Only a fool smiles.

The first thing I do upon my arrival in Moscow is lock myself out of my new home. In time I will discover an old Russian proverb that states: Only a fool smiles all the time.

“Is your friend telling a joke?”
“No.”
“Why smile?”

This sour logic contradicts my ingrained understanding that a smile is golden.

“I’m sorry. Please stop yelling.” my smile begs an old Babushka as I tumble on her on the overcrowded metro.

“I’m a ditz. Isn’t that funny?” my smile exclaims when I accidentally write Wedesday on the blackboard in an adult ESL class.

“I’m lost and trying not to cry.” my smile beseeches passersby as I wander around the majestic warrens of underground metro stations.

“I’m not sure how, but it appears that I have locked myself out of my flat and I’m hoping you can help me.” my smile attempts to inform my new neighbour who is glaring at me through a chained door.

“Please?” it implores with little success.

The journey from the airport had unveiled a monolithic city. Moscow’s three ring roads seemed to act like belts trying to contain the urban spread. Driven by a moustached man wearing a parachute tracksuit and a rats tail, I travelled one of these roads towards the city’s nucleus, then around it, and then far from it again. Distant smoke stacks billowed out chemical clouds into grey sky. Towering flats hulked over concrete suburbs littered with beer kiosks, fruit stalls, shawarma caravans and babushka selling pickled vegetable to supplement their small pensions.

The driver parked the car in front of one of these apartment blocks. He picked up my bags and carried them toward the graffiti-scrawled door. Eight locks and five doors, one of them padded, separated my apartment from the outside world. Five of these locks were on my two front doors. Inside my apartment I find five kinds of wallpaper. One of them is on the ceiling.

The driver dropped my bags, showed me how to use the lights and turned to me. Speaking for the first time he uttered, “Good luck.” and left.

Shortly afterward I lock myself out of my apartment. No mobile. No money. No adequate language skills. My watch reads 11pm.

The corridor smells of oily fish and cabbage, cooking smells which permeate my neighbours’ doors. The yellowing, pre-Soviet linoleum curls at the corners. It is sticky in patches with some unknown substance.

Like a cow, I try dozing standing up. I am unsuccsessful. Admitting defeat I wearily slide to a squat and shut my eyes, hoping morning will come swiftly.

It’s true what they say about Russians - they are standoffish at first - especially when you don’t speak their language and they find you dozing outside their door at eight in the morning.

“Yep. Still here.” my smile concedes as my neighbours step over me, grimacing, on their way to work.