Russia
No man drowns if he perseveres in praying to God, and he can swim. -Russian Proverb
Part One: Swim!
My first stop was the public swimming pool, located just outside the imposing walls of the Peter and Paul fortress, the site where Peter the Great founded his new capital 300 years ago. The sun glinted off the gold spire of the cathedral, the most majestic building inside the fortress. I tromped across the snow-covered grounds, where Peter himself was posing for photos in full regalia.
Nearby, a small crowd had gathered on the banks of the Neva River. Of course the river was frozen solid, except for a 12-square-meter pool formed by a large hole in the ice. The crowd was watching a gangly teenager as he stripped down to his shorts and plunged into the ice bath. He emerged from the frigid waters and stood proudly with his arms above his head in the sign for Victory. Here was the newest member of the local Walrus Cub, a group of hearty souls who exhort the health benefits of taking a daily dip. Many of the ice swimmers, known as morzhi, or walruses, have been paying regular visits to this spot for twenty years.
Thankfully, this frigid pool was not the one I was looking for. I pulled my fur-lined coat tighter around my shivering body, and continued on my way to the more conventional, eight-lane, 25-meter facility across the street. Entry into the swimming pool required a doctor’s written permission, which could be obtained from the pool’s resident MD after a physical examination. Having heard more than a few horror stories about germ-filled Russian medical facilities, I entered the doctor’s office with trepidation.
Behind the desk sat the platinum blonde, white-smocked doctor, busily filling out forms. "Ahem," I said, as I carefully cased the room for used syringes. "I'm here for a physical."
"I know," she replied, reaching for a blank form. "Name? Birthday?" She duly recorded my replies. The doctor glanced up briefly. "Sixty rubles," she announced, handing me a spravka, or permission slip.
"That's all?" I asked, relieved but puzzled. "Shouldn't I even take off my coat?"
"Why? Are you ill?" The money was quickly deposited in her smock.
"Not at all," I hastened to answer and retreated out the door.
One legacy of the Soviet period is that older women in frumpy uniforms are stationed in all public facilities to shush, scold and tell people nyet. The pool’s babushka was different only in that she sported a hot pink tracksuit to go with the standard-issue cold stare. She enforced a seemingly infinite and ever-changing list of rules.
One of the most important required everyone to take a soapy shower without a bathing suit before entering the pool. Bold signs emphasizing this rule were posted everywhere, and the point was evidently made. The shower room hosted a perpetual performance of splashing suds, flailing limbs, swinging breasts and bouncing buttocks.
The irony was that once you actually made it past all these rules and into the swimming pool, chaos reigned. Standard activities in the lanes included old folks practicing water aerobics; girls gathering mid-lane to gossip; and teenagers diving on your head. On a day that I finally had a lane to myself, the surly babushka in pink interrupted my workout by splashing a kickboard in my face. “Lane one is open,” she barked, pointing to a lane already full of two heavyset ladies and an elderly man.
I looked longingly at the other near-empty lanes. “Only lane one?”
"Only one!” she snarled, and turned to yell at somebody else. Russian service sector workers are notorious for their short tempers and rude remarks. I reflected, as I resumed my swim in the crowded lane, that the public pool is probably the one place where Pinky can exert such authority and others must comply. Such hostile behavior, I thought, is a weapon of the weak. Eventually, I figured out that the most effective response was not to cower in fear or to yell back. Rather, a smile and a nod are so unexpected, that the perpetrator can’t help but respond in kind. Which does not mean she stopped yelling at me. During my time at the Russian pool, I discovered a whole slew of activities that get you in trouble: wearing shoes in the locker room; entering the pool area without a bathing cap; swimming too fast near the lady with the broken foot; and so on.
After one workout, I was sitting on the edge of the pool when I saw Pinky headed my way. "Don't sit there, young lady," she reprimanded. I smiled weakly, clueless as to what I might be doing wrong. "Don't you want to have children some day? That cold concrete will make you infertile!" Perhaps not scientifically sound, but at least the rule had a reason - for once!
