Moscow Archives - Page 2 of 2 - 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.

Trage Dich für meine Newsletter ein, um keine neue Story zu verpassen.

Girl in metro

Hot Salsa Dance in the Metro

Riding the Moscow Metro is often torture – cramped, stuffy, and sometimes an assault on the senses. Especially when a long-legged blonde in a secretary outfit is standing right in front of you. The train rattles, the crowd pushes, and suddenly her derrière is exactly where it shouldn’t be. Between her satin skirt and my jeans, a dance unfolds that promises more than the rush hour allows. As she steps off the train, our eyes meet. Her gentle smile lingers as she vanishes into the crowd – leaving me, despite the heat and stench, with a satisfied grin.

Socks

The (Smelly) Sock

Andrey, the manager of one of Russia’s top design studios, would probably rather be a DJ, but that doesn’t pay for his new Mercedes or his bills. During our “Kitchen Sessions,” he’s usually focused at his mixer while we talk about business, parties, and politics. Things get tense when the aggressive neighbor shows up at the door in his underwear. Later, I find a gray, smelly sock under the table that looks oddly familiar. At home, I realize: it was my sock, likely stuck in my pant leg – now thrown out. An embarrassing moment that still brings a smile.

Krysha Mira Mornings

Mafia, Bodyguards, and Cocaine

After a night in Moscow’s nightlife, filled with cocktails, clubs, and a bartender in an SS uniform, I find myself in front of the mirror at 9 a.m. Club Krisha, famous for its selective door policy and mix of creatives and yuppies, offers everything – from exclusive themed nights to worn-out prostitutes living for luxury. Between talks about Russian values and bodyguards politely urging me to leave, one question remains: Who’s consuming whom – me consuming life or life consuming me?

Die Moskauer Vorstadt an einem regnerischen Abend. 2006

A Hooker in Moscow

Lena is 30, Korean, and works as a prostitute in Moscow. In an honest conversation, she shares her journey from North Korea to southern Russia and finally the capital—speaking about high rents, unstable jobs, and her conscious choice to become a “Bandit.” Between cafés, clients, real estate dreams, and the hope of a life in Spain, it becomes clear: Lena is no victim. She’s a sharp, reflective woman taking control of her life—facing all its risks, hopes, and contradictions head-on.

Moskau am Morgen Mai 2006. Zeit nach Hause zu fahren?

Franz, Paris, and High Heels

A boozy night in Moscow, a guy named Franz stuck outside his door for hours, and a narrator lost between mojitos, Paris Hilton, and garter belts: In his usual witty tone, Chris Helmbrecht reflects on clubbing, fantasies, and small disappointments in the bedroom. A story balancing self-irony and longing, set somewhere between Victory Day and Victoria’s Secret.