I Know I've Been MIA

But don't worry--I have not been abducted by gypsies, held by the government, or lost in the metro (again.)


I'm just sick.
Like, really sick. Chest cold, up all night coughing, chills, sweating, can’t quite sleep, can’t quite stay awake--the whole thing. And like every good 27 year old woman, I am miserable and I want my mommy. I want someone to lie next to me, and rub my forehead and chest, and keep the water boiling for soup and tea. But there’s no one here to do that.
I've even been cancelling classes. So I’ve been sleeping all day, taking really hot steamy showers, drinking tea, and rubbing vodka on my chest and neck--the people here swear by it. Of course vodka is the solution for everything out here. Can't sleep? Drink some vodka. Stain won't come out? Use some vodka. Cant finish that corner of the Sudoku? Vodka, comrade--vodka.


So of course, if your chest feels bad, rubbing vodka on it is the logical Russian tactic. And, honestly, it really does help relax the chest a little. But it’s probably just the fumes. So if I run out of vodka, I’ll switch to nail polish remover. Or draw on my chest with permanent markers.

Slava says to me, "If you are to spend all the day in bed, you should kjust drink a lot of the vodka."

"Why?" I ask, "This will help the congestion?"

"Well, no. But you will feel better. And then you won't care about staying in the bed all day."

Bear in mind that Slava never, never drinks casually. He was put half in the bag by two glasses of wine at a staff dinner. So you've gotta love that piece of advice.

The worst part is that three short days of illness and I’m already stir crazy. Just staring hour-in, hour-out, at these insanely busy Russian sheets which say “Happy” on them, which is ironic because I am not. Not today. Why do they have to say that? Are they encouraging me to be happy? Reminding me that I should be? And since the pillowcases are shaped for massive Russian bed-pillows, why is it even in English?



Right now--and I know this sounds one padded room short of crazy--it feels like my sheets are mocking me.



Without internet in my apartment and absolutely no energy to leave, I’ve been reading Russia by Jonathan Dimbleby. And midway through, it occurs to me--I am closer to Chechnya than I am to home. I am closer to fucking China than I am to home. That thought is exhausting, when your aching, wrapped in sheets that would put the Partridge Family into a diabetic coma, and up all night with no one around to make you feel better…



At least the moon is pretty:

There are Some Creative Ways to Make Yourself Understood.

I discovered last night that there are some very creative ways to cross the language barrier.

As Kira and I exited the metro, we were approached by a guy holding flowers. He was speaking a mile a minute, and looking at us intently, holding out a bouquet of pretty purple flowers. Thinking that he was trying to sell them (there are lots of flower vendors at the station) Kira politely said no, and shook her head. He insisted with his speech, looking us both in the eye, and continuing.

We tell him in Russian that we speak only English.

He hesitates. "English?" We nod. "My name is Sergei." he pronounces clearly, but anxiously.

"Hi Sergei." I offer, and he seems relieved by some level of clarity.

I noticed that this situation was not normal. He was way too young to be a flower vendor, too cute, too well-dressed. Plus, the vendors don't usually chase you out of the station.

Sweetly, but somewhat dumbly, he continues to try more Russian words on us, completely in vain.

"Are you selling the flowers?" I finally ask in English, because I really don't think that he is.

"Nyet, nyet!" he says emphatically. "Pliz, pliz." he repeats, thrusting the flowers into my arms.

"Thank you." I say, unsure as to whether he is just giving us the flowers. I intend to try to take them though--the flowers in our kitchen are getting that weird dead-flower smell, and they're kind of expensive to replace. This would be a pretty sweet situation.

"Where from?" he asks, and we tell him Canada. Sergei gets excited and starts saying something about Arnold Schwartzenegger.

"No, no," I tell him, "That's California. We're from CahNAHdah." I say, trying it with a Russian accent. He thinks this is wonderful news, although I'm not sure why exactly; his enthusiastic endorsement of Canada is coming in a steady stream of Russian.

He pauses, smiles, and mimics writing on his hand, so I fish out a pen and notebook and hand it to him. He writes down his name and phone number, making the international sign for "phone," holding his hand to his head like a phone, with a questioning look on his face.

"Pozhalsta. Zaveet," he says to us, and walks off with his friend.

It was actually sweet. And not pervy. I mean, we can't call him, because the phone was designed to let two people speak to one another from distant locations, and we were totally incapable of speaking to one another when we were a foot and a half apart. But the man made his point with some flowers.

And makes it the official first time that a man has ever bought me flowers as a romantic gesture.

Not a bad story, Sergei. Thank you.

I Think I Am Tripping Out

I have to tell someone:
Sitting in a Vietnamese restaurant using the WIFI, and watching this video of kittens playing with string that was sent to me (oh shut up).
Then, over the PA comes "What a Wonderful World" of all random songs.
Okay...now "If you're going to San Francisco" is playing, and some Russian guy is singing along but he clearly only knows it phonetically...
Whatinthenameofgawd is in the vodka here?! I feel like I'm hallucinating...

I Ordered a Vodka...

...after a very late lunch and got an utterly shocked look from the waitress. I think I even heard a gasp.
I don't know what that's about. People drink beer on the metro before noon, here. Surely, at 4pm, following a meal, on a Saturday, I can have a drink? Maybe it's a hard-liquor thing?

Sensational vodka, though.

Things they Didn't Teach You in Science Class

So the great mystery of the instant coffee has been solved. No, the Sankacorp does not have WMDs pointed at Russia. No no...it`s all about nutrition:

This Morning...
“So what it with all the instant coffee?” I ask my student as she brings me a hot cup of amazing French brew, “Why do so many other offices have instant?”
“Ah,” she says to me, “It is for the health. This instant way, it is not so bad for the nutrition.”
“Really?” I ask. “I’ve never heard that before.”
“Yes, yes,” she says, “It is scientific fact.”
She considers the coffee for a second. “Also, we did not have other coffee in Soviet times. It all was instant. So we are just used to it this way.”

Aha. But social conditioning is not the most important reason--no no--that would be the science.
Now this is an insanely smart woman. Speaker of three languages, head of sales for a major chain of French hotels and hospitality services. She has lived in three different European countries. She’s not just making stuff up. But try as I might to find proof of this “scientific fact,” I cannot.

That is because it is a prime example of what I have come to call Russian “folk-science.“
Want to know what else is “scientific fact?”:

Last Friday Evening...
“They did a study,” says another teacher at our school dinner, “that shows that Russian hairdressers die at a younger age than women who are not hairdressers.”
“Well,” I say, “it could be all the time spent on their feet. And the chemicals.”
“It’s the hair.” One Russian teacher announces, completely ignoring my point. I think she’s joking., so I start to laugh.
“Yes, yes” agrees another. “All the hair cutting…pieces of hair around…you are breathing in other people’s energies too much. That‘s not good for you.”
“That is why you shouldn’t cut your hair short if you are a woman!” says a third teacher, “You might think it’s easier, so you have more time, but then what? Then you are cutting off too much of your energy. Then what can you get done?”
Around the table, amongst Russian teachers, there is a good deal of nodding.
“That is just a fact,” another agrees…

Last Sunday...
On our field trip to Sergeiv Posad, my roommate Kira and I were admiring the huge birch forests. We mention how nice it is to have one right outside our apartment, even in the middle of a massive metropolis. In general, we are impressed with how many trees Moscow has. Slava-the-office-guy tells us that it is in everyone’s best interest to let trees flourish in the city.
“Yeah--it makes for a beautiful landscape,” says Kira.
“Well yes, but no,” says Slava. “The birch trees, thy give off energy. They make you energised. If it is pine trees, then we can cut down, because those take your energy, but birch trees will help your spirit, and you will need less rest.”
“Wow--is that some common Russian folk wisdom?” Kira asks with genuine interest.
Slava looks at us strangely. “No. Is scientific fact,” he says in a cautious and patient tone, as if we had just exclaimed the folksy cuteness of Russia’s belief in gravity.

I guess it’s all just a different way of thinking. And maybe some different definitions of “scientific fact” between cultures.

I Had COFFEE

After our Tuesday blowout, Moscow’s making nice(er).
Yesterday I got to have coffee. Real coffee. I arrived at 5:50 for my 6:15 class at Sovkomflot where I teach Mondays and Wednesdays. Since I was stuck waiting for a bit, they asked if they could get anythig. I jumped at the offer.
You see, I don’t eat out much in restaurants here, there's nothing in the way of takeout coffee shops, and in the schools where I do go the coffee is always instant. I swear, the Sanka company must have incriminating photos of Moscow with an underage hooker, because they own this joint. In a land where caviar is everywhere, the vast majority of the coffee mixes like Kool-Aid. For a former 5-cups a day caffeine junkie, this has not been pleasant.
But Sovkomflot gave me “coffee, with milk” as requested. Which was actually a café latte in a china cup with an real silver spoon, sugar cubes…very hot, very real coffee. You have no idea how happy it made me.
Of course, in retrospect, Sovcomflot is one of the largest energy-shipping companies in the world, so I should have been pissed if I’d gotten Sanka in Styrofoam. But it was a pleasant surprise.
Next week, I’m showing up at 4:30.

We Got In Our First Fight

On Tuesday. Moscow did NOT treat me well. I mean, we’re not breaking up or anything, but we did have our first big argument , and I’m sure we both said and did some things that we wish we could take back. Yeah, it may have made me turn to a Baltika 7 for dinner. And sure, I may have called it a it a “Kafka-esque cesspool.” But it was all in the heat of the moment. It was just one of those days…

8:30 am
A student has rescheduled, moving her time from Friday morning to right now. I haven’t realised it and will probably not make the class, given that I won’t be awake for another hour.
Good head start to the day.

4:00 pm
Where is that McDonalds? I don’t see any golden arches…I’ve been looking around for almost twenty minutes…I need caffeine…Dude, is that a car driving on the sidewalk? He’d better watch out or he’ll run into that car that’s parked on the sidewalk…why can’t I find this McDonalds Kira told me about? She said it was right outside the station…

4:05 pm
Aha. The pink cottagestyle building wedged between two skyscrapers. Of course that’s McDonalds. Yeah.

5:15 pm
After tea and free WiFi I have a 6:30 class at the end of the Filevskaya metro line. I set now out to be sure I have plenty of time to make it. I even skip dinner in lieu of a blackberry pastry from a cart, because I am an excellent employee like that. Hungry, but on time. Little do I know that that blackberry pastry will be the highlight of my evening.

6:15pm
I’ll spare you the details, but I find myself at the end of the Filevskaya line, at an above ground train station in a totally sketch part of town, still two stops from my necessary destination. Yeah, that’s right, the line ends two stops before its final stop. I approach a metro worker:

Me: (holding out my map, pointing at the correct destination, and using my weird English-Russian- Ukrainian one-woman dialect): “Zdees--mozhna zdees? Ya ne znayoo? Ummmm…yeah.”

Metro Worker: “Hm.” (turns away)

Me: (openmouthed stare)

Then in a fit of complete stubbornness, I approach Metro-Lady from the front, and shove my book in front of her.

Me: (pointing) “Zdees! Zdees! You know where it is, ma’am! C’mon, tee znayeesh!”

Suddenly two teenagers take my distraction as an opportunity to jump the turnstile, infuriating Metro-Lady and making her blow a whistle for militsiya that all four of us know will never bother responding. Not wanting to be accused of deliberately misdirecting her attention I take the opportunity to back slowly away and head back underground. Yeah…I can figure this one out on my own.

6:25pm
I’m standing outside, smoking, trying not to get rained on and searching for my student’s number. I locate it and call him to cancel the class, since I am seriously lost in a land of gloomy hostility and subway-ride-theft, a mere two stops before a destination that apparently does not exist. As I wait for Mr. P to pick up the phone, I notice the class schedule. And God bless my inability to read 24 hour time properly, because the class does not start until 7:30 after all. I talk to him briefly and get some truly terrible instructions from him--after all, he is: a) not a great English speaker; and b) too rich to need the metro. Whatever--I just bought myself an hour.

7:15pm
I find the mystery stop. And it wasn’t such a big problem. See, the Arbatsko-Pokrovskaya line turns into the Filevskaya line, but then back into the Arbatsko-Pokrovskaya, while the Filevskaya line becomes an all new line unto itself with two different end points. But if I get on the Arbatsko-Pokrovkaya line early enough then I can ride it through to the point that my map (which may or may not be incorrect) claims ends on the Filevskaya line, but is really Arbatsko-Pokrovskaya.
Can’t believe I didn’t get that the first time.

7:25 pm
After a longish walk in the rain, (made longer by the fact that I am both starving and the only soul in Moscow trying not to step on worms), I make my way into the building and present my passport and the building address.

Receptionist : (Russian words that mean, I can only presume, “You are totally wrong. Stupid.“)

Son of a &!$*#.

I head to the steps outside, nearly soaking wet (my umbrella was one of the things I had to unpack from my luggage at the airport, thankyouverymuch Northwest Airlines) and contemplate smoking my fifth stress-related cigarette of the day. I decide to try one more random person. I pick a Napolean-Dynamitish-looking guy, show him the address, and use my limited Russian to pronounce it as best I can.

Me: “Ulitsa Ossenaya--Gdye? Znayeesh?”

The guy looks at it and shrugs. I prepare to give up. He seems to be in a rush and says something in Russian along the lines of the fact that I should ask the receptionist.

Me: “Oh. Ya nye gavaru po russky.”

Guy: “You want that I can speak English to you?”

Yes!

Me: “Yes!”

Most Awesome Guy In Moscow: “I will ask her. Then I tell you.”

This is the closest I have ever come to (soberly) hugging a stranger. I can’t even imagine how happy my face must have looked to him, and he seems proud to help. Just when Russia pisses you off, it sends something good your way.

7:40 pm
I march into the (correct) office, and present my passport. No problems. I get my swipe key and head up. Everyone in this building has been so sweet to this drenched little Anglophone in their lobby. I make it into the mirrored elevator and try to fix myself up. But Mr P won’t mind that I’m dishevelled-- it’s raining, I’ve been lost for two hours, I’m new here, and he knows all of the above. I’ll smooth it all over with a smile. So I look a little drowned ratt-ish? Whatever. I made it and I’m damn proud.

I knock and open Mr P’s door.

He opens it.

He’s really cute.

And I look like Hell.

Dammit Moscow….

Check and Mate, Expat Guide...

You apparently know what you're talking about.

Because I Have No Idea What the People on the TV are Saying

There is construction work going on outside my window. Literally 24/7 they work on this apartment building-to-be. They live on-site. I don’t know if this is standard in Russia, or anywhere else in the world but in no way is it average in Winnipeg. Especially because I have yet to see a guy on site who is not working his ass off.
As a result of their being outside my window constantly, I find their presence kinda comforting. (Not to mention an excellent landmark for locating my apartment). Furthermore, despite having nine teapots and five different china hutches in the apartment, we have no curtains in my bedroom, so as familiar as I have become with the Moscow Super-Crew, they have no doubt become equally as familiar with me.
Then you can imagine my concern as me and my pansy-assed western mind realised the safety precautions taken at the site. Absolutely none.
Note this guy:

I know picture quality isn’t the greatest, but this guy is leaning backwards, over this:

Using only his hands. And sometimes, the cement-pouring thing gets jammed, so he shakes it by rocking back and forth.
I do not want to see cement-pouring-guy die. I do not.
Steel-girder-welding guy could fall, though. He’s a bit of an ass. At least he is in this imaginary world where I invented personalities for all these guys*.
*sigh*
I need to make some more local friends.

*I’m a rocket scientist/trained assassin there!

I Love A New Relationship

Don’t you just love a new fling in its early stages? The thrill every time you think of them? The little smiles remembering something funny they did that day? The way you take off from home, even on your days off, just to be with them, and stay out way too late because you just don‘t want the night to end? The way you gaze at them adoringly because you just can’t believe that this amazing creature is with you? Everything is new, everything is exciting, and you feel drunk and giddy all the time. The world can't touch you.

Well we’re past the first few meetings, and while things are still occasionally awkward as we try and get used to one another, I think it’s safe to say that our new relationship is really progressing.
Me and Moscow, that is.
Right now we’re in the taking-long-walks-together, “I want to know everything there is to know about you” stage. Its given me a pet name (I’m Loryk, here--the common nickname for Larissa). We’ve even come up with our own secret language: sparse Russian filled in with bits of Ukrainian and English words pronounced with a Russian accent (a remarkably ineffective form of communication, as it turns out).
Oh, we are so right there.
Though we got in our first spat today: a little kerfuffle where I couldn’t get into my office, and someone at the front desk lied about having the office extension number because she’s sick of dealing with me and my English-ness, and she was all excuses and eye rolls, but I can still tell you‘re lying, lady because I know that much Russian, even if I don‘t have the verbiage to back myself up and chew you out, but just you wait ‘til I get my permanent papers for building entry, because I am gonna walk by you everyday and wave it in your face you unhelpful, cantankerous, miserable…
Ahem.
But it was just a little spat, see. Me and Moscow, we’re patching it up. It’s all good. We’re getting some champagne tonight and hanging out with my roomie. By the way, that lovely bottle of Russian Shampanskoi goes for a whopping 5 bucks a bottle around here.
So this relationship could go one of two ways right now--either Moscow will become a serious soul mate of mine, or it will stop returning my calls and start sleeping with my sister. Hopefully the first one.

The Metro Series: Part One: MAYAKOVSKAYA

Since arriving in Moscow, I have developed an unhealthy obsession with the metro. In part, it is because I spend at least an hour a day manoeuvring through its crowded trains, vast halls, and dizzyingly long escalators. But he Moscow metro is not only quick (all trains run every ninety seconds) and clean (for a subway)--it is beautiful. Sounds strange, I know, but the metro stations of Moscow are each impressive and stunning architectural works of art in their own right. In most cities the metro system is functional, at best. But Moscow’s system--the second busiest in the world--is a masterpiece. When the city you live in is more than ten times the size of Paris, and when you have to cross it sometimes three times a day for work (gotta love my Tuesdays), your passage is made all the more worthwhile by the beautiful stations that await you at each stop.
So this series of posts will be my little ode to everyday Russian commuting, and will include a little history and art lesson for those of you who are interested. For those of you who read this blog solely for condom chat, double-entendres, and tales of my incompetence, don’t worry, I’ll still be posting my usual smart-assy thoughts on a regular basis.

The stations are not all fantastically lit, and as a result, the pictures will never do justice to Moscow public transport. But I’ll do my best to capture what I can. When I can’t I’ll use pictures from some real photographers.

To prime you all, a little history lesson on Soviet grandeur I like to entitle:

Why Stalin Probably had a Very Small Penis
Centralised funding meant that Josef Stalin was able to pour nearly unlimited funds into his construction of the Moscow subway system . And he did. While the need for a rapid transit system for Moscow was originally conceived of after the turn of the century, during the reign of Czar Nicholas II, it’s constuction was postponed because of one extremely bloody little revolution, a nagging civil war and a big to-do known as the First World War. But once everybody was done killing each other (publicly), rapid transit was once again a major concern for Moscow’s fast-growing but slow-moving population.
As the often doubted Communist political system was unveiled after the revolution of 1916 it strived to show the world that it was the greatest, most impressive and capable system in existence. The best way to this? Why by building big, expensive, fancy shit, of course. It lets people know who’s boss. But Stalin wanted to prove that everything in Russia was grand, as well as to show that beauty, like money and power (cough, cough) should be evenly distributed amongst this new nation of equals.
And so began the massive undertaking of the Moscow Metro system, for which the construction of a simple station was transformed into the construction of an underground, working man’s palace. Noted artists and architects were brought in to render each station a unique magnum opus, with no central theme other than that of opulence (and Communism--lots of Communism, as you‘ll see.)
The stations finally opened to the public on May 15th, 1935.

STATION ONE:MAYAKOVSKAYA
I picked Mayakovskaya to lead off, not because it is the necessarily known as the greatest station, but because one of my clients claimed that she thought it was the most beautiful. If a Muscovite loves it, it’s a good place to start (note: this theory does not apply to holodets).
Built by soviet architect Alexey Dushkin and opened in 1930, this glamorous station is one of the most well-known in the world for its pre-Stalinist design. Dushkin's art-deco concept is both grand and simplistic, the entire space covered in ornate marble, pink rhondite, stainless steel and glass mosaics. It was inspired and named after poet Vladimir Mayakovsky, due to his descriptions of the Soviet future. Maybe that’s why all the red? (on my camera, it looks brownish, but it is really a bright, intense red).
Mayakovskaya can also lay claim to one more dubious honour--during World War II, when the deepest metro tunnels were used as air-raid shelters, Stalin used to give speeches from the platform of Mayakovskaya. It is still rumoured that this station is one of the few connected to a second, deeper, seret emergency-excavation subway reserved for Russia’s most powerful elite.

Wow, You Really CAN Buy Everything on a Moscow Sidewalk.

Cigarettes. Beer. Underwear. Pastry. Hot corn. And there was that day I almost bought the kitten on my way home.
But today wins the unofficial Random-Shit-You-Can-Buy-on-the-Sidewalk Contest.
Today I saw a guy selling prescriptions on Ulitsiya Tverskaya.
I wonter if "Oxycontin" is pronounced the same in Russian?

Here is a Sentence I Never Thought I'd Say. Ever.

Mc Donald's f*cking rocks.

I came here because word among the expats is that the place has free internet. It does.

And it looks NOTHING like the McD's back home. It's all chrome and wood, paper chandeliers, white granite tables and black-tiled modernism, with flatscreen TVs and deep armchairs. And there fantastic bakery in here. (I promise pics soon--I forgot my upload wire at home)

So I sit down with tea (coffee is, like, four bucks. Damn, I miss coffee.) and opened up my laptop, only to be accosted by a scarf-swaddled babushka:

Babushka: Russian Words (gesturing at my computer)

Me: "Ya nye gavaru pa russky" ("I don't speak Russian")

Of course I said this with enough of an accent and conviction for her to be slightly confused by the statement before she examined the screen.

Babushka: "Angliski?"

Me: (nodding)"Da." (She was right, but I've actually taken to answering every statement made to me in Russian with "da" and a nod as a way of avoiding conflict. I think I once helped someone get on the wrong metro with this technique. But I digress...)

Babushka: "Ooooh! What you call this?" (jabbing at the laptop with her little babushka hand)

Me: "Computer"

Babushka: "NO! Mini-computor"

Me: "Oh! This is a laptop."

Babushka: "Aha! Liptup! Eenternyet?"

Me: "Yes! Internet!"

Babushka: (examining the back of the laptop with interest) "Where eenternyet come from?"

Aw damn. How to explain wireless internet to this woman who is quite possibly old enough to remember the Russian Revolution? And with a language barrier between us, to boot?

I wave my arms in the air:

Me: "Everywhere! It's free in here! It's coming from... Mc Donalds"

I point at the ceiling, which isn't really true or meaningful to the conversation in any way, but what the Hell? She's 85 years old if she's a day-- I could tell her the internet is powered by hamburgers, and she'd likely just nod marvel at technology. So I figure my explaination will suffice.

Babushka: "Free?! Aha! Good good." (she touches my hand in a grandmotherly way) "Good luck to you here. Enjoy Moscow. Welcome. Good luck."

McDonald's Moskva is rad.

In other news, two people asked me for directions today. Russian people. And I gave them directions. Correct directions. In (limited) Russian. I have nothing clever whatsoever to say about this, I'm just gloating about it. Little victories can feel so big sometimes.

I Have a Headache

So instead of formatting the post I had planned, here's a picture of the view from my bedroom window last night. Enjoy. And happy Friday, wherever you are, guys.

Bank Service is Slow and Annoying The Entire World Over

They day after I got into Moscow, I had to convert my cash into Roubles. I mean, I had to because this was the content of my wallet by the time I arrived in Moscow:

This is (clockwise from the bottom left and in the order in which I used it): Canadian dollars, American dollars, British Sterling, Euros, and Roubles.

So I had to bring some order to this mess. If I got yelled at even one more time for trying to buy things with that 2 Pound coin, I was going to come home and live in my mother’s basement, paying for things in hugs for the rest of my life.

So after my first day at the office, I headed out with another expat and a rather surly Russian office helper who spoke zero English in an attempt to get Roubles.

Our first two stops were closed. At three in the afternoon. No real reason, except that this is Russia, and you can close anytime you feel the need to, because you are Russian and this is Russia, and what’s your problem for not getting that? (this same brilliantly lacksidaisical attitude can be found in bus drivers who just stop empty busses in the middle of the road to get out for their break. Why pull over? You’ll just need to get into the middle of the road again, eventually.)

We did find a third place. But it was hard not to spot it with lights blinking like a casino, offering exchange rates on it’s canary-yellow awning. From the street we descended down the worlds narrowest, darkest, creakiest staircase into a little bunker of a room, where a leather-jacketed man and his fur-clad wife were counting their received cash. It was (no joke) at least $10,000 American Dollars. I was beginning to wonder if we had stumbled on to the kind of place that would sneak into my apartment to remove a kidney if I didn’t pay back their “loan”, but when the other expat exchanged cash without broken kneecaps,I decided to give it a go.

I stepped forward and drop my British money into the drawer first:

Money Change Lady: "Shouted phrases that do not include “tea“ coffee“ “monkey“ or any of the other Russian words I currently know"

Me: “Uhhhhhhh”

Money Lady: (long stare) (shoves the metal drawer back at me with a thud)

Russian Office Helper: (absolutely nothing because she is not paying attention in the slightest)

Me: “uhhhhhhh”

So I drop in my American dollars which money lady promptly changes, but only after yelling at me some more for daring to put change in the drawer.

Me: (holding Canadian cash up to the glass and obviously glutton for punishment) “Kanadianski Dollar?”

Money Lady: (big sigh and eye roll, as though I‘m holding up Canadian Tire money) "Nyet."

Apparently “bitchy” is the same in every language.

Next top, Bank Moskva. A bank--perfect. Surely they can handle this.
I drop my British money in the drawer and she changes it like a pro (she is). No problem.

Next, the Canadian money.

I drop it in the slot, and the woman at the bank pulls it out. She stares at it. She stares closely. She giggles. She calls in another woman who examines at the cash and then stares at me as though I’ve handed her Monopoly money. I smile a big stupid smile and wave through the glass (I assume this to be the international sign for “I am not a counterfitter”) After a long Russian conversation and three--yes three--massive binders filled with comparative photographs, she changes my money and smiles at me, a look of intense curiosity on her face. Is she wondering what a Canadian is doing in Moscow? Is she wondering why she hasn’t seen our money before? Is she wondering how someone who waved through four-inch thick bulletproof glass like a lobotomised four-year-old managed to even get a visa? Who knows? Russians are such a mysterious people...

The Day I Met Moscow

So Moscow and I have officially met and begun a relaionship. The The first meeting was such a good blind date, I spent the night...

I landed in Moscow with, amazingly enough, no problems at all. Knowing myself (accident-prone, forgetful, and regularly in my own world) I thoroughly expected to lose my luggage, my documents, my mind, or any combination of the above. But no.
My new boss Tony picked me up at the airport and took me straight to the office. This meant that I immediately got to do some sightseeing, because our building is situated less than five minutes on foot behind this:





This is St Basil’s Cathedral, which I can best describe as Moscow’s Eiffel tower. Unbelieveable in person, truly.


And this:

I dunno what this is yet. But it's pretty. And I get to see it everyday.

In general, the architecture is stunning: impressively massive and colourful. And while the city is dense with buildings, it’s still relatively green in places; the growth of trees surrounding my own building falls somewhere between birch grove and birch forest. But while it’s not exactly the stuff of fairy tales, there is still something surreal about this painted, shadowy urban landscape. The lovechild of an Easter egg and Gotham City--that is Moscow.

I avoided buying much other than cheese, bread (which makes any and all bread back home seem like packing foam), yogurt and fruit. While that sounds wonderfully wholesome and rustic, I assure you that it has less to do with diet, and more to do with the fact that I have zero concept of what things actually cost. I am still in the stage of asking “How much? (skolke stoit?)”, realising “Oh hey-that’s in my wallet!”, and then buying the item. From what I understand, 1000 roubles is approximately 40$, but after 45 hours of travel I did not bother to apply math to any purchases I made on my first evening.
One conversion I did understand: beer. To give you some perspective on what this looks like, I have included a photo. On the left is a one litre can of beer (5.5%, about two dollars). On the right is a litre and a half bottle of beer (7%, about 3 dollars). In the centre is an ordinary sized coffee mug:

And while we’re on the topic of consumption, I just want to give a shout out to the chicken soup I had when I first got here: Way to taste exactly like my grandmother’s home cooking, delicious soup. (In fact, in the small cafés, everything tastes like your baba’s meals.)

A couple notable cultural quirks I’ve noticed so far:

1) PARKING

Back home, you never see people double parked. Double arking is nothing here. This guy had no fewer than four cars blocking his exit:

This is not traffic. This is curbside. And there are a couple more cars behind that I couldn’t quite get into the shot.
“So how would you get out,” I asked Tony, “if that were your car?”
“Oh. You just beepbeepbeep until someone sticks their head out and comes down. I mean, you hope it doesn’t happen, but it does.”
And then there is the prevailing theory that if your car fits somewhere, it must be a parking spot:

So this wasn’t exaggeration. There was a cop car parked just down the block half hanging off the curb. I haven't yet determined whether there are any laws regulating this, yet. But if there are, no one gives a damn...

2)MONEY ON THE TABLE

Tony gave me a quick thousand roubles for groceries when I got here. Standing directly in front of me, he instead put the money on the kitchen table. YOU DO NOT GIVE MONEY HAND-TO-HAND IN RUSSIA. Even in the stores, there’s a little plate between the purchaser and the cashier onto which you place you cash, and onto which she places your change (yes, she---I’ll let you know the minute I see a man working a cash register in Moscow). So completely ingrained into daily commerce are these little plates, that they actually bear advertising and sponsorship for companies. Imagine a little shallow dish with the word “Pepsi” on it on every cash desk in the country and you get the idea.

3) MEN CARRY THE BAGS

I guess it’s one of those bonuses that sweetens the so-called-sexist pot. But as I left the store with Tony, he immediately snatched up my bags, despite my insistence that it was unnecessary. Come to think of it, he wouldn’t let me handle even my laptop bag at the airport.
“I feel bad,” I tell him. “You‘ve been lugging my life around all day.”
He pauses. “You see that’s the thing about Western women,” he says. “I’ve been away so long, I’ve forgotten. You’re expected to carry your own things. Here? Never. You’d be a really pathetic guy if you let any woman carry anything. You’d be an asshole. A Russian woman, she’d have walked right out of the store and just left her bags on the counter, expecting the man to take them. You should get used to it.”
I see. In North America, a man carrying all of a woman’s bags is seen as whipped. But in Russia, a man who lets a woman carry any bags (even a light grocery bag) a wimp. Interesting how the exact same gesture can bear nearly opposite meaning from culture to culture.
I think back to the Brits on the London bus watching me literally stumble over my own suitcases. I am going to try to get used to this difference. My aching muscles tell me I’ve earned it.

4)WHAT IS A WASHROOM?
Okay, this is really a foreigner’s English topic, but Tony, who is British, nearly pisses himself every time I ask for a washroom.
“Why do you North Americans want a washroom, or a bathroom?” he asks, “Are you going to wash off? Will that make you feel better?” In England, and in Russian it's a toilet; the euphemism of “washroom” sends him into giggles at the puritanical awkwardness of North Americans. (There is something to this, here. I have yet to see a washroom that houses both a toilet and a bath together. There is a room for the toilet, and a room for the sink/tub. In my apartment, these are two completely distinct rooms.)
Still, I can’t fathom bringing myself to ask for the “toilet,” in English, no matter how long I stay here or how normal it is. And I am a woman who uses “fuck” more than liberally and who wrote an entire post abut condoms and free clinics. I rather get ribbed for the rest of the year then let everyone know that I’m headed for the “toilet”…

Some other quick observations?

CARS-- oh Lord, if you like cars, this is a good city for them. Bentleys, Maseratis, Mercedes, BMWs… We passed hotel with no fewer than five Audi’s waiting for the valet.
“Cars are the ultimate status symbol, here,” says Tony. “You’ll see expensive cars everywhere. There is a lot of money in moscow. SO much money, here.” Yeah, I picked up on this fact when we passed a Lamborghini dealership abut three blocks from the office.

DOGS-- I looked out my window to see an impressive number of owners walking dogs. And off the leash, yet! Nope, no, wait--those people don’t own those dogs No one does. Yep, there are a ton of stray dogs around that seem to approach people and even be pretty friendly. From my window I see three or four wolf-types sauntering around, playing with the dogs that do belong to people (which are still not on a leash, anyway). I even saw them in the metro (not on the train--just underground.)

PAPERWORK-- You’ve probably heard that without your papers in Russia, you don’t really exist. And this adherence to paperwork is not limited to expats and the foreign-born. Everyone in Russia has a passport that they must use to get in and out of every government, or even office, building. If you have no reason to be in the building, you will not get into the building.
In fact, you even need special papers just to reside in Moscow, even if born here. You cannot be born in, say, nearby Tula and just find an apartment in Moscow for yourself--you must be authorised to do so. For this reason, while the official population of Moscow stands between 12 and 15 million, the actual number of Muscovites is probably much closer to 18 to 20 million. If I lose my passport, the red tape is staggeringly prohibitive. Luckily (?) with deep pockets, nothing in Moscow is truly prohibitive. A fact that is both disturbing and comforting in its own way.

Posts are going to be a little behind real events here, because I'm pressed for time and internet access where I am--I'll give you guys what I can when I can. There is so freaking much to show you.

So my love affair with Moscow is off to a wonderful start. I hope it doesn't let itself go once we've settled down. ..

2008 A SPAZZ ODYSSEY: BOARDING PASSES, SECURITY CHECKPOINTS, AND RICE KRISPIES SQUARES: PART THREE OF THREE

September 25th

2:12 am Budapest Time, 8:12 pm (September 24th) Winnipeg Time
The Budapest airport is the happiest place on Earth. To me, right now, anyway. They serve big old beers, and there is completely free wireless internet, and since it’s night, it’s empty. It suffers from a lack of seating, but no matter--I’ve set up a staircase office:

It also suffers from a shortage of wall plugs, so when I need to charge the laptop, I squat on the floor next to a potted plant. I just pretend it’s some kind of Hungarian internet safari. Exotic.
Yeah, I’m punchy, obviously. I have had no prolonged of sleep so, while I feel pretty rested, I have absolutely no internal clock telling me what time it is, or what day it is. And I am sore from head to toe from carrying luggage around. I can’t wait to get to my apartment. I don’t care if my new roommate turns out to be a bitch. Or a fan of The Hills. Or a Rottweiler. I’m waiting for home, right now…

The Rice Krispies Squares total is at seven.

3:15 am Budapest Time
Heh:

Look carefully at the right. Then at the left. And this building is maybe the size of the Winnipeg airport. And that table is being used by employees. I think I love Budapest.

4:41 am Budapest Time, 9:41pm (Sept.24th) Winnipeg Time
Thank you, Steve. Thank you for buying me Californication. It IS a fantastic show, and it’s keeping me well-distracted. After so much travel, I’m pretty edgy.
And who is snoring?! Ugh-enough already, sleeping-by-the-bathroom-guy! Like it wasn’t pervy enough that you had to camp out by the ladies room, now you fall asleep and snore?! I should steal your luggage just to teach you a lesson about falling asleep in public. Except I’m too sore to lift it. Maybe I’ll just make you carry mine when you wake up, then. Ohmigod dude--shutup, shutup, for the love of God SHUTUP!
*sigh*
Hey, is it okay to have a drink at 5am, if your internal clock still thinks it’s 10pm?

5:41 am Budapest Time, 10:41 pm Winnipeg Time

It’s raining now. I have travelled halfway around the globe, to four different cities, and it’s been raining in every single one…
And for some reason, this means everybody is allowed to smoke inside now. It just seems to be a given in Budapest. Of course they also sold me my breakfast-hour beer, so these are a lax people I suppose…

6:08 am Budapest Time, 11:08 Winnipeg Time
Well, I’m going to finish “breakfast” and then it’s off to check in for my final flight.

The Rice Krispies Squares total will finish at 8 eaten, plus one given away. And I'm not even sick of them yet.

Next stop, Moscow...

2008 A SPAZZ ODYSSEY: BOARDING PASSES, SECURITY CHECKPOINTS, AND RICE KRISPIES SQUARES: PART TWO

September 24th

5:38 pm London time, 11:38 am Winnipeg time
Sitting with a Stella’s in Heathrow airport, waiting for my flight to Budapest. The Stella here tastes way better, interestingly. I’m about to eat some kind of local meat pie. So how was my day?

*flash back*

2:45 pm London time, 8:45am Winnipeg time
I completely slept through the fllight. Despite the airline serving what appeared to be an eraser sandwich for breakfast (a British delicacy?) all went well. I arrived and had myself an airport shower (it involves WetNaps, a facecloth and a toothbrush/paste). I felt rested, refreshed, and unintimidated by big, scary Heathrow airport.

I got my bags, and exited Heathrow 4 for Heathrow 5. A very helpful airline worker suggested I take the 490 bus, and even helped me and my ridiculously heavy luggage on board. So nice! It was a lovely ride, picturesque, with quaint, typically British buildings and fields…perfect. But wait--is that…a farm? British people are weird, so I’ll accept it. Oh, hey, a school! Seems awfully close to the airport, but okay. Hey, that guy smoking looks awfully grouchy. Guess his business isn’t doing to well today. It’s probably hard around the airport to sell…washing machines?

What. The. Fuck.

3:45 pm London Time, 8:45 am Winnipeg time
So now I’m standing across the street from where the 490 bus left me luggage-laden and cursing that idiot airline worker in the middle of…

I don’t know where I am, exactly, but if Little Bo Peep comes along looking for her sheep, I’m going to ask her to help me find terminal 5 as well.
Luckily, It is no more than a few minutes before a 490: Heathrow 5 comes along, and patiently waits while I load my five--yes, five--moronically heavy bags onto the public bus. Thank God it’s free. And at least people seem to find the sight of me grunting and apologising and wincing in pain to be hilarious enough to take the edge off how annoyed they must be by my taking up so much time and space on what otherwise seems to be a remarkably efficient public transport system.

4:55 pm London Time, 9:55 am Winnipeg Time
My arms are killing me. As I check my bags for the last time before Moscow, I secretly hope that they get lost. I never want to see nor carry them again, at this point.

5:15pm London Time, 10:15 am Winnipeg Time
I go through yet another metal detector, and am forced to remove my boots again. As she is patting me down (a little excessively in the boob-area, I might add) the security woman is joking around with me.
“So are you headed home?” she asks.
I almost say no, before I realise that, yes. I’m headed to my new home.
“I guess, sort of,” I manage.
She nods.
“You can always tell who’s heading for home,” she says.
A tiring day. Time for a beer and some kind of local food, I think…

That catches you up to date on phase 2.

The Rice Krispies Squares Total stands at 5.

TO BE CONTINUED…

2008- A Spazz Odyssey: Boarding Passes, Security Checkpoints and Rice Krispies Squares: PART ONE

September 23

9:30 am: My mother comes into her guest room to wake me up. I beg for five more minutes and she leaves. Then I sit bolt upright in bed-I move to Moscow today! It’s like the first day of school! But with a really long bus ride. On a flying bus.

11:00 am: Call Jon--he’s driving me to the airport. No answer.

11:30 am: “It’s FIVE DEGREES in Moscow today” my friend calls to tell me. Sigh. I know. You are the third person to tell me so today.

11:40 am: Call Jon. No answer. Jeez.

11:50 am: Call Jon. No answer. Are you kidding me?

12:05 pm: Call Jon. No answer. Bastard! Ohmigod--did I pack socks? Must go check! I leave a “call me or else” message.

12:15 pm: A nazdarovya shot of vodka with my sister. Conscious of vodka breath, I eat half of one of the Rice Krispie Squares my mum bought for me for my trip through the airports. Eating one doesn’t make a dent in the rations, of course. It’s a gigantic box, man.

12:30 pm: I call Jon and leave a “you suck, I’m calling a cab” message. My sister assures me that he is not cruel, but likely asleep. I inform her that I am too stressed to differentiate at this point. This is resolved with half a nazdrov’ya shot and another half Rice Krispie square.

12:45 pm: A very sleepy Jon calls. A very panicked Larissa yells. A very calm Jon assures me that I do NOT need to take a cab, and that he’ll be picking me up as soon as possible. I feel a mixture of relief and rage. After all, I TOLD him to stay up all night, drinking coffee and taking ice baths until I called for my ride. Some people just can’t take directions

2:00 pm:
“You’re over. Eight pounds.” The woman at the airport accuses me in a tone that suggests that she believes the overage is due to eight pounds of dead kittens folded between my sweaters. I tell her that I am moving, and will happily pay overage fees. “No--you have to take it out!” she says with a grimace--she hates me because now she will have to wipe kitten blood from the airport floor. “We don’t even let you take suitcases THAT heavy.
“And there IS still and overage fee because it’s more than fifty pounds anyway.”
Son of a %!6@#.

2:15pm
“Would you be crying right now if you had to do this alone?” Jon asks me, as he sits cross-legged on top of my checkered Liz Claiborne suitcase patiently wrenching a gold sequined stiletto heel within the confines of the zipper.
“No way,” I say, “You should see what I had to leave behind in Vegas. There, I was eleven pounds over.” And that was one suitcase I was NOT wanting to open in the middle of an airport.
Jon finds a rogue Rice Krispies Square and now it’s his… The man earned it.

2:30 pm
We triumphantly arrive, nine pound lighter and ten feet farther, at the entrance to customs. Despite his valiant effort hauling my massive suitcases into the airport and now hauling a bag of shampoos and lotion back to my mother’s house, he is not permitted to come any further. He gives me a quick look, clearly wondering if this overpacking, now shampooless woman who has been crying with her sister half the morning can make it any further alone without killing a border guard.
“Are you moving away?!” Boarding Pass Checker Lady asks me with keen interest
“Yes”
“But… just you?” she says with big eyes, looking between me and Jon.
“Yeah.” I manage in my very best please-fuck-off-this-is-none-of-your-business-and-don’t-you-see-this-everyday-anyway-you-nosy-twit- tone.
“Ooohhh…”
This had better be her first day here.
So we move the four steps to the left that we are permitted for goodbye as Boarding Pass Lady sits at her desk fifteen feet away, still looking at us. But whatever--you don’t get to do these things twice. I’m caring more about the fact that there is no such thing as a long enough goodbye. As I come out of a hug, I see Boarding Pass Lady no more than two feet behind me, leaning on a door frame with her very best I-am-not-listening-I’m-watching-the-airport-behind-you-hmm-hmm-hmm-Idon’t-notice-a-thing- look on her face. She leaves when we notice her, only to be replaced moments later by a border security guard with his best I-am-protecting-this-doorway-and-must-stand- near-you-and-am-not-some-emotional-voyeur look on his face.
Sigh.
I ignore them for as long as I can, before entering customs sans shampoo and sans my boy. As I drag my worldly possessions up to the customs desk, I note behind me the security guard and Boarding Pass Lady whispering and looking at me.
Someone at Northwest airlines please bring them newspapers for their next shift.

2:36 pm:
“So what’s this pretty Canadian lady doing moving away?” asks Do-You-Have-Anything-To-Declare-Guy.
Seriously, don’t need to get hit on right now, Declare Guy. Save it for a girl who hasn’t been crying all morning and didn‘t just have to give up her toiletries.

3:30 PM:
The Winnipeg Airport international terminal is very…. 80’s. And woodsy. And small. It looks like the community centre at your local lake. I keep looking for the guy selling 50/50 tickets. Eating a Rice Krispies Square, but I hope they have crackers or something one the plane…I’m getting hungry

5:45 pm:
I wake up to discover that the plane should be landing…it’s not…there’s a storm… MAN this guy sitting beside me is HUGE…his thumb is the size of a Snickers bar…I can’t believe I fell asleep on such a short flight…I bet they’d be mad if I asked for my coffee and crackers now, eh? So hungry…. I’m eating a Rice Krispies square. I’d offer one to the giant because he‘s kinda looking at mine, but I won’t, because he’s trying to use his cell phone so he’s a douche. Besides, Gigantor probably doesn’t eat Rice Krispies squares…He probably eats, like, babies, or something…

7:49 pm: Sandwich and a beer in a Wolfgang Puck Express…found the note my little sister hid in my luggage. Yeah, I cried again.

8:01 pm:
The total of Rice Krispie Squares eaten stands at four, plus one given away.

8:36 pm:
I am sitting on the floor in Minneapolis terminal G, because on the floor under the phone banks is where there is a plug for me to charge my computer. And I am not at all easily embarrassed.




This is me, sitting on the floor. (This is the best shot I got--one solid minus to travelling alone)


They are BLASTING CNN in this waiting room--the interview of the president of Iran. They are yelling about religion and the murder of women and children. I wondder if anyone else6: thinks this is unusual airport viewing?
I want to sleep on the plane--I’m taking a sleeping pill.


11:54 pm:
I am sitting on the floor in Minneapolis terminal G, because on the floor, under the phone banks is where there is a plug for me to charge my computer. And this is not an accidental re-type. We all boarded the plane, we were sitting there for awhile. I started to get that yucky taste in my mouth from the sleeping pill, so I ate something (we’re at 5, now, plus a giveaway) I’m thinking I might offer one to my seatmate this time because he is very friendly and not scary looking. Then more waiting. Then the news that we have to deplane, there is something wrong with the breaks, and we’re getting a new one.
I have to catch a plane in London tomorrow, but had nearly a twelve hour stopover (thankfully) so all this will do is cut down my loitering time in Heathrow.
No, my only problem is that I HAVE TAKEN THE FREAKING SLEEPING PILL. I want to curl up on this floor and nap, now…
Oh wait--I do have another problem--I’m drinking a Diet Mountain Dew. It’s all that was left. It is beyond revolting. I’d rather they had taken off in the bad-brakes plane than make me drink this. Sadists at Northwest Airlines…



TO BE CONTINUED...

I HAVE AFTERGLOW

The foreplay of red-tape, identification, and background checks finally came to a climax today--

I have a visa to live in the Russian Federation this year:

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
I hope it never leaves me. I'm making it breakfast tomorrow. I think this could be it...

WHY Do I Own So Much Absolute Crap?!

Sonofab*tch. It's time to pack.

I know that sounds harsh, but if you know me well then you know there's nothing I despise more than packing. Packing to move, packing for a trip--whatever. If I die and end up in Hell (and let's face it, the odds look good) there is a 95% chance* that my own personal underworld will consist of racing around trying to find objects I might need and cramming said objects into boxes and suitcases that are too small before Satan dumps everything out and makes me start over again. For all eternity.

How am I supposed to know what I'll want on the other side of the world? Even just the clothing part is killing me--especially when you consider the completely ridiculous and impractical nature of most of my clothing. Pathetically, all week I have wrestled with the idea that my red eel-skin clutch needs to come with me (I still haven't decided). Or that I may, in fact, finally figure out how wear a vintage crocheted skirt (it did not make the cut). Or that gold sequined heels may be handy (yes, those made it in). I've considered that were I to amputate a leg, I'd have twice as much room for shoes--and even for pants once I cut off half the pantlegs and replaced them with stump-pockets. And priority boarding on the plane? Something to think about.

Also difficult to leave behind are some of my books. I mean, I know I don't need them at all, but how do I leave behind all the F. Scott Fitzgerald? Douglas Coupland? Chuck Palahniuk? Jim Davis' Garfield: Bigger Than Life? (Can Jon hear Garfield? If so, why does Garfield talk in thought bubbles? And if not, why does he talk to him so much? What is going on there?)

And then there's the plane to consider. It's a day and a half of travel so I'll need to pack some snacks in my carry on. And I'll need entertainment: I'll have a laptop, Jonathan Dimbleby's Russia, and the new book by Britney Spears' mother (yeah, no shame-I'm totally gonna purchase, read, and enjoy that). Also, I'm going to pack a snakebite kit, because if Samuel L. Jackson has taught me anything** there may be "Motherf*cking snakes on (my) motherf*cking plane." Thank you, Mr L. Jackson. Thank you.

So, to sum up: Gold sequined heels, Lynne Spears' book, Rice Krispie treats, and a snakebite kit.
Oh, I am sooo ready for Russia.





*There is, in fact, a 5% chance that my Hell will consist of having to walk behind slow-walkers in the mall for all eternity with the Jonas Brothers playing over the PA.

**Samuel L. Jackson has taught me everything.

I COULD Watch "Troop Beverly Hills" 21.6 Times Instead

I've booked my ticket to Moscow! Well, tickets.
Plural.

It goes as follows:
September 23rd at 4:20 pm I depart Winnipeg with Dutch Airlines to reach London after a stopover in Minneapolis, after which I board a British Airways plane to spend the night in Budapest before Malev Hungarian flightMA104 arrives in Moscow's Domodedovo airport on September 25th 1:20 pm Moskva time, aka 4:30 am Winnipeg time.

So for those of you not following, it is taking 36 hours to have the Dutch take me from the United States to England, so Brits can move me to Hungary, where Hungarians will get me to Russia.

I got some sweet deals on flights, mind you. But 36 hours... wow...

I have a feeling I'll have finished reading Crime and Punishment before I get to Moscow after all. I have a feeling I'll have memorised Crime and Punishment...

Another Gem from "The Moscow Expat Guide":

"Don't be surprised... to see Russians drinking beer on the way to work in the morning at outdoor kiosks."
(pg. 83)




Heh.

Well that's an explanation for this.

Have You Seen the One Where She Dates Lou?

As everyone tries to make the most of summer's end, they get themselves out of town. And as I try to make the most of my limited income, I sit in my apartment wishing I were with you guys.

Now, I know that a $7 bottle of wine and Mary Tyler Moore Show reruns probably sound glamourous to all of you, but I assure you, it really was not as much fun as tubing, or campfires, or New Orleans, or any of the things you guys were doing. No, no...it was pretty lonesome. And somewhere between my second glass of wine and the episode where Mary pretends to be a divorcee to get cheap airfare, I realised that--for at least one year--everyone I know will be out of town. I'll be where I live, and everyone will be somewhere else. Even plucky Mary Richards. A sobering thought*.

Now not a single "you're gonna make it afterall" comment. I expect better from all of you...







*As sobering as two glasses of wine will allow.

Learning Russian is Probably a Good Idea

I've decided to learn a little Russian before I go; after all, learning the language is my third most important reason for moving to Russia, right behind cheap vodka and proximity to this thing. Anyway, it seems unwise to head into a new country with nothing but a foreign phrase book and my rarely-used Ukrainian (unless that country is Ukraine, I guess). So I bought the Michel Thomas Method beginners' Russian CDs.

Not to plug product in this blog, but you should buy this product. It really is one of the best tools for language-learning that I've come across--and I have a degree in linguistics (which apparently I use only for product endorsement. There's $40,000 well spent.)

The CDs consist of a teacher giving friendly, conversational-style information to two students who know no Russian and it's sort-of like you're the fourth person in the class. Despite the fact that the the teacher sounds like a British robot bred with a half-drunken Cossack, it's really easy to follow and it builds your working use of the language very quickly. I mean, I've only been at it for two days, but I'm already getting confident in my use of some full Russian phrases.

So I should be okay out there. So long as I have to get to the Bolshoi Theatre by train, where I will ask people "Excuse me, is this tea or coffee?" and tell them that "it is very good/strange/interesting that the bank/conference/bar
is not very far." Then when they reply in all kinds of Russian words I can't understand, I will be forced to use all my remaining Russian to explain that "militsia communist borscht Ivan Drago comrade fur hat." At which point I fully expect vodka to get thrown in my face. And hey--that's some free vodka right there. I'm awesome.

Banana Condoms and Banana Oatmeal---Do Not Mix Up the Packages...

In news surprisingly relevant to my Russian departure: I am HIV free!

Yes, in a report sure to please all past, present, and potential lovers of Larissa Supleve, my HIV test has come back negative (in a good way). "Why the Hell is this bitch posting such irritatingly personal information", you ask? Why it’s because the Russian government demands that I supply certified documentation of a recent HIV test with my visa application. It does not specifically say that said test must be negative, but I can't get in without it. No explanation is given on the website, but if anyone has a suggestion as to why I needed this, feel free to offer it.

Thankfully, you can get an instant test done. It's like taking a pregnancy test with that same instant anxiety but way more pricking your finger. Honestly, I was impressed. Except for the part where some jerkoff in the waiting room stole my fucking ipod. I know what you're thinking: "Who'd have thought anybody capable of thievery would be hanging out in a free clinic?" Well I am just as shocked as you are. And one ipod lighter. Then again, the nurses at the clinic did practically force me to take home about ninety-five condoms, so I guess I'm breaking even. Seriously, I have a ton. There is no way I can fuck my way through all these. I don't even know what to do with them. I've just been handing them out to people I know--like if you've run onto me within the past five days, there is an excellent chance that you are now carrying a banana-flavoured extra-sensitive rubber. You're welcome.

In other tasty news, did you know that oatmeal is not just a breakfast food? Nope, you can eat oatmeal anytime, at any meal. I should know. After my rent and all my applications to leave the country were paid (and mailed express), I have been left with a ridiculous daily food budget.

At least my condom expenses have dropped.

To ease the cost of groceries, instant oatmeal has become the staple of my daily diet (along with this Big Gulp filled with scotch of course). It’s only ten cents per off-brand packet. Of course, the key is off-brand: those corrupt capitalist fat cats over at Quaker seem to think that they can charge twenty--pfft. I'm no sucker. But don’t worry-I also eat peanut butter out of the jar, so my diet really remains quite balanced. Much like a World Vision child, I can be fed for as little as fifty cents per day! Who knew? And if I expect to have the money for an international move, this is all necessary. As to whether I’ll have the strength to even board the plane, well, we’ll see.

(As an aside on the topic of oatmeal: what the Hell is this lady feeding to her kids? I’m no parent, but should you be putting Oreos and Pop Rocks in a child’s breakfast?)

Just Waiting for My Visa. And Yes, I'm Aware of the "War"...

Well, provided that my visa application is accepted. Hopefully, the Russian government is better at giving me a visa than those bastards at Visa are at giving me a credit card. (Just because I haven't declared the majority of my income for five years, doesn't mean you can judge my finances. I mean, how do you think I manage to pay all the rent that I demand deductions for, Visa? Ever think of that? No, no. Didn't think so. Point for me.)

Anyway, it was touch and go for awhile there, and I almost didn't go, for reasons that were just as impulsive as my initial decision to go. But I AM going now. If that whole Visa thing plays out. Yeah, small detail....


Also, many friends and family members have been kind enough to point out that Russia is, in fact, at war. The truth is that it's not so much a "war" as it is a "violent conflict with potentially war-like consequences." Again with the details, here. Anyway, if you think about it, isn't Russia always a little bit at war with somebody? Russia's kind of a jerk like that. It's part of her charm...