Another “biznis lanch”

I took Herman’s advice as I was near Prospect Mira and I was hungry. It was a challenge to find, but it was worth it. A restaurant called Grabli, where they have all kinds of delicious Russian style foods in an a la carte cafeteria style setting. Upscale metal railing steps and trim, a lovely wooden verandah with hanging baskets, quaint round tables: it was a treat to enjoy the summer sun and neighboring cigarette smoke along with my cheese and sour cream smothered trout and garlic cheese and sour cream stuffed tomato. I opted for a mini club soda, taking a break from the aqua minerale crap that coca cola markets. The cherry juice looked appealing, but it was probably too sweet. I was also pleased to find broccoli, albeit smothered in cheese and sour cream. (A quick note - the coca cola refridgerators all over town sit outside the food kiosks. I bought a bottle of water, and the saleswoman said, “okay, go ahead and open the door.” And that is how it is, magnetic locks with buzzers for security and convenience.)

Outside at the end of the verandah, a mother sat alone with her infant in a carriage, dancing her pint of beer in front of the child’s face. Two elegantly dressed 30 something Russian women daintily ate their fish and vegetable entrees, young Russian men in short sleeved shirts, jeans and moccasins (programmers?) ate quietly together. Maybe HP or Sisco has an office nearby. There were several of those types dining around.The place was packed with young, upper class Russians.

I have been noticing that the average age of people out and about on the streets and in the restaurants seems to be around 30. Very few older or elderly people can be found. I was wandering around the Manezh mall near Red Square on a weeknight around 10 and it was filled with young people listening to live music and drinking beer. All of my walks in the downtown area have yet to uncover any elderly or older people. Everyone is fashionably dressed and thin. A startling contrast to my earliest memories of Moscow.

If you go underground into the metro, there is where you will find the real Russia. The Russia of former years - the big heavyset older women in frumpy dresses carrying enormous sacks, the elderly men, dressed in ancient but formal business attire, the young poorer mothers with children and less fashionable middle aged people who ride the metro, dine at home and don’t know where the new Benetton Shop is. If you go further from the center to the endless horizon of Soviet era apartment complexes, I am sure you will find the old people. They haven’t all died nor disappeared. There just is no place for them anymore in the new Moscow downtown.

I had an epiphany that was shockingly sad. All the old people have been replaced or moved out for their prime real estate. All the prime space inside the boulevard ring has been grabbed up by the wealthy, the businesses, the new political elite who renovate and resell/release offices and apartments for enormous amounts of money. Those who once lived there, if they were lucky, negotiated a good deal for their homes. If they weren’t, they no longer have any leverage and have been banished to fend for themselves in this harsh capitalist land.

I recall a conversation in 1993, when my colleagues and I worked on one of the floors of an apartment building near Pushkin Square. We were discussing the mysterious disappearances and numerous deaths of elderly people. People falling from their apartment windows, found dead inside their flats, quietly disappearing after they signed off their rights to their apartments to some stranger or agency. I couldn’t believe it at the time, but had no time to worry about it, as I had to sell chicken to new supermarkets. It seemed horrific, and in hindsight, if it were true, nobody seemed to care. A small 4 sentence piece may appear from time to time in a paper, but it continued to happen, the insidious silencing of the elderly.

Last night, I visited Zhenya and Vitya, a Russian couple in their seventies that are of the former intelligentsia crowd - art collectors, Pushkin and Axkmatova readers. They are friends of my friend Danielle and really lovely people. As we sat, catching up after so many years, Zhenya reminded me of a story she tells everyone when talking about me. I hadn’t recalled that story myself, as my memories are so faded. Perhaps it is also because it isn’t such an isolated instance for me.

As she tells it, years ago, Danielle and I were enjoying a warm summer Saturday morning at Izmailovsky. We passed several people selling adorable fluffy kittens. We had been drinking beer and were feeling giddy and light. So, for a mere pittance, and if I recall, it may have been $2, we purchased the cuddly creatures and brought them home. Misha and Shurik, the masters of 66 Leningradsky Prospect, were not in the least amused at these squiggly newcomers. Separate quarters were in order, and as the effects of the lager wore off, Danielle and I were all too aware that we were in a bit of a mess. We couldn’t have returned and paid double to give the kittens back.

Katy, our third flat mate, and probably the most practical of us all, in her high pitched Manchester English, told us she would have none of it. The scolding English tone bathed us in shame and we felt like two foolish American girls. So, the next day, in penance, I went with Katy to the evangelical English speaking Christian church near Gorky Park. There is a large expat core that attend, and it was there that I found 2 small children who belonged to the Ambassador of Ghana, or Zimbabwe. They fell madly in love with my purring duo in a blanket and promised that their mother would approve of them. So, guilt free and without a moments hesitation, I pawned them off and rushed out of the church.

Now, if I had to recall that moment myself, I’d have to wait until my next life; but Zhenya recalls that story with such passion and joy, sharing it with humor when the topic of crazy American girls comes up in her conversations.