August 22, 2026 - Fucking Moskau

Julia

Three months after the move I move in with Julia near Mayakovskaya. Pink lace curtains, a gas cooker from the eighties – none of it matters, I think I’ve found the woman of my dreams. Then her birthday comes and I learn how Russian parties work: a restaurant for a thousand euros, presents worth two to three hundred. That evening I’m still thinking I want to marry her. The next morning she picks a fight over nothing. From then on it goes downhill – all the way to the sentence that says everything: in Russia a man pays for his woman.

Leaving the Island

Six months later Julia is standing at Tenerife airport – and I realise I don’t actually know this woman at all. One week of glass walls, sea views and terrace, then the tears come at the gate. Afterwards I stand alone at Medano beach and watch her plane go. New York or Moscow? When the landlord calls in September, I answer without thinking. At the beginning of October I leave the island at 30 degrees, with 180 kilos of excess baggage and a snowboard going down the belt.

At the Garage Club

Krysha, the Russian roof: do business here and you pay the mafia or the FSB. A night at the Garage Club between mafia daughters and Bolshoi ballerinas.

Victor and Victoria

Victor explains Moscow to me: if you want to do business, you come here – timber from the forest, diamonds from the Far East, it all runs through this city. Out in the country people earn 200 euros a month; here it’s one to three thousand. In the evening two women are at the door, fur coats off, high heels out of the handbag. Victor talks about his girlfriend as if she weren’t in the room – she doesn’t speak English, after all. Meanwhile I’m on the couch with a gynaecologist who earns 200 euros and does abortions on the side. And later, in the kitchen, I learn who’s underestimating whom.

The First Time

Five days in Moscow and I already want out. Nobody smiles, the managers serve arrogance with the coffee, and every interview ends the same way: without Russian we can’t use you. Victor sees it differently. Every evening he drags me through the best restaurants in town, closes the deal with girls in three minutes flat and introduces me as a professional surfer. Then he slips the bouncer a thousand roubles and walks me into the Shambala – private party, Bentleys on the pavement, nobody inside older than nineteen, free drinks paid for by daddy. And above us, a dance floor made of glass.

Arrival

Victor picks me up from the airport. “Welcome to Moscow, the city of sin,” he says. For two hours, we drive through bleak suburbs full of concrete blocks. The closer we get to the center, the nicer the buildings, the flashier the cars—Ladas alongside luxury vehicles with flashing lights. When we hit traffic, our driver veers onto the sidewalk. A woman with a stroller jumps aside. I’m shocked. Victor just shrugs: “Time is money.” Welcome to a world that plays by its own rules.

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Julia

Three months after the move I move in with Julia near Mayakovskaya. Pink lace curtains, a gas cooker from the eighties – none of it matters, I think I’ve found the woman of my dreams. Then her birthday comes and I learn how Russian parties work: a restaurant for a thousand euros, presents worth two to three hundred. That evening I’m still thinking I want to marry her. The next morning she picks a fight over nothing. From then on it goes downhill – all the way to the sentence that says everything: in Russia a man pays for his woman.

Leaving the Island

Six months later Julia is standing at Tenerife airport – and I realise I don’t actually know this woman at all. One week of glass walls, sea views and terrace, then the tears come at the gate. Afterwards I stand alone at Medano beach and watch her plane go. New York or Moscow? When the landlord calls in September, I answer without thinking. At the beginning of October I leave the island at 30 degrees, with 180 kilos of excess baggage and a snowboard going down the belt.

At the Garage Club

Krysha, the Russian roof: do business here and you pay the mafia or the FSB. A night at the Garage Club between mafia daughters and Bolshoi ballerinas.