So I was playing poker at the Scandinavia Restaurant near Pushkin Square with a mixed group of American and Canadian expats, plus the odd Dane or Dutchman and one very odd Brit. I had reached the end of my evening and was taking my leave when one of them said, by way of farewell, “Welcome home.”
Another one who’s drunk the Kool-Aid, I thought. They seem to abound.
What prompted this thought was the realization, based on only a short time here, that there are quite a few expatriates who have been a long time here, and have, not to put too fine a point on it, no intention to leave. They have found in Moscow a kind of Wild East fantasy world where they can make not just a living but a life. I don’t begrudge them this; I just wish they’d quite trying to cram it down my throat.
Example from that same poker game. A guy literally said to me (though in fairness he was already quite drunk), “So, since you’ve come to Moscow, what’s the dirtiest thing you’ve done?” The dirtiest thing I’ve done? Really? I said, “Dude, you’ve got the wrong guy.” Seriously. The only remotely off-the-reservation thing I’ve done is stay up all night watching wildly-out-of-time-zone baseball playoff games on satellite TV. Yet to hear this guy tell it, if I play my cards right, and spend my rubles in staggering amounts, I can visit places in Moscow that would make a Bangkok hooker blush. Maybe. But trust me, I can wait to find out.
So then here’s the difference between those who have gone native and those who have not. It’s simple when you think about it, really, and really self-selecting. Guys who come here and love it, stay. Guys who come here and don’t love it, leave. So the guys you meet here tend to be the ones who love it, and who loudly extol its virtues of cold vodka, hot chicks, and a cloak of mystery that keeps it all from the prying eyes of loved ones back home.
And note that I keep saying guys, guys, guys. I think there’s a very strong correlation between maleness and Moscow’s appeal. I suspect – in some cases I know – that these guys have wives and children back home. Of course the families don’t come with; that wouldn’t be expedient. But behind expedience lies a darker truth. These men – these guys – really like their freedom. They like being six thousand miles from those prying eyes. And if they want to get drunk at the banya or spend a month’s salary at a strip club or pick up a mistress on the side, who’s to stop them; who’s to know? So for some of them, the place becomes Las Vegas writ large: no rules, no consequences.
At least none we can discern from here.
Meanwhile, back at my prosaic life, I visit no strip joint; I don’t even stick my nose in casinos. While I’m always on the lookout for a good poker game, I content myself with this home-away-from-home game among the expats. I don’t have the bankroll for casino poker here, and even if I did, it would be a bad gamble. As a rule, you shouldn’t play poker when you don’t know your foes’ language and don’t have enough of the local dosh to play the game right. Now, this is a rule I’ve broken in the past, and may, in fairness, eventually break here. For the time being, though, I’m content to follow the Law of Inverse Neon (which I just made up):
The more neon a place has out front,
the less likely it is to be good for you.
I am, it must be said, starting to feel more at ease here, if not exactly at home. I mean, I have found a regular poker game, and I am watching all the baseball I can stand (though what it’s doing to my body clock – oy vey!) And hey, I’ve even hooked up with a local ultimate frisbee team. They play the game indoors at this time of year around here, and while I’m not historically a fan of indoor ultimate, in a way it suits me balky lower extremities, for the indoor version requires more quickness and finesse, and less flat-out running, than its outdoor counterpart.
The weird part about playing ultimate here is how I arrive at team practice. All the other players are like ultimate players everywhere: young, a little scruffy, chronically under-employed. They have that counterculture feel that any ultimate player will instantly recognize as the ultimate vibe. Now here I come, twice their age, thrice their income, and delivered to the game by my own private driver – who waits patiently for me to finish so he can drive me home to my furnished-and-paid-for downtown apartment. They ride home sweaty on the subway; I sit in the back of a posh sedan. Through their eyes, I must look like a luxury crisis on wheels. Through their eyes, I must have drunk the Kool-Aid.
But I haven’t, you know, and I’m not going to. I can already tell that Moscow is a place I can pass through but never stay. I know this three ways. First, I’m a pass-through kind of guy. It’s not foreignness per se that attracts me, but newness, and even Moscow will eventually get old. Second, note how my pleasures – even here – are the pleasures of home: poker, baseball, ultimate. Eventually I’ll want these things in mainline supply. Third, I have nothing to hide and no wish to stray. I love my wife, love our life, and I’m sorry to disappoint some of you, but I have no wish to acquire a hot Russian mistress. So what I’m focused on now is the fact that I have less than four weeks to go before my first home leave, and when I come back here I’m bringing Maxx with me. That’s when my party will really start. We’ll check out the Kremlin and the Hermitage together, maybe even take in the Moscow Circus. Because for the most part, my experiences never seem entirely real to me but for when I share them with her.
Except for the poker, baseball and ultimate, of course. But that’s some Kool-Aid I quaffed a long, long time ago.
More later, -jv