What Happened When I Returned To Moscow With A New Passport

Domodedovo Airport, Moscow, The Russian Federation— I got off my seat and dragged my weary body outside of the plane where I sat for almost five hours of peaceful flight from Dubai. I paced myself and walked straight to the long tube that led to the long queues that led to the immigration officers that will stamp my PILIPINAS passport that will give me access to enter this bolshoi nation, sometimes I fondly call this, Mother Russia.

Moscow that evening had a welcoming temperature of -3 centigrade and I thought that it was not so bad coming from a +27 centigrade back home in Manila. As I stood there acclimatizing myself with the weather, I realized that the temperature inside the airport was actually rather toasty, as always. I stared at the people's expressionless, perfectly contoured faces and I tried to mentally rehearse what to do next when my turn comes. First, I will remove my eyeglasses; second, I will approach the immigration officer forward and then give her a polite but expressionless dobre dien (good evening) to establish an impression that it was not my first time in Russia. I've been through this many times over the course of almost five years but I have not gotten used to this so-called expressionless Russian courtesy and hospitality. If you're a first-timer from sunny Southeast Asia, you'll be surprised that they won't smile back at you at all. But you have to take it with a teaspoonful of sugar. In their heart, they are sincere and kind once they warm up to you. I had to rehearse this thought in my mind over and over until it sank in. Because to be honest, the flat affect still terrifies me even if I always traveled with proper documentation. I should be fine.

As I stood there, I knew so well that getting through that glass partition was at the mercy of the prekrasnyy immigration officer waiting for me to hand in my passport. She examined it like a scientist observing a specimen under her magnifying glass. She mumbled something. My heart beat raced. What could go wrong? "Sorrry, nyet (no) Paruskiy, only English, pajalsta (please)?" She immediately reframed her words, "is this your first time here?" "No madam. I've been here many times already." I was tempted to add, 'we have an apartment here,' but I was quick to hold back another English word because one word could lead to more questioning. "Did you come here to work?" "Nyet, madam. I'm here for a vacation. My husband works here. If you want I can show you my old passport. Here, I have it with me. And I also have my return-ticket if you want to see it." I thought I tried to smile ear-to-ear at that point.

I was too familiar with this kind of feeling. I will be asked a few more questions to verify the legality of my trip here. Definitely. The immigration officer was just doing her job.  Maybe for my nose, my eyes, the color of my skin. I'm sure, most, if not all Filipino women go through the same feat with immigration in Europe. I have to stay relaxed and composed. She leafed through the pages of my old passport; she counted every single page forward, backward, repeat, perhaps looking for a ripped page; she mumbled yet again as she paused on one page, "ah, US tourist visa". That moment I wanted to say, "yes ma'am, never been used since I got it six years ago", but I kept it to myself. She never asked why I have it. She half-smiled and that look on her face gave me a sigh of relief. She then handed me my passport and proceeded with furnishing me with a migration card—a very important puny little slip of paper that I have to guard with my life if I don't want to get in trouble with the authorities during my stay here. Like my passport, I have to bring it with me anywhere I go and return it to the immigration officer upon my departure. I'm thankful that it is small enough to be inserted in my passport jacket.

The moment the immigration officer pushed the button to let me pass through the automatic swinging glass door, all of my fears dissipated. I can never get used to this. This is Moscow, the city I love next to Manila, but I have issues with the people's expressionless faces. As the escalator gradually descended to the arrival lobby, I started looking for a man with a full-head, jet black colored hair, wearing a collared polo shirt, and a pair of washed blue denim jeans. It wasn't hard for me to do that. I immediately saw my husband who's craning his neck looking for his 5-foot-tall wife in the sea of towering, white people. Our gaze met. What transpired earlier at the immigration was automatically thrown over to my short-term memory. Aaaaah, we're back in each other's arms again. We kissed, naturally, just like in the movies. Then he gave me a bunch of sweet-smelling, dark, velvety red roses which he purposely hid on his black backpack. And we lived happily ever after.

"There's no place like home" goes the famous saying. But where really is home? Manila? Moscow? Batangas? Mindoro—Calapan City or Puerto Galera? Sometimes, too much traveling messes up one's brain. But I don't mean it in a complaining way. For one thing, when you're traveling, you're body is subject to a speedy motion and if you're not a hard-shell, you will be scattered, leaving a bit of yourself along the way. That is why it is valuable for somebody like me to have the understanding that as a traveler, I am not a settler, I am a pilgrim. What C.S. Lewis said resonates this thought, "If I find myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world." I set this in stone: I was made for another world, traveling as a way of life come about only for a season. I'm just passing through. My real citizenship is in heaven, my final destination.

In a perfect world, my travel narrative would have been the same for the month of March or April or May. These months are the best season to travel because the snow has thawed, the ducks with their teal-colored wings waddled into the pond and zippered on the chilly water; the overcast skies moved out as upstaged by the cerulian blue skies; flowers are in bloom with their majestic colors; it's springtime. But real-life situations do occur regardless of the season. This COVID-19 pandemic. Lockdowns were enforced. People are on quarantine. It's not business as usual. My sweet reunion with my husband was put on hold. My little happiness bubble disappeared into thin air. Reality kicked in. I don't think that traveling will be the same even if lockdowns all over the world were lifted. It will take awhile before the dusts settle and until then, I would have to take it one day at a time.

What We've Seen On Our Trip To The Old Arbat Street and Kitai Gorod at the City Center

The Old Arbat Street is one of the oldest roads in Moscow dating back to the late 14th century. It is a cobblestone-covered pedestrian street that spans 1.25 kilometers and is famous for its lively showcase of street artists and its rows of souvenir shops and coffee shops and restaurants and theaters. We've been to the Old Arbat Street many times before during the summer of last year but there's always something to look forward to each time we visit here. For one is the diversity of people teeming this famous street. We have the red, the black, the yellow, the white, and of course, the brown race being represented here; everyone garbed in their most fashionable outfits making this bustling street their informal run-way; everyone here dressed well, in case I haven't mentioned it yet. It felt like walking down the streets of Paris or Rome! (Though we've never been to Western Europe before.)

Another reason we looked forward to going here is the opportunity to just walk in a leisurely manner, slow-walking if you please, and stop at every public installation that local Russian artists showcase here for free; the art exhibits, the magicians, the singers, the musicians, this is the place to be. Too bad we missed Steven Tyler when he visited here not long ago when he walked up to a street artist and did an impromptu "I Don't Wanna Miss A Thing" duet with him.  

When we arrived here a few weeks ago, it was the A Capella month for the street performers. Here's the link to my post which featured a video snippet of the performance of their Barbie counterparts. What do you think?

Now off we go to Kitai Gorod not too far-away from the Old Arbat Street and just beside Red Square at the City Center...but since we got tired of walking a good 10km HHWW (holding-hands-while-walking, just in case I wasn't clear about it), we decided to take a taxi and passed by the Moskva River. Can you see the Moskva River?😉

We were coming close to the Red Square but this post is not about it. And in case you're wandering? wondering😎 please do check this out!

The church bells at Kitai Gorod at 6pm...DIVINE...It felt like someone just got married here. 

The Russian chocolate Alyonka. Two things I know about this decadent chocolate bars: 

1. They're non-GMOs (genetically modified organisms) because GMOs are totally banned here (yey).
2. The wrapper that has the picture of a blue-eyed, cuddly-cute baby girl wearing a colorful traditional Russian scarf has been a subject of debate as to who it really was; some Russians claimed it was them when they were young when it was first manufactured in the 1960s, some claimed that it was the daughter of the first woman cosmonaut in space. Maybe it was me?

The Bolshoi Theater and across the street beside it is TSUM department store, a contender of GUM.

Bosco Fresh restaurant in GUM. Please click here to see more of GUM in case you're still "wandering"? Barbie Doll was seating next to us, a sight which is commonplace here.

We had bolshoi (Russian for "big") green olives from the land of Canaan!

Emporio Armani Caffe inside GUM. 

Our Ken (Barbie's male counterpart) baristas were dressed to kill in their Armani suits to the point of intimidating. Rico and I were only outfitted in our rather touristy casual and comfy strolling uniforms. 

But this? This happened. So, thank you, Kuya Ken for photo-bombing our last photo of the day which erased all the intimidation we first felt in your sosy coffee shop. Now, can we also put our tired feet up?