It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Metro to Cry

As a vocal advocate for public transportation who never lived in a town with any decent transit system, I was thrilled to make use of the Moscow metro. I can’t compare the layout to that of any other major city (having never visited one), but I find it incredibly easy to navigate: the criss-crossed, color-coded lines with an all-connecting ring line in the center make it difficult to get lost. On top of that, the stations themselves are beautiful. Most stations feature high-ceilinged halls of marble and display triumphant Soviet-era reliefs and murals.
But the best part is that the metro serves as a window into the soul of the city’s population. Every trip offers a little slice of the local culture and highlights some anthropological insights. For example, the generation gap is palpable; often times I’ll see a couple of old men in ushankas and greatcoats exit at one stop and kids with blue hair and co-opted European designer clothes replace them, cranking their iPods and taking any available seat. Traditionally, seats are almost always ceded to babushkas, which is why I rarely bother sitting down when a free one appears, but modern youth tend to ignore these standards (and the resulting passive-aggressive glares of the geriatrics).
One thing that might shock an American observer on the metro is the prevalence of books. Unlike Americans, Russians read, and they read often. In any given car, at least a quarter of the passengers have paperbacks or newspapers. But don’t take this as a sign that the average Ivan is necessarily more educated than the average Joe; a closer inspection of most readers reveal that the typical fare includes trashy tabloids and awful sci-fi/fantasy novels. For example, I saw one middle-aged man intensely reading an article titled something like “оргазмы в кризисе?” (Orgasms in a Crisis?), and the covers of the novels often feature scenes like cosmonauts with lasers battling moon squids.
During weekdays, standard dour commuters make up most crowds, but with nightfall obviously comes a more interesting set of travelers. A couple of nights ago, we boarded an empty car right before a huge group of drunk and merry kids ran in and occupied most of three benches. They were heading to Proletarskaya (probably to Kruzhka, a bar chain where you can get a tall glass of beer for 50 rubles). One girl yelled that they should take another shot…or two, or three. A couple of guys sitting across from my wall pulled out Soviet pilotkas (envelope caps) and an army trench coat to wear. Then, from my left, an entire row broke out in an awful, drunken rendition of “Katyusha,” an old and popular folk song I had to memorize for class last year. I thought about joining in, but, being sober at the time, I didn’t have the guts. Later, I found out from a couple of friends that that was probably a good idea: a couple of the kids further down openly discussed whether we were Americans, and upon confirming that we were, one of them gave an exaggerated middle finger. Little did he know that they were glaring at him the whole time, and when he looked over, he immediately lost his swagger and put his head in his hands in embarrassment. That kind of playful nationalism is why I find myself less nervous about anti-American backlash here.
Sundays feature by far the most interesting metro crowds. On Sunday mornings, the normally silent cars are filled with people yelling political treatises, inviting others to play games of chance, or hocking old wares to passengers. Also, every Sunday morning that I’ve ridden the metro, a young legless vet has gotten on my car (could it have been the same one every time? Unlikely) and yelled something about being an invalid and needing space/money. The last morning this happened, the man was so terribly drunk that I couldn’t pick up a word he said. As he rolled past, I made the mistake of glancing over and making direct eye contact with him; his gaze was full of desperation and rage, and I, with my study abroad program and my bright green coat, could only look away. It was a depressing experience, but one that highlights an often ignored aspect of Russian foreign policy.
Spending most of my life in Florida, I’ve fully lived the American experience of mechanical isolation, where every traveler exists in the personal universe of his or her car and observation of others is limited to glances across lanes as people pass each other. Now, I wonder how much more I would understand and connect with my fellow countrymen if I had ridden subways my whole life. To be honest, I’m not sure what I’d have found if I had.