First of a series of short posts on Russia

From April 28 to May 4 I was in Russia, visiting with Northwest Friends Johan and Judy.

These posts will combine what I saw when I was there with what I read, both leading up to and while there. 

First of all, most everything that I knew about Russia before two months ago came from the book A Day in the Life of the Soviet Union, which I found in an Airbnb that Mum and I stayed in in Eugene, Oregon in 2010, and which can also be found in the Friends School library. All the photos were taken on May 15th 1987, and both the time of day and the location of the photo are indicated for each image. It is the best coffee table book I've ever come across. (Closely followed by Karl Blossfeldt's photography)

Sometimes, while Mum was out visiting Oregon's splendid flower farms, I sat in the big chair and travelled to Russia via these marvellous photos. Here's one example: 

For this post I'll provide some of the first images that I took myself of the country, which, despite the intervening 29 years, didn't feel a whole lot different from what was portrayed in the pages of the book. 

The metro stations are ornate and beautiful. Very quickly the prominence of both the hammer and sickle and sheafs of wheat were evident. 

 

This is the dome of the first station I popped up in (the Russian metro is even deeper than the DC metro). Johan said the system was designed to resemble a palace for the people, hence the grandeur of a system experienced by normal citizens going about their everyday business. 

We stayed at the Bulgakov Mini hotel, off the Arbat, which was exceptional. Friendly people, clean, bright, high ceiling-ed rooms with tiny but fully functional bathrooms. And all for something like 43 dollars a night. Close outside the hotel was this statue, of Bulat Okudzhava, a favourite of Johan's. He's a Russian folk singer who wrote many songs on/about the Arbat (which is the pedestrian walk way we were on.)

That first evening we went for a walk on this Arbat, and almost no sooner were we out the door than we came upon two young men reciting poetry for a small crowd on the street. Of course I couldn't understand any of it, but it was highly animated and seemed at least slightly politicised. 

Close by was a branch of a little chain restaurant that had all the appearance of being a Chic-fil-A type establishment, but served delicious (and porky) borscht, buckwheat porridge and crepes rolled with ham. It was my goal to eat pork at every meal while in Russia. I almost did it, thanks in large part to Judy's magnificent meatloaf!

As we continued our walk we began hearing the sound of roaring engines. On a main street that cuts through the city was a rehearsal of the Victory Day parade which will take place on May 9th. The city was covered in announcements and promotions for this event. Victory marks the end of World War II, and J&J said it's essentially Russia's veteran's day. It may seem strange to have victory day commemorating a war that Russia lost. Misleading names and events and histories figured largely in my experience of Russia. In some cases, it seems the past is too painful to contemplate. In other cases, it is clear that leadership is deliberately skewing history for the sake of its own narratives. 

I kept thinking of the phrase we used to discuss All My Sons, in which all the characters have their own version of the story of the family's past and present, and the resulting "collision of fictions" tears creates massive but unaddressed tension in the play. As the truth starts to surface, these fictions fray, and the characters'  pain is palpable. I felt the same phenomenon, even in five days, in Russia. 

During this military parade dozens and dozens of tanks and missile-bearing vehicles cruised along a main commercial artery, in front of a massive screen, covering a whole city block, advertising some current action movie. It was quite an impressive sight. 

On the way back we had a very different kind of spectacle. A group of men was singing a cappella in the street right outside our hotel. Johan said it was sacred music. They had no hats or guitar cases out - they were just singing for the sake of it. A crowd of maybe 30 had stopped to listen. One man on the end, who had glasses and hands in his pockets, had the habit of rising up onto his toes on the last note of each song, as if helping the final tones to resonate in the evening air. 

Someone in the crowd asked where they were from. Slovenia. After we climbed the steps to our rooms, I could still hear their tones drifting faintly to my window.