#1
BBC
23 March 2002
In search of a Russian smile
By Stephen Dalziel
BBC Russian affairs analyst

It is a common misconception among occasional visitors to Russia that Russians are miserable people.

In Soviet times, Westerners could point with some justification to the often drab clothing of the average comrade.

True, the fashion houses of the West hadn't made a great impact in Moscow before Mikhail Gorbachev's policy of perestroika caused the first tears in the Iron Curtain in the late 1980s.

Nowadays, though, the attire of many Muscovites, and the exciting architecture of the Russian capital, give Moscow a vibrant appearance.

But the critical Western visitor still complains. "These people never smile!" is a complaint I've heard often over the years.

It happened again a few days ago, when I was at Moscow's Sheremetyevo-Two airport, waiting to fly back to London.

Miserable Moscovites

I was enjoying a quiet pre-flight beer - one of the biggest improvements in the post-Soviet era is the excellent quality of much Russian beer - when I got into conversation with an American businessman who had been on his first visit to Russia.

"Why are these people so miserable?" he asked me. I started to explain that in Russia a smile means more than it does in Britain or America.

I put to him the rhetorical question that when an American waiter flashes a gleaming smile and says that he hopes you, "have a nice day", does he really mean that, or does he actually mean, "leave a nice tip, please"?

At that point, our flight was called. We finished our drinks, and I commented to the barmaid that I was sorry that I didn't have time to try one of the other brews on offer.

"Next time!" she replied - and her whole face lit up with a lovely smile. My new American acquaintance was suitably impressed.

As we were boarding the plane, he asked me more about Russia. I started learning Russian over 30 years ago, and first went there in 1974.

He seemed genuinely keen to know more about the place. But as he was travelling in business class, and I was in economy, we parted, with an invitation from me that, should he wish, he could come back and join me for a chat during the four-hour long flight.

Looking out of the aircraft window, it is easy to see why, at this time of the year especially, the first - or, indeed, last - glimpse of Russia can fill the traveller with dread or relief, depending on whether he is arriving or leaving.

When the snow is on the ground in December, or the blossoms are on the trees in May, Russia has a certain unspoilt beauty.

Bleak winter months

But in early March, when the snow is beginning to melt, and the piles of it on the sides of the runway are covered in dirt, it does look drab and depressing.

I remember when, as a student, I spent the whole academic year, from September to July, in the Soviet Union.

Late February and early March was the most depressing time of the year.

You are fed up with the snow, the cold, the "having to wrap up well just to go to the shop and then taking it all off again as soon as you get in because indoors the central heating is so strong".

I had seen a good example of it on this trip. I was sitting in my nice warm BBC car outside a scruffy market in southern Moscow when it started to snow.

In a short while, the snow was gusting around the market stalls, causing the stall holders to clip tatty bits of plastic sheeting over their wares, and pull their heads even further into the collars of their coats.

From my comfortable vantage point, I tried to imagine the lot of the average stall holder.

You had grown up in a Soviet system where you may not have had a great deal of material goods, but you knew that your basic needs were catered for: you had a roof over your head; your parents had steady jobs; you had a good education; healthcare was free.

The collapse of that system - with its inherent restrictions on freedom - had opened up great opportunities for anyone with a bit of business sense.

The 'kiosk economy'

In the 1990s, thousands of Russians began to travel abroad, coming back laden with bags and boxes of goods of varying quality to sell.

But then you had to deal with racketeering - many owners of Russia's early "kiosk economy" slept in their kiosks to deter racketeers from burning them down.

A lot of these kiosks stayed open 24 hours a day as a form of protection. So you may have had your freedom to travel and to trade, but you paid a high price in terms of your time, patience and health.

And, on top of all this, you had the Russian winter to cope with - those seemingly endless short days and long nights of cold and snow. No wonder many Russians look miserable to the Western eye.

The plane landed at London's Heathrow Airport without a visit from the American I had met as we boarded.

As we went to collect our luggage, the reason became clear. He hailed me like a long lost friend, and eagerly introduced me to the person who had been sitting next to him on the flight - a beautiful Russian woman, with an amused smile playing around her lips.

I agreed with him that, had I had such a neighbour, I wouldn't have bothered going to chat to a BBC journalist either.

Anyway, the experience had taught him a valuable lesson. Suddenly he didn't think that the Russians were so miserable, after all.