Golden Arch Of Russia
March 8, 2010 | Posted by Editor110 By Maggie Owsley
Sergey had been sitting across from me on the red velour train seats for over seven hours. I woke up to him looking out the window. He immediately reminded me of a mall-Santa, unsure if it was comforting to have company or disconcerting. His graying beard supported his round cheeks and the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes seemed like he spent a lot of his life crying or laughing. He was wearing ironed black trousers, and newly polished black shoes, but his coat looked like he’d been working in mines, and duck tape was holding part of the collar in place. I don’t remember why we started talking, although surely he made the first gesture of conversation when we were about an hour outside of Moscow. When he spoke I turned my head slightly to avoid the wave of his breath that smelled like moldy library books and grape juice. We skipped over the common questions you ask people you meet during your travels, “where are you going,” “where do you live?” It didn’t seem relevant for out inevitability short-term relationship.
Although he had a serious gaze and hadn’t smiled, his mannerism seemed grandfatherly and subdued. He was keen on asking questions, but seemed to be answering mine with more questions, in a philosophical way that you can only do when talking to strangers. I told him I would just be in Moscow for half a day or so until my next train boarded. He insisted that I must have a cup authentic Russian coffee before I leave. I agreed, and decided to cautiously follow him on the metro towards Pushkin Square, a popular and tourist filled spot not far from Red Square and the Kremlin. I was expecting to be lead into a lavish café, my mind picturing all cafes in Russia to be like New York’s Russian Tea Room.
“Ahh-ha! Here is are!” Sergey finally cracked a smile and a wink as he threw-up his hands pointed to the large Golden Arches of McDonalds. The wrinkles on the side of his eyes came to life even more. It was unclear if his gestures where a mark of humor, bring an American tourist to the iconic sign of Americanism, or if he was genuinely excited to get me a cup of excellent Russian coffee. The smell of fried food against the cold air was startling, and there were as many cigarettes littered between the slabs of concrete as McDonald’s straw wrappers. Pigeons poked at dirty French fries.
“This is the first modern historical landmark in Moscow!” he declared. Still, not being able to pick up on perhaps his wicked humor, I ask, “Huh?”
I actually was in front of a historical monument that represented a huge shift in the Soviet Union. It was only two years later after this McDonalds opened in 1990 that the Soviet Union ceased to exist as Mikhail Gorbachev resigned as leader of the country, and various Soviet republics proclaimed their independence.
In January of 1990 there was line around the corner to step inside what must have only then existed the idea of The United States, although Canadian McDonalds actually handled the Moscow opening. The manifestation of neatly packaged food was a sure sign that capitalism was on its way, but more over the enthusiastic reception of McDonalds from Russian people signaled a strong desire to leave economic hardship and move on from political controversy. Perhaps more than wanting to see the new McDonalds, joining the long lines was a political statement for change, or maybe the long lines were still a commonplace communist activity.
I gestured that I would wait outside as he went in to get coffee. A few feet away a McDonalds employee was having a cigarette break, trading long exhales and deep coughs. Her short dirty blonde hair was tied behind a visor that made the circles under her eyes more menacing than her small frame suggested. Her arm was hugging her waist until a pop song played as her ringtone and she yelled, “Hello!” into her phone. I peered in the tinted glass to see about twenty more cashiers similar to the age-less smoker, attend to the crowds of people. Tourists? Young Russians? I couldn’t tell the difference, nor could I spot Sergey among people fighting for seats.
After Sergey bought my coffee we stood outside both looking onto the square now besieged with new glass buildings and other imported western chains. In the silence I sensed neither of us felt apart of this place. I wanted to ask him if he was in this very place more than almost 20 years ago, but as he pulled a flask out from his jackets and tapped the contents into his paper cup, I knew he would only answer my question with another question. Guessing how he would have answered me, I silently asked myself if I would have been here that day. The last thing I said to Sergey and he clasped my hand with both of his to say goodbye was, “Thanks again for the Russian Coffee.”
Maggie Owsley is a Social Justice Media Studies major at NYU Gallatin. See more of her work at www.andthenphotos.com.
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