Dec. 19 – Moscow

When I think of snowy evenings, I think of silence. The thickening blanket of snow dampens all sound. People stay home, the streets are quiet, cars parked. A walk on a wintry night is perfect for contemplation.

I set out towards Red Square, thinking it would be a great “thinking” walk. But the buzz of traffic, wheels skidding on white roads, was all around central Moscow. I got to the embankment of the Moskva and there was a loud crushing thud, then a stuck horn. Two cars, crumple zones obliterated, slewed across the road. The drivers got out, one of them shaking an injured wrist. Sirens. An ambulance approaches, slows as it passes the wrecks, then accelerates towards its destination. More sirens, and a convoy of VIP vehicles thread their way through in the opposite direction. I walk away, the drivers huddled at the corner, both talking to their mobile phones.

I cross the Moskva on a bridge lit in the colours of Russia – white, blue and red. There are no lights on St. Basil’s Cathedral or the Kremlin, but enough brightness for their silhouettes to loom clear. Stairs, a slushy underpass, stairs again, up a snowy sidewalk alongside the famous onion domes, then onto Red Square. Blizzards may repel other people, but they attract Russians, who trample the snow on the square. Parents push prams, couples hold hands, friends take turns posing for camera phones, with a large Christmas tree as backdrop.

Unlike its neighbours on the square, the giant GUM department store’s façade is lit. In front of it, equally vast, is a skating surface. Russian jazz tunes ring out over the skaters, who mill and swirl around the rink. Church bells peal, announcements boom over the public address system, skaters shout and laugh. Opposite, Lenin lies alone and ignored in his mausoleum.

A growling squadron of trucks sweeps the square in echelon formation. They go fast, shovel blades plowing aside heaps of snow in vast circles. Pedestrians walk quickly to get out of the way. The foot soldiers of the snow removal brigade stand in clusters, leaning on their wooden shovels, waiting for the next accumulation. I head for home, into the wind, snow stinging my eyes, bells still tolling