The train journey was surprisingly smooth and I'd slept well. Looking out of the window all I could see were steep inclined roofs with echoes of the Scandinavian countryside and a little of a child's drawing of a house. The ubiquitous square with a triangle roof and four perfectly symmetrical windows. The effect wasn't unpleasant but it highlighted how much more elaborate housing is architecturally elsewhere. The effect of foreigness was cemented by the flashes of cyrillic labelled stations we sped through on our way to Moscow.
The first impression I had of Moscow was of coldness, expanses of grey and the confusion of busyness. After an intial bewildering moment where nothing looked like a proper city centre and no where stood out as an entrance to the metro we finally made our way towards red square. The ticket lady graciously smiled at my pathetic attempt to ask for two five journey tickets in Russian but I was estactic more because hers was the first smile I'd seen since Poland rather than having been understood.
The underground is old with a feel of the sixties about it in its spacious barrel vaulted interior. Beige being the colour of choice which contrasts nicely with the grey beige of the outside world. It was almost a revelation to finally step into Red Square with its richer hues and smiling pedestrians (although I hate to add that the only smiling people were the tourists, I had still only been graced with a single Russian smile). Moscow is made of contrasts however, the only elaborate decor allowed is reserved for cathedrals which si the russian do with aplomb. Gilt domes and colourful stone boast next to the usual stark, monolithic buildings. The best of these are found in the Kremlin. No less than five churches in a mile or so square. Each built around the 15th century in the usual orthodox square with central pillars to carry five domes. The walls, ceilings and pillars are painted like icons, giving the impression of saints swimming everywhere in eyeline in a golden maelstrom to the peak of the centre dome. My favourite was the Church of the deposition for its unassuming, more purist exterior and its petite interior filled with less gold but more colour.
Moscow feels very different from Europe. The streets are lined with familiar shops and chains, a notion of capitalism I expect but the streets are filled with more soldiers and policemen than I've ever seen in an unoccupied country. Everyone seems sad and consumed by image. The ostentatiousness only revealing the slight desperation broiling under the surface. Everything seems temporary. The huge corinthian columns lining the parliament house were in abandonned repair, their insipid buttermilk yellow striped white with polyfilla and just left. The early stages of compressive failure just smoothed over but it all lends the feeling of it not being quite right. Much like all of Moscow, as long as it looks like a western and aesthetically correct town, no one will notice the flaws. Unless, of course, you happen to catch then mid-touch up.
The race to the Eastward station that evening brought its own reward. I came across a babushka selling a couple of ears of sweetcorn in her thick pink tights, stuffed into sensible brown brogues with her purple skirt and embroided blouse partially hideen by a large wool coat. Her wide, crinkly face framed with a sparkly headscarf and a permanent grim expression.
I found Moscow intimidating and was frankly, glad to leave. With a four day train journey to Almaty to look forward to, I hope the unfriendliness didn't increase with longitude eastwards.
