Ep.1 - Следующий!

I have lived in London. I have lived in Paris—fucking Paris. I have lived in Ecuador. I speak four languages and I’m a faggot who isn’t afraid of anything. 

When I land in the former USSR, I’m ready to take on the world. I spent five years learning Russian at school and I’m eager to put it to use. “​​Я понимаю и хорошо говорю по-русски.”

Moscow welcomes me with a glorious sun and I’m allowed to smoke in the airport. This is going to be amazing. I wait for my luggage to show up on the carousel, yearning to get out of this grey bunker-like airport and explore the city. They do not. I wait. No luggage. I soon come to understand that five years of Russian high school is not enough. I queue to talk to a clerk. The queue is long and slow. I’m sweating and uncomfortable. 

“Здравствуйте!” I say, proud of myself. 

“Привет!” She responds deadpan. 

“My luggage didn’t come out on the claim belt.” I abandon Russian instantly. 

She pushes a form in front of me and indicates that she needs me to step aside. 

“Следующий!”

An hour later, I leave the airport with a copy of my form, undeterred, refusing to let this first day get to me. I jump into a taxi and we speed through the Russian scenery—industrial complexes and wastelands. My school calls and tells me the flat I was promised isn’t ready yet. The hostel stinks of piss. I lock my bedroom door and remove all of my clothes instantly, hoping to alleviate the heat. After a well deserved nap, I visit the place I would call home for a week and meet Tyrone. 

“My luggage is lost and the flat my school had planned isn’t ready yet. Welcome to Russia, right?” 

“You’ll be alright!” 

“What are you doing here?”

“I don’t really have a choice, they can’t find anyone that would rent me a place so in the meantime I’m stuck in this hellhole of a hostel.” 

“Why won’t they rent you a place?” He looks at me funny and then shows me his face. 

“Because you’re devastatingly handsome?” I flirt. 

“No, because I’m black you dumbass! Also you might not wanna say gay shit like that to people you don’t know. To say it in a way you’ll understand: We’re not in Texas anymore, Toto!”

A week later I say goodbye to Tyrone and the other immigrants stuck in that hostel. I am finally being moved into my own place—White privilege! 

The cupboard I’m presented with is on the ninth floor of a tower block. A tower block surrounded by identical tower blocks, themselves intertwined in a maze of other tower blocks. The front door seems to have survived World War one, on the back of it, the upholstery is giving granny chic. The door lowers my expectations and I hesitate to push through. There is a tiny entrance, on my right the bathroom, in front of my bedroom. I notice that I can touch both doors with my hands at the same time. I’m told I’ll  be sharing the miniscule kitchen with another teacher. My room is the length of the bed I’ll be sleeping on and one massive wardrobe that eats the rest of the space. There’s a little desk in front of the window with a breathtaking view of more grey tower blocks. Russians don’t seem to believe in the concept of ‘living room’. That’s for silly westerners like myself. The biggest room is the parents’ bedroom and the communal room, the kitchen. 

My luggage is still nowhere to be found and so I walk around the city in the only clean T-shirt I have, a bright orange one my school has given me. 

I watch the people relentlessly coming and going. The women are elongated stick figures who all seem to suffer from the Carrie Bradshaw syndrome. They wear extravagant outfits, straight out of Paris Fashion week yet they are dead behind the eyes—soulless— but their walks stomp. As for the men, aside from the stench, they're not at all what one would expect: tall and handsome with bulging biceps and piercing blue eyes. Nope. They’re more the stereotypical henchmen from the Bond movies: grunting brutes with no sense of style, bellies full, a bottle of vodka in hand they never let go of and ready to stomp your head in.

I am stared at on the street and it takes me way too long to realise that if I am it’s because I’m smiling or dancing to my music. Smiling is a crime. Happiness is a crime. If you do smile, you get arrested. The police will then rob you and kick you in the balls. You think I'm exaggerating—I am not. You think I'm being dramatic—I am not. The all powerful police is everywhere and does whatever tickles their fancy. 

If you happen to be black or a faggot, you don't even need to smile, they'll get you anyway. 

The teachers here seem to have adapted quickly to their surroundings and have all become dead-eyed recluses, having lost all social skills and forgotten the meaning of the word fun. Suffice to say that so far my efforts at making new friends have been in vain.  

I'm having a hell of a time—literally. 

Moscow is a wider and uglier Paris. People’s faces in the tube remain stone cold regardless of what may be occurring. I am starting to believe that you could drop dead right in the middle of the train and no one would bat an eye. When Londoners’ indifference is invigorating, the Moscowites’ one is bone chilling. 

The Kremlin is another disappointment, a cheap Disneyland Paris ride with no thrills. You go from temple to temple where the walls are covered in gold. A Jesus here, a Jesus there. So many Christs. 

As I walk home from my excursion, I come across a corpse. A corpse in the middle of the pavement. A corpse. One is not supposed to see a stranger’s corpse. Especially not in the middle of the street. 

Where the fuck am I?