I’d like to give Muscovites some benefit of the doubt. Life’s hard(er) here, and patience runs thin in the daily hustle-bustle. Then again, there are people who are just plain rude, but like I’ve been saying here: “When in third
On my way to the academy one afternoon, I transferred onto the red line at Lenin Library (Библиотека им. Ленина). I followed all the rules: stand by the edge of the metro doors and wait for people to get out, squeezing myself in as soon as I see an opening. A man of around 30 was the last one to exit as I was entering, and even with plenty of room to spare, he found the necessity to shove me hard with his shoulder and elbow.
“OH no, you didn’t. I don’t care what country you are from and what country you think I’m from, I’m not going to let this one slide.”
Who needs alcohol? Adrenaline has a funny way of blurring memories, too. As soon as he shoved me, I either shoved him back with my right leg or outright kneed him (I’m leaning toward the latter).
The hard punch landed squarely on my shoulder. Didn’t hurt that much, but I was just surprised. Across the threshold, we stared down and exchanged words. Then just as fast as it happened, the confrontation dissolved. We both turned away: I wanted to grab the rare open seat right next to the door; he had somewhere to go, just like all other 14 million people in this impersonal town.
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