Sorokin part 5 and 6: Metro “Krasniye vorota,” Cheremushkinskii Market and Novodevichii Monastery

In the pose of Apollo, albeit only half-naked, in one of the inexplicable niches in the Moscow metro station "Krasniye vorota."

The Eros of Moscow (continued)
By Vladimir Sorokin

5.  Metro station “Krasniye vorota”

The Moscow metro, at first glance, seems to be one giant erogenous zone, a palpating system, each curve of which requires soft caresses.  But this is only a superficial impression.  In my 45 years of travels through this labyrinth, I’ve found only one station with erotic vibrations: “Krasniye vorota.”  Go there after midnight, undress and stand in one of the granite niches and freeze for several minutes in the pose of Apollo (if you are a man) or Aphrodite (if God created you a woman).

Novodevichii Monastery.

6.  Cheremushkinskii Market and Novodevichii Monastery

It is essential to arrive a little before the opening of the market already dressed in tatters.  Having brought a wooden box, go through the main entrance into the market and immediately sit down on the box next to the doors.  Place a scuzzy ushanka on your lap, take a deep breath and start to softly but persistently moan, “Moscow is red with buns!  Moscow is red with buns!”  You need to repeat this phrase continuously all day.  As soon as the market closes, stand and, without counting the money given to you over the course of the day, clutch the ushanka in your hand and go to Novodevichii Monastery.  Enter the grounds of the monastery, stand in the center, cross yourself, bow, and, with the cry, “To you, God, what to us is unfit!” throw the hat with the money as high as you can.

Voga Boatman Episode 7: Moscow

Moscow (“Moskva” in Russian).  The onion-domed, haphazard old Russian counterpoint to St. Petersburg’s deliberate, neo-classical facades.  A constant, hectic race-for-survival, as contrasted with a haughty weekend stroll down Nevsky Prospekt.  The motherly homeland to the forward-looking father figure of Petersburg (much has been made of the automated voice on each city’s metro: Male in Petersburg, female in Moscow).

I saw (again) Lenin’s body still intact in his tomb, with Stalin, long since removed from embalmed glory, buried outside, next to the Kremlin wall.  It gave me a guilty thrill, but I have to say it’s time to knock Lenin down a peg or two.  Forget this nonsense about letting him “rest in peace”; it’s a pile of chemically preserved flesh.  Nonetheless, this pile of flesh is still far too revered.  Stalin was discredited in the ’60s and has at least become a controversial figure (the very least he should be after destroying millions of his countrymen), but Lenin still remains a goodly hero in the mass mentality.  It was this glittering golden god, however, who set the standard for ritualized destruction of innocent peasants, declaring “Merciless mass terror against the kulaks … Death to them!”

So I’m with Gorbachev on this one.  But now that my rant’s over, I can say it was a nice little trip, in all.

Old ladies (the more polite Russian term can be loosely translated as "well-lived") in Russia often wear their hair purple. This is on account of the cheap shampoo their pensions afford.

The Slava ("Glory") watch company, which used to sell parts to Swiss watchmakers.

A small bit of nature in the middle of the big city.