Mermen

Estimable colleagues and invited guests to the capital,

When we left off, Jared and I were walking through the deserted boulevards early in the morning, the mermaids had all swum away, and the city had descended into its peak of quiet before beginning another busy day.

Again, we slept through half of daylight as jet lag finally caught and overtook Jared. Eventually we roused ourselves and headed off to VDNKh, the old Soviet industry and agricultural exhibition center (i.e. where they bragged about wheat production and have a nice fountain of women of all 15 republics in “national dress” to show the Druzhba Narodov).

We discovered that the newly restored Cosmos museum is downright awesome. Several years in the works, nary a babushka in sight; no cold, unlit corners; no unpolished parquet. It was a real live modern museum experience with dramatic lighting, useful displays, and a dynamic children’s tour that was met with excitement by a group of giggling 8 year olds. Highlights: Strelka and Belka, Soviet space dogs, stuffed and upright and waiting for their next assignment; tons of actual space-weary satellites that looked like first generation kitchen toasters, you wondered how they made it through the atmosphere; ancient spacesuits that looked like onesy pajamas; and my personal favorite, the cosmonauts mission sweatsuits, made of bright turquoise and reds; polyester with disco collars, bedecked with patches boasting of Soviet-Afghan friendship and the Soviet space program. I was crestfallen that they didn’t make retro sweatsuits for the gift shop. Mark my words, friends, they will be all the rage in two years’ time.

We raced over to the Tretyakov Gallery for an action-packed two hours of Russian art. I’m not sure what Jared thought of the seeming endless landscapes of melting snow, spindly birch trees, foreboding clouds, and suffering peasant children. I tried to convince him there was a “unique, modest, Russian beauty” in it all. Also tried my best to explain what icons are – and learned that the Vladimirskaia bogomater’ is housed in a special chapel on the museum grounds that I still haven’t seen.

The next day we packed it all in again. Morning saw us race to Izmailovo market for some souvenir shopping. We stopped by the Dagestani rug dealer from whom my friend Quinn and I had extracted two beautiful, huge handmade rugs from the previous summer for a pittance, making a grown, mustachioed man cry. He greeted me with a huge smile and a “hello friend, I might forget your name but I never forget your face.” Granted he says this to everyone, but I wonder if he remembers me as I him, after all, we spent two hours together haggling, and we made him cry. He was excited to learn Jared was Armenian (“my friend, check out beautiful Armenian rug.”) but disappointed that Jared wasn’t interested in rugs. In order to respect a Christmas surprise I will refrain from sharing what Jared purchased…

To Red Square where we visited St. Basil’s: yes, truly spectacular, beneath each colored dome is a separate chapel.

Then off to the banya, where I wanted to acquaint Jared with some semi-naked Russian men in order to create a balanced gender experience for his stay. We bought tickets at the “pauper level” of the most luxurious Russian baths, the Sanduni. There would be no hockey stars and prostitutes for us, no sir, just a bunch of middle aged Russian men (strangely divided equally between fit and whale-like, with little in between) who were middle to upper class (yes, class status is apparent even in the buff, or even especially so).

Jared was a bit taken aback when we entered the pre-banya locker room. I got that feeling you get at a health club locker room as a child: I’m totally relaxed, good sirs, and while I might casually notice that you’re naked, I certainly am not focused in on it, in fact, this whole thing is quite common and not worth mentioning, however, several of you do seem to be taking great pride in prancing about without towels…

It was a bit intimidating, as self-assured male nakedness can be. But we were quickly given towels and sandals, asked where the banya began, and made our way. We were given complimentary veniki (the birch branch bundles used for beating the body) by some nice guys who were eager to share their customs with us.

The banya is downright fun: you enter the sauna with a bunch of dudes huddling in Kirgiz-looking banya caps at various stages of self-flagellation. Everyone has his own personal philosophy about best practices. Some prefer to beat themselves, others have friends do it. Some beat their feet, others their faces. Some guy brought in honey and rubbed it all over his feet. Probably the most breathtaking experience came when a walrus of a man entered the sauna, one of those guys who seems to walk more laterally than forwards. He had a towel around his waist and one around his head, looking like a prize fighter on his way to the ring, followed by his entourage of twiggy guys. He proceeded to unfurl himself on the bench, face up, and two of his underlings proceeded to beat upon every part of his body, then they flipped him and did the other side (not unlike the process for grilling meats). Lots of grunting, lots of exhaling, lots of wheezing, lots of “da khoroshos” floating through the steam. Jared, Alejandro (our new Spanish friend, more about him in a sec) were truly impressed by this ritual of manliness, health, and masochism. Like other Russian practices, the banya seems to constantly vacillate from being intuitively healthy and good to being ridiculous, harsh, and a bit otherworldly.

Back in the cooling room, Jared and I did some cannon balls in the cold pool and watched the prize fighter exit the ring, red, contended, surrounded by the entourage, on his way to munch smoked fish and drink beer.

Jared and I continued the hot-cold-hot process a few more times, striking up a conversation with a Spaniard in town to tutor Russian bureaucrats about E.U. “best practices” (fyi, even his students are aware of the futility of the project). Turned out he was a bath connoisseur and had some interesting social entrepreneurship plans for Barcelona. So we chatted about the Imagination Station and the importance of the web for opening up “space,” did a few more dips back and forth, and headed to the locker room to dry off.

When you meet someone in the nude, you’re inclined to take a chance on them, so we invited Alejandro to get some dinner and a drink with us. I guided the two chaps to Propaganda, where expat men and Russian women have been dancing together now for at least a decade. They also have a very inviting, Western menu. More khachapuri, salmon and pasta for me, Russian beers all around, and we were having a high old time. I asked our waitress, a lovely obshitelnaia dyevuska named Lera, when they would clear the tables for the restaurant’s transformation into a nightclub. She responded, with a smirk, that tonight was a “theme party.” I asked which theme, and she said, “gay party.”

Now, Jared and Alejandro at this moment could have been forgiven for thinking that this was all part of my master plan: first, steamy nakedness; second, a pick-up in the sauna room; third, dinner; fourth, gay dance party. But in fact I was surprised as they were. We asked Lera where else we might catch some non-theme night music and she cheerfully replied “Solyanka,”

We paid, made the 10 minute trek on foot, and proceeded to play ping pong for a few hours with the Moscow Ping Pong Club (check’em out on Facebook) who, if first impressions are not wrong, is composed of the androgynous and natty progeny of Moscow’s elite, along with a fair number of noteworthy photographers and assorted celebs. I defeated “pony-tailed Russian” easily but lost to our bartender.

Night over. Fun was had. Lots of male bonding. Jared left that night, successfully, to the correct city, thus avoiding the fate of our dear friend from Ironia Sudby, everyone’s least favorite classic Soviet film.

Da svidanya.