Red Square was closed to the public. The stark granite mausoleum holding Lenin's remains was covered by scaffolding and surrounded by rows of blue chairs. A gang of workmen were putting the final touches on a stage that ran the length of the old GUM department store. At the far end of the square, a team from a local advertising agency hoisted up banners promoting the latest Nokia mobile phone on poles in front of St Basil's Cathedral.
I asked a bored military officer manning one of the barricades when the square would be open again and he shrugged. "Maybe after the Victory Day Parade," he said. "Maybe not."
The soldier's surly response made me smile. With news that both Ritz Carlton, where basic rooms start at US$1,000 a night, and Mamaison were about to bring their particular brand of five-star sophistication to the city, I had come to Moscow to see how much of the Soviet spirit remained. In a city now obsessed with sushi, designer handbags and partying with Ukrainian models, the soldier's brusque reply was redolent with the images I had in my head of babushkas in head scarves, gray apartment blocks and old men clutching vodka bottles.
The mood was lost when a camp choreographer breezed on to the stage and led a group of children through a practice run of a very bad rap routine. The Victory Day parade used to be an annual display of Soviet muscle, the chance to show off the latest bit of nuclear weaponry to the nervous West. Now, it seemed, it was a surreal version of Russia's Got Talent.
At least getting a Russian visa had been a Kafka-esque ordeal. A quick call to the embassy in London revealed that I needed a letter of invitation, hotel vouchers and a ticket stub from a Chelsea home game. I made a half-hearted attempt to organize it myself before getting a company called Russia Direct to do it all for me. They are based in Edinburgh, bizarrely, and for US$181 I got a visa, a mysterious letter in Cyrillic and a list of contact numbers in Moscow should I need to speak to anyone. I was joking about the Chelsea ticket, but if it ever becomes a requirement I'm sure these guys would happily sit through a goal-less draw at Stamford Bridge to get it for you.
Blast from the past
With the visa sorted, my next task was to find an old Soviet-style hotel on the Internet. I wanted something boxy and dour, set over at least 12 floors with a babushka looking after each one. In a perfect world, my babushka would chain-smoke, neglect her cleaning duties and sell the toilet paper to Georgian gangsters. Unfortunately, most of these establishments have now been turned into business hotels and charge upwards of US$400 a night.
Not so the Hotel Asia. It was set in a 15-story tower block opposite the metro station on Ryazansky Prospekt and boasted a hunting-style pub and a Ukrainian folk restaurant within easy walking distance. Its Web site offered the choice between renovated and unrenovated rooms. I chose the unrenovated option and got a time capsule of Soviet hospitality circa 1973. There was a rug on the floor, a divan as my bed, peeling wallpaper and a metal tray with two cut-glass tumblers. My floor had its own babushka too, but she let the side down badly by greeting me each morning with a cheery "Zdrasvooytyeh!" (hello) and changing the sheets on my bed daily.
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