Back to (Russian) Reality

I made it back to Moscow.

I left my mum's house Monday, at 9:30 Winnipeg time and arrived at my flat in Moscow around Tuesday 8:00pm local time. A 25 1/2 hour journey, 1 1/2 of those devoted to sleep.

If you think it was uneventful you know little about me, little about air travel and damn near nothing about Moscow.

What did I do with a whole day's worth of waking hours? Here's a rough breakdown:


-14h 45 minutes in the air (Winnipeg -Toronto-Montreal-Brussels-Moscow
-3h by car to and from airports
-2h clearing various security and customs checkpoints
-2.5h waiting on tarmacs after scheduled takeoff, because airline scheduling personnel are sadists
-1 h eating airport sushi because I'm a masochist
-1h searching for free wifi in airports (you win this round, Pearson Intl)
-1/2h talking to an insanely flirty Romanian waitress (you also win this round, Pearson Intl)
-1 1/2h watching Hot Tub Time Machine (I recommend this)
-2 1/2h watching Sex and the City II: Carrie Somehow Manages to Insult the Middle East with Shoes (I do not recommend this)
-Some 7 hours listening to my iPod, staring at strangers, and willing their children to shut up
-However long it took to partially finish 47 crossword puzzles (I also discovered that when you are hopped up on daytime cold meds, you think you are awesome at crossword puzzles. You are not. All your answers are wrong, and the stupid puzzles are unfair, anyway)
-1/2h watching Russians try to cheat the laws of physics to into amending the space restrictions of overhead compartments to accommodate the insane Russian love of all things duty-free


But after 22 hours I landed in Russia. And we are in the home stretch now, right?

Ha.

I have to say, getting through customs is easy. Way too easy. In my jet-lagged, cold-pilled, free-mini-bottles-of-wine state I have filled out all my entry documents with 2011, promising an exit date of 2012--a full year after my Russian visa expires. My border guard takes one look at my documents, one look at me and stamps my paperwork through, laughing.

So much for international security.

But all the better for me beause now I can get my luggage. Well, half of it. The very friendly (?!) Sheremetyevo airport personnel inform me that one of my suitcases is still in Brussels, and will be delivered to my home the next day. This being the suitcase with the smuggled peanut butter, I am understandably disappointed, but too tired to care. I do hate Belgium now, as much as anyone can hate a country best-known for its waffles and lace, but it's just time to get home already.

I make a quick beeline through customs where 3 completely unrelated people are trying to check through either melons or squash (what?) and nobody looks at me twice. Then to the airport doors where I argue with a few taxi drivers until I find one who will accept my price. I head to a car with the one who begins to freak out because I'm wheeling my own luggage. That's right! I've been away a little too long to remember this particular awesomely sexist perk of Russian alpha-maleness, and I gladly give him my bags.

"The traffic is terrible" he tells me as we climb in. I shrug. I've got a fixed rate and a comfy back seat--bring on the Moscow rush hour. It'll be the easiest thing I've done all day.

As we pull out of the Sheremetyevo lot, the dashboard starts beeping--Cabbie isn't wearing his seatbelt. His response to this situation is to complain about the noise and turn up the radio to drown it out. Three months ago, this probably wouldn't have fazed me, but I've been in the West for a whole season, land of worrying and caution and believing that the rules pertain to you. I've forgotten where I am. Hey, Putin was recently photographed on vacation killing whales, with a crossbow in a rubber raft. So yeah. Fuck seatbelts.

Five minutes into the drive and over the upbeat blare of 1980's britpop I hear a groan and the most polite Russian curse words this cabbie can muster. I look out the windshield. Traffic is backed up. Not Canada, "this might take an hour" sort of backed up. Moscow backed up. Here's an example of the worst this city has to offer:

And it's like this, but on the highway. Standstill for what looks to be kilometres. There are more cars on this one stretch of road than are on every street combined in a Winnipeg rush hour. I'm prone to exaggeration, I know, but not this time. This is a three or four hour traffic jam if I've ever seen one.

We wait patiently for ten motionless minutes. But there's a fixed rate at stake here, and Cabbie's having none of it. He pulls onto the shoulder of the road where traffic is at least moving--bumper-to-bumper at a slow crawl, but moving, nonetheless. Yet even that only works for so long and when the shoulder of the highway comes to its own standstill, more heroic efforts must be made. Without a word to me, Cabbie pulls off the highway into a ditch and proceeds to drive in it the length of the road for at least a full kilometre, offering only "You can't be expected to use roads in traffic like this." Just like that. Like: "You must use an umbrella when it rains." "You must sleep if you are sleepy." "If the roads are full, you must drive in the ditch." Common sense, right? When after about a kilometre there's no more ditch to be had, we pull back onto the main road. I clap heartily, because bloody hell, well-done, man. And he's pretty proud of himself.

Our celebration is cut short as something rattle-bangs under the car. We pull into a gas station where Cabbie gets out, leans under the car and--I swear to god--rips out the offending piece of machinery with his bare hands. Then we get gas and it's back to the highway. We painstakingly crawl through another 15-20 minutes of traffic, Cabbie shaking his head and saying "Moskva, Moskva, Moskva" (I imagine for my benefit) until we reach the MKAD.

And this is his chance to make up for lost time. To make up for it at 125km per hour. Picking and weaving through the still-heavy traffic, we approach speeds I last felt on the airport runway. Of course this, thinks Cabbie, is an excellent time to chat.

"Where are you from?" he predictably asks.
"Canada. But I live in Moscow."
"Canada?! Beautiful! Beautiful place. Where is Canada? It's in Germany, right? You speak German?"

Um.

Now I ask you: is there a good, honest response to this question when this man is driving at the speed of death and has already demonstrated that he may in fact be capable of tearing metal with his bare hands? No, there isn't. The passenger in me warns the teacher in me to shut the hell up.
"Um. I speak English."
"Aha. England. Canada's in England*. Alright." We zip past a semi so fast I can't even read the side.
"Mmhmmm. England."


We reach my block two hours after we left the airport. I tell him he can let me out on the road, where one of my neighbors is ineplicably walking a pig on a leash, but he insists on driving me to the door. Seeing as how I haven't really slept in more than a day, am still full of cold pills, and am not entirely sure that the pig was not a hallucination, I decide to let him, and direct him to the guard house.

He talks to security and tells them he's dropping me off from the airport, that I live here. One security guard peers through the windows.

"Yeah, okay," he says, signalling that the gate be lifted, "Yeah, she's ours."

Yes. Yes, I am. I belong here. I made it. I'm home. Finally. Yes, I am one of yours.

"It's okay." the first guard relays to the second "It's Lydia."

Whatever. I'll take it.





*I'd like to point out, for the record, that Cabbie's knowledge of international geography is in NO WAY representative of the average Russian's knowledge of international geography. This man is a special case. In every way.

Holding my Breath for Moscow...

Some paperwork hiccups have me re-entering Russia at least a week later than I'd originally planned. While an 11 week vacation sounds great, these days I'm just missing my adopted hometown. The chaos, the quirkiness, the insistence on dill as a food group... I love a hot Moscow summer, drinking (usually) cold kiosk beer on the edge of a fountain, while a busking band covers everything from Joplin to Nirvana to Gogol Bordello.

But this is one summer that I'm missing nothing. As the fires rage on outside the Moscow, the capital is smothered. Word is, it will have moved on in two weeks. I'm hoping the same can be said for me, by then.

Yeah, Okay, I'm a Sh*tty Blogger

It's been nearly a year since I last wrote.
But in my defense, it was a busy year.

In September I got a brand new always-has-water flat in the Yugo Zapadnaya neighborhood, renting from an amazing client. For the first time since I got to Moscow, I can really stretch out. I have three rooms to myself. Myshka has a whole room just for his litter box. No joke.

In October I got very sick, got a Russian specialist, and learned all about paid healthcare. Yep--it's just as horrible and elitist as you imagine. Luckily the Limey was there to take care of me.

But in December the Limey had to go back to England, where I visited him for the New Year's holidays. England twice in six months, and no home for two years...I know, I know...

It was worth the visit, because in February the Limey moved again, this time all the way to Japan (follow him here). He'd always had a yen for all things Japanese (God I hate myself) so off he went, but not before popping into Moscow for a visit. On this particular visit he and I got into a massive row about the directions to a Japanese restaurant. This argument was quite quickly ended when the Limey proposed. Marriage, that is. We're planning a wedding for next summer in Gimli Manitoba. Pardon me for not using exclamation points, but I don't do that.

At the beginning of, March I spent two boring weeks in gorgeous Kiev, admiring the friendliness and Slavic good-looks of the locals, and waiting for my workvisa to get processed. Seeing as how I spent most of that two weeks on a bottom bunk with a computer and a German almost constantly snoring one bed over, you'd think that would have been an excellent time to start blogging again, but there you totally underestimate my laziness.

At the end of March, you no doubt heard about the rush-hour metro bombings. I don't know what to say but that that was a quiet, quiet day in Moscow. The sadness was so palpable in the streets, you felt you were breathing it. Piles of roses in the stations were chest high for weeks. But apart from that, you wouldn't know anything had happened. Russians are not people to be shaken easily, or scared into their homes. Life in Moscow carried on, undisturbed by those who wanted nothing more than to disturb everyone.

In May, my dear Katie came for a visit, and she enjoyed all that a world class city like Moscow has to offer:


It was an amazing time though, and a chance to do all the touristy stuff I forget to do. If you know her, ask her to tell you the story about being forced into line to see Lenin's mummy. It's a good one.

Then In June, I managed to finally get home, where I am now. So seeing as how I'm in my mother's basement right now, all Moscow news I have to offer is second hand.

And apparently, I picked a good summer to be gone. Moscow is blisteringly hot and blanketed in smog.It started with and insane heat wave, which led to drought, and tragedy and now there are fires, leading to more tragedy.

So if there was ever a time to take off, this is it.


I'll leave you with a somewhat disturbing video of an all-too common fire in the Russian countryside:

Just When You Think Muscovites Can't Surprise You Anymore...

So I was having a bit of a rough day.

Landlord issues, basically, and finding an apartment in Mosow is no fun, no fun... and I've got two major seminars to prepare that I need to concentrate on, and a client list that is making my headache just to fit them all in. Nothing dreadful, but enough to make you a little crazy.

So I head outside, having been stuck in the flat all day, to work on a park bench, have a beer, get away from typing, and generally clear my head by immersing myself in the fascinating world of accent reduction. Then, out of nowhere, the man on the bench next to me offers some of his pistachios. Well, actually, he gives me a bag, and a bag of cashews, and won't take no for an answer.

I keep working.

Then the man uncaps a beer, and hands it to me, and--again--won't take no for an answer.

Well, spasiba, stranger. You have no idea.

He then strikes up a conversation, tells me where he works, listens to my apartment woes, talks about how hard it is to move to Moscow, and exchanges passports for curious perusal....and the whole time keeps offering me random things from his grocery bag.

In short? This is what I came home with:

Chocolate, two beer (consumed on site), a package of cashews, a package of pistachios, cigarettes, sour cream, and a kilo and a half of beef sausage. The kitten was already mine.

And if you are wondering, no, no I don't think this is as per usual.

And I thought nothing here could throw me anymore...

Some Fun with Translation

Sometimes, rather than translate the word from English to Russian, marketing dapartments find it cooler to just transliterate the English.

So imagine, for example, a cleaning product on the shelves back home called "CAPTAIN CHIESTY" (it means "clean" in Russian). Meaningless, maybe, but harmless.

Now imagine if someone misheard that original vowel? Why, you could end up with "CAPTAIN CHESTY"! Although come to think of it, that is an undeniably awesome product name. Who wouldn't want Captain Chesty scrubbing things vigerously? Think of the men who would finally buy cleaning product!

Kinda puts those Molly Maid ads to shame, eh?

---

Well this does sometimes happen. And while "Captain Chesty" would be an obviously rad accident, I'm not sure the same goes for this one:

Since this is not a box of very questionable condoms, I'll assume they were going for "Pizza Cook" here.

Yeah, no, they didn't quite make it.

Dude, I Don't Even Know What the Question Means

I set up a bank account in Moscow, finally.
My favourite question on the application?

'Are You a "politically exposed person" or a relative of a "politically exposed person"?'

Uhh...What the what now?!

I like how they even put it in quotes, basically admitting that this is a deliberately-vague-because-it's-sketchy question. I don't even know what it means exactly, but I'm willing to bet you don't want to check "yes." Of course it took everything in me to keep from doing just that-- like when you cross the border and they ask you if you have anything to declare, and you're dying to say "war".

Anyhow, if any Moscow robbers are reading this (of course they are) there is no longer a ridiculous stash of rubles in my sock drawer. And that's why you don't procrastinate.

Vacation is OVAH!

For me and all the kids accross Russia.

Today is actually considered a holiday in Russia, The Day of Knowledge.
It is the day colleges, universities, and other schools open for the year. The kids are dressed in their best clothes, carrying flowers and gifts for thir teacher---it's pretty damn adorable. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get any pictures of my own, since most parents are surprisingly uncool with foreign strangers snapping candid photos of their children going to school. Go figure.

But I do have a video that I didn't make for you. Although whether this was taken by kidnappers posing as a suspiciously teamed British/American news crew, I can't say for sure.

Enjoy. And to all the people in my life going back to achool, or going back to work in a school (Anna, Jay, my Mum and loverly ladies in the River East offices...ME!) Welcome Back!

From a Canadian in England from Russia with Love

'ello all.

As usual, I'm apologising for being absent once again, but I don't get letters from ANY of you while you are on vacation, so suck it. (except Anna. She writes letters. Sorry Anna.)

Anywhining, I'm in Limeyland with the Limey from July 25-August 11. And can honestly say I needed it. You stay in a city as big as Moscow long enough, and you start to forget what nature really looks like. Of course this is no nature I ever knew. Growing up on the Canadian prairie, you read your little nusery rhyme and fairy tale books, and see rolling green hills, vines climbing everything, cliff faces, bright flowers everywhere, heavy windswept trees, maybe even a few castles and while everything is vaguely familiar, it might as well be Mars for as much as it resembles southern Manitoba.

But it's just all based on southern England. So for me, what is "just like Mary's Quite Contrary's garden" is, for the Limey, "the front yard." That ivy-covered single lane "straight out of Robin Hood?" That's the "a shortcut." And the quaint, colourful townhouses winding up cobbled, hilly lanes at impossible angles? Well, there "should be a post (office) somewhere around here, shouldn't there?"

But he's loving being home and I'm loving a change in scenery. Not to mention hearing "thank-you" from shopkeepers and seeing smiling strangers again. Though believe it or not it actually took getting used to. In Moscow, the British stewardess welcomed us onto the plane with a big smile and a "Good morning-How are you?", and I blankly stared at her for what must have been a full 10 seconds wondering her prioblem was, before remembering that that used to be normal for me once up on a time. Funny what you get used to...

From London we bussed to Wales, to the capital Cardiff, where they shut down the main road on Saturday nights to accomodate all the people out partying. True story. Between that and the beautiful scenery (and our great hosts, Tom, Clare, and the puppies) I can't say enough good things about it.

We are now in Cornwall with his folks, where we attended a family wedding, and are now just chilling out, doing Britishy things. I hope to learn to roll a hoop down a country lane with a stick and get in a pub fight, since so far as I know, that is what the English do. And I'm learning a lot about England, which isn't saying much since until about a month ago I didn't know Nottingham and Locksley were real places. No joke.

The Limey also took me to a pub that used to be a hangout for real live pirates, The Jamaica Inn. What is (maybe) the only hotel in Bodmin filled with the ghosts of swashbucklers, smugglers, whores, and Daphne DuMaurier characters. I guess he knows my love of all things dark, seedy, and yet still educational...

And my mum sent an e-mail about renewing my health insurance. Timely since in just two weeks I have ingested clotted cream, black pudding, Cornish pasties, an array of plain/pastry coated/bacon-wrapped sausages, Yorkshire pudding, Welsh rarebit, and an unholy volume of pints and chips (there, Limey, I finally didn't call them fries.) Expatriate health insurance covers triple bypass surgery, right?...

Do You Guys Have These Yet?

Mango Bounty Bars.

If not, I highly reccomend that you write to your nearest snack-food distributor and demand some.

And I reserve the right to extra calories, because my new apartment--great as it is-- requires a 20 minute walk to the metro.

For anyone doing the math, that's about an extra 80 minutes of walking every day. And still more convenient than my old place.

Think of me next time you want to complain about parking at the end of the mall lot...

Also new and delicious in Russia? The pics of the Portage visit, including St Petersburg. As soon as she sends them to me. Ahem, Portage...

Well, My Luck Had Nowhere to Go but UP

My internet is back!
My hot water is back!
My vacation is back on!
I've gotten a lot of really good new clients and my fall roster scedule is filling up!
My mum sent liquorice allsorts from Canada!
And computer that seemed broken has mysteriously healed itself!
Well, except for the ctrl and shift keys on the left. But I am NOW the only person in the world who uses the ctrl and shift keys on the right, which is kinda cool in the way that Dennis is kinda cool for being the "Beeper King" on 30 Rock.

So I guess things are pretty back to normal.
Right?

*knocks tabletop and waits for it to collapse...*

Like KBilly's Super Sounds of the Seventies, "The Hits Just Keep on Coming"*

On Saturday, I got locked out of my apartment. I had left my keys in the pocket of my jacket at The Limey's house when we went there to use a hot shower (current estimated date of hot water-return? July eighth.) So I was locked out for a whole day while Portage went to get her registration completed (four days late, but who cares? Not the Russian authorites, apparently).
I realise I forgot my keys when I am already at my home metro station, and TL isn't even home to pass them off if I did want to trek 40 minutes back.

I decide to wait out Portage and her spare set of keys, although knowing Russian registration to be what it is, there is no telling how many hours that just might be.

I decide to go into the mobster-looking restaurant a few blocks away I'm always joking about but have never been into. I walk in and...picture it: The place is definitely empty, and decorated with the always-classy cast of Goodfellas in mind (there is a coloured-light covered rockwall complete with an indoor waterfall. No lie.) And only one occupied table, seating no fewer than ten men in silk suits, eating a big meal and drinking vodka. They all turn to look "Come sit down! Have a drink!" They shout accross the dancefloor (of course there's a dancefloor). I mumble something completely incoherent, do a stilettoed about-face, and haul ass out of there. Even I'm not that up for adventure.

Okay, so accross the park meridian, to the other side of the double lane street to a diner I once noticed. On my way there, a guy slows his car to eyeball me and offer me a ride. Not quite so weird in Russia, but still...weird. I shake my head and keep walking but he keeps calling out to me. Weird guy behind me, I make it to the diner, climb the steps, and notice the sign on the heavy wooden door: "Closed Saturdays."
Wha...?

Tired of walking, tired of heat, I park my but on the steps for a few seconds. As I stand to leave, who comes running accross the parking lot but weird dude, waving a set of keys?! Oh it's his restaurant? You don't say? And he's happy to let me in and make me something to eat? Super...

Thanks but no, and I'm off walking again. Four minutes down the road, and a car pulls up next to me. Now, you know who this is. He drives slowly next to now stony and completely unresponsive me as I walk, urging me to meet him somewhere for a coffe, for a talk, etc. Then, true story, he pulls up half onto the sidewalk still imploring me for a date, for my phone number, for whatever.
"Miss!" he says "Please, don't be afraid to come out with me! Don't be afraid! I'm telling you, I'm normal!"

Dude. You are driving on the sidewalk to get the attention of some girl you don't know and who doesn't want to know you. You. Are. Not. Normal.

As Portage later put it, if you have to say you're normal, obviously, something suggests you are not...

I made it to the short cut, and hung out in the (non-street facing) park by my flat until Portage got back (mercifully quickly)

Some other highlights of my week?
- My home internet access is gone (mysteriously disappeared, really)
- I had a rather expensive class cancellation
- The metre in my old apartment was "misread." For nine months. That's gonna cost us.
- My summer vacation is cancelled
- Lost my sunglasses again
- The Limey is set to leave for Japan...



I am thisclose to some sort of animal sacrifice, I swear to
whatever god can get me out of this bad run...

Some good stuff has been going down too. As soon as Portage uploads her pics, you'll know all about them.
Until then, it's my blog and I reserve the right to sulk.





*If you don't get that reference: it's Resevoir Dogs. And I pity you.

Day 7 Without a Shower

Well, sort of. Portage and I both slept at the Limey's place, just so we could shower there Saturday morning, and Grisha got himself a shower at his dacha. That's right, we are now heading to the cabin for improved hygeine round this joint.

Better still, Portage and I attempted to go to a banya (pool/sauna/bathhouse) on Sunday. We waited by the front desk, while five men went a head, gawping and asking us if we wanted to steam with them. I gave them my very best "bitch, please" side eye, and waited for them to go up the stairs.

Then the women at the front desk informs us that this entrance is for men only.
So Russian dudes, if you are reading this (of course you are!) I recant my glare of death.
This time only.

7 days to go...

A Taste of Russian Organisation

Portage needs to get registered. Just so that the Russian government knows she is really here. Or knows she is real. Or knows that she will jump through hoops of red tape just to be here. Something like that.

When we tried to register in Petersburg, the address given by the official website turned out to be a ver dodgy joint hidden in a courtyard, blocked from the street by an arch, and without a number or sign on the door. (fun fact: you can get your visa registered and buy crack cocaine in one convenient stop!)

We were really proud to finally find it, but as it turns out, that particular office doesn't register foreign passports. We never did find the right place.

So, using the "three business days in a given city" rule, we figured it would be okay to register her in Moscow. Which she went to do today with my frind Vicky, who has much better Russian than I do.

I just got a call from her. They closed the office three hours early. Because....just because.

Welcome Portage. Welcome.

Update: Cold Showers Still Awful

Chose to wear a hat in class rather than soak my head in cold water this morning. Not super-appropriate for the teacher, but 7am+cold shower= heeeeeell no.

12 days to go...

(House) Guest Blog:by Portage Pt1

Larissa has asked me, Portage, to post some thoughts on my trip. I have never blogged before and am not a writer so please do not expect the wit and style of Larissa.

Here are some random thoughts and observations that from Russia. Yesterday I went for a toliet paper run and to get some groceries. The little super market I went to had a full aisle devoted to beer, every type of beer you could possibly imagine but no toliet paper. How am I to consume all these beer without toliet paper? Larissa's answer to this question: bushes.

Also no one lines up properly for things here; there are no clearly defined rows and it totally drives me crazy. Rather people converge from the sides and try to get ahead of you. Throwing elbows is essential to keeping your spot. At Tsarkoe Selo this middle aged women literally pushed Larissa out of line and tried to elbow me out, so she was not lieing when she said babushaka's can be deceptive.

Vice is very cheap here. Alcohol and smokes are ridiculous cheap. You can get a bottle of champagne in a restaurant for about $9. We saw a man walking around with a sandwich board sign advertising porn for $2, so presumably sex is too.

A fun game to play while you are sipping champagne or downing shots of vodka (only tourists drink vodka with mix) is: why is she with him? You will see these gorgeous women with these guys with rat tails. It just begs the question why? Well really two questions: why are they together and why would he consciously tell the barber to live a few wisps of long hair in the back?

Bathing, Sovietsky Style

Portage arrived in Moscow (having stayed a day later in Piter) She had a rough train ride after a lot of walking and just wanted a bath.

No problem.

It just took ten pots of boiling water.

On four burners.

With three pots.

We're calling it a "hand-drawn bath." Cuz it sounds classy. So enjoy your running hot water, commonfolk.

And place your bets now on how long before we're sneaking into the car wash.

13 days to go...

Larissa And the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I'm sure I just broke at least a dozen copywrite and character infringement laws, but whatever. Bring it on. Just try me.

Cuz I'm having one of those days. Nothing really bad, but just enouogh of the little things...

See, I had to get back from my awesome vacation in Saint Petersburg, but since I had to work on Wednesday, I left Tuesday night, while Portage got to stay the extra day and go to Peterhoff. As I wait for my train to board, I get a message from my student cancelling the class I was racing to make.

!!%$fg&8?fgrdd/dh*?!!!

Calmly I board the train to find out that not only do I have a top bunk (it sounds not bad but proves to be considerably worse when you step on people to get to your bed, which has head clearance of...nothing. You may partially incline only slightly the whole ride. All nine hours). I could deal though, I'm limber enough (thank-you yoga) to make it in and out without a boost step and zero clearance.

But lemme give ou an idea: since I don't have a photo of my own I stole one. Don't worry: I used my own special brand of computer wizardry to ensure that I cannot be held liable:

So it's something like this train to wherever this completely unidentifiable man* is going, but those bottom two levels are at least two feet higher. And there is no ladder.

Also, ours was the cubby by the bathroom and the light, so my usually womb-like train sleep was interupted at least every ten minutes by a slamming door, highlighted by a fluorescent light...but hey, after at least 5 days of crossing two cities on foot, my body WAS just glad to lie down. (Woulda been thismuch better if I could have stretched out totally, but hey...)

So off the train. I wait for the people below me to take their sweet-ass time to clear the area, then lower myself to the floor so I can get my luggage out from under their beds.

Then it's off to the metro. Which will open in just forty minutes! Ever wait underground, with luggage, while a crown of equally be-suitcased passengers wait for doors to unlock? If it sounds kind of irritating, it was (unless you were the dude passed out in one of the metro doorways--perfectly serene, he was. Some people just know how to live.)

So we get in, me and my wheely suitcase and there is a LOT more walking and a lot more stairs, up an escalator, down some stairs, around a long, gilded hallway, down an escalator, and up two flights of stairs. Down two more flights of stairs, I allow my suitcase to bump down the steps behind me, and find a bench so that I can get back into Zelda for at least the third read of my life.

But--what is that---I smell---it's five am, and even in Moscow it can't be- (sniffsniff)--beer?!

(quick look around)

Now who would be spil--

Aw crap.

So that beer I had bought but never drank, so I just tossed it in my suitcase popped on that last stairwell, leaving a trail of suds that leads to a puddle in which I am now standing. Reeking, really.

Well at least now everyone else's morning will suck a little too, now.

<<>>

I get home and after 5 nights that never get dark, 4 evenings in a hostel, a 3rd of my luggage coated in Baltika, and 2 nights sleeping on a train, all I really want is one good shower.

But first I have to sort out the beer-made laundry.

Kira and Grisha are still asleep, but Koshka comes out to greet me. No Muishka, though...strange. I spend an hour and a half hunting for Muishka while my laundry whirs, wondering if he died while I was on the trip. Like were they waiting to tell me until I got home? Maybe they're just gonna be all like "What Muishka? What's that?" to make me think I'm crazy! Or maybe I AM crazy and there never was a Muishka to begin with!

But when they do wake they swear they don't know where he is. A quick look out the balcony finds my kitten stranded on the top of the entrance awning (four stories down!)

So I run to the second floor stairwell, crawl up the mailboxes mounted on the wall and through the ceiling-high window (thank you again, yoga) and retrieve my howling, sobbing, scratched up, pissed off, but otherwise fine kitten.

Muishka: You got eight left, dude. Eight.

I go back to the laundry, only to find out that a purple t-shirt that I have washed at least a dozen times in the past has coloured all my laundry--including all my nude-shade lingerie, a nose-crinkling, gym-sock purple. I give up already.

But at least I really earned that shower.

Oh, except that as of today, we will have NO HOT WATER for the next two weeks.

Now I know I'm prone to reckless and occasionally chaotic behaviour, but I don't specifically remember any broken mirrors, no black cats, no walking under ladders, no spilling salt, and no desecrating of Indian burial grounds, of late.

If anyone has an idea how I may have displeased the gods, shout it out.

*Trust me, I totally did this dude a favour

One of my Students Taught Me a Russian Joke for You:

Knock Knock



Who's there?



A horse in a coat!






That's it. That's the joke.


Actually, it's pretty cute in Russian.


Puns work not even a little in translation, as it turns out.

It's a Bit of a Mixed Impression, Here

I can't say enough about the neighbourhood of my new apartment. It's it's got a lot of parks. And families. And yes, at least one "Satriole's-was-a-less-conspicuous-front-for-the-mob"-type restaurant, but then it has this:

!
And these:

!!

And this:

!!!

All within walking distance of my flat!

So can someone please explain the large piles of--um--horse poop that I see a several times every day?

Because I have yet to see a single horse in the neighbourhood...

I'll spare you a pic but it just doesn't jive with the surroundings... but then, Russia can be that way...

Things are Arriving in Moscow

Kira got a care package from her mum. And it had a little something for me in it.

Don't be perverts. I use Vaseline on my lips and my skin as moisturizer. I use it as makeup remover. And I use it to polish shoes.

Tragically, I haven't been able to find any since I got here. I mean, I've looked in what you'd think would be all the "usual" places: pharmacies, convenience stores, supermarkets, and "everything for home." (Yes, that is a type of store, like "supermarket" or "candy store" , because there are a million and they are all called by that and no other name.)

And I I did try to ask some students. All I would get is giggles at the word "Vaseline." They knew what it was, but seemed to find it only dirty. It got to that by the fourth or fifth student I asked, I would've been less embarassed asking them where I could find a hooker or some crack.

Ah well. Kira must've said something to he mother, and God-bless overseas mums, because I am once again back in Vaseline.

Oh really now...what did I tell you about the dirty?

Now speaking of things coming to Russia for me: three--count'em three days til Portage visits!

Getting excited...

My Bad

I am a bad, bad, uninformative Expatella.

Some excuses for not writing? Two going-away parties, a birthday, a lost cellphone being held for ransom by a pissy gypsy-cab driver, and Gerard Butler won't stop harassing me with his love*.

And I MOVED! Closer to downtown, a bigger bedroom, regular internet access, nine fewer teapots, and a third flatmate added to the mix.

All of this will be explained.






*I may have just watched 300 for the fifteenth time. (Sixteenth time for that scene where he's naked.)