Moscow is not just a city; it’s a masterclass in the art of survival, where the rules of conduct are as layered as a good cabbage casserole. There are the official truths bellowed from every corner: “Stand on the right side of the escalator!” There are the basics of human decency, like holding a door open. But then there is the real, unwritten code—one seared into the consciousness of every resident. You don’t learn it in school. You absorb it with your first gulp of air in a rush-hour metro car.
Act One: The No-Smiling Policy
In morning Moscow, smiling without a valid, documented reason is treated as a minor public disturbance. If you meet a neighbor in the elevator at 7 a.m., the highest form of politeness is a meditative contemplation of the wall. A cheerful “How’s your day going?” is tantamount to verbal assault, and showing genuine interest in their affairs is a blatant attempt to hack their personal data.
The proper dress code for your face is a mask of gentle, cosmic weariness. To the sacramental question, “How are you?” there is only one correct answer: “Normal.” Anyone who launches into a detailed account of their triumphs and tribulations is immediately branded the village idiot.
A Moscow smile is a hard currency, almost like the Swiss franc. It’s not handed out freely. It is reserved for your mother, your best friend, and perhaps the courier who brought you hot sushi at 1 a.m. And you dare say that isn’t kindness.
Act Two: Zen in the Underworld
The Moscow Metro is a place where the density of human bodies per square meter defies all known laws of physics. The key skill here is to act as if you are completely alone in the carriage. Staring at a fellow passenger for more than two seconds is either a declaration of war or a desperate act of flirtation. The true adept of the underground masters the art of staring into nothingness, into the metaphysical void beyond the window.
And yet, the entire car acts as a single organism. The train stops in a tunnel—a synchronized rolling of the eyes. The driver announces a delay—a collective, barely audible sigh of universal sorrow. Complaining out loud is a faux pas. Your face must silently communicate, “We are all in this together, and I am suffering right alongside you.”
An experienced passenger never asks, “Are you getting off?” Like a predator, they read the micro-vibrations and vectors of the moving crowd, calculating everyone’s trajectory and masterfully weaving into the flow. Underground, Muscovites awaken a collective consciousness that would make a beehive jealous.
Act Three: Don’t Break the Pace
The human stream flows through Moscow’s streets with the speed and purpose of salmon migrating upstream. If you dare to stop to admire the architecture, expect concerned glances wondering if you’re having a medical emergency. This torrent now includes delivery couriers on bicycles, flying as if they’re delivering not pizza, but a donor heart.
You are permitted to relax in only two places: in a traffic jam and on the right side of the escalator. The rest of the time, every minute is not a unit of time but a unit of stress. Here, a twenty-minute delay isn’t measured in digits on a clock, but in dead nerve cells and new gray hairs.
Paradoxically, pathological punctuality is viewed with suspicion. You arrived on time? You must be trying to make everyone else feel awkward. Being fifteen minutes late is the norm and requires no explanation. Half an hour, however, demands a dramatic story, preferably involving the entire city center being suddenly dug up again.
Act Four: The Office Rituals
The first step inside the office is not towards your desk, but towards the coffee machine. This is sacred. Only after the first life-saving sip can you finally exhale, “Good morning.” Eating lunch at your desk is an art form requiring immense tact. Your food must not smell, crunch, or in any way announce its existence. You’ll be politely told, “Bon appétit,” but you’ll read in their eyes, “For the love of God, just finish it.” The one exception is a homemade pie. A pie is an indulgence; it grants you immunity from all judgment for an entire day.
Leaving work at 6:00 p.m. sharp is an act of outrageous bravery. You must walk out with your head held high, pointedly ignoring the whispers behind you: “Look at him. I think he has that… what’s it called… work-life balance.”
Act Five: “Let’s Meet in the Center”
Organizing a get-together with friends in Moscow is a special operation requiring calendar synchronization worthy of Pentagon strategists. The meeting place is non-negotiable: the center. Suggesting a bar in a distant, inconvenient suburb like Biryulyovo is grounds for ending a friendship.
If, in response to your suggestion of a specific spot, someone says, “Oh, that’s on my way!”—know that you have received the highest compliment. They are lying. In Moscow, nothing is ever on anyone’s way. This is code for: “I value you so much that I am willing to sacrifice ninety minutes of my life to travel to see you.”
It is customary to begin a conversation with friends by complaining: “God, I’m so tired.” This is the social password. Once it’s been said, you are free to boast about your successes. And saying goodbye is a full-blown theatrical performance. Act One: “Well, I should probably get going.” Act Two (twenty minutes later): “No, seriously, I have to be up early.” The Finale (another fifteen minutes by the coat rack): lengthy hugs and solemn vows to meet again soon. In six months.
So, if you ever think a Muscovite is sullen and unfriendly, don’t rush to judgment. This isn’t armor; it’s an energy-saving mode. It’s an unspoken non-aggression pact, a silent agreement not to invade each other’s space, allowing everyone to preserve what little sanity they have left in this frenetic city.