On a clear day, the approach is dominated by the mundane topography of podmoskv’e (the city’s suburban region): a few roads and railway tracks intersecting forests and fields, accompanied by clusters of small summer cottages (dachas) and some non-descript buildings that grow a bit denser as the plane nears the runway. Although the landscape has altered somewhat recently thanks to increased development near the airport, arriving into Moscow, I’ve always been keenly aware of how much the view is dominated by the countryside: flat, open, and seeming endless. From the air, the city is hard to discern. It’s almost as if it is in hiding, enveloped by prostranstvo – the vast space that encompasses the country’s near limitless hinterlands. In direct counterpoint to the sharp verticality of its politics, Moscow’s topography is decidedly horizontal.

I am always excited to find myself returning to Moscow. But from the standpoint of an aerial eye, the arrival has never made much of an impression.

That changed last week.

As my plane descended toward Sheremetevo last Friday morning I noticed something that I hadn’t seen before: Moscow now has a skyline. Or, to be more accurate, it has a skyline now visible from an airplane. And it’s modern one at that: a distinct cluster of steel and glass high-rises that emerge from the Eurasian plain to mark the location of the capital and its bustling business center. It’s certainly not much compared to New York, Tokyo, or Chicago, but it is definitely there.

The “cluster” is Moscow-City (Москва-Сити) — a gigantic $12 billion (and counting) development project first begun in 1995. It’s the latest in a long line of grand strategies to renovate Moscow. However, as I rode into town toward the apartment where I’m staying (located a brisk twenty-minute walk from Moscow-City itself) I noticed something else – there’s little activity at the construction site. From up close, Moscow-City has all the appearances of an abandoned development surrounded by sleeping boom cranes. Thanks to the onset of Russia’s worst economic crisis since 1998 – work on the architectural mega-project (like others elsewhere) has slowed to a crawl. Although spokesmen for the project pledge that construction will continue, the opening of some of Moscow-City’s partially built structures will be delayed until 2016 — four years behind schedule. The again, things could be worse.

It would seem that skyline that I saw through my airplane window was something of a mirage. At least for now.

Extending the length of the other side of long walkway, directly opposite the aircraft of the Great Patriotic War are more than one dozen craft representing the Sukhoi OKB.

Aircraft of the Sukhoi OKB

For whatever reason, the Sukhoi OKB collection is “book ended” by two aircraft that did not emerge from the design bureau’s drawing boards. However, as neither can possibly escape notice, both are worth mentioning.

The first of these (located on the immediate left as one enters the main gate) is a contraption so big and so ugly that only its inventor could love it. Constructed between 1965 and 1967 by the M. L. Milia OKB, the Mi-12 (NATO designation “Homer”) was a genuine hella copter. Designed to provide super-heavy airlift capacity to the Red Army, the Mi-12 was powered by two 6,500 h.p. gas turbine engines that were, in turn, used to rotate two massive (114 ft diameter!) propellers situated at the opposite ends of the copter’s “wings.” The result wasn’t pretty, but it did manage to fly. In fact, during test flights in 1969, an Mi-12 piloted by V. P. Koloshenko set a world record for helicopters by lifting just over 88,633 lbs. to an altitude of 7,381 ft. The model on display at the VVS Museum is one of only three Mi-12s ever built.

At the far opposite end of the Sukhoi row sits another of Soviet aviation’s qualified successes, the country’s supersonic passenger airplane, the Tu-144. Developed in response to America’s proposed (but never built) Boeing 2707 and the Anglo-French Concorde, the Tu-144 earned the distinction of becoming history’s first SST passenger plane when it took to the air on 31 December 1968 two months before the Concorde. Four and a half years later, the Tu-144 earned the distinction of becoming history’s first SST passenger plane to crash when one went down in a spectacularly public fashion during a demonstration flight at the 1973 Paris Air Show. A total of 17 Tu-144s were manufactured (including a prototype and two production test models). However, limited range, a series of technical problems, and a second deadly accident led to the airplane’s discontinued commercial use in 1978. By then, the 14 production aircraft had collectively managed a mere 102 passenger flights.

In between the Tu-144 and the mammoth Mi-12 are an array of airplanes properly belonging to the Sukhoi OKB.

Chief among these is the Su-35 that is parked near the entrance gate alongside the Mi-12. Designed in response to the development of the American F-15 Eagle and F-16 Fighting Falcon, the Su-35 was intended to give the USSR a lightweight multi-role fighter capable of matching the performance characteristics of US “fourth generation” aircraft. Unlike the F-15 and F-16 which represented significant departures from preceding planes such as the F-111 and F-4, the Su-35 was a highly modified outgrowth of an earlier Sukhoi model, the Su-27. (In fact, the plane was originally known as the Su-27M). Even then, the development of the Su-35 has taken considerably longer than might have been expected. The prototype of the plane only took to the air in 1988 (a full six years after F-15s and F-16s had decisively proven their combat worthiness in the hands of Israeli pilots over Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley.) Subsequent modifications (including the development of the Su-37) further delayed the plane’s production. A final production variant of the Su-35 is slated to debut at the MAKS-2007 Air Show later this summer.

Of less recent vintage, though no less significance, is the Su-25 that sits in front of the Tu-144 [see above]. A heavily armed and armored subsonic aircraft, the Su-25 is what the Russians call a “штурмовик” (shturmovik) an airplane designed to provide close air support to ground operations (a role fulfilled in the US armed forces by the famed A-10 Warthog). Ironically, as Soviet officials had effectively abandoned frontal aviation in favor of developing strategic weapons such as ICBMs and intercontinental bombers from the late 1940s onward, the Su-25 was the first shturmovik to emerge from a Soviet design bureau in nearly three decades when its prototype (the “T-8-1”) debuted in February 1975.

The aircraft first flew combat missions in April 1980 when two Su-25s were dispatched to assist in the USSR’s unfolding Afghan operations. The planes performed brilliantly. Soon, full squadrons of Su-25s began operating out of the Soviet airbases located at Bagram and Khandar. Although the eventual arrival of American Stinger shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles seriously undermined the ability of the VVS to conduct aerial operations, the Su-25 proved its worth. According to official figures, by the time Soviet armed forces withdrew from Afghanistan, Su-25s had flown more than 60,000 combat missions with only 23 aircraft lost.

As you reach the end of the line for the Sukhoi aircraft, the path turns to the right (or, clockwise) around the main “quad.” Immediately, to the right as you round the corner is a small group of aircraft from the Lavochkin OKB.

Aircraft of the Lavochkin OKB

First established in September 1938, the Lavochkin OKB was one of the USSR’s leading suppliers of fighter aircraft during the Great Patriotic War. This success may well have surprised those pilots who had been forced to fly the OKB’s first airplane, the LaGG-1. Introduced in March 1940, the underpowered, plodding, and highly erratic LaGG-1 represented all of the worst elements of the Soviet Union’s pre-war aviation industry. Efforts to improve the basic design of the LaGG-1 by lightening the airframe, adding fixed slats, and supercharging the engine led to the development of the LaGG-3 in July of the same year. The results were hardly satisfactory. Although the LaGG-3 was more maneuverable than its predecessor, the plane remained underpowered and was very poorly built. Soviet pilots came to joke that the acronym “LaGG” (derived from the design team Lavochkin, Gorbunov, Gudkov) in fact stood for “лакированный гарантированный гроб (“lakirovannyi garantirovannyi grob” or, “varnished guaranteed coffin”).

Fortunately for Soviet airmen, the LaGG-3 was not the end of the line for the Lavochkin OKB. The development of a more powerful radial engine produced the highly effective La-5. Introduced in late 1942, the La-5 proved to be an excellent dogfighter capable of matching the best German aircraft at low altitudes. Further refinements to the La-5 led to the introduction in the summer of 1944 of the La-7, arguably the USSR’s best fighter of the War. Several of the country’s leading aces (including Ivan Kozhedub, Nikolai Skomorokhov, and Kirill Evstigneev) flew La-5s and La-7s. On 15 February 1945 Kozhedub (the Allies’ highest ranking ace with 62 “kills” and three-time “Hero of the Soviet Union”) was flying an La-7 when he became the only Soviet pilot to shoot down a German Me 262 jet fighter.

By the time hostilities had ended in May 1945, the Lavochkin OKB had supplied more than 22,000 aircraft to the VVS (6,500 LaGG-3s, 10,000 La-5s, and 5,753 La-7s).

Following the death of its founder Semion Alekseevich Lavochkin in 1960, the OKB stopped producing aircraft. Since then a successor company bearing the Lavochkin name has worked on developing space-based technologies.

[ For the next installment in this series of posts, click here: 5]

Getting Down to Business: The Aircraft Collection

The Museum’s outdoor aircraft collection is divided into eight different sections. One of these is devoted to helicopters. Of the remaining seven, two consist of groups devoted to “Military-Transport Aircraft” and “Airplanes of the Great Patriotic War.” The rest are arranged in accordance with the experimental design bureaus (опытнyе конструкторскyе бюро, opytnye konstruktorskye burio, or OKBs) from which the planes originated.

As you enter the main gate to the outdoor collection, the first group of aircraft that you encounter (on your right) are those representing the Tupolev OKB.

Aircraft of the Tupolev OKB:

The Soviet Union’s premier airplane designer during the 1920s and 1930s, Andrei Nikolaevich Tupolev was responsible for many of the USSR’s earliest aviation successes. In addition to constructing the country’s first all-metal combat airplane (ANT-3), Tupolev lead the design and construction of such milestone aircraft as the ANT-20 “Maxim Gorky” and ANT-25 (the first airplane to make a trans-Polar crossing).

Arrested at the very height of his success in October 1937, Tupolev continued to design airplanes for the Soviet state while working as a virtual slave laborer in a “special design bureau” run by the NKVD (later, the KGB). Freed in 1941 following the German invasion, Tupolev subsequently played an instrumental role in the development of post-War Soviet military and civilian jet aircraft.

Two airplanes highlight the VVS Museum’s Tupolev OKB collection.

The first is a Tu-4 a Soviet copy of the American B-29 Superfortress. The Tu-4 was reverse-engineered on the basis of three B-29s forced down over the Soviet Far East in the summer and fall of 1944 following bombing runs over Japan. The plane’s inaugural flight took place on 3 July 1947. The existence of the Soviet Tu-4 gave American leaders pause at the outset of the Cold War as they recognized that among the world’s then-existing airplanes, only the B-29/Tu-4 was capable of delivering an atomic bomb. In reality, the Soviet version was considerably inferior to the American original. The Tu-4’s range was so limited that any effort to bomb the continental USA would have necessitated a one-way mission on the part of the plane’s crew. Even then, success was far from certain.¹

A second noteworthy plane is the Tu-16. The Tupolev OKB’s first jet bomber, the Tu-16 debuted on 27 April 1952. The aircraft entered serial production in December of that same year. By the time that production ended in 1963, 1,509 had been built. The Tu-16 proved to be a highly adaptable aircraft. During the four decades that followed its maiden flight, nearly fifty different modifications were made to the airplane. The most significant of these was the transformation of the military bomber into the USSR’s first jet passenger airplane, the Tu-104.

The majority of the aircraft in the VVS Museum’s outdoor collection are parked within and around a large rectangular walkway (or, “quad”) one “short” side of which runs more or less parallel with the row of planes from the Tupolev OKB. As you turn away from the Tupolev planes and look down the “long” path, you see a large group of aircraft situated in an “L” pattern along the “lower right-hand” corner of the central “quad.” These are Airplanes of the Great Patriotic War.

Airplanes of the Great Patriotic War:

Nazi Germany’s surprise launch of “Operation Barbarossa” on 22 June 1941 was marked by the near-complete destruction of the Soviet Air Force. In the first two weeks of combat alone, the USSR lost well-over 4,000 aircraft (as opposed to only 150 losses suffered by the Luftwaffe). The ability of the VVS to weather the storm of the initial German offensive, regroup, rebuild, and ultimately help repel the invading Nazi forces stands as the brightest chapter in the history of Russian aviation.

Not surprisingly, the Museum possesses a wide array of combat aircraft from the Great Patriotic War. Among these is one of the first fighter planes to emerge from the Mikoyan-Gurevich OKB, the MiG-3. Small, nimble, and fast, the airplane represented a major step forward in Soviet aviation design when it was unveiled in the spring of 1940. During early high-altitude test flights the “I-200” (as it was then officially known) was reported to have reached a top speed of 404 mph (651 km/hour) making it, according to Soviet officials, “the fastest fighter plane in existence.” However, in actual combat conditions at lower altitudes the MiG-3 did not match the performance of Germany’s frontline fighter, the Messerschmitt Me-109. Still, the airplane was one of the few bright spots for the VVS in the opening months of the war. 3,500 MiG-3s left Soviet factories before production was halted (in order to increase the output of other aircraft) in November 1941.

The Petliakov Pe-2 is one of the standouts in the Museum’s collection of World War II-era bomber aircraft. First tested in May 1939, the Pe-2 was the quintessential example of the Soviet emphasis on “frontal” bombing operations in the years immediately preceding WWII. The plane was designed to provide close air support and attack capabilities in conjunction with ground offensives. During the War, the Pe-2 served as the mainstay bomber of the VVS (just over 11,400 were produced). Modified versions of the plane played a role in aerial operations from the outbreak of hostilities in June 1941 until the fall of Berlin in May 1945.

The contributions of the Lend-Lease Program to the Soviet effort in the Great Patriotic War are implicitly acknowledged through the presence of several American aircraft in the Monino collection. Chief among these are a P-39 Airacobra and P-40 Warhawk. Considered obsolescent by the Allied Air Forces at the outbreak of World War II, these planes nevertheless provided valuable service on the Eastern Front flying ground attack and air interdiction missions. (Interestingly, three of the USSR’s top four aces recorded the majority of their kills while aboard P-39s.) The Museum also has a Lisunov Li-2. A license-built version of America’s justly famous Douglas C-47 (DC-3), the Li-2 comprised the bulk of Soviet air transport capacity during (and well after) the War.

In Part Four of this series, we’ll take a look at a huge helicopter, a super fast passenger jet, and airplanes from the Sukhoi OKB…

[ For the next installment in this series of posts, click here: 4]

1. For more on the Tu-4 see, Dictatorship of the Air, pp. 276-278.

Getting In:

According to the official website, the VVS Museum is open:

Monday, Tuesday, Thursday & Friday from 9:30 am until 5:00 pm with a 45 minute break from 1:30-2:15 [Currently, the Museum seems not to be observing the scheduled break on these days]

Saturday the Museum is open from 9:00 am until 2:00 pm

The Museum is closed on Wednesdays and Sundays.

Technically, foreign visitors are required to call ahead to notify the administration of their desire to visit. I did not. As a result, the woman sitting at the registration desk gave me a stern glance. She then called her superior. He subsequently allowed me in without any trouble.

Odds are you’ll get in without the phone call. Given the Museum’s desperate need for cash (more about that in a moment), they’d be foolish to turn away any visitors willing to pay the entrance fee. Still, if you want to do everything by the book, here’s the relevant contact information:

Telephone: 526-33-27
Fax: 747-39-28

I can’t vouch for the English-language fluency of the Museum staff. My guess is that you’ll probably need to know a bit of Russian in order to make the by-the-book arrangements. Alternatively, you can always get a real live Russian to do this for you. (They’re easy to find ‘round these parts). If you’re staying at a nice hotel the concierge would be the one to ask.

The entry fee for foreigners visiting on their own is currently 350 rubles (approx. $14). Children under 15 get in for 200 rubles. If you want to bring along a camera to take still photographs you must pay an additional 200 ruble fee (about $8). There’s yet another charge (250 rubles) for using a video camera.

After settling up at the cashier’s desk, you’ll receive a paper receipt. Exit the door you entered, go back through the gate, and turn right. Across the street you’ll see a big blue metal fence behind which are a bunch of Russian airplanes…

Getting Acquainted:

Under normal operating conditions, the Museum is divided into two separate sections.

The first is the Main Hall (where tickets are purchased). It houses the reception area, cashier, sundry administrative offices, and a seven-room display chronicling the of “History of Russian Aviation” to the present day.

The second section consists of the large aircraft collection parked in the big field across the street. There you will find on display six dozen plus airplanes (and a handful of helicopters) dating from the Great Patriotic War to the present. Two hangars located at the far side of the field opposite the entry gate contain respective displays devoted to “Unique Flying Machines” [Уникальные летательные аппараты] and “Training Aircraft, Sport Planes, and Parachuting” [Учебные и спортивные самолеты. Выставка парашютов].

Here’s a map of the Museum grounds:

In 2005, a fire destroyed most of the Museum’s Main Hall. Little has been done since then to remedy the situation. There appears to be no set schedule for beginning (let alone completing) the necessary repairs. In order to ensure that the remainder of the Museum continues to function, the “History of Russian Aviation” display has been closed to make room for the administrative offices.

Likewise, the hangar which houses the display of “Unique Flying Machines” is currently closed while major repairs are being made to the hangar’s roof. When I inquired as to the date by which the repairs are supposed to be completed and the display re-opened, I was told that, officially, everything will be finished by August of this year. When I asked for a date by which the display might realistically be expected to re-open, I received the expected reply: “Only God knows.” On the bright side, there was actual work being done on the hangar the day I visited.

The qualifier to all of this is that most of the textual information contained in these displays is/was in Russian. So it’s not as if non-Russian speakers are going to miss out on that much anyway. Later in this “Field Guide” I’ll give you a detailed summary of the displays’ contents (in English no less!) as they would normally appear. Next up, a first look at the Museum and its airplanes…

ScP

[ For the next installment in this series of posts, click here: 3]

Specifically, I am going to provide detailed information relating to the Russian Federation’s most important aviation museum: the Central Museum of the Military Air Forces (Центральный музей военно-воздушных сил or, transliterated, Tsentral’nyi muzei voenno-vozdushnykh sil). If you’re a Russian aviation enthusiast, odds are you already know that the VVS Museum is home to the world’s largest collection of Russian military aircraft and that it is, for all intent and purposes, the Russian Federation’s equivalent of the United States Air Force Museum located at the Wright-Patterson Airbase in Dayton, OH.

However, unless you read Russian you may not know much more than that. Accurate and detailed information regarding the Russian Air Force Museum, its history, contents, and operations is rather hard to come by for English-only speakers. The VVS Museum’s official web site contains quite a bit of useful material, but all of it is in Russian. Moreover, it is dated. (The website appears not to have been revised since it went on line in 2001.) In a similar fashion, the smattering of unofficial personal websites that turn up when one Googles “Monino Russian aviation museum” aren’t much more helpful. All contain pictures of planes. Few say much about the Museum itself. Nearly all are grossly out of date (some by more than a decade).

I took the day off from researching yesterday to travel to the VVS Museum. It is located in the Moscow suburb of Monino (about 25 miles due east of the capital). What follows in this and one (if not two) subsequent post(s) is an effort to provide non-Russian speakers with an idea of what it’s like to visit the Museum. The posts are part travelogue, part informational service, part commentary. My purpose is to put together an up-to-date “field guide” that will acquaint non-Russian speaking aviation enthusiasts with what is, by any measure, one of the world’s greatest collections of military aircraft.

If you are considering visiting the Russian Air Force Museum, I hope that what follows will help prepare you for your trip. If you do not have the opportunity to travel there, consider this a “virtual tour” of sorts.

Getting There:

Although there are a number of ways to reach the Museum, the most interesting is via the suburban train service (электричка, or “elek-TREECH-ka”) which departs from Yaroslavskii Station (Ярославский вокзал, “yaro-SLAV-skee vahk-ZAHL”) in the NE sector of the capital. Conveniently, Yaroslavskii Station is located on the Moscow Metro’s “Ring Line” at the Komsomolskaya stop (Комсомольская станция, “kom-sah-MOLE-sky-ya stAHN-see-ya”).

If you’re traveling “clockwise” along the Ring Line toward Komsomolskaya station, the exit will be to your left as you leave the train. If you’re traveling “counter-clockwise,” exit to your right. Alternatively, as you exit the Metro car into the station, you can make use of the illuminated signs (located above) that provide information on how to get out of the underground. You are looking for an arrow accompanied the following Cyrillic text:

Walk in the direction that the arrow points.

At the end of the hall you will find a short flight of stairs. Ascend the stairs. Continue walking through a broad tunnel until you reach the bottom of a set of escalators. Take the escalators up and leave the station.

As soon as you emerge from the bowels of the Metro to the fresh (ahem) air of Moscow, turn immediately to your right. There, you will see the entrance to Yaroslavskii Train Station. It looks like this:

Above the doors, you will find a number of signs. These indicate the time and track numbers of the suburban trains set to depart the station in the next thirty minutes or so. You want an “elektrichka” heading to Monino (Монино).

Enter the doors below the signs and walk into the ticketing office. To your right, built into the wall, you will see a series of glass booths occupied by middle-age women distinguished only by the various hues of their badly dyed-hair and their relative degrees of surliness. Find a woman-in-a-glass box marked “Пригородная касса” (“PrEE-guh-rode-nigh-ya kAH-sa”). [They're the ones numbered 20-28] After you have located one, get in line. You will wait a long time or a short time. Once you are first in line, approach the woman-in-the-glass box, hold up your index finger, and say, “МOE-nee-na ee a-BRAHT-na.”

She will glare at you and bark something in a hostile tone because you have just asked her, “How much for a good time?”

Just kidding.

You actually told her “To Monino and back.”

The current (June 2007) cost of a round-trip ticket from Moscow to Monino is 126 rubles. Place 200 rubles on the counter. Alternatively, if you want to be certain that you’ve covered the cost, just plop down the biggest Russian bill you have (500, 1,000, etc.) Be aware, however, that this will result in yet another guttural utterance from the woman-in-the-glass box (she is now demanding to know if you have smaller bills). Should this happen, shrug your shoulders, shake your head left and right, and look helpless. Inevitably, she will give you a wad of smaller bills (which, trust me, you want anyway) along with a white receipt that looks like this:

Hang on to this, it’s your ticket.

Immediately behind you (as you are facing the woman-in-the-glass box) is the exit that will lead you to your train. Once you have your ticket and change in hand, turn around. Walk forward and exit through the doors.

Before you, you will see a long row of doors/gates under a green roof. The doors lead to the platform area from which the suburban trains depart. They are accompanied by signs. The one you want will look something like this:

After entering the door, you will see a row of turnstiles. Insert the end of the ticket stub that looks like a UPC bar code print-side up into the slot at the front of the turnstile. The gate will open allowing you to pass into the platform area.

Do not lose your ticket. You will need it for the return trip. You may also need it to prove you paid your fare in the event that you encounter a conductor while en route.

[BTW, If you happen to miss the train that you had hoped to board, don’t worry. There’s another one coming along in a few minutes. Monino is a destination frequently served by the suburban train system and your ticket is good for any of the trains departing for Monino on the day of purchase.]

Find the appropriate track and board your train.

If you happen to be lucky (or if you’re thinking strategically) you’ll end up sitting across from a hot Russian dyev (they are everywhere). However, if you’re not so lucky, you’ll end up alongside a wandering schizophrenic (they are also everywhere) who reeks of stale onions and urine. You will ride a long time (in the latter case) or a short time (in the former). Whichever fate befalls you, the trip from Moscow to Monino takes approximately 1h 15m, so plan accordingly. Bring a book to read, a friend to talk to, or an iPod loaded up with your favorite airplane tunes.

During the train ride out to Monino persons of various ages, genders, and personal grooming habits will enter the coach you’re in and begin addressing the passengers. These people fall into four general categories. Each wants something:

1) Budding Russian “capitalists”: distinguished by the broad and eclectic quantity of cheap consumer products that they are trying to hawk (everything from ball point pens and notebooks to mosquito repellant, plastic bags, Russian romance novels, and panty hose.) Odds are very good they have nothing you need.

2) Beggars: among the varieties you may encounter are invalids, impoverished pensioners, disabled Afghan war veterans, young children, and gypsies of all ages (to name but a few)…

3) “Performers”: including senior citizens singing off-key Russian “classics;” young gypsy children armed with accordions; and Russian teenagers performing stand-up comedy, original “poetry,” and/or appalling bad rap songs. All of these people are, in fact, beggars in disguise.

4) Ice cream vendors: clearly identified by the large, insulated containers that they carry in their hands (or wear around their neck.)

Ignore everyone except the ice cream vendors.

Along with quality vodka, Baltika beer, and gob-smackingly beautiful women, ice cream is a Russian product that should be enjoyed at every opportunity. Alert the vendor of your intent to make a purchase. Hold up one or more fingers indicating the quantity you desire and pass him a 100 ruble note. [Note: A typical Russian-made стаканчик (“sta-KAHN-chik”) currently runs about 25 rubles ($1) when bought from a train or street vendor].

After the “elektrichka” arrives at the Monino platform, you still have to make your way to the Museum proper. (It’s a bit of a haul, but then again getting there on your own is half the fun.)

Exit the train. You will see a set of stairs descending into the area beneath the platform. Take the stairs downward. If, when you began your descent, you were facing the rear of the train on which you arrived, turn left at the bottom of the stairs. If you were facing the front of the train, turn right.

Follow the underground passage to the end. Turn right and ascend up the stairs. On your left hand side you will see a long building containing a series of small shops and kiosks [it’s the grey one visible in the picture to the left]. To your right you will now see the platform area from which trains leave the Monino station. Walk forward, parallel to the shops and kiosks on your left and the train platforms on your right.

When you reach the end of the building, you will come to a blue metal gate and vehicle check-point manned by military personnel.

Walk through the pedestrian passage to the left of the checkpoint and proceed forward, parallel with the road, along the tree-lined sidewalk immediately adjacent to the street.

After 15 minutes or so you will reach the main entrance of the Russian Military Air Academy [Военно-воздушная академия, Voenno-vozdushnaya akademiia].

Turn left. Continue walking alongside the brick and wrought-iron fence that surrounds the academy grounds until you have circled half-way around the academy and reached an entrance directly opposite the “Main Entrance” that you initially encountered.

Turn left at this second (“rear”) entrance and walk down the road (with the academy directly behind you). A dirt path will veer off to the right in front of a red and blue marker decorated with two airplanes:

Follow the path until you reach the large blue sign [“Музей ВВС”] marking the entrance to the Museum:

Continue on until you see (on the left) a sign which reads “Касса музея.” Turn left. Make another left at the gate marked “Касса.” The entrance to the museum is located in the small shanty immediately on your left after you have entered through the gate.

Congratulations, you made it!

Next up, the Museum and its grounds…

ScP

[ For the next installment in this series of posts, click here: 2]

As far as the current public debate on global warming is concerned, I am a devout agnostic.
Still, I couldn’t help but smile as I read through the Khrushchev-era piece. Here’s a full (if hastily composed) translation of the article:

“The Climate and Its Contemporary Changes”

Leningrad, 14 March 1964. TASS.

After five days of work in the Central Geophysical Observatory named for A. I. Voikov, a symposium on “Global Atmospheric Processes” has concluded. Participating in the symposium were leading climatologists, meteorologists, and aerologists from Moscow, Leningrad, Alma-Ata, Tashkent, Tblisi, Rostov-on-Don, and other cities of the USSR. A report from E. S. Rubenshtein (Doctor of Geography) on current climate change attracted much interest.

Currently, the main geophysical observatory is displaying maps which depict temperature changes in various regions around the globe. The maps utilize the results of analytical data compiled over the course of the last two centuries. They clearly reveal temperature changes beginning in the 1920s and 1930s of the current century.

It appears that the greatest level of warming has occurred in the Arctic. However climactic change has also been observed in the temperate latitudes and the tropics. Scientists had theorized that in the early 1940s the warming process had ended and cooling began. The most recent data, however, do not support this theory. It appears that while cooling may be taking place in some regions, warming is continuing in others.

While the majority of researchers believe that climate change is the result of variations in solar activity, a few link the warming of the climate to increased emissions of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere brought about by human activity such as the growth of industry.

The temperature changes have lead to a number of interesting developments. In regions of Eurasia located between the forest-tundra to the far north, for example, climate changes over the last forty to fifty years have resulted in the migration of no fewer than forty types of birds and mammals. Elk, which in the 1920s were practically never encountered north of the forest-tundra are now common there and range as far as the coast of the North Sea.

Having demonstrated the link between the sun, atmosphere, and climate, scientists are now attempting to clarify the specific characteristic of these disturbance. In order to identify the tendencies of future climate changes, it is particularly important for scientists to develop long-term weather forecasts as well as means of more accurately measuring artificial climate change.

At the concluding session of the symposium Professor M. I. Budyko (Lenin Prize laureate) and Doctor of Physical-Mathematical Science L. P. Rakipov delivered a report on the impact of climate change on snow and ice sheets.

The opening of the Metro’s first line in 1935 was celebrated by state propagandists as a major achievement of Soviet socialism. To a considerable extent, it was. The Metro introduced a new modern form of transportation to Russia, it facilitated the movement of people around the rapidly expanding capital, and it helped bring about Moscow’s transformation from a sprawling and confused nineteenth-century village into a sprawling and confused urban metropolis.

When first unveiled, the Metro’s earliest stations (those constructed under the capital’s central districts) must have been stunning. Decorated with statures, bas-reliefs, and mosaics covering all the usual themes (the unity of workers and peasants, the vigilance of Red Army soldiers, the triumphs of state planning, the heroism of Party leaders, etc.) they functioned as propagandistic set-pieces that advertised the Party’s power while providing citizens with a constant display of iconic Soviet forms. (My favorites, of course, are the ones found in Mayakovsky station which are given over almost entirely to the exploits of aviators).

The well-ordered and rational Metro was a testament to the Soviet leaders’ faith in the transformative power of technology. One contemporary writer went so far as to proclaim the Metro’s subterranean structure to be a new “System of Copernicus:” the hub around which the capital of emerging Soviet civilization (and, in time, the world) would gravitate.

Today, most of the Metro’s Stalinist splendor has been worn away by decades of use as every year the hoards of steaming humanity that shamble their way through the underground grow larger. Although late at night (and throughout the day in the outlying regions of the city), the Metro is still the least inconvenient way to move about the capital, during the morning and evening rush hours when traffic is high, the experience can be less than pleasant.

Efforts are underway to improve the Metro, but it is an expensive and difficult task. New lines are being extended into under-served neighborhoods, new modern trains and passenger cars have been added (though they’re still relatively few), and alternative forms of transportation (such as monorails) are being used to form a second transportation “ring” around the city center. Whether or not these steps will be sufficient to ease the burden on the strained system is anybody’s guess.

In the meantime, for an amazing site containing panoramic and other photos of the Metro’s stations go HERE.

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