Jesse comments on Lenin's Tomb

[dlgood]

Jesse and Monique went to Russia for their honeymoon. Got a quality anecdote from J. on his visit:

So here’s the thing: you don’t want to show any disrespect when in Lenin’s tomb. It doesn’t matter how ridiculous the idea of celebrating a particularly important leader of your country by mummifying him with industrial strength formaldahyde might seem. It doesn’t matter how ironic the idea of preserving the cherished ideals of yesteryear in a post-Soviet era might be. It doesn’t matter how unflattering corpses preserved like waxwork figures might look. Trust me on this one: you don’t want to show any disrespect while in Lenin’s tomb.

My particular infraction was keeping my hands in my pockets during the viewing. Or at least I think that was my infraction—I don’t speak any Russian, so I wasn’t particularly well prepared to decipher the stream of Slavic-sounding words that guard was shouting at me. But you be the judge: all I did was walk in, check out ol’ Vlad, nod my head a few times in touristy appreciation, and start to move along with the rest of the herd. This, or so I thought, does not warrant a scolding.

The guard gestured for me to put my hands by my sides. Well, OK, I don’t have a problem with that—especially since, in addition to being incredibly humorless, he was also toting a rather conspicuous semi-automatic weapon. But on the topic of Russian humorlessness, where does it all come from? Is it a product of miserable winters? A culture of suffering? Reading about Ivan the Terrible? Why is it that every Russian I saw looked exactly like the girl in Manet’s Bar at the Folies Bergeres? (who, in turn, looks exactly like every waitress I’ve ever seen during the night shift at Denny’s)

Hey, I like keeping my hands in my pockets, and don’t mean to offend anyone by doing so. I once met Justice Stephen Breyer, and while I can’t remember whether or not I kept my hands in my pockets during that occasion, I am quite sure I didn’t make of point of not doing so. In case you don’t know me or haven’t noticed, I don’t have much of an ass, and keeping my hands in my pockets tends to keep my pants from riding down too low. Plus, I think it looks cool. How do you picture James Dean in your mind? With his hands in his pockets, I bet. And look at Bogie too—always got his hands in his trench-coat pockets, doesn’t he?

Anyway, I found this episode a bit ironic because, as a flaming liberal, I probably have more in common with Lenin than 1000 out of 1001 that walk in that place. Do I, the hands-in-pocket American academic, have less respect for Lenin than the average hands-out-of-pocket Japanese tourist, still bitter that his monster-zoom, thousand-gigawatt digital camera didn’t make it through the metal detector? It seems like if Soviet—err, Russian—authorities were so serious about the matter, then they would have honored Lenin’s own wishes and buried him peacefully in St. Petersburg instead of using him for the tourist attention that he draws to Red Square.

But in the end, perhaps Lenin’s ghost has had his revenge: I write this battling a 100-degree fever and a very nasty stomach virus. Disrespect that.

So. Anybody know anything about Russian taboos about 'hands in pockets'.