After spending a total of ten hours in Second Life, I turn off the computer. I won’t jump on the hype or bore anyone with yet another article about Second Life. Instead, I’d rather go out tonight with Alex and Ilka. Real life deserves to be celebrated. They’re new in Moscow, and I’m going to show them one of the best clubs in the city.
To start off, we sip a few cocktails at the trendy Suzy Wong Lounge while listening to the city’s best DJs. Later, they want to hit a club. So we head to Krisha. The name means “roof,” but it’s also a play on the Russian term “krisha,” which describes mafia or FSB protection deals. The club is located in an old factory building, and its rooftop boasts a massive terrace overlooking the Moskva River and Europe’s two tallest skyscrapers. The terrace is covered during the winter.
Krisha isn’t Moscow’s fanciest club, but it’s one of the coolest. As usual in Moscow, getting past the bouncer is tough; they curate a handpicked crowd of creatives, yuppies, and trendy clubbers. In the lounge, a Frenchman greets us. “Ah, you’re Germans… blah blah blah.” He’s wearing a designer suit and expensive-looking sunglasses. After some small talk, he says, “Excuse me, I just need to hit the bathroom to snort a line and pop an ecstasy pill.” Ilka looks slightly shocked. I just grin. That’s Moscow for you.
It’s only then that I notice our bartender is wearing an old SS uniform. The lounge staff are all in Nazi attire. It seems to be some kind of theme night. I feel like I’ve been transported 70 years into the past, to a Berlin bar, or maybe 20 years into the future, right after Zhirinovsky and his nationalists staged a shootout on Red Square, overthrew the government, and sent the oligarchs packing. One of the waitresses is also in uniform, resembling a Lufthansa flight attendant from a 1938 Ju-52. I picture her holding a whip, and although I’m not into S&M, I find the idea strangely sexy.
Around six, Alex and Ilka decide to call it a night. I should’ve gone with them, but as usual, I can’t get enough of the nightlife and stay. I’m at the rooftop bar chatting with the bartender, who moonlights here on weekends but is actually a tattoo artist. In front of us, two worn-out hookers are dancing. “What do you think of them?” he asks. I get it when someone turns to prostitution to get by or support their family. But it’s perverse that many of the girls here do it just to buy a pair of Dolce & Gabbana jeans the next day. When they do it to afford lip fillers or a nose job, it says a lot about Russia and its skewed consumerist values. Don’t you think? They probably all go to the same surgeon, because they all end up looking the same. Lips and noses must be on special offer today: come in pairs, and get the combo at half price.”
Hmm, there’s a girl dancing over there, and she’s wearing my sweater. I had left it on a couch earlier. I walk over and smile. “Hey, that’s mine.” She grins, dances up to me, and slides her hands under my T-shirt. At her table, two grim-looking bodyguards are sitting. “Are they with you?” I ask. “Yes, those are my bodyguards,” she says matter-of-factly, and we keep dancing. After a while, she hands me back my sweater.
I head to the bar for another Red Bull to stave off sleep. Then one of the bodyguards appears next to me. “You should head home now,” he says politely but firmly. For a moment, I want to argue, but then I check the time. It’s 9 a.m., and honestly, he’s right.
At home, I look at myself in the mirror. I’m a mess. Once again, I’ve celebrated life—and consumed it. Or has it consumed me? Maybe I should’ve just stuck to playing Second Life. At least that’s not as exhausting, and with the $150 I drank away last night, I could’ve bought loads of pointless stuff in SL.
