Ostorozhnah! Dver zakryvatsyah.

Roughly, "Caution! The door is closing."

This is the one phrase I heard more than any other in Moscow. As I stood at the door of the metro train car, trying to look grim and arrogant enough to pass for Russian, I heard it over and over. A friendly, pleasant recorded voice, male on some trains and female on others, announced the closing of the doors prior to departure from each stantsiyah.

Navigating the Moscow metro is surprisingly easy if you know the Russian alphabet and can sound out the station names. It's also easy to just look at the map and count how many stations to your stop, but you still need to be able to read the names.

Although Alexey picked me up from the airport on arrival, he had to go to work the next day and I was on my own until evening. Before he left he gave me a set of keys and showed me how to lock and unlock the four heavy, fairly primitive doors we had to go through to get in and out of his Soviet-era flat. He also gave me a cell phone that had just one number programmed into it -- his. This turned out to be a lifesaver.

That morning I bravely headed down to the Annino station, just down the block from the flat. There is a tiny branch of the Bank of Moscow just outside the station, so I stopped at the ATM to pick up a few rubles. I requested 1000 rubles (about $40USD) but was chagrined to receive a single 1000 ruble note, which I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to use in the ticket machine. I popped into the wee, deserted office and waited patiently for someone to appear. Eventually a clerk did come out, and it didn't take long to establish that we were not going to be communicating verbally. I ended up getting a piece of paper and a pen and writing out " 1000 = 100, 100, 100, 100, 100 . . ." until the little light went on over her head and she disappeared with my note, reappearing a few minutes later with ten 100-ruble notes. I thanked her (the three things you absolutely must be able to say when in Russia, if you never learn another word: "Pazhalustah (please);" "spaseeba (thank you)'" and "yah ne punamayo (I don't understand).") and went happily on my way, flushed with pride at having successfully conducted my first piece of business with a genuine non-English speaking Moscovite.

My confidence quickly ebbed as I made my way down into the station, however. I had naively expected to find a typical American set-up, with automated ticket machines and wall and pocket maps of the metro system. But alas: There were no maps, anywhere, and to my horror there were no ticket machines. Rather, there was a bank of stern, middle-aged Russian women behind thick bullet-proof windows dispensing tickets by hand. I stood there, trying not to let my increasing anxiety and consternation show, thinking that as much as I hated to bother Alexey at work it would be really awesome if he could tell me what to do right now -- when I became aware of a funny feeling behind me, which turned out to be the cell phone vibrating in my backpack. I pulled it out, and lo -- it was Alexey, calling to see how I was managing. I explained my dilemma, and although what I really, really wanted to do was to push the phone under the window and let him tell the scary lady what I wanted, he insisted on giving me instructions. Give her 200 rubles, he said, and hold up 10 fingers. She'll understand you want a pass for 10 trips.

It was clear throughout my trip that I was succeeding with the mask of grim arrogance, because people kept speaking Russian to me in a way that suggested they expected me to understand them. The intimidating lady behind the window certainly did. At this point I was too shy to bring out my "yah ne punamayo" (although by the end of the week I was tossing it out with abandon, using it to extricate myself from every uncomfortable or bewildering situation), so I just shrugged my shoulders and looked stupid. She muttered to herself and shook her head as she shoved my pass and change under the window with disgust. I felt a little embarrassed but I had my pass, so what the hell.

(In my defense, on the language issue: No matter how badly they butcher a word or mangle a phrase, I can always deduce what my Russian friends are trying to say as they struggle for fluency in English. However -- they absolutely insist that if I utter one word in Russian that does not sound exactly as they expect it to, they will have absolutely no idea what I'm trying to say -- none, nope, not a word, not at all. Before I left for Moscow, Artem told me I shouldn't even bother trying to learn any Russian, as I would never be able to communicate with anyone anyway. Definitely not a confidence builder. Toward the end of the week, when I wanted to get a metro pass for five trips, I asked Alexey: "If I give her 100 rubles this time and say p'yot, will she understand what I want?" No, he said, she would certainly not understand. She might, however, understand if I said p'yat, but since I can't say that, I should just hold up five fingers. I looked at him in disbelief. The CDs I studied with clearly said p'yot, for one thing, and for another, how does this differ from when you guys say, for example, nature-all instead of natural? I understand that! How hard can it possibly be? But no.)

To be continued . . .