Journey Below Moscow

Traveling on the metro in Moscow is like being an ant in a stampede to escape the rain. Two tickets? 27 rubles please - the same amount of money you would spend on a pack of gum back home. You hand one ticket to a friend and head for the opposite side of the room. Turnstiles clank and flash as you get swept into the faceless Russian mass of the metro. There is no turning back now.

The escalator takes you into the bowels of the station as you stand shoulder to shoulder and almost chest to back with the people around you. You lean back to prevent yourself from falling as the stairs descend deeper. Russian children send kopecks skidding down the median that divides the two sides of the moving slope, playing an unknown game with their friends. There is finally solid ground beneath your feet once more as the crowd dismounts the escalator and moves towards the platforms. You grab on to your friend’s arm and look around desperately for the Russian guide who’d promised to help you find your way. You spot him farther on in the crowd, easily weaving his way through the crowd.

You hurry after him, glad that he is able to read the dirty white and blue signs hanging down from the ceiling. To you, the foreign characters are a jumble of lines and squiggles which mean absolutely nothing. Your guide leads you successfully to the platform, moments before the metro arrives. The doors slide open to reveal another foreign crowd in which you must try and fit in. You attempt to maintain your balance as you depart, grabbing onto your friend’s arm for support only to find she was relying on you. Embarrassment and a feeling of foreignness result as you topple over onto one another. Your guide hides his smile unsuccessfully. Next stop: five rattling, uncomfortable minutes later. You push your way out of the metro car only to be enveloped in another crowd of people. The metro speeds away, leaving you to the mercy of the teeming mass. You melt into the pack and follow your guide, mounting the everlasting escalator once more.

You haven’t seen the sun for a good twenty minutes – not since you first entered the station at the beginning of your journey. You’re cramped between strangers as usual, leaning forward this time to keep yourself from toppling over. Round two of the ‘kopeck game’ on the escalator median is still in progress as you break free of the escalator crowd and emerge into the front lobby of the station.

The sunshine is a welcome sight and the cold fresh Moscow air catches you by surprise. The crowd thins and weaves around you towards their destinations. Your guide moves on down the street but you remain motionless with your friend in the square, breathless and still feeling dreadfully foreign.