After being in Moscow for a couple of days, taking some classes, wandering around, and socializing with my new Russian friends in the dorms, I was starting to get a little restless. I've heard of the city's dangerous and expensive nightlife, but I refuse to let that prevent me from discovering that on my own. The two other Americans and I decided that once we were able to navigate the Russian Metro we were going to go out on our own for one night. Side note about the Russian Metro: Its beautiful. Think if Putin, Peter the Great, Stalin, and all the Czars got together to design a way for only the elites to travel underground and you'll start to get the idea. Marble covers the walls, six-feet high bronze statues of good communist workers rest in arched alcoves, all of which are well lit with the brightest, most opulent chandeliers. In history you'll learn that the Soviets spent 20% of their GDP per annum on the military. Well, I know exactly where the other 80% is, and its buried under Moscow. While their investment strategies were questionable, they did build some really pretty toys.
Anyway, back to the nightlife. Being a loyal Let's Goer, I consulted none other than the Moscow city guide online to see where to go. First club on the list was Propaganda, near a metro stop I knew well enough. The place was like every movie you've ever seen of a club in Eastern Europe. First of all, smoke filled the air (which my scorched eyes reminded me this morning) and only the most well dressed and good looking Russians were let in. In a city filled with white people, it was comforting to see some horrible horrible dancing skills, which made me in turn less fearful of making a fool of myself. The underground bunker-esque club blasted only the most computerized beats which were made easier to bear with the 90 ruble ($3) beers all night. Fading fast, the other American student and I decided to head back to our hotel around 4:30am and attempted to negotiate a taxi (which is actually just some dude with a car). At just over 6 feet and under 150 lbs, I'm not very handy in a fight, but my 6' 5" rower friend standing behind me gave me the courage to push in the negotations. It didn't help once we got lost. Eventually, we started talking with the driver—who was near our age—and he said to forget about the money. We exchanged numbers with the promise to hang out at a bar the next day for some happy-hour drinks and language practice. Not the threatening experience I thought, but I'm still crossing my fingers.