Cabbing it in Moscow

I looked out the window. The snow-covered ground was turning to mud, and slush in patches, as people walked in it. There was no way I could carry a twenty-kilogram suitcase through that. There seemed to be no indication of it relenting either, and even if it did, dragging a suitcase through all that to the metro, and on to the train station, to get on the airport express to Domodedovo, did not seem to be a viable option. Not to mention that it required changing lines along a long corridor, although it would be only two stops.

Moscow is crowded everywhere – above ground and underground. Given my choices, I had to bite the bullet to call a taxi. I shouted out to the one reliable cab driver I know in Moscow, who would surely get me to my destination in one piece, if only he isn't busy. My previous experiences with so-called cabs in Moscow, mostly gypsy, had prevented me from using their services, except in extreme cases. Even when I called a reputable taxi company, I was sent an unrecognizable car with a driver lacking, not only manners, but driving skills as well. My friend Marina, who is having a hard time passing her driving test, has assured me that many drivers in Moscow “buy” their license, without actually having taken the test, let alone attempted to pass it. It explained a lot of things that I saw on the roads, and some of the experiences I'd heard recounted by others.

My last airport transfer to Sheremetevo airport, in the north of Moscow, was not only an unforgettable experience, but also one I would rather not relive. I had used the services of a taxi company to book one for this purpose. Aware of the traffic problems in the city, I set off four and a half hours ahead of boarding time, expecting that, even if it took two hours to get to the airport, which it shouldn't, I would still have a whole hour to check in, and board. If only I had known… but what could I have done anyway?

At the agreed time, an unknown number showed up on my phone screen informing me that the taxi had arrived. However, when I looked around, there was no car which vaguely resembled one. As I waited by my suitcase, looking puzzled, a man in a big, green Taurus beckoned me. I approached and asked if he was the taxi driver. In response, he mentioned my name enquiringly. I may have expressed surprise, but thanked him for coming and made to carry my suitcase into the car. Unable to open the trunk from the inside, he had to come out to open it from the outside. I chose not to react to the scene I was confronted with, as he stepped out of the car - a morbidly obese man, in underwear and flip flops, namely, a singlet and boxers. And I will refrain from commenting on his personal hygiene.

No one could convince me that he was a professional taxi driver, or a professional anything, for that matter. Granted, it was a hot summer day, but which part of that justified walking out of your house in underwear? It would be my first experience as a passenger with a driver in underwear. Would anyone understand my complaint, or acknowledge it, if I chose to file one? In his soft voice, and with a kind smile, he offered to carry my suitcase and placed it in the trunk. He then proceeded to cross the whole city, finding his way around on non-stop chattering GPS, taking four hours to get me to my destination. Four long, unbearable, hot hours, during which not a single word was exchanged between us, until I just about had a coronary, when he decided to stop at a gas station. When I started to protest about missing my flight, he said he needed to get me change, and got out, once again in his under wear, into the store to change the note I’d given him. It wasn't a near death experience, but it was certainly one I would not like to retell.

That summer day, the roads were clear, and it took four hours. Today, it is snowing. The roads are slippery, slushy, and muddy. It is the middle of the day, and getting close to rush hour. I could not afford to take that chance again, so with a prayer, I called Pavel, hoping he could squeeze me in his tight schedule to drive me to the train station. He was punctual, as I’d expected, so we started our less than 10-kilometer drive, which was literally two metro stops from my house, at 14.20, the stipulated time. As we turned the corner to go round the block, because it was impossible to turn left, I calculated that the journey would take about 15 minutes, twenty, tops. After twenty minutes, I was still sitting in the car, chatting leisurely to Pavel. We hadn't even made it to the entrance of that first metro station yet. Moscow, oh Moskva!

The poor man was mortified when I’d expressed my idea of travelling on the metro to him. I had assumed that he was sympathetic because of the obvious difficulty of carrying my suitcase up and down the stairs and escalators, in my frail state of femininity, and subsequently dragging the heavy thing along long corridors, in the midst of hundreds of people walking at various paces, in the attempt to avoid the usual pushing and shoving, or hindering them from walking comfortably, as my luggage would be in their way. To my dismay, he was rather concerned for me because of the color of my skin, and the reaction it may attract from certain people. I laughed and reassured him of my frequent metro trips during which there had never been an incident. It was his turn to be shocked. He had heard many stories about people of different skin color being attacked just for that reason, and was convinced that it was dangerous for someone like me to use that means of transportation. I reassured him, saying that I had heard those stories too, and had not doubted them, but had never been a victim to any of those incidents. Yes, I had heard a slur here or there, once or twice, but had chosen to ignore it.

A few minutes on, we had managed to make some headway, but we were nowhere close to my destination. It was a parking lot, with the vehicles making progress inch by inch. It reminded me of the taxi I rode in once, with a driver who did not hesitate to climb onto the sidewalk to make his way to the head of the line, as he sped on with the car at an angle, trying to impress me with his skills, or lack of them. I adopted the usual Russian attitude of non-reaction to anything, however unusual, uncomfortable, or untoward it may be.

   

Our conversation had moved on from racial problems, to chocolate - different kinds of chocolate, and chocolate factories. He told me about his tour of the Hershey chocolate factory in Pennsylvania while on a visit in the US, drawing a comparison with a tour at the Red October chocolate factory, which used to be in downtown Moscow, near the Kremlin. The factory has since been moved out of the legendary, red brick building, another emblem in Moscow, now converted into a block of apartments, art galleries, coffee shops and a trendy place to hang out. The watch on my wrist read 14.45.

On the tour at the Red October chocolate factory, they were given white coats and chefs’ hats to dress in. They had participated in the manufacturing process, had had a taste of it, and at the end of the tour had received gifts in the form of three kilograms of chocolate. At Hershey, they were shown the process which they watched from a distance, and at the end of the tour, there was a gift shop where they could spend some money to get a taste of the chocolate they had seen made. Someone from the left lane had tried to cut in front of him, forcing him to accelerate and brake abruptly. My heart skipped a beat. We were still moving at a turtle's pace, and the train station was nowhere in sight. 

Our conversation moved on to ice cream. Pavel had worked at an ice cream factory when he was a young man, in 1984. He described the process and the quality of the products in detail. Russia is a well-known land of dairy; proof of which can be witnessed on the shelves in the produkti shops everywhere. Not an ice cream eater, I could not give him my opinion. He mentioned the two kinds of ice cream made at the time. One was the ordinary, no frills, dully-packaged, mass-produced version, lacking in variety for the local consumer. The other, the high quality, exquisite-tasting, rich, creamy product, boasting a variety of flavors in premium packaging, that was exported; one of the recipients of the said exported product being Elisabeth II, the current resident at Buckingham Palace. Shocked, is an understatement to describe my reaction.

I could, however, give him my opinion on chocolate, and dark chocolate at that, which is what I enjoy. I admitted to him that, as sensitive as I am to allergic reactions caused by chocolate manufactured in different companies, I have never suffered any, after eating Russian brands of dark chocolate. We concurred on the high quality of the products, and the purity of their ingredients, absence of preservatives, additives and other artificial substances. Our conversation progressed faster than the drive. Luckily, in the distance, I could finally see a big, white building looming in, with the letters of the name of the train station, usually lit at night. Unfortunately, it was on the left side, and we were driving on the right side. There was no left turn, so we would have to drive past it, all the way to the end of the road, wherever it ended, make a U-turn and then come back down. It was 15.10.

He asked me where I was flying to. Madrid, I answered, and asked him in turn if he would be going anywhere for the New Year celebrations. He said he would be staying in Moscow, so I inquired inquisitively about the Russian tradition of welcoming the New Year. In Spain, the chimes of the last 12 seconds prompt people to eat a grape at the sound of every chime. In addition to making sure that they are wearing red underwear, the real experts are able to fill their mouths, eat and swallow all twelve grapes in time to yell out “Feliz Ano Nuevo” at the turn of the year, hug and kiss as they bestow wishes on one another for a Prosperous New Year.

We were discussing the high prices of certain products at this time of year, as we inched ahead to make the U-turn. I informed him elaborately about the nicely packaged 12 grapes for the special occasion in Spain, as well as the favored dishes of seafood and roast. In Madrid many congregate at La Puerta del Sol for the event. Do people go to Red Square for this event? Apparently, not. Red Square is cordoned off and guarded in a state of heightened security, where people are not allowed in the vicinity with bags, or bottles of drinks of any kind. Where do they meet then? Nowhere. It is too cold. And I can understand that.

Most Russians, he said, stay at home to entertain family and friends, and he proceeded to describe a special Russian tradition to me. Wishes are written on pieces of paper, and burned. The burned pieces of paper are dropped into champagne flutes, into which champagne is served. I asked surprisingly if he was sure it wasn't vodka. He smiled and replied that for celebrations, it is definitely champagne – Russian champagne. After welcoming the New Year, and clinking their glasses containing champagne and burned pieces of paper, the interesting mixture is drained in a few gulps, after which bear hugs are exchanged as a sign of love, and best wishes for the New Year are exchanged. The illuminated green clock on the dashboard read 15.20.

We had made it past the train station, to the end of the road for the U-turn, as we were discussing how expensive Moscow was, and what the possible reasons may be. Clothes and shoes purchased online, with delivery charges, are still 50 per cent cheaper than buying the same clothes in a shop in Moscow. Restaurants of the same category, with bad service, are considerably pricier than in other European cities, or in the US, with more pleasant staff. Almost everything seemed to have a higher price tag in Moscow than in other cities. Why, I asked, was that so? We discussed the C-word in detail, and how all of us, Moscovites, as well as those beyond, were paying the price for this.

We had made it to the train station. Just one last effort. If only the guard would loosen the chain for Pavel to drive through, so I could be dropped off at the entrance, then the relatively long, interestingly short, 30-dollar drive, which Pavel seemed to have earned, considering the amount of work that had gone into the service provided, would all have been worth it. It was. Eventually. As I was dropped off at the entrance as close as possible to the trains. I paid my fare, thanked Pavel, and carried my suitcase, treading carefully in the slush and mud. It was 15.25

In the year that I have lived in Moscow, I have not had the privilege of hailing a cab in the street. I have, however, paid fares to ride in a Range Rover, a Mini Cooper, an Escalade, a Camry, and on other occasions, ordinary, small, yellow cars, bearing the letters “taxi” on them. Yet, there is only one driver whose number I have retained for further services.

A lot of fuss was made recently, when Maria Golub, a prolific, 54-year old Russian actress, met her death tragically; victim of a hit-and-run, as she was riding in a gypsy cab. There was a lot of talk in the media about the need to regulate the taxi system in the city, and in the country as a whole. However, I am sure I am not the only one who has doubts about these new laws, and when or if, they will be implemented. This is just one of Moscow’s many woes, as I take pleasure in discovering all the other good things the city has to offer.

I can at least say that, my last taxi ride in Moscow, in 2012, ended on a very nice note. It was the first time I'd had a meaningful conversation with a taxi driver, during a ride which did not feel as if it would end in the morgue. As I headed to the train waiting on the tracks at Paveletsky Vokzal, on my way to Domodedovo, and eventually to Barajas airport, in anticipation of bidding farewell to 2012 in Madrid with friends, and welcoming the New Year in Bilbao, I looked forward to seeing what 2013 would hold in Moscow when I returned after my vacation.