Dead Presidents

I walked briskly out of my short-term apartment onto Tverskaya Street, one of Russia’s main avenues, ready to meet up with Olga and Vladimir, a pair of music promotors I had met earlier in the day in Moscow. I had remarked to them that I only had 12 hours to exit Russia before my visa expired (extensions are impossible, fines heavy and severe). Olga arranges travel iteniraries for many of Eastern Europe’s biggest and most awful acts (needless to say, entirely unknown back in the USA) and helped me obtain a quick, cheap getaway to Antalya, one of Russia’s pet summer destinations. One of the greatest things about Russia is the ability to purchase inexpensive airplane tickets on the spot, none of the 14-day in-advance nonsense that we Americans accept as free commerce. So, with a phone call and a couple of Metro stops, everything was in order and, though it required me to stay here in Kemer for 4 days as part of a package, I must say that it shockingly nice here. For ex-Soviets, this must be the equivalent of a weeklong orgasm.

As I headed up towards Cafe Pyramid, across the block and in view, I ran into two of Moscow’s finest – the constables in the big red hats and the shiny black guns in hte brown holsters. They demanded my documents – in Russia, they need no presumption or suspicion of guilt to question anybody, everybody – and I complied with my passport.

“Big problem, you must come to polize station. Your documents not in order.” And they weren’t, technically, because Sveta, the brunette babelet I hired to take my visa to be registered (which is required of everyone, within 72 hours of arrival into a city) had not returned. As longtime readers may recall, Sveta is the apartment manager’s assistant, raised on a reindeer farm in Arctic Russia, knows three languages and is as nice as she is beautiful. I called her, she was still ten minutes away on the Metro, so I had to wait for her to rescue me.

Somehow I stalled them for fıfteen excruciating minutes and, soon, red-hatted goons were everywhere, with many greatly concerned onlookers. In the meantime, I tried in vain to explain my situation, that although I had been in Russia for nearly an entire month, I had only been in Moscow less than 36 hours, that I didn’t even need a registration. Of course, their command of the English language conveniently shorted out from time to time and puzzlingly, I still don’t know the Russian words for incompetence and harrassment, so the stalemate continued.

I finally get a text message from Sveta saying that she sees me across the boulevard but cannot help as she herself is an illegal resident in Moscow, not being registered either (for two years!). Finally, I convince her to walk by quickly and, on the busiest street in Moscow, we make a sleight-of-hand pass-off that would have made any grifter or Sidney Bristow proud. I magically produce my registration, stamped. Discussion over.

Not so fast, foreigner, this is Russia after all. “Big problem. You in Moscow 29 days, this registration good, three days.” I explained and re-explained the deal, that I had arrived by train from Kazan just one day earlier, and all the red-crested robins could do was just shake their heads no, no, no. The fine for not being properly registered, incidentally, is roughly $200 and, worse, not being able to re-enter Russia for 5 years, If taken to the statıon, I would be in deep shit and would undoubtedly miss my flight, six hours away. I needed a solution, one that only donned on me as fresh-faced Olga arrived to help, after having phoned me ten minutes earlier.

I asked her, who was now yellıng at the cops, to calm down and please stay put with the authorities -- and my passport -- while I retrieved "extra documentation", namely my train ticket. From earlier run-ins, I knew that I was now in an infinite loop of bureaucratic jabberwocky, that no matter what credentials I produced, there would assuredly be some new “problem". Back int the apartment I so-conspicuously interleaved two crisp $20 bills in-between the train ticket dupes and, back on Tverskaya, handed them back with a wink and a nod to Moscow's most upstanding blue-eyed civil servant.

“Look closely” I said. He slowly opened the tickets, nodded with a smile and said, in Russian: “The best documents are those with American presidents.”

Five minutes later, Olga, Vladimir and I were enjoying Ukrainian beers at the cafe, me full of the euphoria and satisfaction one garners only from successfully bribing a cop, a feat we don't often get treated to back in the States.