Tomorrow (June 12) is Russia Day. I know this because my (Russian) cellphone company sent me a text message on the subject, which I hope they are not sneakily charging me for. Russia Day is not, for example, the day the first Russian Tsar was crowned, or the day Russia’s current territory was acquired. Russia Day is a celebration of Russia’s independence — from the Soviet Union. This is like every state except Rhode Island declaring their collective independence from the United States.

Russia completely wins in terms of holidays. Holidays that the U.S. should appropriate for my personal gain and/or comedic value:

• International Women’s Day
• Maslenitsa, or Pancake Week
• Defender of the Fatherland Day

It rained a few days ago:

Russia has no shortage of Orthodox cathedrals, but the Cathedral of Christ the Savior is particularly notable for its history.

The cathedral was built in the late 19th century to honor Christ the Saviour for saving Russia from Napoleon. (Father Frost received no credit.) In 1931, the atheist regime opted to destroy the cathedral in order to build a monument to socialism. Unfortunately, once WWII began there were fewer funds available to build giant statues of Lenin, so the building’s foundations were filled with water and transformed into a giant public swimming pool. After the fall of the Soviet Union, the cathedral was rebuilt — with donations from the public.

Russians have an odd relationship with their history. The transformation of cathedral to swimming pool is widely regarded as a travesty, and those that I’ve talked to seem proud that the building was restored. But the МГУ, the Moscow State University, still has stars and hammers and sickles decorating it.  There’s even a Communist fresco on the inside that hasn’t been replaced, the students tell me, because it’s too expensive.  The Russian Communist party still receives a significant chunk of the vote (13% in the 2003 elections).

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.

Had a huge culture shock today: my godfather’s family (who are kindly putting me up in Moscow) does not have a microwave.  My godfather, the same man who wears Dolce & Gabbana shorts around the house, whose ultra-contemporary apartment is located in one of Moscow’s nicest areas, has to use a saucepan to heat up leftovers.  The indignity!  When America elects a Mormon in 2008, we can at least cling to our Lean Cuisine.

World War II memorial and the Moscow Government Institute, in the distance: