Moscow is a poem! A city full of poetry and melancholy. Moscow is one of the places that touched me deeply emotionally. I arrived and immersed myself in waves of poetry, music, emotions, and history. No heaviness, but full of melancholy and sweet pain.
I walk through the streets and observe my surroundings. Proud and dignified, chicly dressed women walk past me. Men chat over a glass of beer. Young people set up a stage and invite people to dance and learn on a Sunday. Crowded cafés, romantic-melancholic music, and a vastness in the streets that is difficult to describe. It is clean, brimming with pride and glory. A nation with an identity that radiates strength.
In the evening. I continue walking through the streets, people everywhere, restaurants, cafés. I stop in front of a restaurant from which music is coming. The windows are wide open, and inside there is a table occupied by three women and five men. They are conversing in such a beautifully poetic language that I do not understand. It is Russian, yes. And it sounds incredibly gentle. What they say sounds like poetry. They wave me in for a cup of tea. And two vodkas, as it turns out later…
What happens next is difficult to describe. It moves me, completely changes my view of the world, and allows me to revel in times when I was a child, read a lot, and loved reciting poetry. One of the men, Alexander, stands up. He steps up to the bar, turns to both tables, and recites a poem. I don’t understand a word. And yet I can’t help but listen, follow his expression and the feelings he puts into words in front of all the guests and lets run free. I feel comfortable among these strangers. People who invite me for tea and vodka; who let me share in their values and emotions. For this little moment, in this huge world. Here in Moscow, by chance.
The language is spoken so artfully that every word sounds like a poem in itself. I am learning Russian and feel the depth of traditions, the Russian soul, and its ambiguity in this world. I sense its expressiveness and conflict in the here and now.
Later. A young student jumps towards me and speaks to me in Russian. He wants to recite a poem he has written himself. He glows with pride and devotion, wanting to shout his feelings to the world! His love of poetry is unmistakable and touches me so deeply at that moment that my eyes fill with tears. I am standing in the middle of Moscow, in what seems to me to be an artists’ quarter, and I cry silently. Never have I met people with so much pride, devotion, and depth as here in Moscow.
Moscow…
The subways are beautifully designed, just as everyone says. But there is no hustle and bustle here, no frantic rushing from one platform to another. Everything is orderly, almost gentle and mild.
I have never seen subways as deep as these anywhere else. Here, the schizophrenia reappears: safety and retreat from potential dangers paired with practical transportation options.
Is war omnipresent here? No. Everyone lives their everyday lives and enjoys life. Everything else is pushed aside, into an invisible corner of the room. And everyone knows exactly what to do in case of an emergency.
Without a doubt, Russians are unique in their way of life. Ambiguity aside, I cannot escape the pull of this country, and I know even as I leave that I will return.