You thought I forgot, didn’t you? Nah, I’ve just been busy. Self-employment has a way of occupying more hours than normal employment. But I have it here, right on my to-do list: “FINISH RUSSIA BLOG”. So let’s take a dip into day eight.

In referring to my notes for day eight, I have only one entry: “rave dancing boys”. I’ll let your imagination chew on that for a minute, because the rave dancers don’t come in until the end of the day. In the meantime, let’s recap: We had just returned after two days in St. Petersburg. The last of our three overnight train rides had brought us into Moscow early on Sunday morning. We were tired, we were stiff, and some of us (okay…me…it was me, alright?) were beginning to have a reaction to something in the St. Petersburg water.

So here we are, back in Moscow. Sunday morning. We had, in some quieter moment of our pre-trip planning, thought vaguely about attending a Russian church service on our one Sunday morning in Moscow. There was no question of that now. I don’t think the thought even crossed our minds until late that afternoon. We wanted home, we wanted bed, and we wanted it now.

I don’t really remember the trip back to Beth’s apartment, or how long we crashed there. All I remember is that at some point, after we’d all had warm showers, food, and a little decompression time, the planning began anew. The discussion began: where to go next.

Now, at the time, I can’t say I completely welcomed the planning. I’m a serious introvert by nature, and a week of traveling had me crawling back into my mental cave. I say this because it means I came so, so close to whining my way out of our Sunday trip. And I’m so, so glad I didn’t.

As I groaned at Beth and Andrew about “where are we going?”, trying to gauge the worth, they just kept mum. They wouldn’t spill the beans. They kept claiming I just needed to come along, and that I wouldn’t regret it. “Fine,” I thought. “Fine. Let’s just go. I’m only in Russia once. I’d better go out and see the place.”

The place, it turned out, was the former private residence of Maxim Gorky. Maxim Gorky, Russian literary hero. Maxim Gorky, friend to Chekhov and Stalin. Maxim Gorky, who—being a literary hero and friend to Stalin—was given a very special old house to live in. Maxim Gorky, a man whose name I wish to say over and over because it’s so damn pleasing.

The Gorky house is small. It doesn’t sweep you away by being extravagant. No, it sweeps you way by being unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It is a small little slice of Art Deco heaven, and it is best seen to be believed.

First, as with many Russian house museums, you put on some big goofy slippers:

Then, entering by the back door, you find yourself looking at the polished stone of the central staircase. And you realize you’ve just stepped into a fantasia.

After the Gorky house, we spent the rest of the day wandering around Moscow looking at architecture. It was cool.

But where, you may ask, do the rave dancing boys come in? After sunset we were walking through a central square somewhere in the middle of Moscow. It was full of fountains and crowds of people and dramatically lit sculptures. On the way out of the square, as the number of people around us began to thin, a motion to my left caught my attention and I turned my head to look.

Imagine, if you will, four teenage boys. Their clothing is Moscow-cool, clubbing-style. They’ve claimed a stretch of benches and they are dancing, furiously dancing. Raving as if God himself had commanded them to rave. Whipping their arms about in those snaky movements that ravers seem to think is really cool, while their torsos wobble in a boring rhythm under the influence of their wildly flailing arms. The concentration on their faces is intense. They’re each in their own world of the dance. Sweat on the brows. A burning focus in the eyes. By god, they’ll rave like no one has ever raved before. They’ll rave themselves straight through the earth and come flailing out the other side. The gorgeous model-women of Moscow will be pulled toward them as if they had their own gravitational pull. They were born to rave!

Now, take this mental picture, and adjust it as follows: give each boy his own iPod. Wrap the entire scene in a deep, ridiculous silence. The only sound is the heavy breathing and urgent grunting of the frantically raving boys. Thus, I give to you the scene I watched in the Moscow square. Truly: a treasure.