There is no tribute fitting enough for the Moscow underground monster. I’ve developed such a love-hate, superior-fearing relationship with it that riding it home alone for the last time was as much an emotional journey as leaving the city itself. I was still watching my back for the skinhead attack that never came to be. I still grudgingly rehearsed lines and behaviors in my head at the sight of gray uniforms, but since I got my last haircut I haven’t been bothered once. The battle between to sit or not to sit for two stops on the blue line between Арбатская and Курская raged on as the aging cabins clanked along, passing dark brown tunnels overgrown with pipes laid since god knows when.
The baby twins sitting on broken columns greeted me for the last time at Римская. The marble walls and marble floors were all as they should be, but I won’t see them again for probably a very long time. How will the drunks and the homeless wild dogs sprawled out along the walls of the underground walkways spend the unforgiving winter? I don’t think I’ll ever find out.
No comments:
Post a Comment