a soviet gold mine

My sources tell me that the real money in Moscow is in real estate. To the untrained eye, the thousands of gray, crumbling Soviet era apartment buildings scattered around Moscow look like relics from a long ago civilization. The stairwells painted a uniform lime green, the interiors so cramped that two cooks in the kitchen feels overcrowded, the walls so thin that the muffled sighs of lovemaking have to be consciously ignored by the people in the bed next door. Each unit of these side by side aparment layouts uniformly designed to accomodate the unfullfilled needs of their citizen comrades.

But with property values in Moscow at some of the highest rates in the world, and developers scrambling to throw up cheaply constructed high rises that will crumble as quickly as their Soviet ancestors, the time has come to tear down all those Kruschevys. The only stumbling block for the financiers, developers, and property managers is that most of these apartments are occupied--by people. But minor nuisances have never interferred with the great pursuit of profit before so why should this time be any different. And so enter the Moscow Housing Adminstration. According to my sources, a well placed blonde bombshell with a taste for Armani and plastic surgery, all the former Soviet dwellings now fall under the domain of this particular agency. The managers of this agency have the authority to sell former state owned properties to developers. And considering that one apartment building nestled inside the Garden Ring could easily fetch several million dollars, with the developer then turning around and constructing a new office building or high rise luxury flat facility, the managers might feel a certain temptation to dip their fingers in the honey pot and take a lick. Or on the mornings they forget to eat breakfast, simply plunging their faces right into the pot and slurping like a cow at the trough. Now my sources (see above) tell me that any occupant of an apartment that is on the selling block has the right to refuse to vacate the apartment. Of course, such a decision might result in an inspector arriving to pronounce the wiring in the flat faulty and delivering an eviction notice or a mysterious fire gutting the interior. For those flat owners who see the wisdom in selling, the housing adminstration provides (free of charge) new accomodations. The fact that these new apartment buildings are almost on the border with Ukraine is also to the benefit of the occupants, as many of them are ailing babushkas who can only benefit from the fresh air and country living of being a five hour train ride from their friends and families and the only life any of them have known for the past 75 years.

a morning ride

Morning in the Moscow metro. Waves of commuters flood onto the station platform, standing five deep in expectation of an approaching train, everyone jockeying for position to be in the most strategic position when the doors open. And no matter that the trains run every 60-90 seconds, the tide of humanity seems never to ebb. Like desperate survicors of a shipwreck, frantically bailing out their lifeboat only to watch in horror as the water slowly climbs to the gunwales.

While riding on the metro this morning, feeling an intense hatred for this passive, compliant mass of humanity crushing my internal organs and doing my best to hold my arms stiff by my side to give myself a few inches of breathing room, a woman boarding the train audibly inhaled and then flung herself into the crush. Once safely ensconed, she exhaled even louder and her entire squat body seemed to expand, apparently adopting the blowfish technique for creating personal space.

Not long after, a man wearing a stiff, almost polished brown leather jacket and sporting a shaved head to hid his receding hairline looked at me and snarled something while gesturing for me to move over into the fraction of an inch of free space to our right. I looked him in the eye and with a flash of murderous rage surely passing over my face told him that I don't understand a word you just said, but go fuck yourself is probably an apporpriate reply. Whatever culutral exchange we were on the brinking of having stopped abrubtly at that moment and he was left to perhaps wonder about the astronomical odds of being threatned by a huge foreigner on his ride to work that particular morning while I was left to imagine what life in a Russian prison might be like should I choose to kill this guy. That act of transcendtal meditation thankfully pulled me back from that precipice.

Except for me and my new found friend, however, everyone else on the train looked bitterly resigned to their situation. The Soviets either were blessed to stumble upon the most docile and submissive race of people in the world or more than 70 years of bread lines, housing shortages, cramped Kruschevy life, and the pervasisve threat of informers had broken their will. But unravelling the cause/effect relationship in that equation is probably a bit like untangling a rat's nest of fishing line while wearing oven mitts. I tried to imagine New Yorkers packing themselves into a subway car like the Moscovites. I had a vision of a NYC subway train pulling into a station, the doors sliding open, a wave of human fury pouring out, heading in the direction of city hall where they would burn the place down before hanging the mayor and the entire city council from the Brooklyn Bridge. After which citizen action committees and non-profit organizations would form to unleash an unprecendeted campaign of public outcry. But for whatever reason, Moscowvites display no such righteous indignation, instead choosing to wear faces of perpetual glumness as their form of protest.

suka with that

On my very first rush hour metro commute in Moscow, having waded through a sea of dreary brown and black leather jackets and been funneled onto the escalator that plunged me into the very bowels of the post-Soviet earth where without a doubt the old commie leaders planned to stash the populace in the event of a nuclear showdown with the Yanks, I reinforced a word practiced assiduously the day before. Spelled phonetically the word is best approximated as suka but honestly I'm too lazy to go look up the correct Russian spelling so this is gonna have to do.

So here's what happened. A small, dumpish man dressed in a light purple ski jacket was screaming the word, swinging a leather satchel at a thin balding guy with an impish look and a receding hairline. In between, acting apparently as a referee, was a squat little babushka. The fight had a pathetic feeling to it. Like the two guys were just going through the motions, drained of any real emotional feel. But then a week and a half in the land of kruschevy and stalinsky apartment buildings might have just zapped me of any remaining humanity. Other words were spoken of course, but suka, being one of about a dozen words I can comprehend and most of them being some form of profanity, was the only one I registered.

As I bordered the screaming train in that dimly lit station draped in brown marble, with the fight growing in intensity outside the car and security rushing in to dispense the melee, I had an urge to turn to the young women standing next to me, the one wearing the knee high leather boots softly whispering come hither my boy, wrapped around legs that ventured just short of her neck and tell her about my new discovery.

He's calling her a bitch, I would have told her.