| From Russia |
| with mild amusement |
It was their fault, really. They totally should have known, right? You can’t
serve vodka AND whiskey and not expect something to happen.
Well it did. Or at least I’m told. I don’t remember any of it, and this I would
totally recall. Because in the middle of a crowded Moscow bar on a busy
Friday night I allegedly pumped my fist in the air and screamed “Boosha! ...
Boosha! ... Boosha! ... Chechnya!!!"
What brought on this momentary bout of nationalistic pride, misguided
as it was? I haven’t a clue. Especially since I couldn’t find Chechnya with a
map, compass and flask (actually, that last one might help). Of all my life’s
WTF moments, and there are many, this one not only takes the cake, but the
left over batter, frosted-covered plates, one-ply napkins and that cheap
cafeteria spork, which someone could have easily hurt me with had my
comrades not smuggled me back to my room, where I awoke the next morning
with the syestra of all hang-overs.
The trip had gone smoothly up to that point. I convinced three friends to
join me in Moscow for Thanksgiving, hoping to garnish the holiday feast with
a dash of big city glamour and Bourne-esque intrigue. The other goal was far
less ambitious: not spending the holiday in Boca. No offense to my fellow
Ratonians, but Thanksgiving is about cold weather, cozy fireplaces and Gap
commercials asking you to give a little bit more than sticker price. The last
thing I want to see when I wake up that morning is Saul and Moira power
walking down Camino Real in matching jogging suits.
And so after a nine hour flight on American Airlines, which finally bowed
to my shameless e-campaign for free tickets mainly out of lack of bandwidth,
we arrived in Moscow to be met by a two Audi motorcade waiting to bring us
to our first destination, The Ritz-Carlton, a surprisingly modern, 11 story
building right off Red Square. Though not the historic palace I envisioned, the
hotel was super luxe, with 300 guest rooms, incredible views of the Kremlin
and St. Basil’s Cathedral and a bevy of stocky bellmen wearing those
adorable ushanka hats.
Our first full day was spent visiting the nearby landmarks, and to see
Red Square with your own eyes is something you must experience once in
your lifetime. It just oozes drama - you’d be hard-pressed not to get swept up
in Cold War revelry as you walk along its cobble-stoned vista, revisiting
childhood nightmares of long-range missiles and nuclear bombs.
St. Basil’s Cathedral is equally as stunning, but far less fearful. You can
walk through the church without much hassle, or at least I thought until Lady
Gaga sparked a near riot for wearing something as innocent (at least for her)
as leather into the church. They should have been happy it wasn’t a rubber
mini, rainbow wig and roller skates, and she should have been relieved to
have gotten out of there with her eye-sight intact -- Ivan the Terrible had its
architect, Postnik Yakovlev, blinded in the 15th century so he’d never be able
to create something so beautiful.
The scene is even more depressing over at Lenin’s casket. Dark and
dreary, it’s a total downer, which I guess is the point. Still, the soldiers who
guard it need to lighten up a bit. You’re watching over a guy who already
died, so how badly can you screw this up? I’ve never felt more uncomfortable,
being shuttled through some ominous cauldron while getting yelled at by
soldiers to keep my hands out of my pockets, as if a tin of Altoids warranted a
trip to the gulags. The saccharine isn’t any sweeter over at the Kremlin,
where another guard tapped his deathly nightstick in my direction for daring
to step on a sidewalk. You couldn’t blame us for chanting “Ohhh Weh Ohh,
Ohhh” the second we saw a group of soldiers walking rigidly in a single-file
line.
Fortunately, the Ritz-Carlton proved to be the perfect refuge, and
hospitable as can be in Moscow, which isn’t exactly known for pleasantries.
Guest rooms are what you’d expect (big fluffy beds, marble bathrooms, over-
priced mini-bar), but it’s the 11th floor Club Lounge that really sets it apart –
a giant, dark cherry and Burl wood-paneled room with gold fixtures, antique
vases, five daily presentations of Russian and western delicacies and
postcard-ready views of Red Square, where you can watch armed Russian
soldiers harass its citizenry for no apparent reason as you stuff your face with
swirled zebra cake next to a roaring fireplace. The hotel certainly goes to
great lengths to make you feel a home, which is important considering you’re
in a corrupt country that blames you for 80 years of bread lines and black
market blue jeans.
For Thanksgiving The Ritz created a special turkey menu for its
American guests, and thankfully moved my friends and I away from those
rotten children and their Buzz Light Year pistols. Holidays be damned, I was
for a moment wistful of the time you could drop dime on your neighbors and
never see them again, even if it meant sending the kids to Siberia.
We later took part in a signature Russian dinner at its Caviarterra restaurant
with the hotel’s public relations director Sergey, who, in between splitting his
sentences with an oddly-timed smirk, helped organize our visit and treated us
to vodka, Kamchatka crab, Osetra Caviar, boiled veal tongue, smoked
venison, traditional Russian pickles and confusing stories from his homeland
which included everything but Moscow. I soldiered through it all like a good
ruskie as Sergey, in between texting and twittering under the table, helped
lead discussion on politics, history and apparently not growing up in the
Soviet Union. It was at this point I began to passionately sermonize our own
founding fathers (Johnny, Jack and Jameson) and the ingenuity that is the
electoral college, and that’s where the trouble started, given constitutional
lore is my most obvious "tell".
After five shots of vodka, two from a $400 bottle of Beluga, we were next
invited to an after party held at the hotel’s rooftop o2 lounge, a glass-domed
bar that circles the entire floor and which you can totally see being shot to
smithereens by Opus Dei in the next Robert Langdon movie. To no one's
surprise we were already familiar with the space, having taken it over the
night before for an impromptu "walk off” in which we shamelessly turned an
entire side of the bar into a catwalk and sashayed our little booties down the
runway with all the attitude of an oligarch’s wife. Call it our gift to Moscow: that
special brand of western moxie that single-handedly killed communism (well,
that and Rocky IV).
Yet the next night the victim would be me. Our walk-off had indeed been
scary but not enough for a population that’s weathered food shortages, death
squads and action thrillers starring Mikhail Baryshnikov. And so we returned
to the scene of the crime, where vodka had slowly but methodically turned me
into a Gremlin who shouldn’t drink Jameson after midnight. I needed more
liquor like Leonid Brezhnev needed eyebrows and stumbled into the o2
lounge in full Yeltsin. In rare moments of consciousness I can recall spending
time in a corner hugging a bottle of Macallan, then launching into full on
impersonation of Donatella Versace after a pack of ciggies and Super Gulp
tumbler. You try keeping your mouth shut after seeing the endless line of
Gucci-wearing, chain-smoking, peroxied Russian women parading around the
lounge in halter tops. It downright demands a Donatella reference and husky
“You stupid bitch” quote, best accessorized with imaginary cigarette,
exaggerated puffing and finally bemused head turn, like you’ve found
someone better to be bored with.
The final straw came when I stood up and decried the Russian conflict in
Chechnya to a bar brimming with Cold War babies. Mind you, this entire
battle was something I had to look up on Wikipedia afterwards, when sobriety
reared its ugly head. I still have no clue what brought me to Defcon 5 this
evening but I do have my theories.
It could be that my body was consumed by the spirit of a fallen comrade
who perished during the war. Perhaps it was the ghost of a communist
hardliner objecting to the first big break of the Soviet empire. Or maybe I
should just stop drinking.
I'm going to go with #1.
serve vodka AND whiskey and not expect something to happen.
Well it did. Or at least I’m told. I don’t remember any of it, and this I would
totally recall. Because in the middle of a crowded Moscow bar on a busy
Friday night I allegedly pumped my fist in the air and screamed “Boosha! ...
Boosha! ... Boosha! ... Chechnya!!!"
What brought on this momentary bout of nationalistic pride, misguided
as it was? I haven’t a clue. Especially since I couldn’t find Chechnya with a
map, compass and flask (actually, that last one might help). Of all my life’s
WTF moments, and there are many, this one not only takes the cake, but the
left over batter, frosted-covered plates, one-ply napkins and that cheap
cafeteria spork, which someone could have easily hurt me with had my
comrades not smuggled me back to my room, where I awoke the next morning
with the syestra of all hang-overs.
The trip had gone smoothly up to that point. I convinced three friends to
join me in Moscow for Thanksgiving, hoping to garnish the holiday feast with
a dash of big city glamour and Bourne-esque intrigue. The other goal was far
less ambitious: not spending the holiday in Boca. No offense to my fellow
Ratonians, but Thanksgiving is about cold weather, cozy fireplaces and Gap
commercials asking you to give a little bit more than sticker price. The last
thing I want to see when I wake up that morning is Saul and Moira power
walking down Camino Real in matching jogging suits.
And so after a nine hour flight on American Airlines, which finally bowed
to my shameless e-campaign for free tickets mainly out of lack of bandwidth,
we arrived in Moscow to be met by a two Audi motorcade waiting to bring us
to our first destination, The Ritz-Carlton, a surprisingly modern, 11 story
building right off Red Square. Though not the historic palace I envisioned, the
hotel was super luxe, with 300 guest rooms, incredible views of the Kremlin
and St. Basil’s Cathedral and a bevy of stocky bellmen wearing those
adorable ushanka hats.
Our first full day was spent visiting the nearby landmarks, and to see
Red Square with your own eyes is something you must experience once in
your lifetime. It just oozes drama - you’d be hard-pressed not to get swept up
in Cold War revelry as you walk along its cobble-stoned vista, revisiting
childhood nightmares of long-range missiles and nuclear bombs.
St. Basil’s Cathedral is equally as stunning, but far less fearful. You can
walk through the church without much hassle, or at least I thought until Lady
Gaga sparked a near riot for wearing something as innocent (at least for her)
as leather into the church. They should have been happy it wasn’t a rubber
mini, rainbow wig and roller skates, and she should have been relieved to
have gotten out of there with her eye-sight intact -- Ivan the Terrible had its
architect, Postnik Yakovlev, blinded in the 15th century so he’d never be able
to create something so beautiful.
The scene is even more depressing over at Lenin’s casket. Dark and
dreary, it’s a total downer, which I guess is the point. Still, the soldiers who
guard it need to lighten up a bit. You’re watching over a guy who already
died, so how badly can you screw this up? I’ve never felt more uncomfortable,
being shuttled through some ominous cauldron while getting yelled at by
soldiers to keep my hands out of my pockets, as if a tin of Altoids warranted a
trip to the gulags. The saccharine isn’t any sweeter over at the Kremlin,
where another guard tapped his deathly nightstick in my direction for daring
to step on a sidewalk. You couldn’t blame us for chanting “Ohhh Weh Ohh,
Ohhh” the second we saw a group of soldiers walking rigidly in a single-file
line.
Fortunately, the Ritz-Carlton proved to be the perfect refuge, and
hospitable as can be in Moscow, which isn’t exactly known for pleasantries.
Guest rooms are what you’d expect (big fluffy beds, marble bathrooms, over-
priced mini-bar), but it’s the 11th floor Club Lounge that really sets it apart –
a giant, dark cherry and Burl wood-paneled room with gold fixtures, antique
vases, five daily presentations of Russian and western delicacies and
postcard-ready views of Red Square, where you can watch armed Russian
soldiers harass its citizenry for no apparent reason as you stuff your face with
swirled zebra cake next to a roaring fireplace. The hotel certainly goes to
great lengths to make you feel a home, which is important considering you’re
in a corrupt country that blames you for 80 years of bread lines and black
market blue jeans.
For Thanksgiving The Ritz created a special turkey menu for its
American guests, and thankfully moved my friends and I away from those
rotten children and their Buzz Light Year pistols. Holidays be damned, I was
for a moment wistful of the time you could drop dime on your neighbors and
never see them again, even if it meant sending the kids to Siberia.
We later took part in a signature Russian dinner at its Caviarterra restaurant
with the hotel’s public relations director Sergey, who, in between splitting his
sentences with an oddly-timed smirk, helped organize our visit and treated us
to vodka, Kamchatka crab, Osetra Caviar, boiled veal tongue, smoked
venison, traditional Russian pickles and confusing stories from his homeland
which included everything but Moscow. I soldiered through it all like a good
ruskie as Sergey, in between texting and twittering under the table, helped
lead discussion on politics, history and apparently not growing up in the
Soviet Union. It was at this point I began to passionately sermonize our own
founding fathers (Johnny, Jack and Jameson) and the ingenuity that is the
electoral college, and that’s where the trouble started, given constitutional
lore is my most obvious "tell".
After five shots of vodka, two from a $400 bottle of Beluga, we were next
invited to an after party held at the hotel’s rooftop o2 lounge, a glass-domed
bar that circles the entire floor and which you can totally see being shot to
smithereens by Opus Dei in the next Robert Langdon movie. To no one's
surprise we were already familiar with the space, having taken it over the
night before for an impromptu "walk off” in which we shamelessly turned an
entire side of the bar into a catwalk and sashayed our little booties down the
runway with all the attitude of an oligarch’s wife. Call it our gift to Moscow: that
special brand of western moxie that single-handedly killed communism (well,
that and Rocky IV).
Yet the next night the victim would be me. Our walk-off had indeed been
scary but not enough for a population that’s weathered food shortages, death
squads and action thrillers starring Mikhail Baryshnikov. And so we returned
to the scene of the crime, where vodka had slowly but methodically turned me
into a Gremlin who shouldn’t drink Jameson after midnight. I needed more
liquor like Leonid Brezhnev needed eyebrows and stumbled into the o2
lounge in full Yeltsin. In rare moments of consciousness I can recall spending
time in a corner hugging a bottle of Macallan, then launching into full on
impersonation of Donatella Versace after a pack of ciggies and Super Gulp
tumbler. You try keeping your mouth shut after seeing the endless line of
Gucci-wearing, chain-smoking, peroxied Russian women parading around the
lounge in halter tops. It downright demands a Donatella reference and husky
“You stupid bitch” quote, best accessorized with imaginary cigarette,
exaggerated puffing and finally bemused head turn, like you’ve found
someone better to be bored with.
The final straw came when I stood up and decried the Russian conflict in
Chechnya to a bar brimming with Cold War babies. Mind you, this entire
battle was something I had to look up on Wikipedia afterwards, when sobriety
reared its ugly head. I still have no clue what brought me to Defcon 5 this
evening but I do have my theories.
It could be that my body was consumed by the spirit of a fallen comrade
who perished during the war. Perhaps it was the ghost of a communist
hardliner objecting to the first big break of the Soviet empire. Or maybe I
should just stop drinking.
I'm going to go with #1.
| The Travel Snob Ventures Behind The Iron Curtain and Still Finds a Few Wrinkles and Creases |
| For More Moscow Photos, Click HERE |
