Stephan Orth: Behind Putin's Curtain: Friendships and Misadventures Inside Russia [aka Couchsurfing in Russia]

Or is it Genrich, thirty-one, who speaks six languages and torments potential guests with more than a hundred pages of instructions on how to behave?

His reply arrives exactly three minutes after I write to him: “You have a keen sense of humor, that can be safely stated. I would indeed be glad and feel honored to host you on the dates specified.”

Apart from this message his email contains two screen pages with precise travel information, a request for my exact ETA, and a total of fourteen links leading to maps and subway timetables. “I’d be pleased to answer any relevant questions,” he writes, adding, “if they happen to arise after you have checked all the available sources.”

OK, I get it: no further questions.

Truth No. 1:

Behind a craggy facade there is sometimes unexpected warmth.

A COUPLE OFdays later I land at Sheremetyevo International Airport. Its unique feature is a flower vending machine that sells bouquets for 1,000, 1,500, or 2,000 rubles. The higher the price, the cuter the fluffy mouse or dog hiding among the blossoms. I quickly ditch the idea of pleasing Genrich with such a gift. Instead I’ve brought for him and other hosts some large packets of Lübeck marzipan.

I wait for my baggage nervously as I want to stick to my ETA. I take the bright-red, modern airport express to the city as instructed. I practice the Cyrillic alphabet by reading every sign on the way to Belorusskaya station: Bileti. Kassa. Aeroekspress. Minimarket. Produkti. Avtoservis. Ekspress Servis. Gazprom. Rosneft. Makdonalds. Elektronika. Gastronom. Teatr. Metro.

The startling effect of Moscow’s subway stations on visitors may be due either to the lethal swinging doors at their entrances or to the magnificence of their platforms. Stalin’s architects wanted to create opulence for all. People who lived like dogs within their own homes could at least stroll through underground palaces on their way to and from work. Today the subway stations are the most popular museum of Communism in the world, with more than seven million paying guests a day.

Belorusskaya is elaborately decorative, with stucco ceilings, chandeliers, and a larger-than-life statue of a soldier. Ceiling paintings show women harvesting crops, men clasping weapons, and children presenting their teacher bunches of flowers (without stuffed animals). In contrast, the majority of real Russians in the subway car are immersed in their cell phones; wireless reception works even at two hundred feet below ground. Some have hushed conversations or stare into space. First impression: I haven’t exactly dropped in on a laughter yoga class.

It’s only three stops on the green line to Sokol, which has the same cathedral-like feeling as Belorusskaya, though with fewer paintings; in compensation, there are marble walls and polished floors of red and gray granite. For over a year now there have been no billboards disturbing the architectural treasures of the Moscow underworld. This, however, has nothing to do with aesthetic choices, but is rather because the advertising agency wasn’t taking the agreed-upon payments to the city all that seriously.

Shops with the sign Zweti24 are ubiquitous in Russian cities. They offer flowers around the clock. It’s easier to buy a couple of fresh roses at 3:00 AM in Saint Petersburg than a bar of chocolate or a pack of cigarettes. The explanation often given for this 24-7 need for floral gifts is that men returning home drunk think they can avoid a death sentence by placing a bunch of flowers on the kitchen table. Demand is at its greatest on March 8, International Women’s Day, and florists can charge almost whatever they wish.

Up at street level I orient myself with one of Genrich’s fourteen maps and walk along Leningrad Street for some three hundred yards, thankful to be on foot rather than in a cab on account of the traffic jams. After an archway I turn right onto Peschanaya Street; at a German restaurant called Schwarzwald (Black Forest) I turn right again. After becoming acquainted with a couple of polite kids playing soccer in a courtyard, I find myself standing in front of a purple metal door that still smells of paint. How to gain entrance, Russian-style: press “K” for kvartira on the intercom, then punch in the apartment number (the keys resemble the ones in a telephone booth from the late ’80s), wait for a peep tone (the peep resembles the sound in a video game from the late ’80s), give the door a hefty shove, go through a second metal door, and I’ve made it.

My watch displays ETA plus two minutes as the groaning mini-elevator takes me to the eleventh floor. On reaching its destination it continues juddering heavily, as if not in favor of the sudden stop. Before reaching my host’s hall I have to pass through two more metal doors.

“That’s Moscow. A high-security prison,” says Genrich by way of welcome. He’s wearing a T-shirt with “Ask me, I’m local” on it and glasses that change from translucent to dark in bright light; a golden cross hangs from his neck. He has a ginger beard, which is roughly the same color as the tapotchki (slippers) he offers me. We speak English; my Russian is not yet good enough for longer conversations.

“I’m your first host? Well then: welcome to Russia!” He leads me through a corridor that is almost too narrow for me and my backpack and offers me a chair in the kitchen. “Unfortunately I’m awfully untypical of this country. I don’t drink alcohol, have no bear meat in the freezer, and don’t possess a balalaika. It’s totally wrong, I’m sorry.” He takes a couple of paper bags with cookies from a cupboard and spreads them out on the table.

The apartment, which he shares with a roommate, is some four hundred square feet and a prime example of efficient use of space. Built-in cupboards on every free wall, a washing machine fitted under the sink in the bathroom, and a couch in Genrich’s room that can be converted to a bed. The guest bed is a squeaky blue inflatable mattress. After we inflate the mattress, my backpack has to be taken into the kitchen, as there is no floor space left for it. My favorite place is the balcony, with its great view: white skyscrapers, a building in Stalinist “gingerbread” style, an elaborate combination of Russian Baroque and Gothic styles, and the onion dome of an Orthodox church.

“Now, to the most important question,” says Genrich. He strokes the cross hanging from his neck as if to emphasize the gravity of the moment.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee,” I reply. The answer seems to please him. He shakes my hand and says in an official voice: “Welcome to the club!”

He goes to one of his crammed-full cupboards, in which every object seems to have its rightful place, and fetches a pack of coffee beans. The coffee grinder makes such an infernal din that I almost fail to understand the next question.

“Stephan, what do you think about spices?”

“About what?”

“S-p-i-c-e-s!”

“I like them.”

“Do you like hot-spicy? I don’t mean blow-out-your-brains hot, just hot?”

“Yes.”

He places a Middle-Eastern-looking, long-handled coffeemaker on the hot plate.

“Would you like a few spices in your coffee?”

“Which ones?”

“Cardamom, chili peppers, nutmeg, and ginger. I discovered the mixture myself; it’s called ‘kick in the morning.’ Once you’ve tried it, you’ll understand why.”

“Then I can’t say no.”

“Yes, you can. You can always say no. It’s my philosophy.”