Live Right and Find Happiness (Although Beer is Much Faster) (13 page)

YOU:
Please.

INTERPRETER:
.

But as I say, the Russian audiences are very patient—more so than typical American audiences—and many Russians speak at least a little English. So our talk goes pretty well; we even get some laughs. Also I learn, from one of the children, that the Russian name for Tinker Bell is
Din'-Din'
. This brings my Russian vocabulary to four words:
da
(yes)
, nyet
(no)
, spasibo
(thank you) and
Din'-Din'
. It turns out that these four words are all you need to get by in Russia, provided that you are accompanied by a professional interpreter.

The Children's Library audience members ask a lot of questions, including some about our careers as writers, which they seem to find interesting. I notice one grandmotherly English-speaking woman who listens intently when Ridley describes how as a struggling writer he had to support himself by working at a variety of jobs, including bartending, fixing cars and cleaning houses. Hearing this, the woman shakes her head disapprovingly and mutters, “America.” She is clearly not a fan of capitalism. At the end of our talk, she approaches Ridley and says, “I admire you American writers who work so hard. But I absolutely hate your American president.”

This is the only nakedly anti–American-government statement we will hear on our entire trip; as a rule, the Russians—who are fed a steady diet of America bashing on Putin-controlled TV—avoid talking politics with us. Ridley and I both think it's kind of sweet that the grandmotherly woman thinks we American writers work hard, forced by our capitalist masters to tap on our keyboards as sweat pours down our sinewy yet muscular writer bodies.

We have one more event today, which according to our schedule is: “Talk and Q & A at the Oval Hall of the State Library of Foreign Literature (major public event).” The schedule says our audience will be “library patrons, publishers, authors, readers, students.”

The Oval Hall is a grand room whose walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed with works of literature, none of which, it is safe to say, I have read. Our talk goes well; the audience members are attentive, and they get the jokes. We use simultaneous interpretation, with the non-English-speaking audience members wearing headsets to follow along.

During the Q & A we're asked what works of Russian literature we have read. This question will come up during most of our talks, and it's always a scary moment for me, as it threatens to reveal to the Russians—all of whom seem familiar with
our
classical literature—how pathetically little I know about theirs. Ridley, thank God, has read
Crime and Punishment
, so whenever this question comes up, he talks about that, and then usually we're home free. But sometimes I get pinned down, in which case I say, “I read Dostoevsky in college.”

This is technically true. In one of my college classes, we were supposed to read
The Brothers Karamazov
, Dostoevsky's brilliant masterpiece that is a spiritual drama of moral struggles concerning faith, doubt and reason, set against a modernizing Russia. Or so Wikipedia says. The thing is, when I was in college, I played in a rock band and had an active social life, plus the sixties were going on, so I did not always have room in my schedule for the actual
college
part of college. I definitely read a
portion
of
The Brothers Karamazov
, but it's a long book containing a great many words, and I did not get through it. I wondered at the time if Dostoevsky got through it.
*

Fortunately, the audiences at our Russia talks are not pushy on this subject, and I am able to skate by with glib superficiality. (This basically describes my entire career.)

After our talk Ridley and I return to our Red Square neighborhood for dinner. Seeking to experience Russian culture at its most authentic, we go to a restaurant near our hotel called “La Cantina,” which specializes in Mexican cuisine, which I admit is not technically Russian, but in our defense this restaurant is
located
in Russia.

La Cantina has a very busy décor, with posters, flags, banners, jerseys and various other random items covering the walls and hanging everywhere from the ceiling. It is a décor that says: “We are having some fun in this crazy place!” There is a band playing Latin standards. The musicians are positioned on the entrance stairs, so people entering and leaving the restaurant pass through them; one stagger and you could knock out the trumpet player's teeth.

I order a chimichanga. It comes with French fries. I am not expecting much, but I have to say, in all honesty, that this is the worst chimichanga I have ever eaten. It makes me think of microwaved footwear. The margaritas are decent, however. So if you're in Moscow and looking to enjoy a margarita in a banner-intensive environment while watching musicians on stairs perform “Bésame Mucho” as they dodge patrons entering and leaving, I cannot recommend La Cantina highly enough.

After dinner, to cap off our evening of exploring traditional Russian culture, we go around the corner to an Irish pub, which has beer, which I also cannot recommend highly enough.

It has been a good day; to the best of our knowledge, we have not been glared at once. Ridley and I agree that we are liking Russia.

Tuesday

Our first event today is a talk to undergraduate students at Maxim Gorky Literature Institute, which is named for Maxim Gorky, who, as you are surely aware, is a famous Russian literature person, as far as I know. The Literary Institute is an entire university of students who want to be writers or translators. It is also the birthplace of the writer Alexander Herzen, who, it goes without saying, is also very famous; there's a statue of him on the grounds. In fact there are statues of writers all around Moscow. Ridley and I are impressed by this. We try to recall if there are any statues of writers in the U.S. The only one I can come up with offhand is the statue of Rocky, who, granted, was a boxer, but he was played in the movie by Sylvester Stallone, who wrote the screenplay.

The undergraduates, who look basically like American college students, are great. They listen attentively, laugh at the jokes, ask questions. I'm beginning to really like Russian audiences.

After our talk we have lunch and see some more of Moscow. We pass by Pushkin Square, named for Alexander Pushkin, who is a more famous writer in Russia than Maxim Gorky, Alexander Herzen and Sylvester Stallone
combined
. Pushkin Square is the site of the first McDonald's built in the Soviet Union, a massive restaurant that on its opening day in 1990 served 30,000 customers, a McDonald's record for an opening day.

At the moment, however, it is closed. It was recently shut down, along with a bunch of other McDonald's restaurants in Russia, by the Rospotrebnadzor, or Federal Service for Surveillance on Consumer Rights Protection and Human Well-Being. (Really.) The closings were obviously ordered in retaliation for the U.S. economic sanctions against Russia, but the Rospotrebnadzor claims it was because of sanitary violations. The
Moscow Times
quotes a Russian lawmaker as saying: “I am pleased that Rospotrebnadzor has taken an interest in this important problem. In the future, we similarly will not allow our citizens to be poisoned.”

You will be interested to know the identity of this lawmaker who's so concerned about protecting Russian citizens from being poisoned by McDonald's. It's none other than Roman Khudyakov, the same guy who wants to protect the youth of Russia from exposure to Apollo's penis. He's a vigilant dude, Roman is. Maybe when he has eliminated the Big Mac and penis menaces, he can do something about the chimichangas at La Cantina.

We speak that afternoon to Russian literature students and faculty of the Russian State University for the Humanities. This is our scariest audience yet: These are all serious students and professors of literature.

Our talk does not begin well. When I show the Wienermobile slide, which has been a proven crowd-pleaser in our other talks, nobody even cracks a smile. The students look at the photo—me driving an enormous hot dog—with an expression of mild puzzlement that says, “I enrolled in the Russian State University for the Humanities for
this
?”

But gradually they warm up, and by the end they're asking a lot of questions. Some of these questions suggest that they take our writing more seriously than we do. One professor asks about the major themes in our writing. Ridley and I give each other a look, because we don't really have major themes in our writing. We generally focus our writing efforts on technical plot issues such as how we can end a certain scene with a flying camel pooping on the evil king's head. But we come up with an answer about themes, and the danger passes.

As the Q & A is winding down I ask the students about stereotypes—how they think Americans stereotype them, and how they stereotype us. They say we think they're all drunk on vodka all the time and play balalaikas while bears wander around. Also somebody says “gangsters.”

I agree that the vodka stereotype is widely believed in the U.S. (All the Russians I talked to about this claimed it's exaggerated.) I press the students on how Russians see Americans. After some hesitation a young man says Americans are viewed as being self-centered, sitting home and watching their big-screen TVs and not caring about the rest of the world.

Ha-ha! Those crazy Russians, with their stereotypes.

Our final event today is a reception/discussion at the U.S. embassy with various writers, artists and professors. It's very nice, and there is plenty o' wine. Good night.

Wednesday

We do two presentations for students at the Slavic-Anglo-American School “Marina,” where Russian students learn English as a second language. They're totally fluent and get all the jokes. While we're packing up, some boys gather around to talk some more. I ask them what they think Americans think of Russians.

“Drinking vodka,” they say. “Bears playing balalaikas.”

“And what do you think of Americans?” I say.

“Cowboys eating at McDonald's,” they say, laughing.

“That is totally accurate,” I say.

After our talk the principal gives Ridley and me a brief tour of the school, during which she opens the doors to several classrooms so we can peek inside. Each time, all the children immediately rise to their feet and face us. The principal tells us this gesture of respect to visitors is common in Russian schools. We assure her that it is also common in American schools. Then we laugh.

Our big event today is a meeting with the new U.S. Ambassador to Russia, John Tefft. He was called out of retirement for this appointment and quickly confirmed by the U.S. Senate, which is something of a miracle; in the current bitterly partisan Washington climate, it would be difficult to get the Senate to confirm that the sun is hot. But Tefft is a respected Foreign Service veteran—he speaks Russian, French, Hebrew, Hungarian, Italian and Lithuanian—and he has served as ambassador to Lithuania, Georgia and Ukraine. The consensus is that we need a shrewd and steady hand like him in Moscow. The Russians don't love him, but they respect him.

We meet him at his official residence, a grand mansion called “Spaso House.” He tells us he's still moving in, and we're his first visitors. He shows us around the downstairs part of the residence, which is impressive and huge. I think the NBA could play in the dining room.

During our tour Tefft's wife, Mariella, arrives. She's been out walking their dog, Lui, a veteran diplomat dog who is very outgoing, the kind of dog who sincerely loves all of humanity and wants to prove that love by jumping up on all available humans and if possible licking their faces. Ambassador Tefft repeatedly orders Lui to get down, but Lui disregards him. Lui's attitude is, You may be the highest-ranking American official in Russia, but this human NEEDS TO BE LICKED.

PHOTO OF RIDLEY, TEFFT AND DAVE © 2014 BY WENDY KOLLS