I knew I was literally seeing history in the making. This first visit to Moscow was one of the most enriching experiences of my professional life. One afternoon, I was able to hire a Moscow ambulance while a colleague was happily accommodated by the driver of a Russian Army truck. Simply stick out a hand at any street corner and almost any ordinary motorist will transport you to your destination for some hard currency. This 800-year-old city of nine million in high-speed, fast forward economic and social transition was as mad-cap a sight as I had ever seen before.įor breakfast, your waiter offers coffee and eggs, as well as a selection of clunky Red Army watches, which suddenly appear from his vest as he re-fills your cup.īuying a foreign newspaper in Moscow’s new five-star Kempinski Hotel requires payment in US dollars but your change comes back in German marks.Ĭan’t get a taxi? Not a problem, comrade. Waving huge red flags with the old USSR hammer and sickle emblem, which elsewhere in Moscow are freely sold to any tourist with a US$20 note - the marchers demand the return of Stalinist-style communism. Most are hard line, and fur hatted, many are also spewing potent vodka fumes. But you must pay in US dollars.Īpproaching the Square, the comic book Reds join about 300 other old time, out-of-work communists. Here you can order any type of pizza you want. Finally, the jack-booted marchers stamp past the Soviet capital’s snazzy new neon-lit Pizza Hut. Meanwhile, the funky street band has switched to Tutti-Frutti, the sounds of which can be heard as the angry apparatchiks march by Moscow’s newest casino, all chrome and glitter. Still they continue, passing a sidewalk photographer snapping Polaroids of tourists standing next to life-sized plywood cut-outs of Yeltsin and Gorbachev shaking hands, and street-corner capitalists selling Soviet/Leninist medals, ribbons and awards. Turning a corner, the would-be new Bolsheviks struggle to maintain their tempo, but as they march past, a freelance Russian street band starts playing a remarkably snappy version of Blue Suede Shoes, and they begin to crash into each other’s heels. But this proves difficult as they parade past a three block long line of impatient younger Russians too hungry to give a hoot for old politics as they eagerly await their turn to enter the world’s biggest McDonalds. Moving in tight formation, the mostly mustachioed marchers attempt to look fierce and forceful. Their destination is the same as ours-Moscow’s sinister-sounding Red Square - the geographic heart of the once formidable Soviet Empire. We exit our taxi to follow them, as they march in menacing military formation through the chilly streets-the steel heels on their goose-stepping boots cracking loudly in the brisk winter air. ![]() I spot a band of burly, grim-faced Russian men dressed in traditional Soviet military attire. Its original name- Krasnaya - in old Russian meant beautiful. ![]() So no sooner do I drop luggage in my hotel lobby, then we head to the city’s celebrated Red Square. ![]() So unlike the fear-soaked atmosphere of today’s Russia. I’m also blessed to have the assistance of a remarkably gifted young Moscow-based translator who was clearly elated by the many positive changes in her homeland. I am thrilled to my core at my great good fortune to be in this place, at this time. I am there to report on the 75th anniversary of the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution, which brought Soviet communism to the people of Russia. I’m a young reporter on my first trip-of many to come-to Russia. A street market in Rostov-on-Don, Russia, 1992
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