WHEN THE SOVIET UNION FOLDED IN 1991, subway stations honoring newly out-of-favor party heroes got quickie name changes. What couldn't be changed was their high-concept interior design. Riding the Metro today, it's not hard to imagine that Moscow is the same sinister place it was before the collapse of communism. If the new economy has transformed life above ground, Moscow's subway will be the Land o' Lenin for a very long time. In fact, Lenin's familiar face is everywhere -- on the walls, on the ceilings and around corners. The effect is quaintly creepy, as if the Supreme Soviet were still on the lookout for enemies of the people.
Halfway downtown I decide to transfer to the Circle Line for a ride through some of the oldest stations, every one a clean and efficient example of life in a workers' paradise; in other words, the exact opposite of real life in the Soviet Union. The "evil empire" atmospherics and the architectural styles, from Red Army art deco to hammer-and-sickle modern, change with every stop. There's Taganskaya, which glorifies veterans of the Great Patriot War, as Russians call World War II; Prospekt Mira, famous for its brightly colored stained glass and Stalin-era chandeliers; and Kievskaya, where elaborately framed mosaics depict the many achievements of Soviet labor, all of which seem to involve dam projects and tractor plants. An artist expanding on a similar idea today might be tempted to add a few post-Soviet achievements like deluxe dachas and bulletproof BWMs.
Saint Basil's Cathedral in Red Square.
(Silvia Otte)
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Moscow's sudden wealth and the crime that goes with it may not extend to all parts of Russia, but in the city's subway, signs of prosperity are easy to spot. The dressed-for-success passengers riding with me look nothing like their demoralized counterparts of a decade ago. A stylish woman across the aisle is reading the Russian version of Cosmo. The man next to her, decked out in a sharp business suit, is paging through a financial magazine. That would have been a criminal offense under the Soviet regime.
When the train pulls into Komsomolskaya, I exit to admire the incredible decor. Named after the Communist Youth League, the station commemorates great moments in Russian military history. Lenin's tactical genius is celebrated in a huge red-and-gold mosaic that covers a large part of the ceiling. The gigantic tableau replaced a similar celebration of Stalin's tactical genius, removed for political reasons in the early 1960s. Whenever communist authorities rewrote history, work crews would get busy eliminating all related public references, a luxury the new government can't afford. As a result, the Lenin mosaic remains an extraordinary sight, even if the subject has lost its appeal for many Russians. Maybe that explains why I'm the only one on the platform looking up.
That could also explain why there are no organized groups, outside of an aging population of elderly true believers, intent on preserving Moscow's Soviet past. The Russians I know would rather forget that part of their history, but the Metro won't let them. By making sure nearly every subway stop was built deep enough to double as an air-raid shelter, Stalin all but guaranteed that the system would never be affected by political changes. Politburo meetings were conducted in the Mayakovskaya station when Moscow was surrounded by the Germans in 1941. The nearby Chistiyie Prudy stop (formerly Kirowvskaya) served as one of Stalin's wartime bunkers. When I ask an attendant if the generalissimo ever used Komsomolskaya, she gets mad and tells me to mind my own business.
Here's one old tradition that hasn't changed. In Soviet days, when the customer was always wrong, being yelled at by the women who run Metro stations was standard procedure. The slightest infraction of the rules could unleash a tirade of abuse. Under the communists every functionary was an instrument of state supervision, and nobody took the work more seriously than the "subway ladies." In an effort to change that image, Metro officials recently launched an ad campaign, complete with posters featuring knockout fashion models in tight-fitting blue subway uniforms and slogans like "Have a Nice Ride!" Apparently the message hasn't filtered down to all levels of the operation.
MOSCOW'S CHINATOWN DOESN'T HAVE ANY CHINESE RESTAURANTS as far as I can tell, but there is a McDonald's, one of many all over the city. The original Russian McDonald's, which opened on Pushkin Square in 1990, was the first Western-style restaurant in the Soviet Union. People lined up for blocks to get in. Maybe the Cold War would have ended on its own; nevertheless, McDonald's, not to mention Pepsi and Pizza Hut, deserves at least some credit for speeding up the process.
I'm considering a "Bolshoi Mak" until I catch sight of a Russian Bistro down the street from the Kitai Gorod Metro stop. Instead of burgers and fries, the Bistro chain offers Russian and Eurasian dishes and half a dozen brands of frozen vodkas. I order a plate of Georgian khachapuri (a little like a steaming cheese quesadilla) and a small, frosty bottle of vodka. The khachapuri hits the spot, and the ice-cold vodka pours like 30-weight motor oil.
Two men at the next table are speaking English, which seems reason enough to ask what they're having.
"I don't know what this is," says one, an American, Bob from Montana.
"It's supposed to be beef stroganoff," grumbles the other, Boris, a Russian wearing a bear skin hat. This is Bob's first trip to Russia. He and Boris are involved in some sort of cultural exchange program, and both appear to be having second thoughts about the cuisine.
"Maybe some vodka would help," I tell Bob, who thinks he'd better not. His stomach's been acting up. "We're flying to Omsk tomorrow," he explains, at which point Boris shoots him a look that says, Don't talk to strangers.
