The search for azimuth and attainment of truth

Bored with my pretty little flowcharts I volunteered to officially observe, but de facto participate in a week of branch director training. Branch directors gathered from all over Russia for operations, finance and management workshops led by Jack, KBM’s traveling microfinance expert. Jack was a red-headed American, like Bill and Jake rugged by the region’s rugged terrain. Slightly older than the other two, Jack also had an affinity to the USSR through his Ukrainian ex-wife, which remained despite the gone wife, and now took him to all corners of the CIS from Russia to Azerbaijan. In all these different, yet somehow similar fraternal settings Jack ran packs of managers through interactive scenarios of corruption, bribery and other lousy office behaviors particular to our region. Jack kept us under key and lock in the curious Hotel Azimuth, aka the ex-National Hotel. Azimuth was the only hotel in Samara that offered free twenty-four hour WiFi access, which was its only high tech achievement in the past two decades. Otherwise, it retained the full blend of pompous grandeur of the Soviet era, derelict in half-hearted attempts at renovation.

Azimuth’s reception belittling its guests with its sky-high ceiling, under which all furniture and people looked like tiny dwarf toys. This vertically directed space felt so weird that I was sure a part of it got amputated in a jumbled renovation attempt. That amputated half was Azimuth’s restaurant, a matching scene of marigold walls and table-cloths. I inquired about training at the reception desk and was pointed to the elevator, which turned out quite a hazardous one as it loudly banged close on my arm to the warning of the man inside. It stopped on his floor and immediately descended back down, ignoring my vehement banging on my floor button. Occupied with the smarting arm, I gave up and took to the stairs, rubbing the bruise on the way like a wounded beast. The stairs turned out much safer and also fancier, with gilded wrought-iron flowers on the railings, and carpet rod rings on the steps that were once covered by a blinding red carpet. On the first landing the stairs opened onto a cloudy mirror in a decadent gilded frame, another pleasant surprise. I fancied old time Party members checking their medals, puffing out voluminous chests, and licking down a stray lock of hair in front of it before they floated down the red to orate to the proletariat.

Attempts to pry open the conference room where our training was to be held were in vain. The room was locked. Perhaps I wondered up the wrong floor? Fortunately, Askar appeared on the stairs as I was just about to start the trip back down, and assured me that we had the correct room number, adding that the room was locked at all times when Jack wasn’t there. We were early, and so perched on a window ledge nearby, waiting for Jack the keeper to creep up dangling his key ring. Jack arrived and we were let into a beautiful baroque room with elaborate ceiling borders, long narrow windows, white curtains, and ceiling holes once filled with chandeliers. A slender steel balcony opened onto Leningradskaya on the other end, where we took breaks to enjoy the prettiest and most renovated old street in Samara. A tiny residential air conditioning unit stuck out of one window, proving to be a superfluous accessory in training, as the hotel had no electricity, nor water. This was probably another renovation outcome as power and water were in abundance in the office and my apartment all the time. As usual, we cheerfully adjusted to these eccentricities and fanned ourselves with our modules.

The lack of electricity proved a blessing in disguise for me, as it rendered the window-less restaurant bathroom useless, and presented an excellent opportunity to check out the rooms. I asked one of the branch managers, Luda, if I could please use the bathroom in her room during a break, and off we went into Azimuth’s pitch black under-belly. We entered a dark musty hallway whose saving grace was a large open window at the end. Gusts of wind playfully blew out the white curtain, letting in sunlight which reflected off an old polished piano underneath. It must have entertained the Party elite in Azimuth’s glory days, who probably set their champagne and caviar on its polished top and strummed out some jazzy tunes to everyone’s laughter and forgetting. We turned into another pitch-black hallway and fumbled towards Luda’s room as other guests fumbled past us to their respective destinations. Eventually, we reached our azimuth, which was drenched in sunlight pouring in through its ceiling-high windows. The bathroom had a thick glass window of the type previously seen in Russian saunas. Room furnishings were austere: a low bed, small TV and a night-table, all of polished brown wood considered luxurious in Soviet times. Peeling floral wall-paper covered the walls, adding to the bright sunny feel of Soviet luxury, which gained a bohemian touch with the wear and tear of age.

One such amusing week later and were proud graduates, distinguished by training certificates. A parting celebration was in tow, which commenced with a tourist boat ride down the Volga. We hoarded a large wooden table on the lower deck and loaded it with beers and plastic packets of dried fish, a popular local beer snack. Samara’s historical landmarks passed by the greenish black shore, leading to the discovery of two other beaches in addition to our frequented one. Perhaps, its boast of the longest beach in Russia may have had some truth, although the title to the longest European beach was still a bit dubious. The beach strip ended in a somewhat surreal socialist realist concert square that paid tribute to scenes of Antiquity. A colossal concrete boat hulked over a colorful sea of bobbing heads. With its austere mast and looming concrete sail this Odysseus’ vessel had moored on the shores of Russia’s Circe, who used Vodka’s magical powers to enchant his sailors into swine-like revels.

Our little wooden ship turned back at the sight of this massive construction, and was soon washed back ashore at the boat terminal. We strolled down the river bank in search of our next libations amidst crowded cafes billowing out shashlyk smoke and a clashing cacophony of Tatar knife dances, soulful Russian ballads and mainstream pop. Overwhelmed by these smells, sounds and sights we escaped to an indoor club righteously named Truth of Life, something my grandmother would have found irresistible. Inside we were led up an elevated platform and inaugurated at the table of honor, which had its own personal stripper pole soon to be usurped from us by fearless round ladies. A vista of the entire club opened from our seat, a decadent velvet couch underneath a gilded Baroque mirror for the benefit of those with their backs to the clubbing scene, and perhaps for the stripper pole too. Soviet flags and slogans of Lenin’s wisdom graced the walls, while the portrait of “Dedushka” (grandpa) Lenin himself inaugurated the solitary air conditioner above us. Lenin calmly observed our gathering from his withering height.

Another homage to my grandmother was prominently displayed over the wooden dance stage in a red sign reading “Baba Luba = Horosho!” (Baba Luba = Good!). Common among Russian women, my grandmother’s name “Lubov” (Love) or “Luba,” evoked the open-hearted goodness of the Russian spirit. The word baba usually coined some round woman of a certain age and weight, with ginormous maternal breasts. As the core of life’s truth was plastered all over the club in testament to Baba Luba’s goodness, grandmother would have certainly been very proud of it. Our waiter courteously informed us that Baba Luba herself would soon give us some invaluable life lessons. In due time not one, but two Babas materialized on the dance floor. They were leggy girls with the usual weight of big Russian breasts and amazing posteriors not found on our beach. Clad all white short shorts, cropped jackets, and sandal stilettos, the Babas undulated their long flat bellies that were encircled by chunky brown belts at the hips. Zipped up to their necks, their jackets were a teasing sight, making us all wonder if they would be seductively unzipped during our lesson, but the Babas did not unzip their jackets or make use of our personal stripper pole. Instead they pranced around the stage, swaying posterior assets as the word Baba flashed on the backs of their jackets. A short, fat real baba rolled out between the two frauds like the folk Russian roll “kolobok,” and to everyone’s astonishment jumped into a gymnastics routine of splits and cartwheels. When she turned around, her white shirt flashed Luba on the back. Luba became center-stage as the babas surrounded her and used her strong frame for more stunts, adding to the humor of their dance.

Everyone was mesmerized by the impressionable babas, and Jake and I agreed Samara was much more promising for single guys than girls, being filled with many beautiful women and even many more ugly men. Out of the blue, Jake solemnly asked whether I was a lesbian, to which I responded with pity that, unfortunately for myself here in Samara, I was not. Only in America was aesthetic enjoyment confused with sexual interest, and Jake’s clueless question reminded me of an amusing New York date where my open voyeurism of other women was gravely diagnosed as a “Barnard” condition. This later served as great laughing occasion with girlfriends, as would soon be Jake’s forward question.

Just like the Americans, our Russian party also needed to loosen up with alcohol prior to dancing, the men especially and I had to wait for them to down a certain number of bottles of vodka before anyone set foot on the stage. While self-conscious Jake, Askar and I danced in jest, making up comical steps, our tiny soulful dancer was Luda, who kicked off her shoes and feverishly drummed her heels against the stage, eyes sparkling behind a mess of bleached blond hair all over her face, and a self-indulgent smile playing on her lips. Luda was the spark that finally ignited the hesitant folk. The music to which everyone was grooving blasted the same rap, pop and house tunes as in New York – different people shaking to the exact same rhythms in a clubization of the world. Russian pop ballads occasionally interrupted the Western flow, their flowing rhythm and smooth vocals presenting quite a challenge to my house and hip-hop used ear. The soulful songs were perfect for singing in a loud drunken chorus though, and, guessing the lyrics along the way, I cheerfully wailed with my compatriots on the very top of my lungs. When the DJ played slow Russian music some of our directors waltzed around in couples, which was apparently acceptable among them. Unused to such chivalrous traditions, I declined invitations, citing my slow dancing skills as much worse than my already suffering Russian dancing skills.

Our clubbing night ended uneventfully without brawls or drunken accidents aside from that of my brother trying to “grind some chicks.” His curious high school groove outraged the much older girls he tried to court hip-hop style, and after receiving an earful from them, my brother eagerly abandoned these techniques. With all his teenage awkwardness and fragility my little brother looked every bit a child next to these towering women. The girls laughed him off thinking that he was much younger than his eighteen years of age, and the truth of life came to end to solemn beats of smooth Russian rap.