive one.'
V. laughed. I felt like I'd like to slip through the floorboards and vanish through the night.
'We've only just met.'
'Come to our party. We won't ask you questions.. about your orientation. We'll just have a fun time. Come, definitely come..'

We didn't go to his party. But we concluded that he definitely hiding some latent homoerotic demons.

Then the alcohol took its blur, our feet created movement and the beach came upon us -- strangely, somehow -- by way of a supermarket.

Along the way to the beach, V. told me about his plans to leave Russia as soon as possible and travel Brazil. I felt a small pang of jealousy, but mainly wonder. After Russia, Brazil will be my next goal and even thinking about other people achieving their adventures through that huge land mass of vibrant cultures makes me tingle.

But I will have to wait for Brazil.

He told me he was a spontaneous man.
'One time I got drunk in Russia and woke up in Barcelona. I didn't have anywhere to stay, so I had to use the internet. I used hornet (a gay social networking app) and I found a man who let me live in his apartment. He was amazingly friendly. We had a great time. He gave me his keys. But then I came home 6 hours late. I thought he had his own copy... But no. He had waited for 6 hours. He didn't like that and he threw me out. Then I found another guy to stay with. But we ended up fighting too. I didn't want sex with him.'

We took a beer in a black bag and sat on the beach, talking. It was grand and beautiful and the colours of the sea, somehow even in nighttime, seemed rich. I was happy to have made a new acquaintance.

But then the Chechens came. One tall, serious man in a taqiyah skullcap, another looking loose and overly friendly. Slyly, they asked for a light. V. gave them one. Or maybe they offered a light. Or maybe they offered a cigarette. I don't know. It was sly, in any case. It later turned out that they were cruising the streets of Adler late on a Friday night, when the locals were drunk and vulnerable, so that they could get them all involved in discussions about their faith. For two hours, they tried to convince V. and me to accept Islam. They kept talking, giving no real natural break to move away. At one point, I changed the topic to at least ask about their lives: what they thought of Chechnya, what they thought of politics, why they had come to Adler. But it always came back to their God and why we should accept his faith.

They told me that I would never know real happiness and calm until I became a muslim.
They told me to look at the night sky, honestly beg to the heavens for truth and that this would reveal -- without doubt -- that Islam was the truth. There would be a sign -- if I 'kept an open heart'.
They told me that they were ready to die for their faith. 'In a second, if I thought it were necessary'.
They told me that they would do anything for a fellow Muslim, that they would give up their lives: that it was an unbreakable community of sacrifice and brotherhood. 'It doesn't matter if he is from Chechnya, Uzbekistan, Nigeria. All that matters is that he loves Islam, and for that we will help him in any circumstance, in any way.'

I asked: 'And what if I'm in a bad situation? Will you do all that you can to help me?'  
'Of course..'
'And the second time? Or the third time?'
'You'll have to accept Islam at some point.'

I couldn't understand why V. was more interested in politely listening to the words of the smiling Chechen prophets than walking away and accompanying me to the bus stop as he had promised. I concluded that maybe, after all, as madly creative and spontaneous as he may have seemed: an interesting style, stories of Barcelona, love for some little-known hip hop trend that was governed by an international cohort of 'mamas' (or something along those lines). Despite these things, maybe he didn't have the wildness that I love in creative persons: the willingness to follow their own world and their own path. Maybe he was just a junkie discussing the prophets and Jesus.

I got offended and walked away.

On the way, a girl, who looked about 16, but was wearing spindly grandmother make-up, beckoned to me to sit on a bench and drink her beer. She was talking on a hands-free telephonic device to some sort of bemused man, who was listening intently to her words and responding with warm-hearted laughter. Her voice was a subsonic purr. A bizarre, seductive, tainted, subsonic purr. It sounded like her vocal cords had been put in a foot-spa for several days, gently rubbed in the ashes of cigarettes and then repositioned in her throat. And, for some reason, she kept saying the word 'Salatik'.

For those of you who don't speak Russian, Salat means 'salad'. Yes, the leafy stuff. And by adding the suffix -ik to the word 'salad', she was imbuing the word with a degree of affection, or reducing it to a level of cuteness. It's hard to translate as we don't have direct equivalents in English. But something along the lines of 'my dear, witty-bitty darling salad man'. Okay, maybe that was hyperbolic. Nonetheless, the main point is the following: her term of affection for the man on the other end of the telephone was 'SALAD'. I felt like I had arrived in a bizarre parallel universe where it is normal to see leafy, starch-filled dietary components, renowned for their wrinkly greenness and low-calorie content, as cute (Maybe she really likes salad finger s
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3iOROuTuMA )

 Her conversation went like this:

"Salad, my darling! A young man has just approached us!...I'm going to give him some beer, salad! Oy, I miss you so, dear Salad! Ukh, Ukh, you're my little salad man!

Nooo, Salad, he's a good man! It was me who invite him to sit with us on the bench, Salad! .. Oh, you're my cute little salad!

Drink up your beer, young man!

Oh, my dear Salad, you're just too good!"

I drank some beer, began to fear it may be mixed with hallucinogenics and bade farewell to little salad woman.

I had nowhere to go, very little idea of where I actually was and absolutely no battery on my phone. Luckily, however, I was wearing a huge coat and in its vacuous pockets I had shoved both a book and my charger. I  walked some vaguely familiar streets until I found a 24-hour Japanese cafe, asked the waitress for a seat by the plugs and for 2 hours charged my phone and sat on the internet, recounting the tales of the Chechens and the Salad woman to some British friends who, due to the time difference, had not yet gone to bed.

At 5 am I decided that the first public transport should be running. It was just after the Olympics, after all. I was expecting the infrastructure to cater towards the needs of early Sunday morning drunkards. My map on my phone was too touch-sensitive: if I pressed to zoom in, it would zoom in to show me miniscule details of unnecessary building components. If I gently tried to zoom out, I ended up studying Russia's southern borders. As a result, I just walked in the hope of finding something. A bus stop came across my way. The next service to Sochi was in 45 minutes. It seemed a hopeless wait. I decided to take the approaching bus to the station instead -- there were bound to be regular trains (swallows, remember?). I arrived at the impressively built building (a new Olympic project) which was strongly illuminated, brightening the night, despite being largely deserted. It turned out the next train was in 2 hours. I would have to wait. In my exhausted state, I couldn't even find the waiting room. I sat on a radiator, closed my eyes and gently hated life for approximately 120 minutes.

I got on the train to Sochi, fell asleep and was awoken by a police man on arrival. I was rather startled from my brutal awakening and scared he would arrest me for no reason ( perhaps not a very logical early morning thought). Instead, he just woke me up.

On arrival to the hostel, I was ready to sleep for 4 hours before getting a train to leave Sochi. Instead, opening the door to my room, I was faced with the last event in the chain of surreal circumstances: on my bed there was something I had not expected. A man. A fairly naked man. Sleeping on my bed. Underneath my stuff. Calmly recovering in the world of dreams.  Probably drunk. Definitely very much asleep.

I tried to call the hostel staff to try to get somewhere else to stay, but I didn't have money on my phone. The Gods were conspiring in bizarre ways to deprive me of sleep. After 10 minutes the cleaner turned up. I explained the situation.

'That's awful. A disgrace.' she smiled, as if she were my mother comforting me on the loss of a relative.

She was friendly and warm in her outrage. I felt reassured.

'Why don't you take your stuff of the bed? I'll give you a private room for a few hours.'

I took my things from on top of a sleeping man, moved to the private room and fell asleep, finally, in the mix of fluffy pillows and thick blankets that are provided for those guests who pay more. The sun had already risen behind the curtains. I was confused, bemused and content.

Later that day instead of leaving Sochi, I ended up at the house of a cutely-bearded Armenian boy who drew comics for a living. He listened to my story, made me tea and gave me a massage to relax, until I fell asleep, once again in a colony of pillows. He seemed to take less drugs than the first man and took care of me for a day. It was a good end to my Sochi adventure. Many interesting boys, a salad girl and some Chechens.

Spring blogs: 1) An attempt to begin

People who have read my blog before will be well aware of one truth: the less I write, probably the more I am living. In recent times this general rule has reached one of its most perfect culminations: in the last month I have returned to Krasnodar with plans of stability and tea, had a strange bout of mental awakening, left all my obligations behind and moved to the road.

Let me explain.

I arrived back in Krasnodar under a form of mental pressure that, in some ways, I had created for myself: I had taken the decision to return to the south of Russia after Christmas in advance. This was not because I had a strong desire to return to a particular place: it was purely because I had been forced to make a decision about my future a few months prior to the actual event. I wasn't paying for my tickets home: my parents had decided to do it as a Christmas present. Moreover, I knew that if I wanted to go somewhere else in Russia for a longer period of time it would require: a new visa, a lot of planning and a wait of over 2 months (Visa invitation: 6 weeks. Various interactions with universities or inviting organizations including endless self-gratifying reworkings of my CV: minimum 2 weeks. Visa hassle at the embassy in London: probably 46 years + VAT.)

This goes against my nature: I have, admittedly, always made vague plans in advance, but merely in a dreamer-like state. I rarely achieve these dreams in a concrete sense: they motivate me, they let my mind find a creative space and they pass the time. But when it comes to making a big decision, I normally take it completely at the last minute and often on a whim: I don't understand how it is possible to process all the ups and downs of a certain action as if I were the emotionless inner cell of a super computer and, moreover, so many factors are unpredictable. As a result, to date my majorlife decisions have  been somewhat spontaneous and a little bit emotionally mangled. An example: I only applied to my university in England at the very last minute, having been pressurised by a certain teacher who had called my house phone, invited me over for tea and persistently convinced me for several hours that I wasn't too inadequate for Cambridge.

As a result, when my father asked me whether I would return to Krasnodar after Christmas - in October (OCTOBER! THE TIPS OF THE LEAVES WERE BARELY ORANGIFIED!), I soon replied something along the lines of 'alright then'. I was quite happy at that point in time and I couldn't face disappointing him with steeply increasing flights. If I had had my own way, I probably would have made the decision the night before, spent 700 quid on a one way flight and ended up raising flocks of sheep on the slopes of a Tajik mountain. This, however, did not happen. I fear the restless flocks of Tajikistan must continue their impatient and brave-heared wait for an Irish shepherd.

I digress.

After Christmas, I returned to Krasnodar with an odd feeling: I couldn't decide whether I would like it or not, but something was telling me that, probably, not. I flew to Russia through Cambridge, where I had decided to visit my old friends, but ended up just getting horribly ill and sleeping with a stiff neck on a sweaty sofa bed for 13 hours a day, probably disappointing all of those I had decided to smother with unpredictable Russian love. The old streets of Cambridge faded into a beautifuly familiar, but cold and infected blur. I left the city with a feeling that I was close to facing doom (not because I was actually in the throws of a liver cirrhosis or almost croaking the Marseillaise on my death bed, but because I like to fill myself with hopeless dramatic pride in adverse circumstances: especially when I am a reduced state of health.) The journey consisted of the following elements:

1) A 15 minute taxi to Cambridge train station
2)  A 40 minute train to Stansted Airport, London
3) A 2 hour wait
4) A 5 hour flight to Istanbul
5) A 6 hour wait in Istanbul's favourite airport! ... No, not the nice one in the centre that bears the name of the nation's modern day founder,  Mr. Atatürk, but rather the one that is in Asia, is seductively known as Sabiha Gökçen and is full of ridiculously overpriced services, including wifi access that you pay for, not knowing in advance whether it is actually going to connect or or not. In my case: not.  

The airport is both vast and small: it seemed to me that the distances between shops were large and formidable like the prospects of some Stalinist city, but the actual space the airport occupied was rather small or, at least, navigatable. But then again, this could be wrong. After all, I was high on over-the-counter narcotics. The best way to counter any bout of the cold/flu: get off your tits on paracetemol. In any case, a bottle of water is priced 'ridiculous'. But that was to be expected.

The building is full of really edgy looking (in the good sense of 'edgy') backpackers who are half their way to India and have already descended on the phemonenom of dreadlocks, and lots of really confused Russian-speakers who are transferring to... well, somewhere Russian-speaking. One of these Russian-speakers included an old couple who had arrived for their holiday in Istanbul and, not knowing a word of either English or Turkish, queued up at the transfer desk where they proceeded to show the staff their hotel registration. I felt like a hero as I explained to them that they were, in fact, already in Istanbul and they could just calmy leave the airport. The exit was to their right. I really hope they found their way. Cute people.

 6) A 2 and a bit flight to Krasnodar. Well, supposedly two-and-a-bit. We ended up waiting on the runway when we had arrived for about 30-40 minutes. I didn't really understand why. I think it was something to do with steps. In any case, I was coughing every two seconds with my plague-like symptoms and, having run out of tissues, I was receving rather dirty looks. I felt like the little boy at school who has soiled himself on the bus to a field trip and can't do anything about it until arrival. Dirt, infection, dirt, disease, infection, the disdain of the Russian soul to the coughing old goat.... But then a Turkish woman gave me a pack of tissues and it was all dandy.

7) An extra wait that was reserved exclusively for foreigners. Our airline had forgotten to hand out landing cards before landing (I had even grown nervous and requested them with that help-button thingy during the flight, but they dismissed my worries) and, as a result, we were made to wait another half-an-hour in a fairly cold, dismal space (the doors both existed and failed to exist. There is no way to describe) as the immigration people chased up the airline. Finally they brought to us the little paper forms, we filled them out and passed through the border.

I then went to a taxi, where the olive-skinned Armenian driver decided to tell me he was 'black' (He meant he wasn't Russian) and informed me that the best way to rid myself of my cough was to drink some sort of special spicy vodka, plus tea with honey, and to 'fuck a girl'. I only drank the tea with honey in the end. For some bizare reason which I'm sure none of you will understand, I didn't feel like using my financial resources to order some sort of vodka-bearing seductress and ask her for copulation.

He was definitely chauvinist. But, on the other hand, he was kind and friendly to me. One of the constant contrasts you get when travelling: you meet people with political views you find either out-dated or a tad abhorrent and yet they shower you in kindness. I've learnt that this isn't even a contradiction of terms: it's just ignorance or difference, however unpleasant, that doesn't stop someone from being a realitively good human being.

At some time in the depths of the caucasian night, we arrived at my new home. I was going to be living with a psychologist and her grandmother, both of whom, as I expected, are kind people. The grandmother, despite being well over 80, is completely physically fit and constantly active: she makes jam. She mends clothes. She makes more jam. She makes tea. She makes pickled cucumbers. She goes to the shops and the dacha. She worries (constantly) about her children and her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren and even about me. On one ocassion, when I slept until 3pm (a normal student) she told my room-mate that she thought I had died. On another occasion, she 'almost sent the police out' to look for me because I decided to sleep at a friend's house.  This sounds restrictive: but really it's not. She's far too cute and good-hearted to make me feel restricted under control. She is also absolutely full of advice on healthy-living, constantly telling me which products to take when you're ill ('Onion!', 'Honey!', 'Garlic!'), plus, of course, the stories of her life. Here are a few quotations  (paraphrased from my memory):

'I don't understand why young people don't eat enough bread. Bread is the second gold. When we were starving during the war, we could barely move. But when they gave us bread, our strength came back and we could move again. Brother kept the bread in his mouth for as long as he could, until it dissolved away, because he loved the taste so much.'

'You should get married, dear Daniel. You need someone to mend your jackets and shoes. My husband was always nice and clean and presentable. He would be standing on the dusty tram stop in the most beautiful white shirts. I loved him so much and he loved me. I always took care of him as best as I could so that he became the envy of the neighbours. A good man, who did everything for his loved ones. May the eternal kingdom be upon him.'

'I'll have Putin any day. Putin is stability. Putin means that you know tomorrow that you will have enough to eat and a roof over your head. Before him people were poor and times were so confused. We don't need a new president: food, a house, loved ones, order - what more do you need?'

Nonetheless, despite the human warmth of being given such care, I was feeling very unsettled. I felt like a phase in my life had past: I loved my old clients (English teaching), but I didn't want to keep doing the same thing. Nor did I want to keep following the courses at my university. Some of the warm people I had left behind were still in the same places, but they were happy up high in their apartments and in their relationships and I was somehow mentally demanding more. I felt lonely in a place I used to know. 

I put pressure on myself to return to the life I had before christmas. But phases pass. And although things were good, in some way they were now over. It grew cold and the ice started to fall from the trees. The roads became blocked. Houses were damaged, the park near were I live was full of torn-up branches...Something was cracking.  



I needed to leave. 

 I called my friend in Yekaterinburg (whom I had never seen in real life, only through active correspondence). I told him that in 2 days I would fly to see him, despite the money, despite the risk, despite the fact that it required abandoning all my plans indefinitely. He told me to come live with him, find work and clear my mind. I quit my job last minute, flew 2500 miles away and left everything behind. Adventure was better than confusion, boredom and the odd mental state I had tangled myself into.

He greeted me in -30 cold at the airport at 2am.  He gave me a handshake. I didn't know if and when I would return to Krasnodar...

1 month has passed and I have no regrets. It's now my task to keep you informed of what has happened. But for now, I think you can wait. This is, after all, only an 'attempt to begin'. 

 

Harassment and homophobia in high class Sochi hotel on the eve of the Winter Olympics

A post I have translated into English from Vladislav Slavsky, LGBT activist based in Sochi.

Park Hotel, Sochi: a venue that caters for huge numbers of guests, including foreign journalists and celebrities. Officially this is a 4 star hotel with staff trained in English. Walking past, I decided to pop in to drink some coffee. The bar was on the ground floor. After some time a drunken man walks into the building. It turned out later that he was a friend of one of the security guards and that he himself is a security guard (working in a different location.) He walked up to the bar and started to pester both the male and female bar staff. Then he approached me, grabbed me by the hair and started to say homophobic slurs (‘fag’ etc.). I called security and demanded that they remove the inebriated man from the hotel. They led him away and said that he should understand that this kind of behaviour is unacceptable, given that he is a security guard himself. With the security guards supervising him he seemed to calm down, but later he continued to harass the bar staff. He offered me anal sex and insulted me by calling me a ‘rooster’ (an offensive term from Russian prison slang, making reference to homosexuals, who are often forced to participate in humiliating sexual acts by their cell mates). I said that I was going to call the police and began to dial the number on my phone, but no one answered my call. I complained to the security once more about the behaviour of the drunken individual. T

he security guard responded by walking up to the man and asking him politely to leave. When he realized that the man had no intention of doing so, he proceeded to simply stand by the man’s side and monitor his behaviour, as if he were some sort of nanny. Later on the man finally left. The security politely bade him farewell. I remind you that this is a hotel that caters for international guests…

The woman at the reception informed me that the drunkard used to work there. She apologized for his behaviour. But the security made no attempt to do the same. It’s a disgrace. Maximum repost! Spread awareness of ‘olympic tolerance’ in Sochi! 

Моя Россия

WARNING: NOT IN ENGLISH. ЛИЦАМ ДО 18 ЛЕТ ЗАПРЕЩАЕТСЯ.

Недавно вернулся в Ирландию на месяц, чтобы отметить наши главные праздники в окружении семьи. Я общался со старым другом, и он сразу же задал мне вопорос, на который я затруднился ответить: изменился ли я, пожив четыре месяца на Юге России?

Я сразу же подумал: кого надо спросить? Самого себя, окружающих родственников и друзей у себя на родине или российских знакомых? Ведь спросить о мнении англоговорящих друзей и родственников, возможно, бесполезное дело. В конце концов, они не могут видеть мой внутренный мир, и даже если мы затрягиваем более глубокие темы в нашем общении, я не могу показать им все аспекты моей русскоговорящей личности. Ведь если я говорю на английском, то автоматически переключаю свое поведение на британские ценности, чтобы оно соотвестволо правилам вежливого поведения в нашей культуре. Я же никого не хочу обидеть. Не буду там смотреть на моих британских друзей с типичным русским выражением лица и речевым стилем, не улыбаясь, грызть семечки, пропуская артикулы и пользуясь повелительной формой наклонения императивным тоном. Если я друзьям скажу "Sit down! Eat!", как принятно в русском языке (Садись! Ешь!), они подумают что, во время моего пребывания в России, я прожил в каком-то сибирском Гулаге, где я научился вести себя особенно грубо. Сомневаюсь, что они увидят в этом те ласковые чувства, которые я хотел бы им передать.

При этом, русским следует запомнить, что у нас не принято ставить больше одного восклицательного знака или писать целые фразы заглавными буквами. Если напишу другу смс типа "ПРИЕДЕШЬ СЕГОДНЯ???!", то наверно, подумает, что Россия сделала меня маньяком, что я с ума сошел и что надо хорошо запереть все двери, чтобы я ему не отрезал голову во время сна. Хотя, признаюсь, вернувшись в Ирландию, иногда хочется писать заглавными буквами. ЗАБАВНО когда друзья думают, что ты псих.

РУССКИЕ ОРУТ

Я однажды спросил у своего друга, армянина, почему же русские всегда говорят "Садись! Одевайся!" и прочее? Не лучше ли сказать "Можете одеться?" или "Присаживайтесь, если вам по душе"? Я же не ребенок. Давно отвык от такой формы общения.... И еще, добавил я, почему русские считают правильно совать нос не в свое дело? Люди на улице любят кричать незнакомым людям вслед, что они что-то "не так" делают.  "Молодой человек, одевайтесь потеплее!" , "Так нельзя перейти дорогу!". "НАУЧИТЕСЬ ПРАВИЛЬНО ВЗВЕШАТЬ ФРУКТЫ В СУПЕРМАРКЕТЕ!". Я же самостоятельный, взрослый человек, не знаю этих людей, и вообще, какая же им разница, как я перехожу дорогу, как я одеваюсь и как я взвешиваю бананы! Пусть я заражусь чумой в вечной мерзлоте! Пусть я попаду под грузовик из-за неосторожности! Пусть мне продадут эти абхазские мандарины за 100 рублей, вместо 50! В менталитете моего народа такие вопросы – мои проблемы. Я сам, как разумный, взрослый человек, смогу узнать свои недостатки и поправить их. Но ладненько, если незнакомые люди считают, что мне срочно нужна помощь, то пусть они обратятся ко мне вежливым и мягким способом. "Извините, господин, давайте я Вам покажу терпеливо и медленно, как взвесить эти мандарины."

Друг мне ответил: "Это русские такие. Таким образом они показывают свою любовь, свою дружбу. Если мама на тебя орёт "Почему ты так странно носишь кепку? Почему ты так бросаешь куртку на пол?", значит: любит и заботится. А если незнакомая баба это делает, значит, она тебе реально хочет помочь, несмотря на то, что тебе, как европейцу, кажется, что её интонация агрессивна и невежлива, и что она очень неудовлетворенная женщина, которая хочет вмешиваться в дела чужих и испортить настроение всем".

В итоге, могу сказать, что, вернувшись в Ирландию, не буду кричать на людей на улице. Так у нас нельзя. Люди воспримут это как особо грубый признак враждебности. Значит, в этом плане, я еще «нерусский». Или по крайне мере не «такой» русский. Хотя, правда, уже не боюсь кричать на водителя маршрутки "ОСТАНОВИТЕ, ПОЖАЛУЙСТА!". Раньше я и этого боялся и у меня были ассоциации, что громкие голоса отражают гнев и враждебность. Но когда ты трижды проезжаешь остановку из-за того, что никто твою вежливую британскую интонацию даже не слышал, и все кончилось тем, что ты остался в 11 часов вечера на остановке "Хрен его знает где" в самой глубине Адыгейской Республики, то быстро учишься кричать на водителя как рожающая самка бегемота. Но все, это уже достаточно теоретический вопрос. У нас нет маршруток. 

 Еще осознаю, что я стал более готов к общению с незнакомыми людьми. Если мне нужно, чтобы кто-то указал мне дорогу, то просто подойду к нему и попрошу помощи. До того, как я приехал в Россию, я этого стеснялся. У нас многие ненавидят мысль о том, что, может быть, они каким-нибудь им неизвестным образом мешают соседям или незнакомым им людям. Может, все таки лучше смотреть на эту мокрую изорванную карту в восьмой раз? Вдруг найду улицу, которая, видимо, больше не существует... и может, если я буду достаточно долго  смотреть на того дяденьку, делая особенно обеспокоенное выражение лица, он сжалится надо мной, осознает, что мне нужна помощь, и улыбаясь, мне покажет, как найти то или иное место. Сейчас уже не буду стесняться. Я у всех помощи попрошу. Ведь не хочу ждать всю жизнь под дождем с мокрой картой из-за возможной обиды какого-нибудь незнакомого чувака. Спрошу. Узнаю. Найду. Всё. Проехали.

БОЛЬШИНТСВО РУССКИХ НЕ ЛЮБЯТ "ГОЛУБЫХ" 

Что касается политики, мои взгляды не сильно изменились. Общаясь с большим количеством геев, я узнал, что ситуация для них реально настолько плоха, как у нас рассказывают в СМИ. Многие ненавидят сами себя. Многие говорит, что сами геи виноваты в том, что общество их не принмает ("Они манерные и женственные, а я же нормальный!". "Они требуют каких-то прав! Надо было молчать и общество вообще забыло бы про нас и оставило бы нас в покое!", "Они все хотят одного. Конечно же, общество думает, что мы просто извращенцы!")  Многие не верят в будущее. Практически все геи говорят, что уедут в Европу или Америку. Хотя, видимо,  мало кто из них успеет достичь такой мечты.

 От троих совершенно разных людей я слышал похожую историю: : они мне рассказывали, что их любимого парня убили из-за того, что он любит человека своего пола. Наказали ли государственные органы этих преступнников? Да нет, ты что? Они же геи. Обратились ли они в полицию? Бесполезное дело, говорили, полиция геям не поможет, и родственникам будет стыдно, что сына или брата убили по таким "неловким" причинам. 

Печально, что в России так мало людей, даже среди образованных, которые готовы узнать, что тот, кто влюбяется в представителя своего пола, не извращенец. Извращенец - это тот, кто занимается какими-то секусуальными приключениями, которые приносят вред другим. Разве не так? Геи, наоборот, сами решают, что они хотят спать с человеком своего пола. Они взрослые. И занимаются сексом с согласия партнера. Они влюбляются. Они пишут любовные стихи. Они покупают мебель вместе в «Икея» и заваривают друг другу крепкий чай.

Общаясь с этими людьми, слушая их голоса и слова, я все глубже стал понимать, что любовь проявляется во многих разных формах, а если люди счастливы и никому не приносят вреда, то надо радоваться и давать этим людям возможность дальше развиваться. Надо верить в то, что любовь победит ненависть. Кстати, у меня интересная новость для "традиционного" русского общества. Вы же знаете, что то бы вы не делали, как бы вы не запрещали, люди будут заниматься гей-сексом? Им же нравится! Они родились такими. И в Советском союзе, когда вообще всякое "мужеложство" было запрешено, и в Древней Греции, и в Афганистане 14-ого века люди счастливо занимались сексом и любили друг друга. И дальше будут счастливо заниматься сексом и любить друг друга. Вот такие вот дела. Не завидуйте. Все нормально. 

РУССКИЕ РЕЛИГИОЗНЫЕ

Опять к политике. Мои взяглды не сильно изменились. Я слушал мнение многих людей в России. Когда мне казалось, что мнение-то релевантное или основано на хорошей логике, то серьезно задумывался об этих делах и часто верил в то, что человек мне говорил. К сожалению, такие взгляды в России - редкость. Я узнал, что Россия очень религиозная страна. Не то что люди ходят в церковь каждый вечер, целуют золотые крестики или читают Библию в перерые между парами. Нет, такого я не видел. Зато я заметил, что много кто думает религиозным образом. Имеется в виду, что человек слепо верит в то, что родители или авторитет ему говорят. Все черно-белое. Серый цвет редко встречается. "Родители сказали, что это так, значит это так!" "Может, мой взгляд не совсем логичный. Ну и что? Россию умом не понять! Надо верить в нее!". Я бы даже сказал, что и во время Советского союза, люди были религиозными. Надо было верить в Коммунизм, в блестящее будущее. А тот, кто задавал слишком много вопросов и критически, как любой умный человек, как любой ученый, относился к "правде", мог легко попасть в очень неприятные ситуации.

Мне кажется, что в современной России, если человек отрицает то, что родители, или преподаватели, или начальник ему говорили, то полностью отрицает. Значит, либо Путин молодец и чиновники-то злые, либо Путин- Антихрист и виноват во всех наших бедах! Понимаю, что могу переувеличивать. В России если бываешь в правильных местах, то обязательно познакомишься с умными людьми, которые попытаются достаточно объективно толковать любую ситуацию. Но боюсь, что эти люди – меньшинство. Да и вообще, умные люди везде редкость. Но в отличии от нескольких стран, в России тупые очень редко воздерживаются от коментариев и часто высказывают свое мнение, даже когда никто об этом не спрашивает, да и не интересуется. Может, это хорошо:  всегда знаешь, с кем водишься. Может, это плохо: люди не оставляют друг друга в покое и негативные мысли распростряняются повсюду, как особенная вредная зараза.

Россия для меня, действительно,  страна контрастов. Я познакомился и с самыми тупыми и с самыми умными, прогрессивными людьми нашего времени! Иногда общаешься с людьми настолько развитыми, с четкими мыслями, что прямо думаешь, что этот человек родился не в России, и даже не  в какой-нибудь оксфордской семье академиков, а просто из Космоса прилетел сюда, принеся с собой самые интересные интерепретации нашего мира и нашей задачи в нем....С другой стороны, пацан в автобусе тебе скажет, что Европа обречена из-за того, что Элтон Джон делает всех детей геями, показывая свои красивые платья. Причем, вы разве не знали, что Ирландия и Шотландия – это одно и тоже? И еще не забывайте, что в Шотлоирландии (это одна из республик Великобритании, наряду с Исландией и Голландией) все носят юбки, танцуют традиционные танцы и едят Лепреконов.

 Но ладно, я готов многое простить. Быть невежественным и быть тупым - это разные вещи. Да, и много тупых и добрых есть. Правда, что у нас обычные люди мало знают о России. Не скажу, что мы реально представляем себе страну пьяных медеведей, играющих на балалайке, но все-таки не понимаем поведения русских, которое нам кажется особенно строгим и категоричным, не знаем, где находится Архангельск, и да, думаем, что в Сибири люди любят бухать из-за холода.

Я стал сам защищать Россию в определенные моменты. Нет, не все злые, это тебе только так кажется из-за отсутсвия улыбок. Нет, не все аспекты её внешней политики плохие. Нет, не все ненавидят Запад. Хотя я должен признать, что, по моему опыту, практически никто на Западе не думает о России в бытовой жизни. Вполне реально, что пройдет несколько месяцев в типичном доме и никто даже не произнесет слово "Россия". Что же это такое?  Россия - это какая-то далекая холодная пустыня с хорошей литературой и большими ресурсами. А в России наоборот. Все смотрят западные фильмы, читают западную литературу, говорят о том, что жить в Европе лучше или хуже, и обсуждают вред внешней политики Америки (причем я с ними часто соглашаюсь в таких разговорах. Но конечно, не всегда. Россияне часто страдают от паранойи, думая, что в мире больше врагов России, чем  на самом деле. Бывают враждебные моменты. Но успокойся, все нормально. Америка тебя завтра не захватит. Тебя не заставят жрать гамбургеры и петь в честь Обамы. Попей чая, почитай книжку и ложись спать. Родина не погибнет.)

А менталитет мой?  Стал ли я русским? Но, да, до какой-то степени. Я в последние годы всегда старался быть честным в общении, но при этом общаться с людьми с нормальной долей уважения и вежливости. В России, признаки уважения и вежливости отличаются от западных.  Некоторые люди произносят оскорбления и при этом говорят, что таким образом они показывают свою искренность. Возьму достаточно экстремальный, но хороший для освещения этой темы пример. Если, допустим, бабушка моего друга спросит, как она выглядит сегодня (она с неадекватным макияжем и странными бровями), и я не отвечу, что она выглядит как сушеная лягушка, значит, я лицемер. Я все еще считаю, что есть вещи, которые можно думать, а нельзя говорить. Да, может бабушка-то счастливая женщина, и не хочу, чтобы мое мнение испортило её настроение. У каждого свой вукс. С другой стороны, моя сестра мне сообщила о том, что я стал меньше думать о вежливости. Надо будет осторожно подумать о том, нужно ли говорить такое? Поможет ли это мне или моему собеседнику? В России я меньше думаю о таком. В стране, где недавно ввели законы, запрещающие оскорбления чувств определенных групп (религиозных),  многим россиянам на удивление пофиг, кого они обижают в личном общении. Не дай Бог, не говори, что тебе кажется, что хритианство - это бред. Потому что вот это, да, считается реально оскоробительно.

РУССКИХ НЕЛЬЗЯ ПЕРЕУБЕДИТЬ 

А великая русская душа повлияла на меня? Возможно. Я достаточно много пишу в России. Но это, скорее всего, не сильно связано с чтением Достоевского или с кавказским воздухом, напоминающим о Лермонтове, а с моим внутренным состоянием. Бывают фазы в жизни, когда я вообще не пишу. Бывают целые месяца, где я пишу много и часто. Думаю, это, наверное,больше зависит от каких-то психологических факторов, которые я пока не могу определить. Вдохновение можно найти везде. Но я признаюсь, что мне очень нравится  литературная культура России. Писатели играют важнейшую роль в обществе. Люди достаточно много читают. Или, может, мне так кажется.

Я заметил, что в России очень много откровенных пессимистов, которые называют себя реалистами. Даже самый позитивный человек может тебе сказать, что Россия обречена из-за политики, что жизнь становится  все хуже и хуже, и что ничего поделать никто не сможет. И именно это чувство, что он страдает и ему приходится храбро смириться с судьбой (а не бороться с проблемами), ему доставляет большое удовольствие. Меня это  сначала очень сильно раздражало. Ведь если все эти недовольные люди объяединилсь бы, то жизнь стала бы лучше.

"Им это просто не надо", сказал мне молодой друг, активист движения за права человека, "они могли бы противостоять проблемам. Но они просто хотят свалить отсюда. Не хочется бороться за лучшую жизнь и ждать какого-то хорошего будущего, которое, возможно, придет, возможно, не придет. Хотят быть счастливыми. Никто не хочет стать жертвой."

Но, возможно, я опять переувеличиваю для творческих целей. С дургой стороны, эти люди, которые сильно критикуют своё государство, его ненавидят, и не верят в будущее, потом смогут страстно, даже агрессивно, защищать другие элементы своей страны, особенно внешную политику. Надеюсь, что когда, и если придут важные, критичные моменты в судьбе России, люди окажутся смелыми и готовыми бороться за лучшую жизнь.

Я перестал общаться с людьми, которые часто выражают очень неприятные мне и непонятные мне взгляды об острых вопросах. В начале моего пребывания в России я с ума сходил, стараясь переубедить людей при помощи логики и примеров из моей жизни, но они не хотели слушать меня. Часто они не давали мне договорить свои предложения до конца. Опять-таки, они просто дальше верили в то, что им либо было сказано родителями или преподавателями, либо в то, что им было приятно. Вначале я хотел, чтобы люди, которые мне нравились, принимали важные для меня взгляды. Сейчас мне стало все равно. Пусть будут немножко расистами, гомофобами, сексистами, националистами и.т.д. Время покажет настояшее лицо. И в конце концов, не всегда важно то, что человек говорит, а то, как он поступает. В этом плане я стал более русским. Не буду общаться два часа о спорном вопросе с человеком, который просто не хочет думать по-другому. Это не принесет никакого преимущества моему психологическому состоянию. Вместо этого, если я замечу, что человек негибкий, то изменю тему и буду говорить о хреновой погоде или о том, что случилось в маршрутке. Жизнь же не только политика и обсуждение разных мировоззрений. Мы тоже хотим приятного, легкого общения.

ОДИНОЧЕСТВО

В России меня всегда преследует странное чувство одиночества. Не знаю точно, с чем это связано: отустувие семьи, отсутсвие представителей моей культуры, культурный шок или мое психологическое состояние. Пытаюсь сделать из него что-то приятное, какое-то творческое пространство. Наверно, в последние месяцы я, до какой-то степени, вернулся в состояние, которое у меня раньше было, лет пять назад, когда проводил много времени один и занимался творчеством. Не скажу, что это одиночество неприятное. Нет, наоборот, оно может быть прекрасным – если только умеешь наслаждаться им, полностью отдаваясь ему. Оно не принимает компроссисов. Нельзя быть одновременно мечтателем и реалистом, значит, могу быть и мечтателем, и реалистом, но только отдельно, и если стараюсь быть и тем и другим в один момент, то очень плохо получается и это ведет к состоянию неудовлетворенности.

 Если я полностью живу мечтателем, постоянно придумывая шёлкопряды разных мечтаний и интриг, читая постоянно о далёких странах и будущих событиях, то я могу быть счастливым. Я представляю себе, какая у меня прекрасная жизнь будет в будущем, когда я стану автором и помощником моего поколения; какой у меня будет бурный роман на зимных улицах Будапешта или в маленьком городке возле Тель-Авива, где я влюблюсь, несмотря на расстояние и тяжелые обстоятельства; какое удивление будет выражено на лицах моих друзей и преподавателей, когда я когда-нибудь выучу великий и могучий русский язык до того уровня совершенства, которого мало кто из русских достигает. Иногда у меня даже появляются достаточно детские мысли: слушаю музыку и думаю, что было бы, если бы я сам сочинил эту песню и пел ее? Смотрю на список моих любимых песен в последнее время и спрашиваю самого себя, из каких песен составил бы я свой первый альбом? По каким странам путешествовал бы во время гастролей? С кем бы я познакомился? Что бы я узнал об этом мире и о его мимолётном населении гуманоидов?   В такие моменты, когда я уже не думаю о проблемах настоящего момента, а о каких-нибудь недосягаемых мечтах, секунды и минуты быстро текут и живу яркими цветами, которые, хотя и нереальные, но чрезвычайно красивые.

В начале моего пребывания в России у меня было мало таких моментов. Ведь я очень хотел жить только в реальном мире: завести постоянную дружбу и даже влюбиться в того человека, которого можно долго любить. Мало того что я его так и не нашел, сам процесс этих поисков явился причиной многих моих забот и занимал много времени. Я безполезно размышлял об этих темах целые часы, тупо щелкая семечки в моей грязной и дорогой комнате, чувствуя, что я не хочу двигаться, пока не найду того, чего ищу. А сами поиски были и утомляющими и прекрасными. Таким образом я познакомился и с большим количеством неприятных личностей, и с несколькими очень интересными людьми и проводил вместе с ними незабываемые моменты. Я даже нашел себе друзей. Но некоторые из моих друзей часто оказываются занятыми. У меня нет семьи в этой стране – вместо этого, мне нужно большое количество общения с друзьями, и лучше не через интернет, а вживую. Когда я не мечтаю, когда стараюсь достичь баланса между мечтаниями и реальной жизнью – нужны они. Я не ожидал, что будет так трудно удовлетворить мои социальные потребности в России. Раньше я много путешествовал один и всегда быстро находил людей, с которыми можно было проводить много времени.  На Юге России все оказалось сложнее. Мне кажется, только в России можешь знакомиться с очень интересным человеком, с которым общение легкое и очень даже интересное, и только видеться с этим человеком раз в два месяца из-за того, что человек работает, учится, еще раз работает, ухаживает за бабушкой, проглуливает собаку, работает, учится, еще, еще, еще раз работает... Разве русские на самом деле столько работают?  Разве они всегда заняты? Почему так долго и так неэффективно? Я заметил, что хотя я многим людям нравлюсь, мало кто готов регулярно встречаться со мной. Я подумал, что если человек достаточно интересный для меня, то я всегда смогу освободиться для него. Но в России, кажется, можно только видеться в рамках рассписания, и так как расписание всегда полно, видеться не удается.

Меня эта ситуация раздражала. Может, я, как иностранец, слишком много требую. С первой встречи русские мне часто говорят, что я потом уеду и забуду о них. Я это воспринимаю как психологическую слабость. Человек не готов общаться серьезно с иностранцем, потому что это же бесполезно, его потом не будет! Это показывает, что много кто не умеет наслаждаться настоящим моментом. Много кто только думает о будущем и много кто готов пожертвовать общением с человеком, с которым ему хорошо и тепло только, потому, что, возможно, потом, чего-то не будет, которого и сейчас даже нет!

Но это и можно легко понять. Русские живут больше в будущем, чем в настоящем. Люди постоянно говорят "Все будет хорошо", но мало кто говорит "Все и есть хорошо" или "Все будет хорошо, если будешь делать определенные шаги". Надо только тупо верить в то, что каким-нибудь загадочным образом все получится. Вдруг будешь в православном рае. Вдруг придет идеальное общество Коммунизма. Поэтому стоит еще подождать. Еще чуть-чуть и...

Не наслаждайся настоящим моментом, потому что надо ждать будущего!

Я боюсь, что еще раз приближаюсь к стереотипам, но могу сказать, что я все это говорю по опыту, долго и много общался с русскими. Я приехал в Россию с предрассудками, потому что никто не живет без них, но я старался узнать правду и избавиться от них. Хочу сказать, что у меня есть близкие друзья в России, с которыми у меня отличные отношения... Любви не хватает, поэтому я, наверное, много чего хочу еще. Если бы я любил, то я бы не ожидал так много внимания от моих знакомых в России, и на самом деле, я очень рад, что познакомился с ними. Я им очень благодарен. Это замечательные личности с той планеты, на которую я в этой статье уже ссылался. Поэтому я и вернусь на Юг России после Нового года, хотя бы на два месяца, чтобы попрощаться с ними, чтобы наслаждаться общением, чтобы научиться много новому у них, чтобы чувтвовать их человеческое тепло, чтобы путешествовать побольше, чтобы еще раз стараться удовлетворять  себя, и чтобы доказать мою теорию, что счастье зависит не от места, а от того, как человек следит за своей психологией. Буду любить. Буду читать. Буду учить и изучать.

Придет весна.

 Кажется, я много жаловался на русских в этой статье, но это не значит, что не люблю. Наоборот, я очень сильно полюбил Россию. Это странная, отчаянная любовь. Это научиться наслаждаться приятным одиночеством. Это чай с лимоном. Это горы и вечное пространство. Это Дужбга и Геленджик. Это стихи. Это гиперактивные армяне. Это кричать свои желания на ветер в 2 часа ночина заброшенном пляже. Это прогулки по бульварам. Это обсуждение литературы и обучение английскому. Это плохой транспорт, неудовлетворенные "тропические" бабы с золотыми зубами и семечки. Это сумашедшие ревнивые парни. Это последняя еврейка в деревне. Это ветхие, красивые домики на углу. Это ветер из окна трамвая. Это лапша и доброта незнакомых бьющихся сердец. Это возможности, которые все еще не понимаю и воспоминания, которые все еще перерабатываю.

Могу долго обсуждать эту страну, этот город и эти четыре месяца. Я достаточно часто рассказываю о своих историях в России на английском языке в этом блоге.  А все равно чувствую, что ответы не могут быть полными, что в каждой истории что-то забываю, что всегда хотя бы несколько слов неуместные и могут привести к смущению...Больше не хочу верить в то, что Россия - это та далекая загадка, о которой я часто мечтал в детстве, но пока, при отсутсвии альтернатив, прибегаю к этой интерпретации.

Желаю вам всем, дорогие друзья, хороших каникул, отличного Нового года,счастья и любви. Надеюсь, что вы даже в грусти, в скуке и в страдании найдете красоту. Она всегда есть. Целую каждого из вас, и надеюсь, что эта статья, хотя и далеко несовершенная, будет хорошим началом для нашего понимания друг  друга.