A Colorado State of Mind: July 2013

We left Suzdal in a gentle snow that struggled to continue on its third day, as the sun began to overtake and make brief appearances. Waiting in the lobby of our hotel we watched as a taxi car zipped through the deep snow and pulled up to the front entrance- it was our ride to Vladimir where we would catch a 4 hour train back to Moscow. I am sure my shocked expression gave away my fear as I saw our driver get out of his car- a huge, boxy, stern-looking, young Russian with a buzz haircut, dressed head to toe in camouflage with large, black combat boots... it looked like he had just been called in from a long weekend hunting wild boar, deep in the forest. He must have sensed my apprehension, and much to my surprise, drove the 30 minute route, still icy and snow packed, quite reasonably. At our departure we tipped and he revealed a genuine smile, followed with a thickly accented "thank-you!". Clearly, even the most rough appearing Russians could soften given the right circumstances.

The train ride to Moscow was long, crowded, and stifling hot- a characteristic of Russia I was quickly becoming accustomed to. While the biting outdoors warranted huge fur coats and hats, once inside you could be guaranteed to sweat within minutes as every restaurant, train, and metro station would pump out steaming heat. On this long train ride I sought relief from the heat with the smokers, hanging out in the creaking joints of the trains, exposed to the cold winter wind. As the afternoon gave way to evening, our train pulled into Moscow's main station. We left the busy station with hoards of Russians, picking up some questionable (but delicious) meat pies from a street vendor on the way.

Moscow hit us like the pulsing, technicolor metropolis it is. A carnival of colors, smells, and sounds... it was clear we had left the solace of the Russian countryside. Onion-dome cathedrals appeared in all directions, flashy and over-the-top, seductively swirling in colors of gold, ruby, emerald, and sapphire- quite a contrast from the muted tops in Suzdal. Added to this contrast was the shift in weather- still Russian winter cold, but now with a bright blue sky and blinding sun bouncing off the fresh 2 feet of snow. We watched with intrigue as hundreds of employees worked to clear the snow from the city using bobcats, brooms, and shovels on sidewalks, roads, and rooftops. I had once read that several Muscovites were killed each year from deadly snow piles and icicles falling from the stories high buildings. Clearly this was a passionate and endless job for these seemingly tireless workers during Moscow's long winter season.

Despite my highly romanticized view of Russia and Russians in general (fancy furs, expensive caviar and vodkas, gymnasts and figure skaters, and a hearty soul capable of thriving even in the harshest of winters) I expected Moscow to be a bit more rough around the edges, perhaps even gritty, and difficult for a foreigner to infiltrate. Likely this was the Moscow of 20 years ago, and possibly one that I would have preferred, but visiting today the city has all the glamour and convenience of any major European city. There are subtle differences that set the city apart, but in general I had the same feeling experienced in Paris when walking about the city- no matter how well dressed or fancy I felt I was, I would come to the sinking conclusion that the majority of Russian women were still more glamorous. I was lucky enough to have my mom's mink fur coat, given to her as a gift in the early 1980s. Clearly this coat fit in with the best of them in Russia. In fact, this along with my freshly dyed fire red hair and make-up that became increasingly heavy with each passing day (after observing other Russian women) was enough to have me mistaken for a local more frequently than any other international trip. What I couldn't give up was my shoes- at 5 months pregnant there was no way I would be able to walk around town on icy sidewalks in the fancy 3-inch suede boots I had foolishly brought; for this trip I would only wear the soft, warm and waterproof ones that had served me well in the rugged terrain of Iceland.

Our home base in Moscow was a centrally located apartment. Now this place felt Russian. To enter there was a huge army-green steel door activated by a magnetic key, which we would inevitably have to warm with our hands before getting it to work. Past this door was a dingy, unlit hallway lined with cracked tiles and cardboard trash that took us to a sturdy-as-a-submarine Soviet era elevator that would creak and bump its way up reluctantly to the fifth floor. Leaving the elevator we were led down another hallway to another locked door that required a skillful twist and jerk of a skeleton key, then finally to our apartment door where we would enter. It felt secure. The apartment was slightly drab, and not the cleanest, but the 15 foot tall ceilings and expansive city views more than made up for it. Not to mention the fact that by going through a local we were paying a quarter of what a small hotel room in the same neighborhood would cost. We were a 10 minute walk to Red Square, and less than 5 minutes to a reasonably priced grocery store, both of which we frequented daily.

Our days were spent alternating between walking Moscow's streets and catching a ride on a steaming hot Metro, deep underground beneath the city. We visited cathedrals, the Kremlin, the State Armoury (containing all the jewels, gold, diamonds, thrones, and carriages of the princes, princesses, emperors, and tsars), Gorky Park, markets, and museums. Not able to book a ticket at the famed Bolshoi, we attended a local ballet performance in the city. After a mild struggle to find the location, we were ushered up narrow flights of stairs to a small venue with blood red velvet chairs. Our seats were in the front row, dead center. We were so close to the dancers that at one point, much to my horror, the heel of my shoe briefly got caught on one of the sheets they were using as a prop. Despite the low budget production, we were thoroughly entertained. On the walk back in the dark we followed some colorful flashing lights to find a magical winter scene- an outdoor ice-skating arena occupied by young Russian children skating to 90s American pop music.

For dinner we would frequent cafeterias- a wonderful slice of local cuisine without the confusion of interpreting a Russian menu. For me it was easy- pregnant and walking miles in the bitter cold worked up an appetite and inevitably after visiting all the food stations (salads, side dishes, main courses, and desserts) I would be struggling with a tray precariously piled high with various plates balanced on top of one another, barely getting it to my table while avoiding catastrophe. After locating a seat, like a mad woman, I would find myself shoving in my mouth spoon fulls of crepes oozing with hot raspberry puree, succulent roast chicken, bean salad, dumplings, and stuffed cabbage, washing it down with a quick swipe of borscht. It was pure heaven.

On our last day in Moscow, the sun was overtaken by thick clouds and once again the snow began to fall as we strolled around an enchanting outdoor market with babushkas selling homemade pastries (of which we bought many), local honey, and birch branches. I was smitten. The snow would last up until we left, begging me to stay, and explore deeper into the heart and soul of Russia.