Collecting myself after a weekend of excesses, Part 3 (Discotheque), July 15, 2006

Originally, a selection of us study abroaders planned to scope out the swanky disco club “Talisman” last Saturday. And so, at 9:30 PM, we regrouped from our disparate parts of the city in front of the The Old Rus Mall—under which, Talisman lived.

It was a coldish night. Us guys, dressed in long pants and long-sleeve shirts, faired better outside than the girls in their skirts. I invited Katya to join us; and she sauntered over a little before 10:00 wearing a summer dress and looking appropriately cold. Yet, she gave her jacket to Lori, whose bones seemed far more chilled.

One of our study abroad group’s shortcomings thus far has been coordinating meetups not prearranged by our directors. And this night was no exception, as we failed to find Caitlin and/or she failed to find us following a generous cell phone call to her afforded by Katya.

After pushing back our start time to nearly 10:30, we decided to shove off minus the third expected female in our entourage—a total of seven. The reason we “shoved off” at that moment, rather than turning around and descending into Talisman’s bowels, is due to two major factors.. First was Katya’s cautionary description of Talisman’s clientele, which usually comprises overweight, well-to-do, forty-something Russian men, who come for the eye candy actually using the dance floor. It sounded very similar to the rumors I had heard about Pulse dance club in Rochester, which features a rotating dance floor—effectively creating a lazy susan viewing gallery for uncoordinated voyeurs sitting on the sidelines.

The second reason for not giving our patronage to Talisman was even more prohibitory—namely, the club’s insistence on not opening until midnight. Thus, together, our poorly-prepared team set off for a different discotheque suggested by Katya: Night Ocean.

With a little apprehension we entered the club and paid our 100 ruble (about 4 bucks) cover charge. While I was having my body felt up and scanned for mischievous metal objects, I took notice of the other Ocean patrons already inside and standing around the foyer, near the bathrooms. They looked, on average, about 16-17 years old. Lori, in her late 20s, seemed practically ancient here; however, she still at least looked younger than my six foot four, bearded 22.

Fortunately, with some alcohol and thumping bass the ranks could be equalized and soon our odd coterie became a spectacle for other reasons.

Our first stop inside was the downstairs bar where a few the team purchased translucent cans of fruit-flavored malt liquor. I tried a sip and was reminded of the headache-inducing swill from Boone’s Farm back home. On the second floor was the main dance floor and main bar with a decent selection of beers, priced slightly higher than at the street kiosks.

A few of us had downed a beer our two waiting for the group to assemble; and so a few of us decided to approach the dance floor. Brad, with zero discotheque experience and zero reservations, strode onto the slick floor first and began finding the rhythm. Within a few moments, the girls and I joined him.

At this point, the dance floor was not well populated. We tested out our limbs and each tried some moves that our minds and bodies decided were worth trying.

After a sweaty first half hour or so, I retreated to the bar and ordered a Czech beer (Kozel) and a bottle of water. Brad and I went to the balcony seeking cooler air and some respite. What we found was all of the 16-17 year olds nice enough to smoke outside. Our clothes were quickly polluted by the black air billowing form the harsh Russian cigarettes.

Wanting to get back to the night’s main activity, I gulped down my beer and reentered the growing mass of moving forms.

Though I failed to get appropriately or motivationally drunk, I still found myself easily intoxicated by the pumping bass and relaxing realization that it didn’t matter what anyone—except perhaps the police turned bouncers, thought about my scrawny frame cutting the rug around them. The police were even less intimidating than usual, as I looked into their young faces that couldn’t possibly be more than a year or two older than me, if at all.

I think my favorite moment out of our four hours of swimming in the Night Ocean came during one of my trips to the balcony for more ash-laden air. A girl, who seemed to be trying to get a rise out of passersby, looked into my eyes and wiggled her fingers magically across her face in a kind of 70s disco challenge. Accepting the proposal, I mirrored her finger wiggling taunt. What unfolded thereafter only Brad can truly attest to, witnessing the showdown from only a few paces away. Next to the first row of tables off the dance floor, she and I threw down dance moves and match one another’s flailing limbs for a good minute or two. Eventually, we turned away from one another’s determined stares, though not before ridiculousness had been reached.

Now while my performance in the back was spectacle enough, it was really nothing compared to the unbridled whirlwind that was Michael’s body on the dance floor. He was one of the least sober of our entourage. His style of dancing was like a postmodern experiment, mixing moves from the past 50+ years of popular dance in an almost unintelligible series. His addition to our corner of the dance floor secured the numerous snickers and pointing we were already receiving from the Russian boys and girls around us. But I think of the best features of our study abroad group is our acceptance of all the varied personalities and idiosyncrasies bound together by our shared inability to BE Russian.

Our solidarity stood opposite of what is often typical for America: the boys tend to get dragged to the dance club by their girlfriends—the real dancers. The boys then break out the alcohol and cigarettes and wait for a slow song. To help this situation, there are multiple mirrors set up around the dance floor, in front of which the “partnerless” girls can study their bodies and test their abs and asses on the imported hip hop and native electronic pop music—which, for the record, is some of the worst techno I have ever heard, yet it gets blasted on 9 out of 10 radio channels all day long in Russia.

Despite the music, I ended up sweating as much as the girls in front of the mirrors did. My nicest outfit was saturated in smoke and salty water by the end of the evening. We decided to leave around 3 or 3:30 AM. Katya said she usually stays until closing at 6:00 or 7:00 in the morning—the advantage, peripheral to all the fantabulous dancing, is that the buses start running again by then.

We asked about re-entry but were told by one of the guys my age in a blue uniform, that we would have to wait until 4:00 AM. So, collecting ourselves off the curb (where we were not allowed to crash according to the same blue suited gentleman) we made for the line of taxis. Since five of us were all going to the same area, we decided to split a cab. Some of us were more alert than others, but our senses were soon tweaked as we, literally, piled on top of one another in the backseat of the small Russian Lada, stupidly having decided to put the skinniest person with the best Russian up front with the driver—Lori. Overlapping each other, we formed seatbelts out of misplaced limbs. Since Russian cars have no seat belts whatsoever, it really couldn’t have been worse.

Before our taxi left, I said goodbye to Katya and finalized our plans to meet later that Sunday morning to head to her aunt’s dacha, which I was extremely eager to see because of its banya (Russian steam bath).

I fell asleep sometime during the four o’clock hour and woke up at 10:00 AM to prepare to leave. Wondering what the Russian banya experience would be like, I packed up my backpack (roukzak) and walked down to Prospekt Mira to pick up bus 20 heading downtown.

To be continued…