A Russian Point of View

I have a student, Aleksey, who has taken it upon himself to worry over me.

“Why, why,” he asks shaking his head, “does a well-educated young woman leave Canada to come to Russia? People usually leave Russia to go to Canada. Why would you come here?”

This is not a slam at Russia. Because were I to make that exact same statement, I’d get chewed out by a patriotic Russian telling me that I just don’t understand them. There is a good deal of internal bitching among Russians about their country but it is, I presume, similar to the way a person is allowed to whine about their own family, while immediately crucifying any outsider who dares do the same thing.

I confess to Aleksey that I actually prefer not knowing what is going to happen to me next month, next year, in ten years. “I’ve tried to make steady plans,“ I tell him, “But it suffocates me. If I have too many plans, I start to feel overwhelmed. So I decided I’d prefer to live without them. I am much more relaxed in the midst of chaos.”
Aleksey shakes his head (something he has been doing during the entire conversation) “You and I, Larissa, we are very different people.” He pauses. “With that attitude, you will do well in Moscow, though.”

He then proceeds to tell me, with the protective attitude that I have found to be the norm among Russian men, all the things I should do to stay safe. What neighbourhoods to eat in so I don’t get flirted with in restaurants is a favourite topic . “No one should be bothering you in a room when you are seated to eat!”-- he says when I tell him a story of a slightly intoxicated man who was trying to speak to me in a restaurant. That particular incident didn’t really strike me as odd, but it horrifies Aleksey. I tell him it’s pretty standard back home.
“Any man who does that here is not he kind of man you want to talk to.” he says. “Not in a restaurant.”

We talk about the construction taking place on practically every block of Moscow, from facelifts of historic buildings, to the apartments going up everywhere. We discuss what will happen to all the construction with the economic crisis. I ask him about the construction workers outside my window, and mention the lax Russian attitudes toward safety.
“Ah, these are all workers from Arab émigré nations,” He informs me. “They work night and day because they must finish the job quickly-they are contracted by private firms and not being paid much. So it is up to them what they use for safety. So they use nothing.” He sighs. “Unfortunately, life is cheap for these people in Russia. So cheap.” Life, it seems, is cheaper than harnesses.

The militsiya (police) are another favourite topic of his “If they ever speak to you--ever,” He instructs, “Do not say a word in Russian. Not even privyet (“hi”). Just talk to them as much as you can in English, and act like you do not understand them, even if you do. If they speak English (which they won’t) just act as if their English is so bad that you can’t understand it. Then they will get bored. They won’t know what to do with you, and they will ignore you, because they can’t get money from you. Always do this.”

Then, with his characteristic love of country, he tempers all his gloomy perspectives with the following “Russia is a very young country,” he says. “It is an infant. We just are just learning to make things work. We have never been a democracy before. Give it time, and it will become what everyone hopes. It is starting already. It gets better. It has gotten much better since the early nineties.”
“I’m not scared of Moscow,” I insist. “Millions of people live their lives here everyday. If they’re not afraid, I’m not going to be afraid.”
“Good, good,” he says. “You can’t be. You should never be. Just be cautious. That is all I ask.” I promise him I will.
He looks me in the eye, “This is a good time to be here,” he says, “Right at the beginning.”