Sunday 26 December 2010

The Atheist's Guide to Christmas



The bags hovered almost motionless in the air, turning fluidly. Her heels, trailing lines of powdered snow, flicked up and joined the shopping in the space in front of her. Her lipsticked mouth emitted a shrill screech and then she landed with a dull thud on her back. A blonde lady in white furs trotted over in her heels and looked into the well-being of the fallen maiden. The victim muttered nonchalantly and accepted an arm up. They giggled. I sniggered and smiled. The tumbler picked up her bags of expensive clothing and walked away as if nothing had happened.

The ice had come to Moscow. People slipped and skidded and glided around the streets while icicles dripped menacingly from branches.
Then the snow arrived. Days of fluffy white falling from the sky. Due to the perpetual minus numbers the snow rarely melts. Near the roads it dirties and produces what essentially resembles chocolate ice cream. Away from the roads it either stays virgin or just gets shifted around by the footfalls of people and dogs; never melting.
In England the snow is wet. You walk around outside and you get wet feet and trousers. Here you walk around and get covered in snow, but it might as well be flour. It clings to you. But outside you are a walking bauble of minus figures. It brushes off like cold dandruff. Only by the roads do you find the 'slyakat', slush. Some underpasses, warmed by the rumbling of cars overhead and the constant stream of stomping boots, are muddy and wet. I hoik up my trousers like some Victorian damsel and gingerly step-stone the drier sections.
Then the snow combines with the ice. Snow falls on ice. Snow becomes ice and forms a dense pack layer onto which more snow falls. Yet to buy appropriate footwear, my day-to-day strolls have become more exciting. The positive aspect is that now my thighs are stronger and my balance is exceptional. A negative aspect is that I am more paranoid of imminent banana skin style falls.

To go into every detail of the last few weeks would be at once boring and lengthy so I'll just feed it to you in a snapshot paragraph:
a falconer on the metro casually holding two birds on his arm to the disinterest of the Russians; a metro train full of art instead of chairs; my housemate Richard playing guitar with his band (Zheka and the Flying Nuns) in the posh Bar Strelka; taking part in a 'bodyshot' with two barmaids in the Coyote Ugly Bar; receiving a 300 rouble (£6) fine in said bar for breaking a glass; hosting a little chilled out house party at my flat where the Spaniards and Russians got much drunker and sillier than I did; had a deep metaphysical conversation with my Orthodox student about the existence of God; skidding and sliding about on the frozen ponds near my flat at 5 o'clock in the morning; admiring the decorations and Christmas pomp in every cafe, company, kiosk and shop in a country that doesn't really have Christmas; smiling at the people ice skating on Red Square; looking for 'Russian' presents for people that aren't bottles of vodka or Matrioshka dolls; spending a day showing round a lovely English girl, Marina, who had just finished her stint in Voronezh; revisiting my favourite sights in Moscow now bathed in snow; finding somewhere to play badminton and, finally, managing to avoid the airport chaos and get home in time for Christmas!

* * * *

'Ooh, isn't that clever! I never thought I'd be able to do this. To talk to her all the way over there in Canada, while I'm sat here. It's amazing. Hello Kath!'
Grandma peered further into the computer. My cousin turned to me,
'This would make a great advert for Skype'

As the matriarchs stumbled and squawked through the technological wonder of Skype, the rest of the family Darracott drank and ate and made merry. I have been full, stomachly speaking, for the last three days. Presents have been opened, alcohol has been drunk, turkeys have been scoffed, vegetable patches have been dominated and wrapping paper has been obliterated. Christmas has come and is here. It doesn't quite have the same zing as last year but this may been due to the fact that Moscow was very festive and white before I left and I am now holidaying in a country that is also rather festive and white. Madrid was far less festive and was dry and colourful with ice blue skies.

I am currently wallowing in that strange post-Xmas limbo. Half nothing to do, half really busy. I have piles of books from Santa Claus waiting to be read - my gaze turns to last year's still waiting selection - alongside small troves of chocolates, nibbles, scents and miscellany. I intend to see how much I can 'get through' before, in four days, I must again fly away. For my relatives I brought back caviar, black bread, Peter the Great tea, honey, dried squid, dried sausages, communist propaganda art, chocolates, a Father Frost statue and Russian woollen socks. I think I did well given that the alcoholic potato juice and reductive ever-miniaturising doll women were out of the question.

Christmas. In Russia it's a time for quiet, personal prayer. In England it's, technically, a time for paying your respects to the baby Jesus - who's birthday wasn't even on the 25th. For me, a 'massive atheist', it is/was/will be a time to meet friends and family and to exchange gifts. Jesus plays no part. Today is Boxing Day and I'll soon have to burst into the New Year Russian style before plodding through another 360 days until the next Christmas. I just hope that in 2011 it doesn't start kicking off in September as usual. I like to savour the build up. No mince pies or festive songs until December.

I leave you now with the words of Walter Scott:

Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.

To all of you I wish a very Merry Christmas and a frankly sublime New Year!
Farewell for 2010.


Wednesday 1 December 2010

The sun, it's frozen!



My nose hurts, my ears hurt, my toes are going numb and my lungs are shocked at the behaviour of what's coming in. It's been getting colder, ok, that's fine, but a couple of days ago it really dropped. From -7 to -15. Today, as I write this, it's -25. My body and my wardrobe are throwing me silent looks of 'what the hell man!'

I'm seriously under-prepared, materially and facially. Last night I had Miguel and Sara over for dinner. I cooked a cockle-warming pork/beer/apple stew thing with mushrooms and onions, a potato salad with bacon, peas and hard-boiled egg and some of that grechka. They arrived at about 8:20. Miguel rang me from downstairs. I could hear the discomfort in his voice. They bundled into my flat in Arctic clothing.
'Jesus Christ, it's -19 outside. The wine's basically frozen.' He removed his face protector 'This coat? 300 euros. It's what they use on the polar expeditions'
I had a few jumpers and a coat, some thin gloves from H&M, no boots, and a woolly hat. Shopping was a necessity now that I knew what I was up against. Cold, exciting pain. It's quite thrilling, and a little scary, when you breathe deep as you leave your flat and flood your lungs with subzero air, the little thermometer on the metro station showing you minus too much. After a couple of minutes you really feel it. When the wind flies in it makes the eyes water, the face burn and the lips dry out. Should you remove your glove to send a text you have about 15 seconds before it stings. People walk about with ruddy faces, mine ruddier still. Your nose drips and you pull your collar up to hide your bare cheeks. You swear to yourself in amazement.

Winter is like this though. It yo-yos about. If I tell you the BBC forecast for this week at the time of writing it goes as follows:
Wednesday: Clear, -25
Thursday: Clear, -15
Friday: Partly sunny, -11
Saturday: Snow, -3
It's all over the shop. The weather has been more variable this autumn/winter that anything I've experienced in the UK. It seems to do what it likes. And what it likes seems to be joyous punishment punctured by more tender respites. I never thought I would get into the mindset of 'oh good -7, it's warm today'.

I'm still toying with what's worse, the massive heat - 35 degrees and higher - of central and southern Spain, or the minus 15s and below of Russia. One tires you out and, depending on activity, offers a sweat coverage and stops you wanting to do anything. The other hurts and is dangerous and stops you actually doing anything. I still can't decide. They are both as awesome and terrible as each other.
The heat of Spain carried with it women in few clothes, people relaxing outside in cafes and parks and the possibility of a tan.
The cold of Moscow carries with it romance and excitement, cosiness inside cafes, and snow making the world look perfect.
I'll mull it over.

Speaking of mull...ed wine. It's the 1st of December and Christmas/New Year is on its way. Twinkling lights, tinsel, snowflakes and Christmas trees have started popping up in the foyers of offices and in the windows of shops and eateries. This is where Russia does well. Summer isn't Russia. Russia nails that snowy, Christmassy, festive feeling like nowhere else. I plan to buy an artificial tree and deck its branchy halls with all manner of shiny snakes and sparkling baubles, with or without the approval of Richard. We have yet to plunge the metaphysical and severely existential depths of the question: 'Do you like Christmas?'. He may be a Scrooge or he may be like me, a child refusing to grow up.
I love Christmas, deal with it. If you don't, shut up. My same answer to the similar Coldplay question...
It's just a shame that at the moment there's no white carpet outside. The mercury dropped but the snow has yet to. Bring on Friday.

Last Saturday I hosted a small gathering at my house. A few Spaniards and a few Russians. We drank, snacked and listened to music for a few hours. It was relaxed and cosy, just what they wanted. The majority had been to a concert the night before and didn't really want to party hard. At about 2:30am Jose looked at his watched with a concerned face.
'If we are going to go out, we need to go out soon'
The majority then left in a cavalcade of taxis. Some military operation. And four of us were left: Fernando, Chema (Jose Maria), Dmitry and myself. We decided to go to a club called Crisis. It was only a 15minute walk away, and it was a fairly tolerable -7 outside. I suggested walking there.
'No, a taxi man! It's so cold' was the response...from the Russian! I was shocked, but not bothered. We piled into the taxi, teeth chattering. Within a couple of minutes we were in a traffic jam. A big one. It was 3:00am and we were in a bloody traffic jam... 'That's Russia' I suppose. We wasted about 10 minutes in the taxi before I suggested we walked. The consensus was 'ok'.
'Next time we listen to you' they laughed
A further 15 minutes and we arrived at the club. Content, but frozen.
'How many are you?' said the bouncer
'Just us four'
'No, you can't come in'
And that was that.

So much for plan A. We had no plan B, but a sort of plan A(i) presented itself to us in the form of a girl seeing off her friend outside. She overheard us talking and decided to first try and get us in, a lame idea that didn't work, and then give us directions to another bar. She was a little drunk and tired and her directions were 'go straight and then left'. This didn't inspire much confidence. She was then joined by the other friend she was with who had been inside collecting the coats. We then all left together in search of 'Papa's Place'.

It was -9 and a thin layer of snow had dusted the promenade and pond that ran from Prokovka street to the Chistiy Prudi (Clean Ponds) area. I was walking with the friend, a Belorussian called Olga. It turned out she was studying Japanese and English. We chatted for a while and both came to the conclusion that at this point, about 4:00am in the morning, we didn't want to drink alcohol. It would be tea. On reaching the bar our plan didn't sit well with the boys who went straight downstairs to the dance floor. I drank tea with the two girls. The other girl, Irene, studied Urdu and Uzbek. Earl Grey and pizza. The boys later returned.
'Well this place is shit' said Dima
'I'll not be coming back here' added Chema
'What's the problem?' I asked 'Is it a sausage factory?'
'Yes, basically' he replied.

At around 5:00am we started to finish up. The evening was essentially another failure. But it was enjoyable in its own way. I walked home as slow snow fell like glitter and landed silently on the streets and cars. In the dark, but lit by the street lights, everything glinted and sparkled. It was, to definitely sound cheesy, magical. The soporific effects of both the atmospheric scene around me and the slight tang of still present alcohol allowed me to ignore the fact that I was strolling through -1o without a hat.

Off to the shops I think.
[Edit: -21 is absurd]