You all might be interested in this article I wrote about my times in Russia. It's also on my Web site (link in my signature).
A Charming Socialist Ruin
"Socialism proposes no adequate substitute for the motive of enlightened selfishness that today is at the basis of all human labor and effort, enterprise and new activity." - William Howard Taft
It isn't the vodka that can be purchased at any corner kiosk for 30 rubles ($1) per bottle. It's not the free flow of wine, liquor, and beer at every social occasion. It isn't even that one can drink openly on the street. It's personal relationships that make Russian life so intoxicating.
Russians are a friendly bunch - both the weather and their lives are harsh beyond the comprehension of most Americans. Russians cope by adding a degree of warmth and kindness to their personal relationships that is pleasant surprising. Most of them love Americans, and all that friendliness can be as inebriating as a shot of Absolut on an icy January evening. They want to drink with you and toast your health until you are decidedly unhealthy, add inches to your waistline with fatty food, regale you with antecdotes, have you over for 6 hour dinner parties and dancing, introduce you to their friends' daughters; if you're lucky, you'll stumble home by midnight. Russians cannot be beaten for sheer, unabashed hospitality; it almost makes an American wonder what is wrong with America. Americans are just so….busy and occupied, no time for friends. Why can't we Yanks loosen up? Russia is so much more fun.
I once thought that way; after all, Russia was college redux - a 3 year kegger, a drinker's paradise where beer is legally considered a soft drink, and a warm, pleasant break from the working world (I 'worked' in Russia, but didn't really work). It was so much fun I almost forgot about the obnoxious store clerks who resented having to work for payment, open manholes, decaying buildings, power surges, exploding light bulbs, ankle-shattering bus doors (no safety mechanisms, of course!), government offices open 3 hours per day, ruble crashes that devastate life savings in one day, butter lines, mind-numbingly incompetent government bureaucrats who won their cushy jobs through family connections, unheated buses in -25 degree temperatures, medieval medical care, hot water shut offs in the summer, astounding levels of public drunkenness - a stagnant, hopeless society sometimes breeds terrorists, but more often breeds alcoholism (many drunks resort to guzzling 5 ruble bottles of window cleaner to fuel their addiction), the hideous rape of the environment, doctors of medicine being paid in sausage, undrinkable water, trash strewn everywhere, lazy workers, aggressive document checks, not to mention about 5 million killed by famine. And so on. They are so nice and fun-loving, I thought to myself, so why aren't the roads graded so giant pools of water don't form in the middle of the road when the snow melts? Basically, what the hell happened to this place?
Socialism happened. The oil that greases the engine of Western civilization - incentive and reward - was removed by the Marxist, social engineering meddlers in the Politburo. The result was chaos, which I lived in the heart of from 1996-99. I came to realize that the Soviet system of government created one of the most dysfunctional societies ever devised, a veritable living laboratory of twisted, statist thinking. Nothing in the country functioned normally - phones and cars, for example, were always questionable and not to be relied upon (this is particularly grating for Westerners - you see modern conveniences like at home, but they don't work). Virtually no aspect of Russia escaped the ravages of this thoroughly rotted, stinking system that guarantees everyone equality - in poverty and misery.
For a perfect example of the warped nature of socialist engineering, look no further than the first-floor flat that I called home for three years in Perm, an industrial city of 2 million in the heart of Russia's Ural region. The building I lived in was a 10 story, Brezhnev-era prefabricated, red and white crumbling apartment block that resembled thousands of others that mar the beautiful pine tree-studded Russian steppe from Moscow to Vladivostock. Any buildings constructed during the Soviet era were government-built. They were all alike, and all shared the same poor quality and workmanship that negligibly paid workers with no incentives inevitably churn out, slowly, slowly, to perfection.
The poor workmanship of my building highlights one of the most unfortunate byproducts of socialism - a ravaged work ethic. With no possibility of reward, people do not work. Many Russians actually resent people who work hard and gain good things for themselves. I once knew a teacher who won a scholarship to the United States. When I learned of it, I naturally shared the good news with others. My teacher friend was horrified when he found out I had talked about it He urged me not to tell anyone else - a jealous coworker might attempt to sabotage his invitation to America. Socialism sowed the poisonous seed of jealousy in the heart of millions.
In my building, like most in Russia, everyone was assigned an apartment in which to live in the Soviet era, the size of the place depending upon how many were in one's immediate family. A healthy illegal industry sprouted for people who wanted to skirt the law and get a bigger apartment. Black markets and disrespect for the law are other unfortunate byproducts of socialism. If government encroaches on people's ability to exercise their free will, human nature finds ways around it.
Stepping inside the entrance door, around trash from the overflowing, stinking garbage chute (seldom emptied), to the cement floor corridor on the first floor, I frequently fumbled in the dark for my key. It was dark because the single naked light bulb in the corridor either burned out and wasn't replaced, or was stolen by thieves. The door to my flat was hollow particle board and the lock was a poor joke. An old lady on a bad day could have kicked it in. Eventually, like most Russians, I had a massive steel door installed at my expense. In a universally poor society, crime is rampant. One acquaintance who lives in a small, dying town north of Perm, couldn't have a telephone installed because thieves stole the phone lines and sold them on the black market.
Opening the steel door revealed my 500 square-foot flat, which contained a living room/bed room, kitchen, toilet and bathroom. On Russian standards, it was spacious for one person; I counted myself lucky to have a flat, any flat, to call my own. Many of my friends struggled to find places to live. Some lived in dorms, a lucky few could afford their own flats, but most still lived with their parents in their cramped flats. Apartments in major Russian cities cost thousands of dollars to purchase, and mortgages are virtually nonexistent. Cash only, please!
In the living room, the plaster was cracked, the blue wallpaper peeling, the wood floor badly worn and faded. Being a first floor apartment, the flooring lacked insulation underneath. Ice often formed on the floorboards in the dark, brutally cold heart of winter. The steam radiator on the wall was turned on by the city in November and turned off in May. The temperature? Hot. If I became warm, I threw open the double-paned windows. I often wondered about how many millions of dollars were wasted each winter by the city government in the highly inefficient process of providing this 'free' service. If I became cold, I fired up my German space heater, which heated my entire living room to T-shirt-and-shorts comfort levels. The single light bulb overhead had an unfortunate tendency to explode during the frequent power surges, showering my bed with flying glass.
Stepping across the chilly floorboards and into the kitchen, my tiny sink was in the left corner. There was no hot water during the summer months ('routine maintenance'), which made washing dishes interesting. The gas stove had a universal gas line that ran through the kitchen of every flat in my block. This meant that there was no way to shut off the gas to individual apartments in case of nonpayment. If there are no repercussions for not paying your gas bill (such as not being able to cook), will you pay the bill? Many Russians chose not to, being human beings governed by human nature. Thus, the gas provider (the state) routinely didn't receive the revenue it needs, and other services suffered. This goes on all over Russia.
The bathroom and toilet functioned fairly well, although no hot water in the summer made washing clothes in the tub more of a challenge. Once I had to have a leaking pipe repaired. After waiting about 3 weeks to get an appointment with the area's only plumber, he fixed it for a hefty fee. In their wake, they left broken plaster, an inch of water on the floor, boot tracks on my carpet, and not a word of apology. The same happened when I had my steel door installed and bars on the windows. The workers left a mess. In a country where free enterprise and competition is almost unheard of, services one pays for are generally done poorly and at high cost. In a free enterprise system, there is a choice: Do quality work or your customers will have someone else do it. This, of course, enhances the performance of most in that line of work. In a Russian town, there's one plumber, one guy to install doors and security bars, and you're lucky to get appointments with them. Quality is not their number one priority.
Through it all, Russia was fun, the booze was cheap and plentiful, and I made many dear friends. That said, the 'equality' of socialism wrecked the country, and it will take decades more for its troubled citizenry to leave that past behind. When I left Russia behind, I mourned the loss of my friends, but I celebrated being free of the wreckage of a failed political system in its death throes.
I returned to America - and a modern apartment - with a profoundly deeper appreciation for the principles on which our country was founded in 1776 - freedom, human rights, individual liberty, and free enterprise. I don't have as many friends here, true enough, and my social calendar isn't nearly as full, but I can live with that.
No amount of drinking buddies, parties, alcohol, social engineering or five-year plans can match the mighty engine of the unchained human spirit.
How unusual or difficult is getting a blaster's permit in the US?
