Life with the Moscow Police

Ah, the Moscow police… Sometimes they strike fear in my heart, and I think they’re going to stop me and ask me for my passport, then just manipulate the situation in such a way that I will be happy to give them all my money, just as long as they let me walk my way. Sometimes, especially when I notice how smooth their cheeks are and how slender their waists, I just want to put them to say something sweet and put them to sleep. Sometimes it’s convenient that they’re around, even though they’re absolutely useless with directions (which is the executive function of the law force that I most often utilize). Half way through our stay, we’ve already had some interactions.

Anecdote 1: Policeman hits on Masha as she races for the relics. It was the June 6^th and were just starting on our 6-hour, 2.5 km pilgrimage to the relics of St. Nicholas in the Church of Christ the Savior. We woke up at 5:30 am, but by the time we got to the Bridge, where the line began, there were probably already thousands of people. The line was regulated by checkpoints; each segment was closed off by a gates, that, every once in a while, the police men opened. It was still the beginning of our marathon, so we still actually thought that running/power walking would get us there earlier. It was only later that we realized that the cattle method was quite systematic and effective, and that, despite concentrated efforts, the groups remained quite similar throughout the six hours. The policemen, sick and tired of this crazy pilgrim stream, lounged around, guarding the gates, and, once they opened them, moving to the side so as not to be trampled.

Masha, our most businesslike and purposeful member, led our troop, insisting that we remain alert and follow her as she weaved through the crowd. When the gates opened this time, though, a policeman’s comment made her stop in her tracks.

He winked at her and said “Devushka, but aren’t you hot, running like that?”

Really? So smooth.

Somehow, I’m just convinced that the experience made his day: what a smooth operator I am, I hear him thinking, as he stood leans against the gate for a few more hours, I really do have a way with girls. Then he  turns to his partner for the umpteenth time and asks “Didn’t you see how she slowed down?”

#2: The wine collectors. 
Whenever there are events on the Red Square, the entry points become a wall of metal detectors. That day, the police weren’t at all nasty, but checked our bags quite meticulously. It was only when we turned back accidentally, that we noticed that previous tourists had not been let off the hook quite as easily. The cardboard boxes were filled with wine bottles (of course, only in Russia, would these cardboard boxes be open for everyone to see as well as so accessible-- in the US we’d probably have a metal chest with a secret code for contraband items)

Who would pop a cork in the Red Square? Though wine does seem more appropriate to the historical arena, it entails a rather public hassle. Wouldn’t a beer serve the purpose a bit more easily? What if the wine was meant for a nice evening of crystal wine glasses after a day of obligatory tourism? That said, it’s probably good that the day’s event in the Red Square, organized for children, would be alcohol-free. Besides, who wouldn’t mind having a few extra bottles of tourist wines to bring home?

#3 Police lady experiences a case of serious shoe envy

The Schuler boys were straight off the plane, it was raining, and yet again, we were off to the Red Square. When Masha had arrived, she came with the most delicate trunk and the most practical things: rain booties from Target and purses of multiple colors. So that day, we, Katya, Masha and I, were rainboot-twinning for the first times. Even though it was pouring, there were the metal detectors yet again. I slipped through first, and stood to the side, getting wetter and wetter by the minute. A police lady (girl, maybe) came up to me: her face, sweet even with the soviet 70's signature blue eye shadow and fake eyelashes. She looked around furtively and whispered "excuse me, but where did you get those shoes?" ... From America, I'm sorry" I said, hating to disappoint her. "Ah..." she scrunched her eyebrows wistfully, resignation tinged with humor: "I see."