Election Day

In the days leading up to the election I had fantasies about how I would cover it––boldly, for one. I would sneak into a polling station; I would cast ten votes; I would confront random strangers on the street, probe their politics until I struck the root. Of course they would tell me, an obviously non-Russian twenty-something without credentials. And if they didn’t, if they told me to screw off, well it wouldn’t hurt my feelings a bit. Life on the edge rarely comfortable, but always interesting.

But by the time I woke up Sunday I’d made other plans; I was going to church. I’d met this Oklahoman through a friend, peppered him with religious questions when I heard he was a believer. “I don’t get it, why do you need Christ? And what exactly is a non-denominational church?” He had his shit together.

It never occurred to me until now, but almost everywhere I’ve lived outside the US for more than two weeks I’ve ended up going to church. Costa Rica, the Bahamas, and now Russia. This was a Lutheran church, I think. No, the Lutheran church was on the first floor and this one was on the second floor. Two different sects, one building.

The crowd upstairs was young and in a good mood. My friend seemed to know everybody. He also lent me his glasses, which I thought was a Christian thing to do.

The foreplay of the service begins: Debbie is deft on the electric keyboard, Igor plays a clean acoustic, and Sergei goes beserk on the bongos. It was the same arrangement that Guster uses, and to cement the comparison Igor, who did most of the singing, went about his work just like Guster’s lead-man, 
placing the microphone at normal height then distorting his entire body to physically sing up to it as though pleading with an imaginary god inside. I call it the foreplay because the songs that come at the beginning are all about getting you in the mood. It makes the sermon twice as convincing. Then they sing a whole lot more songs at the end and you walk out of the church like you're coming out of a dream phase, or a trance. I couldn't remember exactly what was said, just that it felt true––more elemental indeed than any experience I could have outside the trance.

The handsome graying man who handed out the––let’s call them programs––turned out to be the pastor. My friend leaned over and told me he speaks Russian, English, and Chinese fluently. What a sophisticated fellow! The service was conducted in Russian and English. He'd say a few words, then the tall, pale Scottish girl standing to his left would translate them. Every once in a while he'd correct her, which caused these petite, fluttering fits of embarrassment. The British have perfected embarrassment by the way, and I’m not just talking about Hugh Grant.

When the service was over I thanked my friend and left. I walked to the election center near my apartment––an elementary school. I went up to the door, then two puffed-up security guards came out to smoke cigarettes and I spooked. Russia’s already paranoid about spies and foreign meddling; best not to tempt fate. Putin loyalists ended up winning 89% of the seats in parliament. The other 11% went to the communists.

I took the metro to Finland Station. Figured I’d pay Lenin a visit. Finland Station is where he arrived in Russia from exile to put the revolution into high-gear. The locomotive he used is encased in glass; the man himself––his likeness, I mean––stands in an eponymous square situated between the station and the Neva, hand outstretched. Just once I’d like a different statue of him: Lenin pays his taxes, Lenin thinks the milk tastes funny, Lenin balances his sideburns.