Moscow, I have learned tonight, has the ability to kill even the most seasoned American partier. Oh, where to begin. I suppose our story begins like many modern stories (though most authors shall feign to admit it)... with a text message.
I texted the American who was in Mosco last semester, sometime this afternoon, asking innocently if we all could go out tonight. He said yes, and we made plans to go to Propaganda, the big club here that mostly caters to foreigners.
Considering I was out until 3:30 the night before (but I still made it to my 10am Saturday morning class!) I had planned on taking a nap, and not drinking tonight. And then I couldn't fall asleep, so I decided to man the fuck up.
I met Jeff and Chris in their lobby. Chris has had problems getting into his building, as out proposk (passes) expired after only two weeks for some reason. I haven't had too many issues, as sektor B is mostly open. But G is like maximum-security, with cameras everywhere and the like. He decided not to go out, in case he couldn't make it back into the building. So, I went with Jeff to his suitemate's room, where Carmel (a German) and Dan (fratty American) were watching the ManUnited game. I watched with them, we all did a few shots of vodka, and I chugged my little Red Devil in the 15 minutes we had to meet everyone.
Needless to say, I was more or less useless from there on out.
We walked to sektor B, and met up with more people.. Ukrainians, Croatians, French, Irish. While everyone else was getting ready, four of us stole to my room so I could change shoes. Someone pointed out that I had vodka. Within minutes... I had no more vodka.
We finally left. To be honest, I don't remember much of the trip, besides talking with one of the Frenchmen about how I should eat something. I also remember being very, very proud that I had managed to keep up with the boys' walking, something my tiny little legs usually don't allow. Thank goodness for Red Devil.
We finally made it to the bar and... woah. It was four stories tall. At one point in time, I went up to the third story, which had a hallway full of abstract paintings, and a really low desk with a blonde girl in a medical face mask behind it. She did not allow me to go any further. The walls were a blue, and the lights had a strobe-like quality to them without actually being strobe lights.
Inside the bar/club (2nd floors) we took up one of the longer tables. And then, when more people arrived (we had managed to lose the Irish and Croatians) we took over an even bigger table. I split a margherita pizza with someone, but wisely chose to avoid alcohol for awhile. After an hour or so of bullshitting, I went to the dance floor (100p entry) with Piedra.
Piedra is the Peruvian girlfriend of Dima, the Swede I had met yesterday. We hit it off. She is a very sweet little thing, in Russian because her father, a Peruvian Air Force General, is here for three years as an atache. I'm pretty good at aligning myself with the "right people," apparently. After an hour or so, Dima wanted to go home, so she left.
Russians are, largely, horrible dancers. Some of the women are pretty sensual, but others look more or less exactly like they have perfected the art of suffering seizures while staying upright. The men sort of jump around like they have some horrible, painful poison in their veins.
Dan had managed to "make friends" with a little tiny Russian girl, and we all did our best to help him along. Ok, well, "girl" isn't the right term. She is 28 (he is 20) and definitely and old maid by Russian standards.
But I danced. And danced some more. Black Eyed Peas, Michael Jackson, you fucking name it. Two black Frenchmen break danced to such hits as "Time of My Life" and the crowd surrounded them for awhile.
Even Grisha came out, with a girl. I was initially jealous ( HOW DOES HE GET LAID SO EASILY?) but I eventually made friends with the girl. But that is later. For the time being, she looked like she had been crying, and I wondered what he had done or said to her.
In the room with the dance floor, I noticed a man who looked pretty out of place. I was pretty certain he was gay (Fruit Flies are universal). He wore point black shoes and a purple scarf, and was much older than most of the crowd. I started dancing with him. 41 year old Rotarian banker, half German, half American. Danced like a gay guy. Only his mention of his 12 year old daughter and how odd he felt to dance with someone so close to her age made me wonder if he was straight. He bought me a drink, and we made observations about people. Such as Dan...
Dan was wasted. The Rotarian asked me where he was from, and we laughed over how he fulfilled every single American sterotype, trashed fistpumping on the dance floor. Oh, Dan.
Even Grisha joined us on the dance floor for a few minutes, to "Sweet Dreams" by the Eurythmics. The Rotarian quickly identified him as "The Russian" thanks to his style of dancing... just standing there pointing.
Before leaving, I made friends with Grisha's podruga.. I guess they had been at his brothers earlier drinking, and she continued at the bar. As a result, she was pretty drunk. I helped her to the bathroom (I had to sneak her in, as the cleaning ladies said it was closed) and shared my thermos of water with her. She was very concerned that we would take the metro home, as her home is far from the station, and nobody would walk her home. She seemed not too convinced Grisha was taking her. I asked if she wanted to crash at the university, and she explained that Grisha and her were not a couple, as if it was a big secret. As if Grisha has actual relationships.
Four of us took a cab home, including Dan. Still so wasted he couldn't make it into the cab. He talked so loud the cabbie turned his music up loud. Honestly, speeding through Moscow at 6am in the wintertime listening to blaring Indian music (souuuu-pa, souuuu-pa sou-pa) was the trippiest thing ever. Dan fistpumping the entire time didn't help.
I'll tell you of my adventures getting into my dorm later. For now, I need fucking sleep.
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