Hanging out with Lenin

Lenin's mausoleum is open to the public on Tuesday, Wednesay and Thursday from 10:00 to 1:00. When I told my staff yesterday that we were planning to leave the hotel at 11:00 to go view him, they laughed. They said that in summer the lines are hideously long and it would take forever to get in. I asked them if they had noticed, with last week's snow and all, that it was no longer summer.

We stuck with our plan, because there is no way I'm gonna open my eyes before 10:00. We got to Red Square around 11:30. The entrance to it was blocked and guarded by two female cops. We carefully approached and indicated our intention to enter the square. "Lenin?" one of them asked. We nodded and they let us through.

We walked towards the square and saw a short line in front of some metal detectors. That didn't look too bad at all. As we joined the queue, a cute policeman in jeans asked if we had cameras or mobiles with cameras. He pointed to a building where we could check these items. That took a minute and then we went back to the line. A few minutes later we were through the metal detectors and walking towards the mausoleum.


It's a small marble pyramid that sits in front of the Kremlin. You enter from the Red Square side. At the end of a short hallway is a policeman dressed in black that points to the left and indicates that you should take your hands out of your pockets. You turn left and there is another policeman, pointing right this time. At the bottom of the stairs is policeman number three that points to the right (at each point there is only one direction you can go).

You enter the room where Lenin is on display. He is in a glass case. You turn right and go up a few steps so you can get a better view. You first walk along his right side, from head to toe. Then you turn left so you walk along the bottom of his feet and then left again to walk along his left side.


You don't get very close to get a really good look, but he looks very waxy and pale. No sign of decay whatsoever, except maybe on the fingertips of his left hand. He still has facial hair and just lies there, dressed in a dark suit, arms slightly bent. His left hand lies flat on his leg, the other hand looks as if it might have been holding something at some point (like a flower, maybe). It's very hard to believe he is real and has been kept in this state for the 85 years he's been dead. I mean, how technologically advance could they have been in 1924? I reckon it's a wax statue by Madame Tussaud.

A woman in front of us stood still for too long and was tapped on the shoulder by yet another policeman who motioned for her to keep moving. A few people behind us started speaking to each other and were shushed very rudely by the police in the room. The entire interior is of black marble, which, along with the strict rules, makes the whole experience both gloomy and solemn. And a bit surreal.

After exiting Lenin's room you go through another corridor and then you're outside again. On your way out into the public part of Red Square you walk past the graves of several former Soviet leaders, such as Brezhnev, Andropov, Tchernenko and Stalin (but not Khrushchev). Then you collect your iPhone and you're done. The whole thing took less than twenty minutes (which of course I will make a point of telling my staff).

Double dipping

Over dinner I asked my boss (who is also a good friend) why he wasn't at the party on Sunday and he said he was fucking. "Who with?" I asked. He said his name was Vladimir, which doesn't really narrow it down here in Moscow, but the rest of the description, the fact he had spent the night and the initial contact having been made online made me suspicious.

After dinner, back in the office, I asked him to show me Vladimir's profile. Sure enough, the guy had spent two nights with me. The second time last Friday, two nights before hooking up with my boss.

I couldn't resist and sent Vladimir a txt message: "That's funny, you slept with my boss last Sunday ;-)" It took a while before a reply arrived. I thought my message made it clear that I wasn't in the least upset, but he asked me if I was mad at him and if I still wanted to see him again. So I told him it was totally fine.


I wouldn't mind hanging out with him again, but things with another Russian are heating up and might be taking a more romantic turn.

Paying for sex

The other day I was chatting online to a cute 26-year old. When I asked him what kind of work he did, he told me that he is a prostitute. I thought he was kidding, but played along, and then I started thinking he was being serious.

I asked him how much it would cost to fuck him, but I didn't get a straight answer. He said it was cheaper for cool people, and that he thought I was very hot. Whether or not that meant I was gonna get him for free, I don't know.

Tonight a conversation with my boss took an unexpected turn when he asked me at what age I thought we would have to start paying for sex. I didn't have a ready answer. My 71-year old dad is still getting it for free, but maybe I'll have to start paying when I'm 55, who knows?


Then I starting feeling sorry for the 25-year old escort who I will be having my wicked way with when I'm 70. The poor guy, although by choice, will have to deal with my wrinkly bits and my drooling. Mind you, he won't be born for another five years.

In da club

Clubbing is not something I do very often. I like bars, and when the music is nice I'll hop from foot to foot and bob my head, but it's rare for me to go to a full-blown club. Here in Moscow, however, the gay scene only consists of a couple of saunas and a few clubs, so the whole thing became inevitable.

A week ago, a new club opened named Discothèque and last night they had a Matinée party. I don't normally get Sunday off (and generally start work at 10:30 that day) but this week I do, so a night out had to be planned, and Discothèque seemed as good a place as any, especially since we were "on the list." Matinée originated in Madrid and The Irish Patient recognised quite a few faces from the scene there.

At the entrance we were given white VIP bracelets and escorted to the VIP balcony, which was, of course, practically deserted. We ordered one drink from the VIP bar, sat for three seconds on our VIP couch, then dragged our VIP booties down the VIP stairs to the dance floor.

The music was amazing, the DJ was gorgeous, the crowd was very goodlooking (and partially shirtless), there was the exactly right amount of people for the space, the go-go's from Madrid were stunning; in other words, a good time was had by all. I danced non-stop for three hours. I made the rookie mistake, at one point, of standing too close to the giant speakers and I could feel my hair blowing in the sound. I decided I probably didn't need to do that to my hearing, so moved back to the central part of the dance floor.


Around four in the morning we had more or less had our fill and some of us did have to work the following morning, so off we went, in search of a taxi. I did notice that there doesn't seem to be much hooking up going on in Russian clubs, but that is just based on my one experience. To be more scientific about this, I'm going to another club tonight, to see if things might be different there.

Moscow Metro Etiquette

First of all, of course, you must learn to pronounce it correctly, as myetro.

I think I read somewhere that the Moscow Metro transports 8 million people each day. That sounds like an awful lot, but as soon as you take you first trip underground, you believe it. It is always busy. During the day it's regular busy, during rush hour it's insane crazy busy.

This means you are always surrounded by many people, some of which want to go the same way as you. Other want to go the complete opposite way. Forget what your mother taught you about being nice to little old ladies, because they are the pushiest people. The first time I was shoved hard, I turned around and expected to see a big, strong man, but instead came face-to-face with a wrinkly granny. I have since started pushing back, no matter how frail they look.


When a train arrives, you politely let people exit (it seems like at any given station, 80% of passengers get off the train). After the last person is off, you frantically push your way in. There is no warning signal to indicate the doors are about to close, and since they slam shut with enough force to cut off any body parts that didn't make it onto the train, you want to make sure all of you is in.

If you'd rather not risk involuntary castration or amputation of a limb, don't panic. The next train is never far away. Sometimes it only takes forty seconds, other times two minutes. With such frequency, you can't even walk to the other end of the platform before the next metro arrives.


Smiling in public means you're an idiot in Russian culture, so you stand on the metro with a look that's either sullen, grumpy or downright aggressive. Whatever you do, don't speak and definitely don't laugh (you risk a fine of 1000 rubles if you do).

No matter how swelteringly hot it gets in the train, keep your coat zipped up, your scarf wrapped around your neck and your hat on at all times. Creating pungeant BO is the only way to guarantee some breathing space around you.


The Moscow Metro has the longest escalators I have ever seen. The one by the hotel takes a minute and forty-five seconds. You stand on the right and walk on the left. These escalators act like funnels, you sort of shuffle and push (if there's a granny in front of you) your way through the crowd that's usually about eight lines wide.

Only being able to move slowly is actually a benefit, because many of the stations are beautifully decorated, so make the most of your journey by admiring the sculptures, paintings, mosaïcs and wood carvings.

There you go, with these simple rules, you'll be able to to go everywhere you want in Moscow quickly, conveniently and, hopefully, with all body parts still attached.

More Russian adventures

As I mentioned before, guys here like to walk. It's their idea of going on a date. The other night, after a quick Russian dinner, I found myself once again roaming the dark streets of Moscow, in the company of a chatty young Russian, this time from Irkutsk, Siberia.


Don't get me wrong, I enjoy walking. But I'm made of flesh and blood, and the flesh has needs. So at one point I asked him: "How far do we have to walk before other things start happening?" The question made him blush, and he smiled his cute half-smile.

He didn't give me a direct answer, but when we got to a metro stop, he said: "Let's walk one station more." Apparently that was enough, because when I asked if he wanted to come back to the hotel with me, he said yes.

And so the needs of the flesh were satisfied.

Dating Russian style

With nicely trimmed hair on his defined chest and washboard stomach, good arms, a smooth round butt, blue eyes and a smile that could light up the darkest midwinter night, I could have done a lot worse for the first Russian that ended up in my bed.

I've already had a Mexican in there, and spent some time in a Canadian's bed, but no naked Russians until this morning. They guys I chat to online (apart from two saunas and three clubs that go from 2 to 7 AM, the only source for meeting other homosexuals) invariably suggest going for a walk.

Last week I went. We met at 9:30 PM outside the hotel and walked for a good two hours, through the cold and very dark evening (especially when the street lights turned off for about five minutes). Walking seems to be what local guys do here on a first date. I'm not against walking, in fact I quite enjoy it, but let's face it, I'm only here for two months and I work a lot, so I don't have much time to waste.


I have plenty of friends in far away places that I never see and I'm not looking for a relationship; what I'm after is sex. No hassles, no bullshit, just good fun between two (or more) guys. Up to this morning, I thought was only going to be possible with other expats, but now I know better.

Hot and cold

I like the concept of central heating. Love it, even. During the winters I spent in New Zealand, I really missed it a lot, the convenience of turning up the thermostat and being in a comfortable, warm environment in a matter of minutes. Instead I had to fuck around with woodburners and fan heaters.

Here in Russia, they take the central part of central heating to the next level. Normally, the heating is centralised per house or building, or when you're in a hotel, per room. Not here. Here, the heating is centralised for the whole city. The mayor either turns it on or off.

When it's on, it's very warm everywhere that's inside: malls, apartments, metro, hotels. Of course they turn it on, because it's cold outside. So for walking in the street you need a big wintercoat, a hat, scarf and gloves, as well as several layers of t-shirts and sweaters. The second you step inside, these items make you reach meltdown point in mere seconds.


It's annoying. I'm constantly shedding layers and putting them back on. I've started carrying a bag, just to have a place to put my winter accessories when I'm indoors.

Baby's first death threat

For set-up and tear-down we always get some stage hands to help us with loading and unloading of trucks, heavy lifting and other fun activities. They are, generally speaking, not the most educated people, but I usually speak the local language, so communication is never a problem.

This is different in Russia, of course. I speak about five words of Russian, most of them not very useful for dealing with stage hands. Out of the four I had today, only one spoke a minimal amount of English. We mainly communicated through improvised sign language.

During a quick cigarette break, the one that spoke a little English asked me where I was from. When I said Holland, he said, in the thickest Russian accent: "Prostitution." I nodded. He said: "Marihuana." Again I nodded. Then he said: "Gay." I carefully nodded again, wondering where he was going. Well... I soon found out. He mimed some violent actions, pretending to beat someone up and said that if he sees a homosexual, he wants to kill him.

For a split second I considered telling him I'm gay, just to see the look on his face, but I didn't. Just in case he was actually serious and crazy enough to follow up on his promise, either on the spot, or off-site, after I left work.

Yeah.

Weird moment, that was. I didn't really react, while his buddies sort of laughed and my colleagues missed the whole thing. They all finished their cigarettes and we went back to work. I may or may not have lowered my voice a little.

After work, The Irish Patient and I walked to Red Square. It's one of those images I grew up with, and, being a teenager during the height of the Cold War, I never ever imagined, in a million years, that one day I would be living and working in Moscow. Yet there we were, walking along the Kremlin, admiring St Basil's Cathedral and exploring GUM mall (where we bought delicious ice-cream).


Walking through the shopping centre, licking my ice-cream, I got cruised by two different guys. Luckily, our Siberian gay basher was nowhere to be seen.

Moscow, a first impression

First off, I had a pretty bad trip coming here. A massive queue at Amsterdam airport for security check, which took 45 minutes, so I only barely made my flight. When it left a couple of minutes early from the gate, I was happy, but just as we were about to take off a warning light came on in the cockpit, which neither the pilots nor the maintenance crew were able to fix. This meant we had to change planes. The new plane was parked right next to the old one, yet we had to be transported by bus. After it had been cleaned, refuelled and checked, of course.

In the end we took off two hours late, which was exactly my transit time in Prague. Right after we landed, my connecting flight took off. Literally. I had a perfect view of the runway and saw the Aeroflot plane depart. Fortunately, rebooking me on the next flight out was drama-free and I only had to wait an hour and twenty minutes. Then I picked the wrong line for immigration at Moscow Sheremetevo airport, which took another 45 minutes. To top things off, the driver who was supposed to be waiting for me, was nowhere to be found. I tried calling the two ladies that organise these things, but they couldn't be reached. In the end I called The Irish Patient, who is also my director, and a few minutes later I was in a car on my way to the hotel. Until I got stuck in Moscow traffic, that is.

What a disaster of a trip! Only highlight was the flight attendant on the flight from Prague to Moscow, who looked as if he just walked off the set of one of those Czech porn movies. You know the kind: twink, pale skin and a nice juicy ass.


On the way from the airport to the hotel, in the city centre, I mainly saw lots of concrete. No prizes for innovative architecture here, nor for creative use of colours. Just different shades of puke. I also saw some guys fishing in the Moskva river, and some guys watching those guys, which I thought would be a whole new level of boredom.

After checking in and unpacking, I met some of my work buddies for dinner in the giant mall next door. We ate at a chain place called Akademya. Very nice pizzas and reasonably priced. Although I did think, walking through the mall, that we could be anywhere in the world. There was nothing particularly Russian about the place, the shops, the brands. I was just blaming globalization for destroying cultural differences, when I remembered I needed laundry detergent. All the usual brands were sitting on the shelf and suddenly globalization became really convenient.

Shit sauce

The gaysian colleague I mentioned in an earlier post is an endless source of entertainment. He was born in Laos but moved to the States when he was only 2. Now he's from Des Moines, Iowa. He recently received his US citizenship.

The other day we were having after-work beers and he starts telling us how, when Lao people get together, they like to slaughter a cow. Apparently, they use the entire cow; nothing is wasted. I have a hard enough time with organs (liver, kidneys, spleen) but it gets worse.


Laotians also use the contents of the cow's intestines. They drain the animal's bowels, strain the stuff and use what's left as a dipping sauce. "It's a little bitter," our gaysian told us with a straight face. No shit.

I don't think I could bring myself to dip a spleen dumpling in a bowl of shit sauce. Well, I could probably do that, but it would go nowhere near my mouth.

Family ties

Since I have over a week to spend in the Netherlands at the moment, I'm taking the time to visit friends and family that don't live in Rotterdam. Today I went to visit my aunt and I learnt the following things:

• My 320-pound, 42-year old cousin married a woman half his age and a third his weight. He now has a son that's 18 and a wife that's 21. The son, I'm a little ashamed to admit, has turned into quite the hottie, the wife is not ugly either. Am I the only one that can smell trouble here?
• My other cousin's husband can't hang on to a job to save his life and borrowed money from his mother-in-law behind his wife's back. Which he is now failing to pay back.
• Both cousins have fallen out, after the first one told the other one's husband that he needs to get therapy for overspending and generally trying to keep up appearances when he's completely broke.
  
• My aunt and my dad's boyfriend don't get along. At all. Which means they take any opportunity that arises to make snide comments to each other. So not fun.
• Cousin number three's wife cleans the house of an elderly former neighbour of my aunt's, but because my aunt and her adopted son are no longer on speaking terms, this connection is not acknowledged.
• My aunt's fourth son, also adopted, is the smart one and lives on the other side of the country. He just has some weird infection in his hands that causes the skin to peel.

I love spending some time here, but after hearing about all the drama, I'm happy that I usually live far away. By the time Wednesday rolls around, I'll be more than ready to board my flight to Moscow.