Conversations With Russian Grandmothers

The archway is silent as I approach, slowly, peering around corners like a secret agent from Mission Impossible. There are no people. I wish there were people. Someone to hear me yell when the mob pulls up in their jet black tinted-window conversion van and someone with a hooded mask jumps out and throws me in the back. At least then someone will know what has become of me. But there isn’t a sound, except for the periodic distant rush of a car out on the main avenue of Leninsky Prospekt. There’s a full moon. That’s a bad sign, obviously. The sky is clear, crisp, full of stars. At least it’s a nice night.

The park in the middle of the U is empty. The guy with the hand in his pocket is nowhere to be found. I puff out my chest—thinking this will definitely help deter potential attackers—and walk down the parking lot road towards the entrance to my apartment. There’s movement ahead. Shadows behind a rusty compact car next to the dumpster. I approach the car carefully, making slow, deliberate steps in a wide-sweeping arc away from the car’s front end. It’s just a cat. I’m safe. Home free. I’m at the door and I press the metal tab on my keychain against a similar tab on the door and a bell rings, allowing me to open the large, brown, steel door.

The door to the tiny foyer opens without objection and I see that the inner door is now wide open as well. They had to take the whole lock off the door.

Natalia Alexeyevna is still awake and is talking to two of her friends in the kitchen when I walk in. I smile and introduce myself to her friends, not really sure if I want a language immersion lesson at this time of night.

But they are fascinated with me. They ask what I’m studying, where I’m from, what life is like in America, what my family is like. The excitement of the attempted break-in and subsequent door-opening fiasco is forgotten.

“Well, I’m taking language courses here in Moscow. At the Moscow International University. Do you know it? This is my last semester of university.”

“Yes, I know where that is. Beloruskaya station, yes?

“Yes. Just north of Beloruskaya station.”

“That is far from here!”

“Yes, I take the metro with a friend.”

“Do you graduate soon?”

“Yes, when I finish this program I graduate, finally.”

“And then you will work?”

“Yes, after I travel for awhile this summer.” I realize I start almost every sentence I say in Russian with either a ‘yes’ (da) or a ‘no’ (nyet). This makes me incredibly boring and predictable to listen to in Russian.

“Ohhh, a holiday! That is excellent. Natalia Alexeyvna, did you tell him about Ivan’s trip to Europe? He loved it in Prague. Very beautiful city. Where are you going?”

“It’s going to be a long trip. First, I’m heading to Tallinn, Estonia to get a new Russian visa because they won’t give me one here unless I leave the country first—“

“That’s horrible. Estonia? You have to go to Estonia?”

“Yes, we don’t like Estonians,” chimes in Natalia Alexeyvna, “Russians and Estonians do not like each other. Especially now—are you sure it is safe there now? Estonians are slow, dirty people. There have been many disagreements between our governments recently after they moved the Bronze Horseman—I don’t agree why they moved it. It is very shameful for them.”

“So they shouldn’t have the right to move their own statue?” One of her friends asks.

“Well not when it is honoring the sacrifice of Russian soldiers to free their country from the Germans!”

“Yes, it is very tense right now. Garret, you should not go to Tallinn,” The third woman says to me while grapping my arm—Russians do this all the time—and appearing very concerned.

“Yes, yes, I was worried about that too. And there were riots ten days ago but my friend lives there and she teaches history at an international school there. She says things are fine there right now. And also, I already bought my ticket there. So I just hope the embassy will still be open.”

“I still do not think you should go there,” Natalia Alexeyvna frowns.

“I bet you don’t have to worry about riots and protests in America, no?”

“Well, no, they happen. But I have not seen violent riots. There were riots in Los Angeles several years ago, but I don’t really remember them.”

“We have protests here in Russia, but they are usually very small and very pointless.”

“Yes, why would you protest here? The government is very strong. Too strong. And they are very corrupt.”

“But it has always been that way.”

“Do you think Putin is a good leader?” I ask the question I have been wondering since I moved in four months ago.

“There are so many problems here, so many poor people and we have laws, but they are not enforced. We have a few people getting so rich but most people live here, like this. They are like us.”

“The Russian people never like their leaders. We will always complain and then do nothing about it. That is the way we are.”

“When communism ended, everything was in chaos. We do not like Yeltsin, Gorbachov. They were very weak. Oh perestroika—how terrible it was! But it wasn’t so much better before them, that is for sure.”

“Oh yes, with the communist government, at least people knew what they had and there was nothing to do about it. People cared for each other more because we had to, and it was a part of our way of life. No one had anything. But it wasn’t so much better than today. People forget the bad things and only think of what is bad today. Now, it is all about money, capitalism. These novy russki. And that is not what is important in life. But your country has problems with this, too.”

“What do you think of the United States? I mean, with communism and now with the spread of capitalism everywhere…?” I ask into the room to no one in particular.

“We have always known Americans are good people. We never believed our government that Americans were bad people. You find good people everywhere. But what works in America is different here. You can’t have the same things work here that work in America because this is a different country, different people. Here we grow used to relying on each other. Like a community. We don’t resent America or think America is evil. It is just a different country with different culture than us.”

“There are very difficult times here. Life is harder. In America, people have so much and life is so much easier. You are lucky to have such a good education, to be able to travel, a good family.”

“But there are many problems back home in America, too.” Who am I trying to convince?

“Yes, yes of course. Every country has problems.”

“And how do you find Russia?” One of the women asks me.

“Well, uh, what do I think? Well… yes. The first thing I noticed, actually, was how much American things are here. I did not think that I would see American food, products in stores, clothes, advertisements, movies, TV shows… That was surprising. I think many people back home don’t understand very much about Russia. They think of vodka and communism. Some of my friends still think Russia is a communist country! Unfortunately, there are many ignorant people in America. I like the freedom and opportunity in America, but you are right—money is not the most important thing. And many people think money is the only thing that is important. This is sad, in my opinion, because there is so much in the world that is more important…”

It’s the middle of the night, I’m standing in the kitchen of my Russian host mother’s apartment in Moscow after being acquainted with a voodoo Charlie Batch matryoshka doll, harassed by Russian police, nearly knifed by a member of the Russian mob who is trying to bring down my host brother’s exotic reptile underground trading ring, and I’m trying to paint this eloquent, thoughtful portrait of life in the home of the brave while discussing the communist political system with three Russian grandmothers sipping wine, wanting to know what I think about freedom and democracy and the expansion of capitalism deluding traditional cultural values of family and community in an increasingly heated, money-hungry Novy-Russki society.

I don’t even realize we’re all speaking Russian.

Until I want to say ‘ironic’, which I can’t remember what the word is in Russian and fail miserably in trying to explain it through words that I do know. They give me the benefit of the doubt for a few moments then move on to change the subject.

Eventually the night’s talk ends and I retreat to the study, which is the first door into the apartment. The lock on the inner door has been completely removed and the outer door’s lock remains untouched after the intruder’s adjustments with the crow bar, leaving a clear, unlocked path from the outside straight into the study, which itself lacks a working lock as well. With no deterrent between the building’s outer door and my bed, I go to sleep holding the cord of the charger for my electric shaver over my head in case I need something to swing at the face of an unimpeded mob hitman on the attack.

Remarkably, I sleep like a baby.