Moscow metro

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The third day in Moscow. It’s raining. I had visited Kremlin and wandered around the red square. Today I found no one interested in Tchaikovsky’s former villa in the suburb, where no public bus passes by. I gave up. I took the metro, but no target. I got off the train at some station randomly, to see the artifacts in the underground. However, I was not enthusiastic at it. I put more attention on the passengers, the strangers, and the subway itself.

It’s Russian style. All stations I stopped are similar, which are crude, heavy, and depressing. Functionalism obvious is the idea behind everything. The train comes, stops, waits passengers in and out, the whole process is like a set of assembly pipeline on working, and people are raw materials pour in. But the mosaic wall, the painting and resplendent pendent lamp reminded me its unique. And then I realized the total structure including these decorations is so special, to show something only belong to Russia.

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I saw many beggars since I arrived Russia. And I saw many passersby stopped and rummaged their pockets for some coins to them. I still couldn’t understand about the sympathy. I knew what it means, but I didn’t know what the essence is. Perhaps it’s just my personal problem. It’s always unbearable to me to stick hand for money. Especially almost every beggar I saw was able to exercise.

I was sitting in a train going somewhere. I was cruising Moscow by subway. In a underground station, came in a man in military uniform, on his wheelchair. He was a disability who lost his both legs. He was a little wan but his eyes still possessed kind of resolute spirit.

He pulled up in front, faced the whole passengers in car. He started to talk. He gave a tiny speech, and then he rolled the wheels to move forward. Some people looked at him in awe. They handed him a banknote as if they owed him. He only stretched his hand at this moment.

And the train stopped again, he left from rear gate.

I watched all of this with odd feeling.

In that men’s eyes, I couldn’t find humiliation, contrarily, It seemed kind of dignity in it. What was he saying? I had no idea. What spirit in his soul which I glimpsed through his puple was?

Was he begging money in the dim Moscow subway tunnel? Was he a beggar? I didn’t know. Maybe he had sacrificed for people. Maybe his past deserved the give. Maybe he just sold the charity. Maybe he was a fighter, and supposed to be support.

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