June 26, 2005
Fans Beware!
Entry by Kate Greer
I have never had a water bottle violated before—a first for me in Rostov, Russia, as was my first Russian football game! (Read: SOCCER.) As I was entering the stadium with my fellow classmates from RAJI, the Russian-American Journalism Institute, I wasn’t surprised to be asked to open my messenger bag for security guards. In post-9/11 America, we would certainly be asked to do the same thing. But then one of my new Russian classmates explained that I would have to leave the plastic, screw-on top to my bottled water at the gates.
“We are not allowed to bring in glass bottles—they are too dangerous,” she said. Ok, I was in agreement about the potential for broken glass, but caps for plastic bottles? “This is so we cannot throw the bottles when they are full. They are heavy and can injure someone.”
At this point in my introduction to Russian football, I began to feel nervous. Full plastic bottles as weapons? The idea had never even occurred to me. I sadly left my bottle cap at the stadium gate and realized I would have to buy another small Bon Aqua bottle to act as my Nalgene. Dahsveedahneeyah, functional water bottle.
We then had a whirlwind tour of the stadium’s perimeter as we waded our way through throngs of Russian football fans in blue and yellow jerseys, crunching on huge bags of toasted sunflower seeds. (The remnants of rejected shells littered the entire stadium floor.) It seemed that we had finally found the entrance to our seating section as we mounted some enormous, white steps when my water bottle and I met with yet another roadblock: losing the cap was not enough.
In addition to having my bag checked for yet a second (and then third) time, my water bottle was not finished with its shame. A Russian policeman was posted at each entrance with an oversized kitchen knife so that he could saw off the tops to all uncapped, plastic bottles. I still don’t have a clear understanding of why this further moderation was necessary—perhaps so even less liquid could be retained by the bottle while in midair? Or because the harder plastic rim at the top of the bottle could injure someone if it hit him in the eye? I can only speculate.
I eventually subjected my water bottle to the policeman’s knife, only after drinking a third of its contents because that was how much of the bottle he was removing. I then gingerly held the top of the now-exposed bottle, trying not to think about sunflower seed scraps and cigarette fumes wafting into my water.
After much pushing and being pushed we made our way to some terrific seats only a few rows up from the Moscow team’s goal (they won 2-0 on some cheap penalty kicks). As we settled in, I removed a handy travel wipe and tried to sanitize my half bottle so that I could still enjoy what was left of my water. My cleaning job even impressed some of my classmates so much they were willing to have a sip or two as well. Finding a sufficiently clean spot to rest my cup of water was a little trickier though—sunflower seed shells were falling like rain and I couldn’t hold it in my hands because I didn’t want to put my messenger bag on the stadium floor.
And just as 70 percent of the Rostov fans around us were lighting up their cigarettes and I was wondering how much humiliation my bottle and I would have to suffer—I am not a smoker—the men sitting behind us tapped me on the shoulder. Would I like some peanuts? Or perhaps some crispy sunflower seeds? Eventually I took them up on some peanuts and tried offering them trail mix and chocolate-covered hazelnuts in return. They declined, saying they were full of vodka and cigarette smoke, but the foundation of the friendship was laid. For the rest of the game, we had a back and forth repertoire of them saying things to me in Russian that I couldn’t understand and me doing the same in English, punctuated by lots of smiles.
I can’t say that I understand all the fine rules of soccer, of even that I was particularly interested in the game. I do know, though, that I made some soccer fan friends, and that my water bottle, or what remained of it, was left behind.