Moscow, September 1990—After a seven-day transit across Siberia, we “clickety-clack’t” into Moscow’s central station a day late. It was midnight and the city was closed. Half asleep, I toddled past a train parked on the tracks to the side of the station. The sleeping cars had been converted into dormitories.“How much does a bunk cost per night?” I yawned in Russian.
“Tri dollara,” the pseudo-conductor warbled somberly.
“Do you have two vacant bunks?” I proceeded.
“Nyet!” he huffed.
I had been broken into the system by the linebackers on the Trans-Siberian. I asked him if he had any empty bunks that went for four “dollara.” Suddenly one was available! I was able to get a good night sleep.
“Everyone out!” the corpulent nose guard clamored at daybreak.
Clad with backpack, I wended my way through the streets in search of the reasonably priced boarding house that someone on the train had mentioned to me in passing. Although the layover in Moscow was reduced by twenty-four hours, I still had a day’s wait before departing for Bulgaria. Mesmerized by the surroundings, I stood dead center in Red Square as I gaped in all directions.
The handwriting on the wall was plain as day. The economy had taken a nosedive. The empire was on the verge of collapse. Its foundation was incurably cracked. Although the tumble would not reverberate audibly like the rubble of the Berlin Wall, which was plowed away by bulldozers, its crash would shake the world within a matter of months when the Soviet Republics would splinter off into over a dozen independent States.The reality of a crumbled Berlin Wall hit me even stronger as I passed by a line of nearly one thousand people that snaked out of McDonald’s and down the boulevard. There were shorter lines everywhere. Whenever more than two shoppers stopped in front of a store, other passers-by flocked to the scene. I stepped into one gathering.
“What are we waiting for?” someone yelped.
I expressed my ignorance with “Ya nye znah-yoo.”
“Shpaaghyetee!” howled another voice.
When I tracked down a boarding house and rang the bell. An artist who restored icons greeted me warmly at the door with “Alyosha.” I introduced myself.
Alyosha escorted me through a dark hall to the accommodations: rolled-out mats on the floor of a living room. In the spirit of adventure, I agreed to stay. I did have some mixed feelings after I caught the cats squirting the duffel bags of other guests that lay on the floor. “Hmm, that’s a foul smell to travel with...hard to get out, too!” I debated. Making the best of the situation, I delved into a conversation with Alyosha, who flipped over my Moskòvsky aktsènt!
“How long have you been in Moscow?” he pried.
“Twelve hours!” I snickered.
“You learned Russian in twelve hours?” he spouted with panic.
“No, that would take about three months,” I joked. “One of my majors was Russian.”
Alyosha phoned his cousins, Boris and Natasha, to host me for the night. What a relief to escape the cats!
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On the morrow, his cousins insisted that I eat breakfast before I aligned my steps for the train station. Plunking two bowls of cottage cheese topped with a heaping glob of sour cream, “Tvorog! Eeeat!” commanded Natasha.
A mite hardier than the noodle soup I had been in the habit of eating in Asia, I shoveled down the dairy delight in gratitude of my host’s hospitality. And thank goodness, I did!
En route to Bulgaria, the dining car had been detached from the train. On board, there was no way to change money into the local currencies, which put out of reach the possibility of purchasing a snack through the window on stops. In a nutshell, the weight of the tvorog carried me through the two days of an unchosen fast!
Follow this series:
Part 2: Cracks in the Berlin Wall
Part 3: Shifting Gears: from China to Eastern Europe
Part 4: Calm, Cool, and...Calamity?
Part 5: Munching in Moscow: Part 5 Photo top left Yaroslavsky Terminal by AndyVolykhov, GNU Free Documentation License at Wikipedia.
Photo center right Red Square by Stoljaroff, Public Domain at Wikipedia.
Photo bottom left German tvorog GNU Free Documentation License at Wikipedia.
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