Taking in the vast, historic expanse that is Moscow's Red Square.
  • Taking in the vast, historic expanse that is Moscow's Red Square.
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When traveling abroad, it's often our first distinct taste of the foreign that uniquely heightens our senses. For me, it was entering the hustle and bustle of a Moscow subway station and hearing the alien sounds of Russian through the public address system. As I descended the steep escalator, and because I understood absolutely nothing, I imagined the announcements as propagandistic Orwellian Doublespeak.

I noticed the uniformed guard in the booth at the bottom of the escalator. Former Soviet Thought Police?

Yes, my American mind was clouded with preconceived notions. It was hard for my girlfriend to comprehend where I was coming from. She grew up in Moscow in the 1990s. I’d grown up in Southern California during those final heated years of the Cold War. As a kid I watched Rambo II, Red Dawn, Rocky IV, and had seen countless Russian bad guys in James Bond movies. President Reagan described the Soviet Union as the “Evil Empire” and the media concurred by painting a stark, cold picture of life in Russia.

More announcements echoed through the subterranean tunnels.

“What propaganda do they keep repeating over the speakers?” I asked.

“They’re just reminding people to be nice and polite to elders,” she said.

My Cold War–shaped mind began to thaw even more when we entered our subway waiting station. It looked more like a grand, elegant theatre entrance than a metro stop. Gold-plated ceilings, crystal chandeliers, fluted columns, marble sculpted walls. It was stunning.

We hopped on the train and sat near a group of teenage boys who were being teenage boys. They touched and pushed each other, adjusted their hair, alternating between deep and high-pitched loud voices. Unaware of my intensified evil eye, they all pulled out their phones, sat down, and became silently enthralled with their screens. It was as if they were suddenly on Prozac. It was only then that I noticed that half the crowded subway car was staring down into their hand-held, touchscreen products, looking rather satisfied and sedate. Even a feeble gray haired man – old enough to have attended one of Stalin’s speeches – gazed into his iPad.

As people got on and off, noticeably exhausted at rush hour, I began to lose that foreign feeling – that sensation of being dropped into an entirely different matrix. Instead, I began to feel that, with the exception of the language, Russia was surprisingly much more similar to America than the media might want us to think.

Admiring the fairytale-like St. Basil's Cathedral.

Preconceptions overcome (of sunlight, and other things)

Since I’ve already made reference to Rambo and The Matrix, please allow me to appear somewhat educated for a moment. In Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, a man has been bound and forced to see only the shadows on the wall that the puppeteers want him to see. He is eventually liberated and realizes that his experience has been manipulated. When he emerges from the cave, the truth is almost too much for him to bear. As such, when I emerged from the next Moscow metro station, I began to see Russia in an entirely new light. Literally.

First of all, the sun was shining. For some reason I’d always imagined Moscow devoid of any color, including sunlight. (Stupid? Yes, I know.) Illuminated or not, Red Square is a vibrant, impressive setting. The grand, classic buildings are brightly painted, the dimensions are massive, and colorful St. Basil’s Cathedral looks like something out of a fairytale. We walked along the Kremlin walls through Alexander Park, a well-groomed garden with statues of famous dead Russian leaders. It reminded me of similar monuments in Washington, D.C. Indeed, every country builds monuments for its best leaders. Perhaps out of respect, certainly in an effort to glorify its own past; to foster pride and patriotism in its citizenry. The eternal flame of the unknown soldier also reminded me of Arlington, and Paris, and for that matter, any nation that has lost thousands – or millions, in Russia’s case – of lives in war.

It made me wonder which is more inane: the kind of extreme nationalism that leads to so many young men dying, or thinking that the sun never shines in Moscow?

Moscow: consumerism alive and well

We continued our walk to Arbat Street, which felt much more like an American consumer pedestrian street than the heart of a once communist empire. There were international restaurants, bars and coffee shops of all kinds, and a few furry costumed characters dancing around, advertising their products. Contrary to rumors, McDonald’s was open. There’s even a Shake Shack!

People strolled and held hands, others walked as they stared at their handheld devices. Indeed, consumer capitalism, globalized techno-culture, and peace-loving harmony were all buzzing along Arbat Street.

And why would I expect anything else? After all, the Soviet Union has been dissolved and Russia opened up for a quarter of a century. However, because much of recent U.S. rhetoric and editorializing has been reminiscent of the Cold War, tensions and myopia seem to have re-emerged. The Russian president, Vladimir Putin, has been demonized for his involvement in Ukraine, his annexation of Crimea, his general defiance toward the U.S., his recent stance on Syria – and all have led to an anti-Putin frenzy in the Western media. Aside from well-deserved criticisms of Putin himself, this kind of blanket perspective tends to paint an entire nation in broad, simple brushstrokes devoid of nuance or variety. It evokes mainly negative impressions of Russia as a whole; most are undeserved. (I'll return to President Putin later.)

Moscow, in general, reminded me of New York City. It brought to mind Gotham City’s imposing concrete testaments to modern industrialization. Fast-paced pedestrians filled the sidewalks. I noticed an abundance of souvenir shops, too – the kind I usually avoid. But, as most tourists, I couldn’t resist. The fake Faberge eggs, matrioshki, and tacky refrigerator magnets were predictable, but the miniature bust of Putin – next to Stalin and Lenin – was not. Even my girlfriend was surprised. “He’s popular with many,” she said, “but this is making him an icon.”

Putin the Great?

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