It is an axiom that “Red October” should not become a block of elite housing. But it seems to me that Europe announced it somewhat in advance. Now this is a European-style successful example of repurposing a historical industrial building without demolishing the outer walls, courtyards and even the best parts of the interiors - that is, without everything that usually happens when turning a Moscow historical building into an office. But for Europe (if we don’t think about the streets of Athens when we use this word), there are still too many cars and not enough greenery and space for pedestrians.

Europe at Red October is rather in the people, in the unique combination of enterprises, in those Charlies who visit Mr. Einem and his chocolate factory. Europe - inside the offices that occupied the building, and in the fact that this occupation - like in the best old factory houses of London - took place without casualties or destruction.

But everything else is pure advance. As an employee of one of the local companies, I know for sure that everyone who works around me is perfect Russian Europeans. On the other hand, I visit the editorial office quite rarely in order to maintain a fresh view of our surroundings.

And this is what we have to admit. A person who turns towards “Red October” and does not know that we have Europe there is unlikely to guess about it. Is it possible that according to some faces, perhaps Diogenes with a lantern in his hands will finally find a person there. But there will still be the same barrel around.

He will walk, maneuvering between cars parked at random and, perhaps, too expensive for creative youth. To reach any door of the creative cluster you will have to fight your way through this rather Russian automobile chaos.

Half of the terraces do not look out onto some pleasant courtyards, but into packed parking lots. It's on an island with water and views everywhere.

The urban kingdom of pedestrians preached from the walls of “Red October” itself is nowhere to be seen. This car-driven Europe looks rather incongruous on an island where you can’t really get in or out, but there is a metro station a two-minute walk across a bridge overlooking the most beautiful urban landscape in the world.

I wonder what Londoner would think of going to his office or restaurant in the center by car if they are so close to the metro? But this is the kind of Europe we have, with fast driving. Or rather, with a slow one, but on the bird-three Audi, the seven BMW and the ace Mercedes. In winter, you have to dodge cars on poorly cleared paths and courtyards in icy mounds. I'm afraid Diogenes will decide that he is crossing the frozen Styx. And rightly so. Because at the end of the journey Cerberus will be waiting for him. Everywhere at Red October, right from Strelka and further on, everywhere from the entrances to restaurants and galleries to the entrances to creative offices, there is such a typical European feature as brick-faced security guards, recruited, probably, from those who have not been recertified for police officer rank. Under their gaze, I feel like a person who is going to steal spoons in a cafe, or a citizen of the Russian Federation who came to an appointment with a United Russia deputy with a request to paint the entrance, but not a young creative European who came to his home. In general, I feel like I’m visiting rich relatives there.

I cannot wholeheartedly join in the general cry of “Let’s not let them touch our bars.” Maybe I'm seriously underpaid, and the salary I think is decent is ridiculous by the standards of the young creative class, but I don't feel like I belong in the bars there at all. I feel very uncomfortable when I start flipping through the menus there. I choose between a curd ring and a potato cake. In general, without getting upset, I can only afford a business lunch there.

Well, God bless him, I’ll go to my Pyaterochka. But I have a hard time imagining a young creative European, as well as an uncreative older European, who, without looking, shells out seven euros for a cappuccino. The Italian himself did not see this, he only heard that this happens in places for crazy tourists. I can hardly imagine a young creative Briton shelling out seven pounds for a pint of beer, or a young creative Frenchman who, without blinking an eye, gives eight euros for an unfilled glass of ordinary dry wine. All my experience of communicating with young creative Europeans suggests that they (except for the Scandinavians distraught with government handouts) are accustomed to completely different prices.

Strelka also has galleries and shops of young designers. I don’t know how young they really are, maybe it’s Lagerfeld and Galliano who took Russian pseudonyms for simplicity. But I can easily buy something from young French designers in the Bastille area, and a jacket from young Russian designers costs as much as if, locked up at home and giving up everything, Dolce personally cut it at night, and Gabbana sewed the seams.

And next to it is the “Paradise” club, where, near the remains of foreign cars clogging the sidewalks, regular uncertified police officers check whether the candidates for visitors are well dressed by young designers.

All this is absolutely wonderful in its genre and necessary for any civilized country, but what does this have to do with a corner of young creative Europe? This is a corner of the Grand Hotel Europe, St. Petersburg, or Grande Hotel Europe, Baku. And young, creative Russia is huddled around its offices and is afraid to miss business lunch time.

In general, it would be nice, in order to further Europeanize “Red October,” to send the Cerberus to Tartarus, where they, in fact, belong, to boycott local bars until they reduce prices to the “Crisis of the Genre” or to “Jean-Jacques,” and to announce the gender -the islands are a pedestrian zone (there’s nowhere to go there anyway), in place of parking lots and driveways, make paths and public gardens, and ice skating rinks in winter, put terraces on the pedestrian embankment in summer, set up a park in front of the Dome instead of a parking lot, and guests of Dozhd and Strelka will have a great time walk across the bridge. We will still try not to let “Red October” be spoiled, so let’s make a real Europe out of it on this occasion.

When there is no money