Lessons From the Back Seat of Police Cars
Part 1 - Moscow
This is the first in a short series of episodes experienced over the years in different places around the world. Different countries, different reasons for sitting in the back seat of a police car and, fortunately, I was never arrested or jailed.
Before I begin, I express my gratitude to new subscribers and shoutout a couple of active, interesting accounts you may wish to follow.
writes The Real Story, a gold mine of tips and experiences for writers and aspiring writers. Together with his partner, , Brent writes Brent and Michael are Going Places, offering a glimpse into the lives of these two digital nomads as they live, work, and experience life around the world. writes the amazingly insightful and is the brains behind a wonderful series called where authors share stories of a book that has had a lifelong influence on them. The link goes to the post I wrote for the series. (Thanks again, Mikey!)Moscow, September 1993
The first time I was in Moscow, I visited a former colleague who had moved there to help open some of the first independent, internationally run, high-class restaurants in the city that was gradually opening up to the rest of the world. Perestroika and Glasnost were buzzwords, the Iron Curtain dividing Europe had been pulled aside and Moscow was no longer the capital of the Soviet Union, it was the capital of Russia.
Some things hadn’t changed yet. Tourists, even tourists who were in town to help their friends with a risk analysis of the emerging international independent restaurant market, stayed in old Intourist hotels. In my case, I was put up in the Hotel Ukraina. One of the so-called seven sisters skyscrapers built in Moscow. Inspired by a medieval tower in Seville, the hotel was massively impressive. From the outside.
Once you entered, it was a little less impressive. Lighting was poor and it felt like you were in a dark space illuminated by a faint yellow glow. No daylight seemed to make its way inside. The reception desk was long and dark. The receptionist took your passport and said you could collect it when you left. No room keys were handed out, you were simply given a wrinkled piece of pinkish cardboard with some Russian words and a number on it. The elevators had uniformed operators. They inspected your card and took you to your assigned floor. Like the receptionists, they didn’t smile. They didn’t even speak. When you reached your floor, there was a desk in the hall outside the elevator. An elderly lady sat behind the desk. People called her Babushka because she looked like a grandmother. You handed her the cardboard card, and she gave you a metal key attached to a heavy wooden holder upon which your room number was written. Before you could leave the floor, you had to give the key back to her. She returned the card that you would need to show the elevator operator to return to the room later.
Every evening, shortly after I returned to my room, the phone would ring. A gruff voice on the other end would ask: “You want Russian girl?” When I declined, they hung up, except for one night when upon hearing my NO, the voice said. “Boy?” I said NO and they hung up. Although different from what I was accustomed to in our hotels, the concept of service and upselling was alive and well in Moscow in 1993.
A few things I was told not to do by my friend during the week I spent there included:
“Don’t take a taxi. They will cheat and overcharge you, just stick your hand out and negotiate with whoever stops. The price from anywhere to anywhere is $3.00 US, don’t pay more than that.”
“Don’t eat in the hotel restaurant. They will cheat you and you might die of food poisoning.”
“Don’t drink in the hotel bar. They will cheat you and you might die if they poison your drink or lose everything if they set you up in a honey trap.”
I don’t know how valid his advice was or what the risks of not following his it were. Suffice it to say, I followed it.
One evening, as we were exiting one of his restaurants on the outskirts of the city, a group of drivers were gathered on the sidewalk. All of them were potential taxis, but my friend was afraid they would charge an astronomical rate (maybe as high as $7.00) because they knew we’d been to an expensive, foreign restaurant.
We started to walk down the poorly lit street with the intention of flagging a vehicle down when we were out of sight of the restaurant. A black Zil limousine pulled up alongside us and slowed to our walking pace. The driver rolled his window down.
“Police”, whispered my friend. “We’ll be getting a fine.”
“What for?” I asked.
“No idea”, he said. “Walking on the wrong side of the street. Not wearing a headlamp. Walking after 10 pm on a Tuesday. He’ll just make something up. Stay here. I’ll go pay him.”
When my friend got close to the car, a smiling bald head stuck out of the window and said:
“Taxi?”
He offered to drive us to our hotel at the going rate of $3:00 US. We sat in the back. It was not a Cadillac, but it had plenty of legroom and Persian rugs on the floor. As we neared the city centre, we noticed we were in the lane reserved for government officials’ vehicles. We also noticed the reflection of blue lights on the windows of the cars we were streaming past.
When we started laughing and pointing, the driver turned into a businessman.
“Blue light. 4 dollar!”
My friend made siren sounds and promised 5 dollars. The response was immediate. The siren came on and, when we arrived at the hotel, we sailed into the parking lot with lights and sirens blazing. As an added service, when we exited the vehicle, the driver played music through the loudspeakers in the front grill of the car. He jumped out, started dancing to the music and singing “Blue light, 4 dollar, Baa Boo 5 dollar!”
Security people, even the drivers taking care of government officials in Russia in 1993, understood that security, service and good business sense go hand in hand. They just had their own way of going about it.
Stay safe, Always Care
Disclaimer: This article is not travel advice and no matter which country you’re in, I don’t condone jumping into undercover police cars that offer taxi services.
Written with the clarity of hindsight, the accuracy of a faded memory, and countless creative liberties, 87 Stories is a journal of how my gap year lasted four decades, made me an emigrant, an immigrant and gave me a life I never dreamed of.
In addition to my love for writing, I’m an educator and a consultant with a passion for hotels, hospitality, and keeping people safe during their travels.
Thanks for being part of the Always Care Community. Your support is my motivation and I’m genuinely grateful that you’re here. Please share, subscribe, and connect with me.
Wheww what a ride! Brings back memories of Romania in the 90s too. There is an invisible common thread that runs through all Eastern European countries. Not sure what it is or how to define it, but it's a communist era flavor and attitudes towards life; a non-romantic je ne sais quoi. A bit chilling for me too.
Thanks for the shout out and that fascinating glimpse into Russia's past!