[From a meteorological standpoint, my arrival in Moscow last Friday came at just the right time. I managed to escape entirely an unusual spring heat-wave during which temperatures soared into the mid and upper 80s. Since then, the weather has been nothing short of marvelous (highs in the low to mid-70s, sunny, light breeze). After enjoying a long weekend catching up with old friends, I spent the better part of my first week re-orienting myself and setting up a schedule to begin work in archives and libraries. I’ve only now had a chance to complete my first post from Russia. As with future posts to come, this one has been tagged with the descriptor “Moscow Dispatches.”]

As most researchers who have spent time here would probably acknowledge, conducting archival work in Moscow is not a particularly simple task. Once you’ve done it a couple of times, it becomes easier (of course), but even experienced folk encounter routine Pains In The Ass (PITAs) that just can’t be avoided. Some are major, some are minor. The minor ones you shrug off as the quaint products of a different cultural milieu. The major ones, though, can drive you absolutely nuts. Since you can’t change them, the best thing to do is just embrace the suck.

Arguably the single most frustrating PITA one encounters while living and working in Russia is dealing with the bureaucracy. Russian bureaucracy is immense, it is impenetrable, and it is often malevolent. Like street mimes and hippies, it is best avoided.

The problem is, you can’t avoid it. It’s everywhere.

One of the by-products of Russia’s bloated bureaucratic organs is the centrality of official papers (бумаги) to one’s daily routine. It is impossible to function in this country without “papers.” Papers come in different shapes and sizes. [The most vital one is the passport.] There is nothing important that you can do without papers. You can (and at some point you will) be randomly stopped on the street by a cop and asked to produce your papers. If they are in order, move along. If you’re missing a requisite stamp or, God forbid, you don’t have them on you, you are at the mercy of the officer. He can send you to jail. (Although you’re more likely to simply pay a “fine.”) [Note: the present going rate appears to be approx. 500 rubles or $20]. Losing one’s papers or having them stolen (as happened to the wife of my best friend Aleksandr this past week) is a 10.0 magnitude PITA (on the base-10 “Sphincter Scale”).

Given the centrality of papers to everyday life in this country, Russians of all shapes and sizes are fixated by them. They understand that in Russian culture “papers” possess something akin to supernatural and miraculous powers. Like the bewitched charms or the Magic Keys employed by folkloric Heroes, papers can ward off danger or provide access to regions otherwise off-limits to ordinary mortals.

Researchers in Russia require special papers to gain entrance into the reading rooms of the archives in which they want to work. One special paper is the “archival pass” (пропуск). However, before obtaining the archival pass the researcher must produce two other special papers: the passport (of course) and the “credentialing letter” (or, данное письмо).

Although it’s probably best to obtain your passport from your government, you can make up your own credentialing letter(s). If you choose to do so, your goal should be to maximize the potential power of your “papers” by imparting to them a truly Magical Aura. It’s rather easy to do and it can be fun. Here are some guidelines:

The letter must state your name, position, and institutional affiliation. It should also indicate the topic of your research and your goal (i.e. dissertation, book, article, etc.). The letter should be written in Russian and should appear on official letterhead. It should also contain the names, titles, and signatures of two (or more) bosses from as high as possible in your institution’s bureaucratic feeding chain “authorizing” your request for archival access.

Dress-up your letter with a stamp of some type. The more fetching it appears, the better. This will help you when you invariably encounter a Russian susceptible to the charm of “papers.” I have found that round gold-colored stickers embossed with a logo can be highly effective. Add a couple of ribbons (color-coordinated with the letterhead, of course!) and you may just have made yourself a real Magic Key. I have received more than a few compliments on the striking quality of my credentialing papers. I am certain that in one case, several years back in a provincial archive, their magical appearance garnered me special treatment.

“Now wait a minute,” you say. “This is pure nonsense. Gold foil, colored ribbons, and embossed stamps are silly excesses. Russians don’t really give a damn about these things. And all this talk of folkloric charms and “Magic Keys” is just dumb. There’s no need to do any of this! It won’t make a difference!”

And, indeed, all of your objections would be right, if they were not, in fact, wrong.

I learned this (again) two days ago as I tried to exit the State Archive of the Russian Federation.

As procedure demands, I handed off my papers to the on-duty officer guarding the entry way. The officer glanced at my archival pass and then turned to my passport to verify that the names appearing on both sets of documents matched. As he opened the passport booklet, his eyes grew wide. Pulling the passport closer to his face he let out a gasp and exclaimed: “Это какая штука?” (“What’s this we have here?”)

“It’s a passport,” I dully replied.

“Wow! I’ve never seen one like it…”

Then, it dawned on me what I had just done…

I had unknowingly handed the guard a Magic Key!

[I must note here that my passport is brand new. I was forced to obtain it at the very last minute when the Russian embassy in Washington, DC initially refused to grant me a visa citing that my older (though still valid) passport was “too worn” to accept. As it turns out, new US passports contain a number of new security devices. The most obvious are multi-colored background illustrations which extend across both the left and right hand portions of each opened page.]

I stood alongside the officer as he intensely studied my papers, thumbing through the booklet several times. At first, he focused on the illustrations: landscapes of the desert Southwest, the forests of the Pacific Northwest, Hawaiian beaches, the Rocky Mountains, [“Красота. Да, очень красывый.” -- “That looks nice. Yeah, really nice.”]; historical scenes of nineteenth-century railroad engines, cattle trains, and Midwestern farmers, [“Вот такая штука.” -- “This really is something.”] and patriotic montages including such monuments as Mount Rushmore [“Это что какое?” -- “What’s that?”] and the Statue of Liberty. He expressed considerable disappointment when he discovered that the Russian visa affixed inside had covered up half of the two-page spread depicting the Liberty Bell. [“Жалько. Хотел бы посмотреть.” -- -“That’s too bad. I’d have like to have seen it.]

I hadn’t given it much thought before, but he was right. The passport images really are well done.

After several minutes of slowing paging through the booklet, soaking up the pictures, and asking questions, the guard began to study the papers intently, gently running his fingers over the pages. “Look, feel here,” he said, not letting go of my passport, but allowing me to touch it. “The paper’s slightly embossed.” [Sure enough, it is.]

Then, he really got down to business, seriously examining the thing by holding the booklet at different angles and at different distances from his face in an attempt to discern what other hidden secrets the Magic Key held in store.

“Oohhh, look, look! Here, along the edge…there’s a hidden stripe!”

[Another security element I hadn’t bothered to notice.]

“And, here…you have to look close. Each page has a different pattern of lines. See, how they change!”

[Hmm, they do indeed.]

Finally, as the inspection neared its end, the officer’s attention turned to the center of the page. There, to his delight he discovered what was (given the lighting) a very difficult to discern watermark.

“What’s this? In the middle? I think it’s an eagle…Yes, yes…it’s definitely and eagle. Look! Here’s his beak, here’s his wings, and talons!”

And with that, having subjected my passport to more than ten-minutes of intense scrutiny (during which time, much to his obvious annoyance, he was interrupted several times by Russian researchers needing to enter and exit the building), the guard finally handed the passport back to me with the parting compliment:

“You are lucky. You have very beautiful papers.”

ScP