From Russia with Love

Vlad

When deciding where in Russia I would study, my Russian advisor and fairygodmother, Kevin, had one word for me: "Moskva". Moscow is the capitol of Russia's blossoming gay community, and given the fact that various gay students who studied in Siberia (my first choice) had some unfortunate run ins with gay-bashing packs of hoodlem teenage boys, Kevin felt that Moscow would be the right 'fit' for me. The gay population was, of course, not the only plus to studying in Moscow. After two years in the hills of Vermont, I was ready to live in a big city. The clubs, bars, and fast pace of life were a welcomed change from the dull and 'shitty' life of Middlebury (I love Midd. It's a wonderful school and Vermonters in generally are a very warm, inviting people, but most of them are farmers. Dairy farmers. As a result, the campus smells like horse shit for nine months out of the year). Kevin also has many friends in Moscow that he said would love to meet his students, so in mid March, I signed on the dotted line and turned my life over to whatever fate Moscow had in store for me.
Not two weeks into my semester, Kevin sent me a list of his contacts in Moscow who promised to show me what being gay in Moscow was all about. I was understandably intimidated at the prospect of meeting complete strangers in a foreign language (this was despite the fact that Russians are very warm and friendly people if you're a friend, family or friend of their friends/family); due to this cowardice, I didn't contact any of Kevin's friends in my first month here (although I was dying of curiousity and celebrity-awe to meet his ex-wife and former movie star). Just this week, I worked up enough courage to get a hold of Vladimir, an aquaintance of Kevin's who's studying in Moscow as well. After a few English-language text messages, we met up for dinner in the city center. I was relieved that he spoke English since speaking in Russian was a major point of anxiety for me, but in the first three minutes of our meeting, I came to realize that his theoretical English was much better than his practical English. We continued the rest of our evening in Russian, which to my surprise was not as stressful as I would have thought. Overall, I find that people are much more sympathetic when you try to speak their language, no matter how horrible, and the fact that he didn't try to switch our language of conversation to English told me that his ears weren't bleeding as badly as I feared they would.
Meeting infront of the Bolshoi Theater, we had a short walk to one of Vlad's favorite, inexpensive restaurants. It was cafeteria style, which was a relief. You can just point to what you want without know what it's called; you can also be sure about what you're ordering since it's all laid out infront of you. We got to know each other over our cafeteria trays, and I was pleased to find that we had more in common that I would have thought (although we weren't both born in Irkutsk, we share an interest in linguistics and a dislike for politics).
Having finished our meals, we went out to the street to walk around the center a bit. It was at this point that I started to question the nature of our first meeting: he offered me some gum, a curtious enough jesture in any country, but my dating experience in the States taught me that there are other hidden meanings to such an offer, namely the expectation that minty-fresh breath might be needed or desirable at some later point in the evening. I declined and lit a cigarette (I wanted him to make sure he knew he was possibly pursuing a smoker. After all, it's only fair).
The cold, late-October rain forced us to retreat indoors, and we made our way to the underground mall at Otkhodnii Rad. 'Window-shopping, that's friendly enough,' I thought and we proceeded to inspect the wares and fashions of the American-like mall under Red Square. It was a learning experience, not only in the sense that I had my own personal dictionary to translate words like 'accesories' but also because it was an opportunity to see what Moscow was wearing this season.
It was a wonderful time, if for no other reason than because I was talking, relating and hanging-out with a Russian, a first in my two months here.
I had forgotten all about the gum until we went into 'New Yorker' a store selling supposedly 'New York' fashions. Somewhere between the underwear and tee-shirts, he asked if I was dating anyone in the States. Taken somewhat off guard, I told him no, simultaneously kicking myself on the inside. Unlike his gum offer, there was no doubt about the implications of such a question after a full hour of friendly banter and awkward, Russian pseudo-flirting.
Lizi (see blog link at right) and I have quoted our orientation lectures many times in our posts in rememberance of our three-day crash course on living in Russia. That night I was reminded of the lecture on cross-cultural relationships and how there are many problems of cultural understanding that arise from such tristes (sp?). After a friendly hug goodbye (standard and, as far as I'm concern, required for any gay friends in the States), I went down the escalator to the green metro line asking myself what exactly just happen. Did I just go on a blind date? DID KEVIN JUST SET ME UP?? (he is, after all, my fairygodmother) Had I just made my first Russian friend, or something more? Either way, I know that my time here is already quite short, and I'm definitely not looking for love in my remaining three months. At the very least, I'm looking forward to having a clubbing buddy/guide; I've been too scared to explore the gay club scene here so far and having a native will definitely put my mind at ease.

posted by Misha Molodoi @ 6:25 PM