Hands and feet in Metro, don’t smile

“Viva la revolution!” shouted the bartender as we shot back tequila. A Latin band played on… “Viva la revolution!” shouted the bartender as we shot back tequila. A Latin band played on the small stage, and hot, sweaty couples crowded on the dance floor to samba, salsa and rub against each other. The club, called “Che,” had Latin revolutionary decor, burritos and even waitresses carrying bottles of tequila in their holsters.

Welcome to Russia, folks. Not quite what I was expecting, either. Nothing in Russia was what I expected.

Red Square is a hotbed of capitalism. A giant mall, complete with a McDonald’s, lies underneath St. Basil’s Cathedral and Lenin’s tomb. Instead of waiting with hundreds of other people to see Lenin, you can pay a couple hundred rubles to bypass the line. That’s right: You can pay to see Lenin.

Or, if you’d rather wait in line for an hour and a half to keep with the spirit of communism, you can purchase a Pepsi or Coke from one of the dozens of soda vendors providing tourists with cold drinks. Does anyone watch for Lenin to roll over in his tomb?

I’ve been drawn to Russia since I started college. Something indescribable about it fascinated me. All I knew about Russia before I arrived there came from my Russian Orthodox family and a few literature classes. When I thought of Russia, I thought of three-hour church services and people on the verge of alcohol poisoning or suicide.

I decided to tackle the Russian language my freshman year. I signed up for Russian I, but because of a kidney infection and half my class already speaking the damn language, I gave up after one semester.

I traveled to Ireland, I studied abroad in Eastern Europe for a semester, and I went to Brazil. Even though I loved all of these places, I still felt unsatisfied.

I signed up for Intensive Russian I, a summer course at Pitt and then in Moscow. My family thought I was nuts, and I am sure my friends thought so too but decided not to say anything.

Then, there I was, in Moscow. I had been warned, “Don’t smile. And don’t make eye contact. Keep your head down. And watch out for the gypsies.”

That was the advice as we were about to embark on our first Moscow Metro ride. The Metro, which stretches almost 243 kilometers — that’s 111 miles — carries millions of Russians in and out of the city everyday, adding to the millions of Muscovites who already live there. We always walked on with our heads down, trying not to be obvious.

The young men riding the Metro still have an appreciation for ’80s-metal-band T-shirts, and the hair to match. They look up occasionally, but only to stare at the women. The young women wear faded denim, bright colors, pointy shoes that get caught in the Metro escalator and white pants. They look down and never smile, for fear of attracting the attention of a Russian man. Old women wearing babushkas cling to their bags of groceries while businessmen read the paper. They stare at the ground with emotionless faces. Even the random couples groping each other look somewhat unhappy. It did not take us long to lose our smiles; it’s hard not to look depressed when riding the Metro.

“Hey Jen, is this our stop?” my friend Greg, wearing an Ol’ Miss shirt, shorts and sandals yelled across the train. The Russians stirred, some may have even cracked a smile or a scowl, and then went back to staring at the ground. I nodded, and we hurried off before the doors closed on us.

We did this every morning for five weeks, running on and off the Metro, getting a glimpse of how a Muscovite lives.

Russia had many more surprises. I bought vegan hair conditioner, and I found a few great vegetarian restaurants. I danced to Beyonce, and danced with a Nigerian to live African drumming. I did the twist to old ’50s rock ‘n’ roll; I discovered the joy of Russian porridge, drank fabulous Georgian wine and visited Tolstoy’s house and the Winter Palace of the Russian Czars. And a Russian guy bit my arm.

When I returned home, I joked that I lost my smile somewhere on the Metro, along with a few years of my life. Now, as I struggle to re-adapt to American life and people, I realize that I have actually gained a bit of a Russian edge, an edge Russians developed after surviving everything from the Mongol invasions to the collapse of communism to the first McDonald’s in Moscow. There, smiles are earned.

E-mail Jen Stephen at jls259@pitt.edu.