USA. Part II. Back in the USSR

December 30, 2007 — January 25, 2008

America is a class-centric society. While New York and San Francisco are big, cosmopolitan cities, the rest of the country lives according to its own clearly defined social rules. If, God forbid, a black person moves into a white suburb, the property values instantly plummet—and as any Hollywood movie will confirm, there are very few mixed-race couples.

You’re constantly aware of the conflict between blacks and whites. Black people often act like juvenile troublemakers who were given a “get out of jail free” card and let back out onto the streets. They feel like can do anything with impunity, while similar actions on the part of a white person would be considered an infringement on the rights of minorities. A black guy at a crosswalk suddenly notices that the guy behind the wheel (me) is white, abruptly slows his pace, and deliberately proceeds to cross the street as slowly as possible. Any American, once you get them talking, can provide dozens of such examples.

The cops and municipal employees aren’t disrespectful, but you sense that they’re just making a point of following the rules rather than being courteous. America is a true Soviet (in parts even totalitarian) society, but for some reason no one ever talks about this. Every government office has a portrait of Bush hanging on the wall. Every single one. I had to show my ID three times a day—at the hotel, at the gas station, whenever I paid for anything with a card. The US doesn’t require you to officially register with the authorities at every hotel or other temporary place of stay like Russia does. But if you get stopped by the cops, they always run your license and check your record. I had my car searched with a drug-sniffing dog here, and when I asked for permission to step aside and take a leak, the permission was granted along with a bonus flashlight pointed at my back (to make sure I didn’t try to run for it).

When you cross a state border, it sometimes feels like you’re crossing the border into another country. When you enter or leave Nevada, for example, they pull you over, search your car, and shine a flashlight in your face. They call this “plant protection and quarantine” (i.e. making sure I’m not transporting any cilantro out of the state), but it feels almost like the border checkpoint between Dagestan and Chechnya.

There is no liberty in America. This became obvious to me in 1990, when I found myself here for the first time. I had to endure it for an entire year: a year of Kafka-esque asininity at an ordinary public school. Every day at every school begins with the Pledge of Allegiance to the American flag. At 6:45 a.m., you have to stand up at your desk, place your hand over your heart, listen to the Pledge being broadcast over the school’s PA system, and repeat the words. If you want to use the bathroom during class, you have to get a pass. If you want to go to another part of the school building during class hours, your teacher has to write out the pass on a special slip of paper. And that’s just school.

This lovely lamppost isn’t holding up a streetlamp—it’s a surveillance camera. And the tacky holiday decorations adorning this lovely lamppost are the kind of municipal creativity I’d expect to see in some Russian city.

Sidewalk snow removal.

A waitress at an American diner. Everything about her appearance makes me feel like I’ve stepped into a Soviet cafeteria.

This is how they keep the floors clean at the diner: dump sawdust on them and sweep it up at the end of the day. The last time I saw something like this was in the Moscow metro in 1983. Then the metro got floor scrubber machines.

America has terrible sewage systems. It’s pretty normal for a stench to be coming up from the sewers (although, to be fair, you’ll frequently get a whiff of shit on the streets of Europe as well)—and New York is even proud of the fact that steam pours from its manholes. Sometimes the steam is so heavy that they have to set up special stacks to keep it away from cars and pedestrians.

Practically every building has steam coming out of it.

All the sidewalks and curbs in the country are made of poured concrete.

The grout lines between panels on building exteriors are approximately two centimeters wide. This is a very typical and rather unique feature of American construction.

American homes are all made out of plywood sheets with insulation stuffed between them. If a house like this catches on fire, the firemen don’t try to put it out—they hose down the buildings next to it.

People also write “wash me” on dirty cars here.

Americans have exceptionally bad taste and love granny-style décor. But the carpet patterns in public places are the worst of all. The floors in every building look like a swimming pool full of vomit.