I was determined to love Russia. And why not. I spent years laughing with (at?) the Russians in my school back home, I love borscht, and after a rickety start at age 16 (alleyways, forgettable nights, bits of carrot and peas over my shirt) – I love vodka.
But Russia challenged my desirous love.
Sure, Venice like alleyways, gilded palaces, fairytale spires, disneyland like churches, hauntingly beautiful Russian Orthodox choirs, and architecturally marvelous buildings fill the streets, but there was something that didnt quite work for me.
I felt like a spectator in Russia but never quite felt part of it. I watched the way the men pull their pants high up their abdomens, I observed the high hems of the women’s skirts/belts (no complaints) and their stilleto like high heels (even the bus conductor), and concentrating on the fashion, which definitely stressed leopard print, made the streetscape an interesting one.
It may have been the lack of manners, the few smiles we encountered, the mafioso like black cars that mysteriously transported the wealthy through the town, the extra expense that tourists were forced to pay for entrance to museums and other buildings, and the perennially rude Russians (?misunderstood), that made me snap, but I cant be sure.
As I found myself on my last day, after having travelled through Moscow and St Petersberg, screaming and shaking my finger at the woman selling entrance tickets to the cathedral “You are a horrible horrible woman!” and then muttering “pizda” under my breath at her, I realised that it may still take some time until Russia is ready for my love.
