The first thing I learn in Moscow is the importance of the metro, which is said to transport ten million people a day. I am given a Troika card, which I can use to travel as much as I like (it costs eight euros for three days). My favourite line is my son’s line, of course – number 9 – and my favourite station is Borovitskaya – right to the heart of the Kremlin. On my first day, I stand on the Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge, the wind blowing down a cold and grey Moscow River, and gaze at the Kremlin towers behind me and the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour ahead. The gold dome is under scaffolding. I will visit it later on the same day, but I make the mistake of approaching the side facing the river, imagining that this will be the main entrance, when in fact the main entrance faces the other way. I’m still confused by this – how could you not face the river?

I eat my sandwich and crisps, still in Bulgaria wilderness mode. After this, I will take to having lunch in some of my son’s favourite restaurants. There is no McDonald’s or Kentucky Fried Chicken, but they have been replaced by Russian equivalents: Vkusno i tochka and Rostic’s (which I mispronounce Rustic’s), which are just as good, if not better. The idea that Russia is straining under the weight of western sanctions is quickly dispelled by a visit to the local mall, where the first thing I see is a large, well-lit western clothes store. Other western products are on offer: cosmetics, for example, or shoes. And where such products do not exist, Russians are more than capable of coming up with their own.

Similarly, people on the metro do not look harassed, afraid of being watched. They look quite calm. Most of them are on their phones, but this is not a Russian phenomenon. IPhones abound. Occasionally, you get a woman with a large tome running to more than a thousand pages, Tolstoy perhaps, like a lunchbox on her lap. Younger people read European classics from an attractively produced series. I spot Guy de Maupassant. I get the occasional glance, more curiosity than anything, I’m amazed at the ease with which Alyosha at Sretensky Monastery identifies me as English, but I am just a passing curiosity. My son teaches me to stand aside as the doors open to let the passengers out, there is a bit of pushing and shoving. Escalator etiquette is the same as in London (stand on the right, walk on the left), so I’m not a complete country bumpkin, though I feel like one.

The metro stations are grand. Some of them were built under Stalin – Komsomolskaya is a prime example, with mosaics on the ceiling of generals mustering their troops beneath the banner of Christ or Lenin preaching in Red Square. I have fun taking photographs of my favourite mosaic with St Basil’s Cathedral because it is positioned above the escalator, so I have to keep descending and ascending on the elevator until I think I’ve got a good one. It’s quite hard taking a photograph of the ceiling when you’re travelling upwards. My son waxes lyrical about the station before Vnukovo airport, Pykhtino, where there is a model fighter jet attached to the ceiling above the escalator (again!). The line to Vnukovo airport, 8A, is much more modern.

There are two circle lines: an inner circle line, number 5, and an outer circle line, number 11. Line 5 is remarkably smooth, it feels like travelling on air, and the seats are comfortable, not too close together, divided into groups of two and three, with plugs to charge your phone. Each carriage on the metro is fitted with a screen, which gives information about the new river transport, safety videos for children who get lost (they are to stand beneath a sign on the wall, where they will be spotted by metro staff, who come to reunite them with their parents), videos about places – the Caucasus, Astrakhan – Muscovites might like to visit, a film about the zoo. There are themed carriages – one is devoted to the Bolshoi Theatre – and there is much excitement about Yuri Gagarin because it is the 65th anniversary of his first crewed journey into space aboard Vostok 1 (Vkusno i tochka are offering models of the spaceship with their kiddie menus, and I am tempted to get one). There is a great deal of pride in the country and its achievements, and I don’t think this is a bad thing.

My overriding impression is one of efficiency, of services – public transport, museums, parks – being laid on for Russian citizens to make the most of. There is a sense of order and purpose. The parks are immaculate and extensive. I visit several: Victory Park (dedicated to those killed in the two World Wars and in Nazi concentration camps, as well as to those involved in the clean-up after the Chernobyl nuclear disaster and to hero cities), Zaryadye (next to the Kremlin, with its amphitheatre-like seating and carefully ordered flower beds), Novodevichyi Prudy (next to the famous convent of the same name with its illustrious cemetery), Kolomenskoye (the former royal estate, now open to the public, with its spacious walkway next to the river, perfect for jogging, and a strange bird I am unable to identify, the size of a thrush with a grey hood and round black marks over its eyes like a robber). The buildings in Kolomenskoye are closed – it is a Monday – but the foreman gives me permission to venerate the Kazan icon of the Mother and Child and asks where I am from.

One of my most enjoyable excursions is with my son and a friend to the Arbat district of the city. We pass several buskers. My favourite is a young guy in white trainers, singing a Russian love song – the buskers put out pieces of cardboard with their bank details so you can throw in a few coins on your phone – but there are two energetic violinists playing Vivaldi in an underpass and a guy with an impossibly large balalaika, so large it has to rest on a metal pin. We pass one of Stalin’s wedding-cake buildings, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, take up position next to the river – my son’s friend jokes that the West thinks the fishermen are snipers in disguise – visit the mall next to Kiyevskaya station (more western products or Russian equivalents), and then take the metro across the river (line 4 from Kiyevskaya to Smolenskaya).

Crossing the Moscow River between Kiyevskaya and Smolenskaya.

One of my favourite evenings is my son’s blind date at the operetta house. We go to see Monte Cristo. The street outside is lit with dangling lights. I think I will be bored – after all, I don’t really understand the language, the only word I can make out is “love” – but I am struck by the enthusiasm with which the singers and dancers perform and the audience responds. If I were to stay longer, I would go again – to see Anna Karenina, for example. In the interval, I order an apple juice in Bulgarian (I have decided to speak Bulgarian slowly, rather than English) and get what I want. I walk up and down the stairs, imagining I have a seat in a box or the stalls. At the end of the interval, my son turns up with the young woman in question. He is so grown up, and gallant – bringing flowers to a first date. I press her to drink something, and she orders a tea. My son flashes his debit card before I can reach for my change. I sit in the darkness, while the attendant identifies people who are using their mobile phones by squiggling with a red laser on their screens. The couple in front of me – not my son and his date – have argued, and he is now sitting a couple of seats away. She has to lean across to speak to him, but they still manage to take a selfie in front of the stage at the end of the performance. I wonder if the accompanying music – modern rather than classical – is live or recorded. There is a pit, but it doesn’t seem to house an orchestra, because one or two of the dancers jump into it, and I can’t imagine they’re having to dodge musicians as they land. I’ve lost track of who Monte Cristo is, and I can’t quite remember the story (I know it has something to do with false imprisonment and revenge), but I admire the backflips and savour the romantic melodies. When I take my leave of the young woman – my son is going to accompany her to her metro station, where she will be met by her mother – I clutch her hand. She is uncertain, and I want her to be well. The glass bits in her hair remind me of the lights outside, candles in a Christmas tree, stars that glint in a night sky. I find everything touching, perhaps because I know my time is limited.

1. The mosaic of St Basil’s Cathedral in Komsomolskaya station.
2. The model fighter jet above the escalator in Pykhtino station.
3. Monument to the liquidators of the consequences of the Chernobyl accident, Victory Park.
4. The amphitheatre-like seating in Zaryadye Park.
5. Moscow City and Novodevichyi Prudy Park.
6. The Kazan icon of the Mother and Child on the Kolomenskoye estate.
7. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Borodinsky Bridge.
8. The lights outside the operetta house.

Jonathan Dunne

Next: A Trip to Sergiyev Posad