I’ve always wanted to visit Moscow. I’ve heard a lot from grandparents raised in the walls of Soviet Union about the great cultural heritage that lies in the streets of the city. This summer I got to visit and pretend to be a cool Russian kid dressed up in Gosha Rubchinskiy.
I’m a sucker for nostalgia; I feed off of it. So walking around in a trench coat listening to mellow tunes while my hometown was burning from heat was a nice breather. I got to listen to my mom’s childhood stories about summers spent in the city with my grandparents. It’s a shame I didn’t get to experience it first-hand.
It’s hard to describe the city itself. You know how New York is overwhelmingly hectic? Well, Moscow is the opposite. It’s underwhelming… in a good way, if that makes any sense. It seems like the city is constantly mourning and everyone is always sad. It can be the dull weather or the Soviet influenced stone-cold architecture, but either way it’s weirdly comforting. It’s cold and it’s warm; it’s gigantic but you don’t feel lost; it’s a constructed contradiction just like myself and I like it a lot.