The night started with what just might be The World's Worst Opera. I mean, I kid you not. I had high hopes, given that it was the world premiere of a new show being performed at the Bolshoi Theater (Moscow's most famous theater, at least according to all of my textbook exercises). I was...let down. The performers walked on stage, with their music and lyrics in their hands, sang a bit about how sad they were that their family's cherry orchard was being sold, and walked back off. Then another performer would come on and do the same thing. Sometimes the choir standing behind them and fidgeting would sing. Then they'd sing more. For three hours. And I'm no expert, but even to my uncultured ears, the orchestra music sounded like it was being performed by twelve year olds...who were given trash cans and plates for instruments...and had no hands.
Also, it was based on a story by Chekhov. This reconfirmed that, really really really, I hate that guy.
So that was fun. Needless to say, we needed a drink.
We headed to Kruzhka's, where the vodka is cheap and so is the atmosphere. In other words, my kind of place. We hung out with ourselves a bit, but after a while, as is inevitable, drunk Russians wandered over to talk to the Americans. Yesplz! (I was a wee apprehensive, as men in these groups occasionally grab my face and kissbomb me. Well, at least that once...) We chatted with them for quite a while, during which time much beer was consumed, each other's languages were badly spoken, mafia deals were made (okay, I'm stereotyping on that one), and I was proposed to, on one knee. What can I say? I've got a great set of green cards on me.
They kicked us out at about 4:30 a.m. because they had finally closed down the last room, so we wandered out into the Moscow December, wondering where to spend the hour and a half until the metro opened. Our new friends offered to let us crash at their place, but they seemed a wee bit too insistent on it. I was told enough times "No sex, only sleep, no danger!" that I really began to suspect the opposite. So, we chose to escape being held as American sex slaves (or just miss out on an awesome afterparty), and found a 24/7 cafe, thanks to the help of... *trumpets*...The Russian Joaquin Phoenix. Bold necessary.
He had been watching the group attempt to kidnap host us, and became concerned for our wellbeing. So he showed us where a cafe was, and sat with us while we warmed up. Upon the danger cloud clearing, it became perfectly clear that this guy looks EXACTLY like Joaquin Phoenix. No joke; ginormous eyebrows and I-Kill-You-With-GreenBlue! eyes and everything.
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| Forget monsters. Check under your bed for these. |
It also became clear that he was freakin' awesome, when at one point he skipped down the street while singing "Let It Snow!" Russians should ALWAYS sing Christmas songs in English. It could be bottled and sold as a happy pill.
We chilled with Joaquin and his friend Dima (whose nickname is Tolsti, Russian for fat -- sensitivity training is something completely different here, and is usually conducted in secret), and finally it became 6 o'clock; time for the metro open. They walked us to the building in the middle of a snowfall so goddamn perfect it deserved its own name, and we dragged our tired asses home. At 7:30. In the morning.
For all of you who asked why in the hell I chose Russia, I'd like to refer you to everything I just wrote.
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