by Paul Shirley
At 9:30, a Russian fellow opened the large door into the consulate. I did not make it in with the first batch in line—a tiny old man and a family who had both clearly been behind me in line somehow slipped past. After a few minutes, more of us were allowed in. At this point, my lack of training in the Russian language proved to be something of a hindrance. Everyone else seemed to know where to go, so I followed along and sat down in front of a matronly woman behind some Plexiglas. When her reply to my, “Do you speak English?” was no, I thought I was sunk. Fortunately, the gatekeeper found me and pointed me in the direction of the visa room, so my panic attack was short-lived. Once inside, things went rather smoothly, actually. After deliberating on the “Have you ever used drugs or been a drug addict?” question for a few minutes, I turned in my application, picture, passport, and money and twenty minutes later was rewarded with my very own dual-entry, three-month Russian visa.
November 29
As I lay awake in a New York hotel room a few days ago, waiting for the next morning’s flight to Moscow, I wondered why I was dreading the trip so much. The feeling in the pit of my stomach was like the feelings before summer camp, before the first day of college, and before my first-ever NBA tryout all at once. I didn’t really know why. I think it had a little to do with the extreme foreignness of my destination and a lot to do with the fact that my brothers dropped me off at the airport on their way to our grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving. (Note to self: no more traveling on holidays.) When I told people about the journey, they said things like, “Ooh, that’s so exciting.” And I suppose they were right, it is exciting—kind of like a heart attack or a gunshot wound is exciting. They all get the blood pressure going, just not necessarily in a good way.
My dread was not misplaced. Early indications are that Russia and I are not going to get along well. The last four-day stretch has arguably been among the most miserable of my entire life.
That being said, it is funny how a friendly face, even one on a stranger, can improve my mood so drastically.
Getting to Kazan and dealing with all of the trappings of the journey took the fight out of me. So given that I woke up this morning at 5:00 for no reason except that my body thinks it is in some mystery time zone somewhere over the Atlantic and could not go back to sleep, which made me think seriously about retirement from European basketball, I was overjoyed to find some camaraderie at the breakfast buffet. I was roaming the line, attempting to explain that warm milk on my cereal was not going to do the job (cold milk: moloko khalodnyy, or maybe khalodnyy moloko— I’ve not yet learned whether the adjective comes first or last), when a pleasant English voice came piping out of the only other breakfast participant, a youngish Russian lady. She helped to translate the reason I was getting a big nyet in response to my request. The kitchen had originally had some cold milk—three liters, in fact. But they had used the lot of it to make the porridge. Mollified, I bit the bullet and used the hot milk. My cereal was terrible, but at least I did not have to simmer my way through breakfast, pissed because I could not get my point across.
My roll did not stop there. After breakfast, I headed to the business center for the first time in my stay here. (It had been closed. I don’t know why. Maybe the clientele is too busy sitting in their rooms, being miserable.) While I was using the Internet, a man came in to wait. As I was leaving and he was saddling up, he noticed my lack of linguistic skills and asked where I was from. I told him that I lived in Kansas and was now playing basketball for the local team, UNICS. When I returned his line of questioning, he pointed to the Atlanta Hawks shirt I was wearing and told me that he was a writer for the Atlanta paper, in Russia to interview a Thrashers player who had taken a job with the local hockey team while the NHL is consumed by a lockout. After we were finished with our little medium-world moment, the other fellow in the room piped up with, “Kansas? I studied at Shawnee Mission East for a month, but a long time ago.” In a hotel somewhere near one of the four corners of the earth, I ran into a guy who has spent significant time at the high school that is approximately twelve blocks from my home in Kansas City.
Those encounters may keep this particular entry from being the absolute most negative one I have ever written. If I had hammered something out twenty-four hours ago, the results would have made the Smiths seem jovial.
When I arrived at the Aeroflot desk in New York after an hour of waiting in a dot-filled line that smelled like a boiled combination of sweat and feces, I was greeted with, “Passport and ticket, please.” (Is the fact that Indian people smell so terrible off-limits? It need not be; I believe our only hope of solving this global problem is by attacking it head-on.) “Well, here’s my passport, but I think my ticket is an electronic one.” The Russian lady behind the counter destroyed my rebuttal by informing me that Aeroflot does not give out electronic tickets. I should not have been surprised—the airline still uses a hammer and sickle in its emblem. I said that I had no paper ticket and didn’t know what to do. She softened a bit and asked for input from her fellow in-checkers. In the time it took for her to return with an envelope with my name on it—the one containing my actual ticket—I had decided that I was split exactly fifty-fifty on whether I wanted the problem solved. If she had come back with no ticket, I would have been provided a convenient escape from my trip to Russia, one akin to the chicken exit near the roller coaster called the Orient Express at Worlds of Fun. (Kansas City reference.) Fortunately for my pocketbook, and unfortunately for my mental well-being, there would be no easy out.
My flight to Moscow was uneventful. I actually got a little sleep, and while Aeroflot’s business class is not on par with that of British Airways, it still beat the hell out of sitting in coach.
When I arrived in Russia, a frumpy, unilingual Russian man met me at the exit of the baggage claim as planned. After a two-hour drive through snow-covered Moscow without a whit of conversation, he guided me into the other airport in the city. (Really—no English. None.) He did not manage to provide me with much information, but he was able to get across that I was going to have to pay something to the next airline for the overstuffed bags of winter clothes I was portering around. With that nugget dispensed, he abandoned me to the clutches of Domodedovo Airport. For seven hours—my flight to Kazan wasn’t until late that night. I spent most of my time attempting to dry the contents of my backpack, which had become soaked as my bag rested on the floor of my driver’s shitty car. (I don’t know why.) I’m sure I looked like I had an advanced case of obsessive-compulsive disorder as I sat there fanning through the most-affected items for several hours. But it gave me something to do. Because I knew no one, and because the few people I cautiously approached quickly shot down my hopes of an English-only conversation, I was left with a dilemma or two: leave my bags to the mercy of any airport hoodlums in the area, or allow my bladder to explode. After several hours dominated by the latter option, I broke down and got my baggage cart as close as possible to the lavatory door before making a run for it. (I realize that all of this seems a little paranoid, but what the hell do I know about what goes on in Russian airports? Especially Russian airports filled with extraordinarily creepy-looking men who look like they might eat me if given the opportunity.)
Eight-thirty finally came and I was able to check in for my flight (on Siberian Airlines, no less). I picked my way through the security check and was on my way. In Europe, many airports employ buses for the transport of passengers from the terminal to the plane. Once they are out on the tarmac, the citizenry are hustled up Nixon stairs and into the plane. In a lot of places, this procedure makes sense; it probably cuts down on gate congestion. However, Moscow is not a lot of places. Instead of spending my boarding time in a nice, heated rectangular tunnel, I spent it outside in the snow, choking in the pleasant–10°C night air. While waiting to board the plane and contemplating whether my testicles would ever re-descend, I decided to commemorate the moment. (I did not write my name in the snow. Although that would have been awesome.) I
got out my newfangled camera and snapped off a shot that I hoped would contain some snowflakes and the Siberian Airlines insignia. After I did my best Ansel Adams, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find an unsmiling member of the Polizia in close proximity. I thought I was a goner. He said something in brusque Russian. I took it to mean, “No more pictures.” I hope it was not, “You’ve been marked. Next mistake results in a ten-year stay in the gulag.” I put away my camera, got on a plane that closely resembled one of the transports they show in Vietnam War movies, and passed out.
I was met in Kazan by Elvira, the woman with whom I had communicated before starting my journey. We walked from the airport into the tundra, and I was stowed in the back of a panel van with two Russians whose identities remained a mystery. Elvira spoke passable English but wasn’t particularly forthcoming with information as we drove the thirty minutes through pitch-black countryside into the city of Kazan. By the time I got to the Hotel Safar, it had been almost exactly forty-eight hours since I had left the comforts of my house in Kansas City. I was thoroughly disoriented and in no mood to find that my hotel room was the worst in which I had ever set foot. My bed was a mattress on the floor, and the only possible explanation for the carpeting choice was a fire sale on indoor/outdoor at the local emporium. I dodged some mildew for a quick shower and then collapsed for what I hoped would be a nice long rest before I was expected to be anywhere in the morning.
It was not to be. As I said, I woke up at about 5:00 A.M. I was not in good shape. In retrospect, I realize that I was totally warped from the trip, exhausted but not able to sleep, and extremely hungry. At any rate, dealing with the entire situation became a monumental task, and I lost my mind. I had not been so distraught in a long time. I thought I’d left behind my homesick days about ten years ago (not an easy task, I might add—I’m kind of a pussy), but I was incorrect. I called home after contemplating a trip out of my thirteenth-story window. I’m thankful that my mother was available for calming, she did a bang-up job of getting me to focus on the short-term goals of leaving my room and finding something to eat. (If these writings seem filled with complaints, imagine twenty-six years of them. That’s what my mother has had to put up with so far. Amazingly, she seems to have maintained her sanity. Most of it, anyway.) After finding some nourishment, I was able to calm down and then actually went back to sleep for an hour or so.
My first practice as a member of UNICS Kazan was uneventful. I felt like hell, but I managed to muster a few smiles and act like I was happy to be in the gym. The entire team was not around for the morning workout; it was more of a supplemental practice, which was nice, as I was able to meet the coach under somewhat less formal circumstances. Fortunately, his English is passable—exactly the second person in Russia I’ve met with that skill set. He took the opportunity to pass on some tidbits of information that I found quite…odd. I had been under the impression that I was in Kazan to replace an injured player. The coach informed me that he hoped my stay would be a long one, so the team wanted to evaluate me first before adding me to the roster. He told me that I would not play for the first seven to ten days, saying that he wanted to let me have a chance to fit in. I said that I would do whatever he needed me to do. I’m such the coach’s dream.
That night, I was introduced to the team as Paul Shirley, in Kazan on a tryout. As I gave a little wave, my ego took a swan dive. My brain said, Tryout? What do you think you have here, the 1986 Boston Celtics? Give me a little credit. But that quickly subsided as I realized that (1) I get paid the same either way and (2) as far as I can tell, Russia causes me to have suicidal thoughts, so the faster I can get out, the better. After my own little pick-me-up moment, I sat through some film and tried not to fall asleep.
Let me revisit the statement immediately preceding in which I implied that the country formerly known as the Soviet Union makes me want to kill myself. Well, it does. At least, this city does. First of all, it is cold. Really cold. The type of cold that we Kansans experience from time to time but know instinctively should only be viewed safely from the inside of one’s home. I learned that the high today was something like–10ºC. And that was on a sunny day. (This is November, by the way.) I can’t imagine what possessed a group of people to come upon this spot and decide, “Damn, but isn’t this one hell of a place. We ought to build a city here.” They could have been fooled in May, but come October, a couple of abandoned huts should have seemed like an acceptable loss.
Next problem: lack of even the most basic friendliness. Perhaps glasnost never made it to Kazan, or maybe it is the aftereffects of all those USSR years, but the average Russian carries a look on his face that says, Lenin didn’t smile; neither do I. I don’t need vapid grins and bouquets on my doorstep, but the occasional glint of joy in the eyes would not be frowned upon. The lack of general friendliness spills into my next problem: the language barrier. Sure, Russian is hard to learn. (Today’s letter of the day is. I don’t know what it means, but it sure is cool-looking.) That’s not the real problem, though. Greek was difficult, too. But in Greece, when I tried a phrase, I was usually greeted with a slightly condescending smile or laugh, like the one given a child who tried to use the word obsequious in his everyday conversations. Here, the look I get says, What, are you retarded? Say it right, idiot. Which makes me want to say, Hey, assbag, I’ve been here for forty-eight hours. I’m doing my best, which quickly devolves into, Wait, didn’t we win the Cold War? But that redneck line of thinking really flies in the face of what I stand for, so I try to cut myself off before I get to that point.
Last, this place is a little scary. At about 3 A.M. last night, a group of Russians were loudly attempting to get into the room next to mine. But that wasn’t my first thought. When my slumber was interrupted by the sound of their fists on a door, it sounded a lot like they were trying to get into my room. My anxiety might have been a consequence of the spy movies and the anti-USSR propaganda we Americans were fed from age six. Whatever the cause, it was alarming to hear gruff Russian voices separated from my head by four feet and a very flimsy wooden door in the middle of the night. I like to avoid the melodramatic. But I think it is safe to say that my chances of disappearance are significantly higher in Kazan, Russia, than in Mission, Kansas.
The good news is that the worst is probably over. There will be some odd situations ahead, but I don’t think I could possibly feel as bad as I did that first morning here. The important thing is that I remember, when this all over, to never do this again.
(I’ll probably forget.)
December 4
They gave me a Volvo to drive, which is great because the chances that I will need the protection provided by the famously safe Swedish carmaker on the streets of Kazan are quite high. Every day that I make it to the gym without a fender bender is a small miracle. The city’s drivers are probably not inherently bad—the driving conditions simply provide them with no opportunity for success. First of all, the streets have no markings. No lane lines, no turning lanes. The roads are one big racetrack, with the added obstacle of cars choosing entirely new directions of travel at a moment’s notice. It is not so bad when the streets are confined by some boundary, such as buildings, a canal, or a bridge abutment. However, when a widening occurs—near an intersection, for example—all hell breaks loose. Drivers jockey forposition as if the checkered flag at Talladega is awaiting the first car to the opposite side of the bulge in the road’s geography.
My drive to the gym is about three miles. Two nights ago, it took me thirty-seven minutes to get there. If I had jogged it, I would have beaten my car there. Of course, I would have died from hypothermia, but since we’re discussing a fantasy world anyway, I can pretend that I could have done it.
The journey began innocuously enough. The area around my hotel was, as usual, devoid of any activity. (Good for driving, bad for, say, finding a nearby restaurant.) Once I arrived at the intersection with the main road into town, the fun began. I made a right onto the bridge across the Kaz
anka River and merged into traffic. So far, so good. At this point, I took notice of what sorts of vehicles were in my general vicinity so as to predict the strange maneuvers their drivers might make. From largest to smallest, my fellow combatants were as follows:
1. Track-bound trolleys
2. Buses powered by overhead wires
3. Large self-propelled buses
4. Self-propelled minibuses
5. Cars
The trolleys and electric-powered buses are fairly easy to avoid. But they’re relentless. Their drivers seem unconcerned by the prospect of a charge of vehicular homicide; their style would best be described as aggressive. However, both are confined by their tracks or wires, so avoidance is possible.
The minibuses are another beast altogether. They move with no predictability, and their drivers apparently think that a 180-degree turn in the flow of traffic is often a good idea. Some days, these buses are the bane of my existence.
Cars are always a nuisance. Generally, they are of the Russian-made Lada type. (Of which the Sputnik model seems to be most popular.) Their degree of unpredictability varies inversely with their worth. For example, the rare, newish Mercedes is less likely to jackknife itself in the quest for a parking space than is the ubiquitous, decades-old Sputnik.
With the identities of my competition in mind, I crossed the bridge over the Kazanka River. While doing so, I noticed the ice fishermen on the river and wondered why they don’t build themselves shacks like Minnesotans. Then I realized that they live in Kazan. That anyone chooses to live in such a place would imply that good judgment is obviously in short supply here. Traffic on the bridge was slow, so I wandered into the middle of the road like a local and used the area covered in trolley tracks as a fast lane, keeping an eye out for the Bolshevik-era trolley cars at all times. At the far side, I was faced with my first stoplight and its five possible light conditions:
