The Moscow air bites with a ferocity I hadn’t quite prepared for, a stark contrast to the colourful posters I’d seen back in London. I find myself amongst a slow-shuffling queue, hoping to secure a loaf or two. My rubles, acquired with some difficulty, feel alarmingly light in my pocket, and the snippets of conversation I overhear paint a grim picture of collectivisation and the hardships that have come to bear.
This breadline stretches longer than any I’ve ever seen, and the chill wind seems to amplify the anxiety etched on every face. The tales I heard of the Soviet Union’s progress seem a world away from the quiet desperation I observe here. Trying to recount my funds, alas, a kopek slipped from my numbed fingers, bouncing onto the frosted ground. I shuffled forward, lest I lose my place, hoping someone noticed the coin glinting in the snow.
Such are the trials of a traveller, I suppose. One learns to adapt, to persevere, and to appreciate the simple things – a warm fire, a full belly, and perhaps, just perhaps, a slightly shorter queue tomorrow. Still, I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything; it’s all part of the grand adventure, especially here in Moscow.
Categories: Travel, History, 1932
Tags: Moscow, USSR, Breadline, Depression, SovietLife
