Science Fiction in Star City

« Return to Russia

After Tokyo, the Moscow Metro is the second most heavily used transit system in the world. 12 lines, 177 stations, travelling nearly 300kms and transporting an average of over 7 million passengers each day. Besides its efficiency, there is no other Metro that comes close to the design, architecture and legacy of its stations. Grand, opulent ballrooms largely devoid of tacky advertising, Moscow’s Metro has chandeliers, mosaic, and epic Soviet statues. It was Stalin’s dream for the Metro to mirror all that was great of the Soviet Empire, the palaces for the people.

The best and brightest architects of the day were invited to design the stations, to create living museums trafficked by millions. There’s 65.4km of escalators, some 10,000 train runs a day, nearly 35,000 employees, and not a scrap of litter anywhere. There’s even a new art car, allowing passengers to enjoy watercolours underground. For the show, I took the cameras to three of the most famous stations. Ploschad Revolutsii Station sits adjacent to and blow Red Square. Bronze figures are crouched, glorifying the socialist revolution. When Stalin first heard about them, he was ready to scrap the lot since Russian heroes should never be on their knees. When he saw them however – their proud lifelike faces, noble spirit, simple farm clothing – he changed his mind. During World War II, the statues were evacuated to the Urals, while the Metro served as safe havens from the bombs above. Some of the statues have dogs, and students have created a tradition of rubbing their noses for luck. Decades of rubbing have polished their noses, and watching tourists and locals come together in this strange custom reminded me that we’re not all that different, the Russians and us. “I hope the Russians love their children too,” sang Sting in his pleading and earnest cold-war song.
Turns out they do.
Novokuznetskaya honours Soviet war heroes, lit up by old, shadowy lamps. You could be in a spy novel, you could be in a period romance. Impressive overhead mosaics watch crowds hurry to their next appointment. Mayakovskayais is the true ballroom, the majestic station you might see in photos or travel shows. It’s one of the largest and busiest stations on the network, lit by giant chandeliers, framed by giant archways and chrome columns. We have permission to shoot down here, but it doesn’t stop overweight guards in too-small uniforms circling us like vultures, desperate to shut us down, maybe poach a decent bribe. One guard sports a black eye. I can practically smell his corrupt soul. He grabs Paul’s arm and shoves us to stop, until his superior grunts that we are approved. With one piece of paper, patiently arranged by Caroline over several months beforehand, it feels like we had just pulled a bazooka on a knife-wielding mugger. Further along I landed in Sretensky Bulvar, opened in 2007 and the newest station in the Metro system, the contrast between the grand old Soviet style and Modern Russia is stark. The halls are sterile, adorned in mixed media art, cold and urban. The angles are sharp and functional, the grunge polished. An attractive wedding party take photographs. Their smiles and laughs echo off the walls.

The sun is setting behind one of the Seven Sisters – the seven mammoth gothic buildings commissioned by Stalin to show that the Soviets could compete with American skyscrapers. Today, they look like something out Bladerunner, even if they have been converted in hotels, offices or universities. Muscovites have gathered by the old 90m Olympic ski jump, checking out a view of the city that gave birth to what would later evolve into Russia. Some breakdancers do the windmill, bikers are comparing their choppers, students are drinking beer. There’s the usual clackity-clop of high heels, the neck twists of miniskirts. I can just make out the spires of St Basil, but dominating the skyline are several skyscrapers under construction, the result of Russia’s status as an energy superpower. Like the concentration of its political capital, its economic wealth lies famously with the oligarchs, the right men at the right place and time to carve up the remnants of a former global superpower. Sean reckons he hasn’t seen so many luxury cars in one city before. Maybe in L.A. Clearly the wealth is being spread. Moscow is now the world’s most expensive city for expats. Meaning, if you go to a decent restaurant, rent a decent apartment and buy a decent pair of shoes, you’re going to pay for it more here than anywhere else. Most tourists seem to congregate at Hotel Izmaylovo, the old Olympic Village, where 4 Vegas-size hotels hold over 8000 beds – together they make the largest hotel, but apart do not feature on any lists. . Our rooms on the 27th floor of the Gamma block are nice enough, even if the lobby has the strange scent of play dough. Our meals are costing us around $20 a hit, until we discover the best and most unlikely shwarma joint in the world, a tiny hot-as-hell room where one man crafts the perfect $3 meal in a wrap.
When you travel, it takes a few days before you can play the system, and until then, the system is designed to play you.
On Arbat St, shortly before a legendary storm hits that will flood streets and crack the whip of earth-shaking thunder, Julia and I are recognized by a couple from Toronto. They’re big fans of the show, and have used it as inspiration and advice in their own long term travel plans. They can’t believe they’ve actually bumped into us, just four days into their own magnificent journey, and their first question is: Are we married? We reply with our running joke: Well, we fight a lot and don’t have sex, so technically, you could say we are. Later, I bump into them again, staying at the same hotel (small world, I know). I dish out the vital things I have learned on my own journey:
1. It’s the people you meet who create the paradise you find
2. Wherever you are is where you’re meant to be
3. Learn to listen to, appreciate, and trust your gut
4. Smile, even when things get tough.
I bid them good luck, feeling a little foolish for playing the travel guru I’d thought I’d never be. I feel drained from the pace, exhausted from the pressure, dizzy from the Cyrillic, and miss my girlfriend back home. Five years ago I never would have thought I’d end up Moscow and St Petersburg. Now I’ve visited twice. At this rate, I may as well set my sights on being the first travel writer in space. Esrocket Man, burning up his fuel up here alone.

August 10th
Vancouver, BC

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