I saw dead Lenin today! It was perhaps the most tourist-y thing I have done yet. None of the Russians I have spoken to have any interest whatsoever in witnessing Granddad Lenin’s waxy remains. I’m not sure why, although I think it might have to do with over-exposure: I remember my own lack of interest in visiting the National Archives, after being subjected to years of Civics and U.S. History.

The Mausoleum of Lenin is a dark, squat building in the Red Square, entirely out of place next to the confection of St. Basil’s Cathedral and the imposing Kremlin. I feel like I got the entire Soviet experience: a long line, bureaucratic idiocy, and Lenin. It took us about an hour to get in, which was not so bad, except for when a truck drove through and then started backing into the packed queue. Then the soldiers at the gate demanded that I check my camera. I ended up paying 60 rubles for the privilege of not taking pictures. I believe this sum was precisely calibrated by some bureacrat for maximum irritation without actually causing visitors to leave.

The Mausoleum itself is very dark, though there is enough light to glint off the rows of soldiers around every available corner. One of the soldiers helpfully indicated that we were to go left. He did this without changing expression or making eye contact. His gesture was unnecessary, however, since left was the only option anyway. I guess you make your own fun.

The authorities had done a good job with instilling awe in the Mausoleum’s visitors through a mixture of deadpan soldiers and dramatic lighting. Still, after encountering Lenin exclusively in history books or in ultra-flattering socialist realism, it was a shock to see him so life-sized. I was looking for something in his face that could explain the way people followed him, or the way the Marxist ideal got so warped, but I couldn’t see it.

I much prefer the Russian Orthodox tradition of the dead. Cemetaries are green and overgrown; flowers are commonplace. The day I flew in, I visited a Moscow cemetary where some of my relatives are buried. The trees were left to grow among the tombstones and the air is thick with cottonwood and dandelion fluff.