Lisbon – City Of Street Art
Lisbon is a city on Portugal's coast that skillfully combines modern ideas with old world appeal. Lisbon is a world center for street art although…
To visit Russia is to step into a cultural environment that operates according to rules often unstated yet rigidly enforced. One cannot fully understand this immense country—the largest on Earth—without first acknowledging that its norms, habits, and assumptions are neither universally intuitive nor casually flexible. For those unfamiliar with Russia’s layered social codes and regional particularities, the margin for cultural misstep can be broad. And while many Russians are accommodating to foreign visitors, ignorance is not always met with indulgence.
This guide does not aim to sensationalize or scold. It seeks instead to equip thoughtful travelers with the context required to act with respect, awareness, and intelligence in a country as proud as it is complex. The following pages attempt to render an honest portrait of what not to do in Russia—not only in terms of etiquette and legal constraints but also with regard to the deeper cultural sensibilities that shape Russian life.
Table of Contents
Western visitors—particularly Americans—often interpret smiling as a baseline social posture, a sign of goodwill or general politeness. In Russia, by contrast, a smile is rarely unmotivated. It signals something specific: genuine pleasure, shared intimacy, or private amusement. Smiling at strangers in public is likely to be met with confusion at best, and suspicion at worst. It can be misconstrued as insincerity, frivolity, or even mockery.
This does not mean Russians are dour. Laughter abounds in private settings. Warmth exists, but it must be earned. It is common, for example, for a store clerk or metro worker to maintain a stone-faced demeanor throughout an entire transaction. That is not unfriendliness—it is the expected social tone.
There is a prevailing myth among foreigners that Soviet history is a taboo subject in Russia. In truth, it is more a matter of when, how, and with whom the topic is broached. The Soviet era, especially its most traumatic chapters—Stalin’s purges, the Great Patriotic War, the gulag system—is deeply embedded in public consciousness. Memorials stand in every city. School curricula still emphasize the sacrifice and suffering of that period. Older Russians, many of whom grew up under Brezhnev or Khrushchev, often recall the USSR with ambivalence—mourning the collapse of a structure that, however flawed, provided stability, identity, and international stature.
However, romanticizing the Soviet Union—or worse, treating it as kitsch—is unwelcome. So too is openly mocking or trivializing Russian pride in its wartime victories or space achievements. These are not merely historic episodes; they are moral touchstones, wrapped in a collective psychology still shaped by post-Soviet uncertainty. It is safer to listen than to judge, and to approach the past not as a monolith, but as a living memory still debated within Russian society itself.
Despite being one of the most studied foreign languages in Russian schools, English remains limited in use outside major cities like Moscow and St. Petersburg. Street signs may not offer transliteration. Waitstaff, transit workers, or shop employees may not speak or understand English at all. Expecting fluency, or reacting impatiently to the lack thereof, can be perceived as arrogance.
Basic Russian phrases—spasibo (thank you), pozhaluysta (please), izvinite (excuse me), and numbers for prices or directions—are not just appreciated; they are often necessary. Russian pronunciation is notoriously difficult for non-native speakers, but even flawed attempts at politeness signal humility and respect.
Smartphones can bridge linguistic gaps, but their use should not substitute for face-to-face effort. In smaller towns or rural regions, gestures, tone, and even body language become essential tools of communication. Russians tend to admire effort over precision, and will often meet sincere linguistic attempts with kindness and assistance.
In Russian homes, footwear is considered dirty and inappropriate for interior use. Upon entering, it is customary—expected, even—to remove your shoes and change into house slippers (tapochki), often offered by the host. This practice, common across Slavic and Central Asian cultures, reflects a broader principle of separation between the outer world and the domestic sphere, which is seen as private, clean, and sacrosanct.
Failing to observe this norm is not merely inconsiderate; it can signal disrespect for the sanctity of the home. In some cases, it may even offend. Visitors should also be mindful of how they sit indoors. Resting feet on furniture or crossing one’s legs so that the sole of the foot points toward another person or object may be seen as vulgar.
Alcohol consumption, particularly vodka, carries cultural weight in Russia far beyond mere intoxication. A proper Russian toast (toast or tozst) involves more than clinking glasses and uttering “cheers.” It is often a full speech—humorous, poetic, or deeply sentimental—offered to health, friendship, love, or memory. Guests are expected to listen attentively, maintain eye contact, and drink their shot in one go.
Refusing to drink alcohol at a social gathering may be interpreted as aloofness, although this is changing with younger generations and urban dwellers. If you abstain, it is polite to offer a reason—health, religion, or personal conviction—rather than merely declining. And never drink before the toast has been offered, lest you be seen as impatient or rude.
Also, never pour your own drink. It is considered appropriate to fill others’ glasses first, especially those of elders or women. This act is not mere formality but a gesture of generosity and communal respect.
Russia’s political climate is often the subject of international scrutiny, and many foreign visitors arrive with strong opinions about governance, civil rights, and foreign policy. But voicing these critiques publicly—or even semi-publicly—can be dangerous, depending on the nature of the comment and the context in which it is made.
Public demonstrations are tightly controlled. The display of symbols deemed “foreign agent” or anti-government can carry legal penalties. Online speech, too, is subject to surveillance. Foreigners are not immune.
Within private settings, political discussions do occur, but they unfold cautiously. Russians are often more critical of their government in private than outsiders assume—but that criticism is nuanced, shaped by decades of propaganda, disillusionment, patriotism, and trauma. Foreigners who speak bluntly or condescendingly about Russian institutions or leaders, especially in mixed company, risk being seen as ignorant or imperial in tone.
If such a discussion arises organically, it is best approached with curiosity rather than certainty. Listen first. Avoid reductionist terms. Do not attempt to “correct” Russian perspectives with Western framings. The lived experience here is not theoretical—it is tangible, and sometimes perilous.
It bears repeating that Russia is not a monolith. Spanning eleven time zones and housing over 190 ethnic groups, the country resists generalization. What holds true in Moscow may not apply in Kazan, Yakutsk, or Sochi. Cultural traditions, language dialects, and even religious practices shift as one moves across the vast interior.
In Tatarstan, for example, Islamic customs influence social etiquette. In the North Caucasus, codes of honor and familial loyalty often outweigh urban norms. The indigenous peoples of Siberia retain shamanic traditions, while Kaliningrad carries a faint imprint of its Prussian past. Even within Russian Orthodoxy, observance varies widely—from devout babushkas in provincial cathedrals to urban youth who treat religion as heritage rather than faith.
To treat Russia as a single cultural unit is not only inaccurate—it flattens the intricate web of histories, traumas, and identities that shape life within its borders.
In many Russian shops, particularly older or more traditional establishments, there remains a subtle transactional ritual: place the money on the counter or tray provided rather than handing it directly to the cashier. The same often applies when receiving change. This small buffer of space is part etiquette, part habit, and it helps maintain a polite, impersonal boundary.
Although not universal, this practice survives in many kiosks, pharmacies, and small-town shops. It is not always enforced, but observing it where applicable signals attentiveness to local patterns. Cash remains common in Russia—especially outside major cities—and credit cards are not accepted everywhere. When using cash, try to avoid offering large bills for small purchases, as change may not be readily available.
Some visitors—especially those with Slavic ancestry or prior cultural exposure—attempt to assimilate visibly into Russian life, mimicking accents, adopting postures, or inserting borrowed idioms into conversation. While learning local customs is admirable, over-identification can come across as theatrical or insincere.
Russians tend to value authenticity over performance. A foreigner who speaks plainly and acts with consistent courtesy will be treated with more respect than one who strains to imitate cultural markers they do not fully understand. It is better to be yourself—a respectful outsider—than to become a caricature of someone else’s nation.
There is a formality embedded in Russian social interaction that surprises many Western visitors. Strangers do not typically address one another by first name alone, especially in business or service settings. The full name—often including the patronymic (a name derived from one’s father)—is used in formal address. This is especially common in institutions like universities, government offices, or medical establishments.
Similarly, handshakes are firm and usually accompanied by direct eye contact. But they are not appropriate across thresholds. A deeply rooted superstition discourages shaking hands, or even handing objects, through a doorway—said to bring bad luck or conflict. Always step fully into a space before extending your hand.
Women are customarily greeted with more delicacy than men; in some regions, men may stand when a woman enters the room. These behaviors vary in rigidity by generation and region, but observing them signals respect rather than antiquated adherence.
One of the more common and avoidable mistakes committed by foreign visitors is casually photographing buildings or infrastructure related to the military, intelligence services, or state administration. What appears to be an ordinary office or architectural curiosity may, in fact, fall under prohibited zones of surveillance.
Russian law prohibits photographing certain objects deemed critical to national security. These include, but are not limited to, military barracks, police stations, certain railway facilities, government offices, and transportation hubs. In practice, enforcement is inconsistent. But the risk is not imaginary—foreigners have been questioned, detained, or fined for snapping a picture of what seemed an innocuous scene.
Signs are not always posted, and what constitutes “sensitive” infrastructure may change according to context or region. A prudent rule: if in doubt, do not raise your camera. This caution applies not only to obvious installations but also to checkpoints, security personnel, or protest gatherings. In a country where state power is often enforced visibly, the lens of a foreigner’s camera is not seen as neutral.
While homosexuality itself is not criminalized in Russia, legislation passed in 2013 prohibits the “promotion of non-traditional sexual relations” to minors—a law so vague in its wording that it has, in effect, silenced most public expressions of LGBTQ+ identity. In 2022, the scope of the law was expanded to ban all forms of LGBTQ+ “propaganda,” regardless of audience.
This legal framework is not merely symbolic. Rainbow flags, LGBTQ+ slogans, or public displays of same-sex affection can lead to police intervention, fines, or deportation for foreign nationals. Social attitudes, particularly outside Moscow and St. Petersburg, remain largely conservative. Hate crimes and harassment, while less openly discussed, are not uncommon.
For LGBTQ+ travelers, discretion is not just advisable—it is essential. Online dating apps are monitored, pride events are routinely banned, and even casual comments overheard in public can invite scrutiny. This does not mean queer people do not exist in Russia—they do, vibrantly and resiliently—but visibility is tightly restricted by both law and custom.
Russian Orthodoxy occupies a powerful and largely unchallenged position in the cultural and political fabric of the nation. Churches are not merely places of worship; they are symbols of Russian identity, resilience, and, in some circles, nationalist pride. Since the 1990s, the Russian Orthodox Church has enjoyed a renewed alliance with the state, and its influence has only grown in recent years.
Entering a church requires modesty in dress and behavior. Women are generally expected to cover their heads with a scarf; men should remove hats. Shoulders and knees should be covered. Photography may be prohibited, and talking—particularly in a loud or casual tone—is considered irreverent.
Mocking religious icons, questioning church teachings publicly, or referencing controversial acts by clergy—even in jest—can provoke serious backlash. In 2012, members of the feminist group Pussy Riot were arrested and imprisoned for performing a brief protest song in Moscow’s Cathedral of Christ the Savior. The message was political; the location was unforgivable.
Whether or not one shares the church’s values is immaterial. In Russia, Orthodoxy is more than faith—it is a state-affirmed institution, protected by law and social consensus. Visitors should tread carefully.
Encounters with Russian police or security officials—whether at border checkpoints, metro stations, or on the street—require calm, patience, and clarity. Documents should be kept on your person at all times: a valid passport, visa, and migration card (which is issued upon arrival). Failure to produce them when asked may result in detention or a fine.
The Russian legal system does not operate under the same assumptions of due process familiar to visitors from liberal democracies. Arrests can be arbitrary. Bribes, while illegal, are not unheard of. Police officers may appear indifferent, hostile, or unpredictable. Raising one’s voice, arguing, or filming the interaction may escalate rather than defuse the situation.
If stopped, it is best to comply politely, provide documents, and avoid confrontation. Many officers do not speak English. Having your papers in order and knowing a few key Russian phrases can make a considerable difference. Above all, do not attempt to record or broadcast your interaction—particularly if it involves criticism of authority.
Although alcohol is deeply interwoven into Russian culture, public intoxication is frowned upon and, in many cities, legally punishable. In 2010, a federal law was passed prohibiting the public consumption of alcohol in streets, parks, public transport, and courtyards. Violators may face fines or, in more serious cases, police custody.
This is often surprising to visitors who imagine Russia as permissive toward alcohol. While the stereotype of vodka-soaked revelry persists abroad, the state has undertaken sustained efforts to curb alcohol abuse, including price controls, advertising restrictions, and sobering-up stations. Public disorder caused by drinking is treated seriously.
Littering, spitting, and other behaviors associated with disrespect for public space are similarly discouraged. Russians are generally proud of their urban environments, especially in cities like Kazan, Yekaterinburg, or St. Petersburg, where historic preservation and cleanliness are emphasized. Respect for shared space is an expectation, not a request.
In a country where memory is often physical—etched into bronze, granite, and marble—monuments carry symbolic and civic weight. War memorials, statues of cultural figures, and even obscure plaques are treated with solemnity. Leaning on, sitting atop, or posing frivolously near these structures can attract verbal reprimands or worse.
This is especially true at World War II memorials, of which there are thousands across the country. Known as the Great Patriotic War, the conflict is remembered as both a tragedy and a triumph, with over 26 million Soviet lives lost. The dead are not forgotten, and the monuments that honor them are sacrosanct.
Even Soviet-era statues—once the target of derision in the 1990s—are now preserved with a kind of reverent ambivalence. To deface or mock such symbols is not simply uncouth; in some regions, it is a criminal offense.
Russia is multiethnic, multireligious, and historically contested in its understanding of identity. Terms that may appear benign in one context can carry connotations of insult in another. Jokes about Chechens, comments about skin color, or assumptions about a person’s religion or language can cause real offense.
Ethnic tensions, while less publicly visible than in the 1990s, still exist. The North Caucasus, Central Asian migrant communities, indigenous Siberians—all form part of the Russian population, but their status is not always equal. Discrimination, profiling, and resentment are part of daily reality for many.
Visitors should avoid generalizations. What seems like an innocent remark about someone’s appearance or accent can carry centuries of historical baggage. Assume nothing. Ask less than you observe. When in doubt, remain neutral.
To visit a Russian banya—a steam bath experience with deep cultural roots—is to participate in a ritual of purification, endurance, and camaraderie. But missteps here can be both embarrassing and disrespectful.
One must first understand the social rhythm of the banya. Sessions proceed in rounds: steam, cooling off (often with ice water or snow), tea, repeat. Nudity is common in single-sex banyas. In mixed banyas, bathing suits are expected. Conversations are usually relaxed, but not loud. Bringing soap or shampoo into the steam room is considered uncouth. And then there is the venik—a bundle of birch or oak branches used to beat the skin gently, stimulating circulation.
Do not mock the venik. Do not rush the process. And do not interrupt the quiet, especially among older patrons. The banya is not merely a bath; it is a near-spiritual ritual, observed with the same seriousness one might find in a Japanese tea ceremony.
Russian hospitality is real. Visitors may find themselves invited into homes, offered food, asked personal questions, or given lengthy toasts in their honor. These gestures are sincere. But they do not necessarily imply long-term connection.
There exists in Russian culture a distinction between the intimate and the social, between public warmth and private loyalty. True friendship is rare and slow to form. While Russians may open their homes or share stories freely, this does not mean they expect regular contact, follow-up, or emotional entanglement from temporary acquaintances.
To presume otherwise is not offensive, but it may lead to disappointment. Russians tend to be precise with emotional investments. Affection is not theatrical. Bonds, once formed, are deep—but until then, one remains on the threshold.
To travel in Russia is to accept ambiguity. It is a country that guards its meanings closely and reveals them slowly, often only to those who stay long enough to stop interpreting every interaction. The danger lies not in the visible—the language, the rituals, the law—but in the invisible: assumptions.
Russia is not easily deciphered. It rewards the patient, not the bold; the observer, not the commentator. What you should not do in Russia is try to define it too quickly.
Instead, walk lightly. Speak plainly. Respect what you do not yet understand. And in time, you may begin to see not just what Russia is, but what it chooses to show you.
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