Yes I am Alive, but This Guy is Not

Vacation in Russia just ended this week.

Posting will resume tomorrow.

But I can offer you a cliffhanger:

kitten balls

Stay tuned.

In the meantime, some funny news out of Russia for your Friday:

Woman kills her husband with killer divan:

A woman, who became a widow as she attempted to teach a lesson to her lazy
husband, was convicted at a St. Petersburg court. The woman literally killed the
man with a divan.

The court brought down a conditional sentence for the period of one year
against Vera Lukyanova, 55, and found the woman guilty of involuntary
manslaughter, Fontanka.ru reports with a reference to the press service of the
St. Petersburg Office of the Public Prosecutor.

The tragedy occurred in the summer of 2008. The man had a hangover in the
morning after he had drunk too much alcohol the day before. His wife was
infuriated with her husband’s behavior. In a fit of anger she kicked the
convertible divan, on which the man was resting, and the divan folded into two
and gripped the man in a vice.

Forensic experts said that the man died instantly: the strong springs
of the killer-divan broke the man’s ribs and even his spine.

Hi, This is Larissa

I'm not in right now. I've gone to Kiev for six days.
A Happy New Year to everyone!
If you'd like, you can leave a message after the beep.



*Beep*

My New Favourite Product

If I told you that I found a delicious beverage, bubbly, plum-flavoured, not too sweet, alcoholic but not too much so, light, refreshing, and unique, would you want to try it?
Would you want to try it if I told showed you the label?





Yep. Funky Juz.


Anyone else thinking of the “Funky Spunk” episode of Sex and the City? The only way you aren’t is if you haven’t seen it before.
Thing is, I wasn’t even buying alcohol that day. But you just don’t turn down a label like that.
And I won’t even get into the fact that the logo looks like it belongs on something that scours your porcelain. I’ll just leave it at “Juz.”

More Translation Problems

Sometimes, classes get off topic. Most of my students like it that way, and enjoy testing out their English in “real” conversations, which means that they just want to talk to me about movies, and food, and Canada (but never Canadian movies or food--what does that tell you about national culture?)
So with one student, Sem, we got into a discussion of my own Russian studies, and how I was coming along in day-to-day life. I told him that I’m getting better, but that mix ups are always happening, and told him my little story about the martrushka. He loved it, so I shared the following story about my friend Jeff:

He had just come to Moscow, and was pretty good with his Russian already. At
2:30 in the morning, he needed to get some grocery shopping done, so he walked
into the supermarket and up to the deli counter. “A little tipsy” (according to
him--so in reality it should probably be more like “quite drunk”) he smiles at
the woman behind the counter and says “Mnye nuzhna” (I need) “sosoki.”
The
woman glares.
He thinks nothing of it, since the evil eye is basically the
“Hello, how are you?“ of Russian supermarket service. If Moscow supermarkets
were to go so far as to hire Wal-Mart style greeters, they’d probably kick you
in the ass and make fun of your haircut on your way in. So Jeff repeats his
request, and the woman only gets more upset, asking him what he wants very
curtly. Baffled, he finally just points to the sausages, asks for a half kilo,
and leaves the deli.
Only when he gets home with a dictionary does he realise
that he did not ask for sausages (“sosiski”), but for nipples.

Sem likes that story, and offers his own:

He was fifteen, and went with his class on a trip to…I dunno…Austria or
somewhere. They were all sitting in a hotel room, and goofing around, and one
fourteen year-old girl decided to show off her excellent English skills by
reading aloud from the label of a drink bottle to all the hyper teenagers
in the room.
“All natural!” she announces. “No preservatives.” And suddenly
turns bright red, and leaves the room to the laughter of far too many less than forgiving adolescents.
“Preservativs” in Russian means “condoms.”

And sorry for the consistently adult nature of these posts, guys, but the best translation stories are always the ones that are inadvertently sexual simply due to the fact that they are such easily made mistakes: in virtually every language, most sexual words are actually euphemisms. “Preservativs”, “putting out…“ That’s what we get for coding our speech so thoroughly….

Because Complete Unintelligibility to Other Humans Hasn't Bothered Me Yet, but THIS...

There is this shop next to my metro station where I buy DVDs for 200 roubles a pop. About 8 bucks. Of course I’m not kidding myself here--I’m sure that every DVD and CD in the store is bootleg. I could buy the new Bond DVD before it even opened in Russian theatres. I’ve probably bought at least half a dozen DVDs there.

Anyway, yesterday I bought two DVDs to keep myself company. I pop one in and--despite the fact that the case clearly says it has English sound, it is 100 percent in Russian. Not even English subtitles. Same with the second one.

Pathetically, I don’t think I even know enough Russian to argue with the guy. So the way I see it, I have no choice to learn perfect Russian, and earn my sixteen bucks back.
“The Other Boleyn Girl” had better be Citizen f*cking Kane.

Hm.

And I Have to Work on Boxing Day?

I am really not feeling Christmas. And yes, that is because there is no Christmas to feel, I know.
I spoke to my mother on the phone, and was listening to her tell me about Christmas shopping, and cooking, and how everybody has been running all over town etc. And I realised that I totally forgot what that was like. None of that here. People do gifts on New Year’s, but not to the degree that we do back home, it seems. And Christmas is a quiet holiday, more for a big dinner, and maybe church. More like Thanksgiving. They tell me that this is because of the Soviet crackdown on religious holidays, how Christmas was not really “permitted” as a major holiday. So people, being as people are, just moved it, rather than surrender it, and New Years became the thing.

Ironically, I have always hated New Years with the intensity of a thousand…um…a thousand really intense things.*

Anyway, I have found three reasons to get into New Years now: 1) No Christmas. 2) The metro--no waiting for a cab or a sober driver, neither of which seem available on the 31st of Dec. and 3) fireworks. Yes, they do fireworks here on New Years, and those of you who know me well know that I am like a lobotomised Muppet when fireworks go off. I love them. Like seriously, have them at my funeral love ‘em. So that should be good…

In the meantime, I am trying not to think much about what everyone is doing back home, for fear that I will miss it too much. This weekend, for the first time, I missed home. I was watching 30Rock on DVD and for no reason it suddenly reminded me of being back home, holing up in my apartment on a day off with Tom and watching every episode at least once. Which made me think of my apartment, and my unbelievably soft leather couch, where I’d sit drinking white wine with Portage and chatting. So to distract myself I made chilli, which made me miss even my slow-cooker, the one my sister Anna got me, which made me miss having sisters around who know what you like.

I missed peanut butter. I missed drinking tap water. I missed toilets that flush on the side, and being able to ask for help in a store. I missed my old apartment swimming pool and sauna. I missed storm-chasing with Jon. I missed buying aspirin without a dictionary. I missed Allison teasing me and I missed Julie freaking out about stuff. I missed seeing my friends babies grow up, and I missed wide streets and complete sidewalks. I missed a lot. For the first time, this weekend, I missed it all.

It passed, of course, and I didn’t miss anything enough to want to actually go back home. But if I could just see home, just for a day or two…just a little bit…

So I’ve been watching movies, trying to write, and reading a ton. A lot of Chuck Palahniuk, mostly. Right now I’m reading "A Clockwork Orange." Also, Kira just turned me on to Children of Men (movie and book.) I’ve been filling my head with bombs and anarchy, and other people’s thoughts.

So, uh, A Very Merry, Nihilistic Christmas from Ulitsa Dibenko, folks. It doesn’t get any less seasonal than this.



*I like to chalk it up to the first NY I remember, 1986-87. It was awful. Everyone counted down and cheered and hugged, and was so loud, and little Larissa, being absolutely exhausted and--hello--- five years old, I broke down and started crying “What was so bad about 1986?” I just remember my mother kind of looking at me strangely, giving me a hug, and putting me down to sleep on the bed with all the coats.
So psych majors, analyse that.

Dream Diary

I have been having the most vivid, intense dreams lately. The kind where you wake up, and you are surprised to wake up. I going to blame the time of year, the weather, the darkness. It is pitch black by four pm, and that makes you want nothing but sleep, or some other version of hibernation, all day long…

I dreamed last night that I could paint. Swirling colours, oils, watercolours, perfect brushstrokes of every shape size and hue fusing into one greater, beautiful thing. The paintings looked like nothing, maybe human in proportion, I don’t know. And I spent all my time either painting or combing Russian art stores, trying to find the perfect supplies, the best colours, the ideal textures so that I could go home, not sleep, and spend the rest of my hours working them into something beautiful. Not even beautiful--just creating things to match what seemed alive, even breathing, in my head.

I cannot paint. I can sketch, barely, abstract human forms, a leftover of my time short time studying design. But I haven’t so much as held a paintbrush since Kindergarten class. Whatever I could produce would impress no one, least of all me. This I know. This morning, however, I am overwhelmed this morning by the desire to do just that.

Maybe I’ll buy myself some pastels for Christmas. Although knowing me, the urge will wear off by the New Year. I’m changeable (read: flighty) like that. It's like Lucy Ricardo is my brain's Project Manager....

Something Funny For You to Read

The camera-less situation is making this feature more difficult. There are only so many screen caps of my face you guys can take before you just start feeling bad about yourselves, I know.

So this week, I'll tell you something tongue-in-cheek my student Anna just told me in a class about film censorship in Russia:

"Of course the Soviets, they banned a lot of Western films.
Everyone thought it was because they were critical, of the government, of
Communism, and such. I don't know about that. But most of thosebanned movies were bad. Just bad movies. So maybe the government did us a favour. We didn't waste our time."

Heh. First time I ever heard of media censorship in the name of artistic integrity. Anna is, for the record, hilarious.

Happy Friday, guys!

Russians Really Know How to Protest

After all, they did get that whole Bolshevik Revolution thing off the ground in a big way. Brought it down in a big way too.

So what happened this Sunday is relatively trivial. I would, however, like to highlight for you
my personal favourite part of the article:

"...On the opening day of Solidarity's founding congress Friday, unidentified individuals dumped a busload of dead and wounded sheep outside the meeting hall in a Moscow suburb. The sheep were wearing baseball caps and tee shirts with Solidarity written on them, according to Kasperov's Web site...."

I'm thinking that the guy whose job it is to think up the "creepy and fucked up protesting tactics that give grown men nightmares" probably got a big, fat raise today.

I'm Having Trouble Feeling Christmassy

Maybe it's the lack of snow? Or maybe it's the fact that Christmas here isn't until January?


Or maybe it's Christmas displays like this:

Yep. Kissing bunnies. Purple tinsel. Flowers. Feathers. Sure.

I'm at a Sushi Restaurant

The theme from The Godfather is the music they have chosen to play.

I don't even have to crack a joke for this one.

You can't make this up.

Still No Snow

So it hasn't really snowed in Moscow in three years.

I mean, it has snowed, but it hasn't snowed.

I haven't been able to find a precipitation table online, but virtually every Muscovite I have asked has admitted that, while it is unusually warm this year, than has never been more than an inch or two of snow on the ground these past few years. Ten years ago, of course. Five years ago, sure. But not recently. And there is certainly none today.

Today, discussing the fact that I may not be able to go snowboarding on my New Years vacation time, it comes up in my Friday evening class. "You'll have to go north," they tell me. Of course there is some snow on the mountains, but not like there used to be. Not for three years.

I ask them what seems to me too obvious a question:

"Does this concern you?"

Their answer causes me to nearly fall off my chair (yes, I usually sit when I teach):

"Yes, of course. We like the snow."

Ummm....okay, not where I way going with that line of questioning.

Back home, if we went three winters without shoveling out our driveways, we'd be scared. Nevermind the "Aw dang, I really would love a white Christmas" crap that they're spouting here, but more of a "Holy shit--is climate supposed to change in half a decade like that?" kind of questioning.

And I don't know just how deeply to broach that subject with them. Are they in denial? Am I a typicfal fussy, panicked Westerner who cares "too much" about global issues because I have "nothing more pressing to worry about"?

All I know is that were this to happen at home, there would be serious questions.

Where are the questions?

Pretty Things to Look At

Click here for something pretty to look at this Friday.

Anna, if you want next Friday's slot, you'll have to send some pics, girl.

Heheh...I said slot.

Happy Friday, guys!

Is Surfing the Net in Mc Donald's the Best Way to Explore One of the Greatest Cultural Capitals of the World?

I suspect not.

Okay: Two Canadians, an American and a Russian Walk into StPetersburg (pt.3)

(part 1) (part 2)

As we take our seats in the train car, we we're less than thrilled to realise that the drunken German hater and his friends happen to be getting on the same car as us. Unable to get four seats together, I sit on one side of the car, Kira, Cybelle, and Slava facing me.

Not one stop into the ride, and we begin to hear “Cah-Nah-Dah! Cah-Nah-Dah!” cheering-style, from the German-haters who have now decided that we are awesome and they want our attention. Thanks to the wine, and the fact that we don’t want to encourage them we, of course, can't help but break into fits of giggles. Kira and Cybelle have it the worst--On the other side of the aisle, I try not to look at them to keep the giggles from spreading, knowing that the Russian guys will take the laughter as an invitation to chat.

But these boys need no invitation. Of course. They are openly staring and talking about us, deliberately trying to make us look (and it is at this point that I notice, with irony, that the head-dumbass is sitting in fron of a sign with the German flag that boasts “made in Germany” in Russian---and I had nobody to point this out to! Dammit!) As he tries to talk to Kira and Cybele (who are way past composed at this point) one of his friends keeps staring at me, trying to wave, looking sheepish. I thank God that I am hemmed in between two stangers. Until he turns out to be not-so-sheepish (or not-so-sober, anyway) and asks the person sitting on my right if he could please have the seat next to me. And dammit, jackass on the right! He is given the seat next to me.

I now have Kira and Cybelle absolutely losing their shit, between Ringleader on their right and place-switcher next to me. Between giggles, they shoot me sympathetic looks, but this is just too much for them. Especially since spot-switcher on my right is doing nothing--absolutely nothing-- but openly gazing at my face. Finally, after what was probably only thirty seconds but felt like at least thirty one, he speaks. I don’t even say anything, worried that if I tell him I don’t speak Russian in Russian, he will consider this enough fluency for conversation. He looks down, and thankfully, seems to get it very quickly.

But he is nothing if not resourceful, and fetches his female friend to speak with me. Apparently, this is to be our translator. She knows even less English than I know Russian, and that puts her level at---well, she doesn’t speak English. She does, however, manage to speak Russian very slowly, interjecting the occasional “Yes? You think?” into her sentences.

So, yeah, she‘s a huge help.

Cybelle leans across the aisle “I think our stop is next.” She says. And indeed the next stop is nowhere near our flat, but I ,too, decide that this is our stop.

“No, no.” says Slava loudly and cluelessly. “We have three more stops still!"

Thanks, buddy.

Then suddenly, as though with a stroke of inspiration, the lady friend leans over to me:

Lady Friend: “You,” (points at me) “You want semen tonight?”

Me:
Okay, screw polite. These people went from rowdy but funny drunks to assholes. Kira and Cybelle cannot help me at all, and I wonder if they heard. All I can manage in response is “Don’t speak to me that way. Thant’s enough. I’m not speaking to you anymore,” and hope that my body language leaps over the language barrier. The woman seems genuinely puzzled, and frustrated, and I wonder if she is really aware of how inappropriate what she just said actually is, but I have no desire to find out. Why is the St P metro so slow?
The woman grabs my arm to get my attention.

Lady Friend: “No? No? You don‘t like?” She asks me.

Me:
Lady Friend: “No? No like boats? No water?”

OHHHHHHH. Seamen.

And despite myself, I laugh, unfortunately encouraging this linguistic freak show even further. Fortified by my awkward laugh of relief, spot-switcher decides to try his tack with Slava, speaking to him in Russian and gesturing at me. Cybelle and Kira are absolutely wracked with laughter now, and I am desperately awaiting stop Akademicheskaya.

Finally, we get there, and I am up like a shot out of my seat and out the door or the train.
Cybelle and I berate poor Slava for not picking up on the girl-code of “let’s get the f*ck nout of here” three stops ago. Kira is still in near hysterics. This is followed by full hysterics as Slava informs us that spot-switcher was asking Slava if he could “take your friend to the cinema and then for a beer.”
Though you have to give the man points for tenacity in the face of complete ridiculousness. Good for him.

We grab from the 24 hour supermarket, in a stroke of inspiration, some good German beer, and decide we are through with both walking in the cold and public transport for the night.
We grab a taxi (which, in Russia, is more or less synonymous with “hitchhiking”) where we are ordered by Slava to speak no English if we don’t want the cab driver ("random citizen with a car") to overcharge us.

We get back to the flat. Hitler bites Slava, and I have another hater on my side, though Kira and Cybelle still seem optimistic about the cat’s innocence. We all chat for a bit, watch half of “The Princess Diaries” in Russian on TV, and then it’s off to bed. Tomorrow, we are going to The Hermitage, and I am beyond excited….

To Be Continued...

I'm a Long Way from Fitting In

The head of the Russian Orthodox church--the official state religion of Russia, has died. It's like the Pope dying for Roman Catholics, I suppose. Happened several days ago, apparently.

And do you want to know how I found out?

Yesterday, I was lost and looking for a McDonald's (as an aside, about fifty percent of my Moscow stories seem to begin with me "lost, looking for a McDonald's", so from this point onward I will abbreviate this situation as LLFAM. Should save some time.)

Anyway, I was wandering down the street, and noticed a crowd of people lining the sidewalk. I wondered if it could be an accident, but there were too many people, and they were staring a little TOO intently. I mean, the people were lined up at least three deep, and standing on window sills. Curious, I removed my headphones and was greeted by almost no sound at all. It was eerily silent. Just the sound of fat raindrops hitting hundreds of umbrellas. Then the church bells began. Initially, I just heard the bells nearby, but then noticed th at between peals, you could hear the bells of all the other churches in the area and beyond, clanging away as what I assumed by now was a funeral procession made its way through crowded central Moscow.

So I stayed, and I waited. I waited for as long as I could in the cold rain, the bells, and the wordlessness, before I had to head to class. Though every once in awhile, I could hear the snatches of a conversation, and over and over the word "stranne" (strange). And it was. But still, I didn't know to whom we were all paying our respects.

Finally, I heard it and honed in--English. I waited until the gentleman was off his phone, and then asked him to explain what was going on. He told me, and asked what I was doing in the city, to which I reply that I live here, but can't really watch the news or read the papers, so hadn't heard of this.
It was, apparently, a very big deal for many here. And whether you cared or not, the news was everywhere, apparently.

I had no clue.
None.

And just as I begin to believe that my life is becoming normal and simple here, I realise how very far from possible that will for me, for a very long time.

Apparently "Barometric Pressure" is an Excuse for Cancelling Class

Along with Mashka there, I’ve been tired--so tired--and haven’t had time to write anything.

No, that’s not true. I’ve been lazy--so lazy--and haven’t had the desire to write anything. I’d say it’s the weather (pouring rain and grey skies all the way!) but apparently that is not the case. Every Muscovite I’ve mentioned this to has told me that it’s the low air pressure, and that I should sleep as much as possible, so that I don’t get sick. Sounds like more Russian folk-wisdom to me, but since when have I ever given up a chance to be in bed?*

To ensure a full day of bedrest, Kira and I spent our Saturday evening with Russian champagne. It’s three dollars a bottle, and they sell it next door to our building so I’m sure you can figure out how that turned out**

And as a resultof our girls -bonding night, we spent a lovely Sunday at home together, getting our rest***, having a warm dinner**** and playing games*****
So I’m back to it for the week. I‘ve finally cracked my writers block on some of my other work, so my posting here may be sporadic. But don’t worry I have some backup ideas in mind for the blog, some photos I haven‘t posted yet….

Or wait: anyone want to know all the lyrics to American Pie? Or see me list Sweet Valley High books #1-100? This is so my chance… I knew this stuff would come in handy. And to think I almost forgot it all to make room in my brain for some of those University courses I took! pffft…
Point and match, Dean Axwothy. Ya burnt.

*or in the bedroom. Har har. Beat you to it. Jerks.

**Kira accidentally called her dad and then didn’t recognise his voice. I spent more than ten minutes trying to converse with someone who

spoke absolutely no English at all, but managed to convince him to carry our groceries home for us.

***Sleeping til 2:30pm

**** Frozen pizza that I kinda burnt

***** A few rousing rounds of “Where the Hell did I Get That Bruise?”

I'll Give Myself a "D" for Effort

Because I'm barely trying here. I just don't feel like writing today. And because this pic is actually a couple weeks old. But it's new to you! This is the neighborhood near my Friday morning class, near Marksistskaya station. And it's just a great, colourful shot. No sarcasm, witticisms, or deep thoughts today, folks. Just something pretty to look at.

Happy Friday, all.

I'm Sure You've Heard People Bitch About This Before

Ever have one of those days?

Like say you wake up one morning to find that your possibly-retarded baby cat has pooped on your quilt but it's, like, five in the morning and you just can't deal with this before you have caffeine in your system so you go to the kitchen to light the stove, only to find that the light is burnt out and so you stub your toe on your ridiculously sharp-edged table leg on your way out to the washroom where, when you open the door to the toilet, water cascades over your feet sending your kittens into a flurry of panic?
And then, after you realise you own only three towels and use a big red blanket to clean it up running pink water over your entire apartment, and despite the fact that it is maybe five-thirty in the morning, your totally batshit downstairs neighbor rings your bell about fifty times until you let him into your apartment with two plumbers one of whom lets your seriously doorbell-and-water-tormented kitten run out (but at least he chases her down for you) and then no one can speak English to tell you what they are doing but they all still crowd around your toilet, which seems insanely innappropriate, somehow, while downstairs neighbor alternates between complaining about how your pipes have flooded his washroom and yelling at you for the fact that you are not wearing socks and thus will almost certainly "get the flu and die", and you have to go to work but can't even speak enough Russian to kick everyone out?

For sure, something like this has happened to you before?

But don't worry--it wasn't so bad.

I still had to slip on a patch of ice and smack my head into a railing, causing swelling and a faint bruise above my eye.

Same old, here in Moscow.

Okay: Two Canadians, an American and a Russian Walk into StPetersburg (pt.2)

( Part 1 is here)

We looked through our StPetersburg tourist guide and stumble across a restaurant called “The Idiot.” We consider it a sign; Cybelle is reading Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. Also, I am reading The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Learning Russian. Not to mention the fact that Cybelle is a vegetarian, and this restaurant boasts a wide vegetarian menu (hard to come by in Russia) So to complete our perfect triad, we insist upon The Idiot for dinner. Slava tries to convince us that we should go to a restaurant he can find easily (he’s been to StP several times before) but he is out-voted three to one and we shuttle off aboard the St Petersburg metro to the city centre.

***

We exit the train to sleet and high winds. The restaurant is situated at the halfway point between two metro stops. I don’t know how far we have to walk, but it’s only an inch or two on the map, so I think it seems fine (look how much I didn‘t learn in Girl Guides!). Unfortunately, though the curving canals and bays make for a stunning cityscape, they don’t make navigation very easy. We set out on foot and walk for twenty excruciating minutes. And I mean excruciating. I know I’m from Canada--Winnipeg at that--but it feels like fire ants are nesting in my bone marrow.

Despite my aching fingers, windburnt cheeks and running nose, I am still gasping over the canals we walk along, and the graceful scrollwork wrought iron railing that is literally everywhere.

“Oh wow,” I exclaim, thinking of her promise to take photographs; “Kira! You need to take a picture of this!”
“Larissa. I am not taking my hands out of my pockets.”
Fair enough.

In the distance, I see a blue neon M growing closer.
“How is that possible? How could we have walked all the way to the next metro stop?!” I ask, employing my irritating Supleve habit of speaking to no one in particular. “Do we have to turn back?” I continue with dismay.
Looking around, we all make a solid inspection of the metro station. We have so been here before. About twenty-five minutes ago.
We’ve been walking in a circle.

As we reorient ourselves under a futile umbrella, Slava tries to convince us again to go somewhere else. But fuelled by our belief in fate (and the fact that we refuse to have walked 25 minutes just to eat at someplace random) we refuse. Did Peter the Great give up when people told him St Petersburg--a Venice for th North-- couldn’t be built? No. Like, when his people told him that building on an icy, desolate, dark, wind-and-storm-ravaged swamp was the stupid, toe-numbing, soul-draining fool’s dream of an obvious lunatic, did he listen sensibly? Of course not. So neither do we. We forge onward.

***

(fifteen minutes later)

KIRA: Larissa, I can’t feel my feet.
Me: I know! This is awesome! I totally can’t feel that cat bite anymore!

***

(ten minutes after later)

KIRA: A Heinekken sign. We need to go to that Heinekken sign.
LARISSA: You know it’s weird, but I have a feeling you’re right. It`s probably right there.
KIRA: Even if that‘s not the place, that’s where we’re stopping. They’ve got beer and heat inside.

Turns out we had found it. And I know this is a long shot but if any of you ever find yourself in St Petersburg, I highly recommend The Idiot; menus with English, great foot, very cozy and ecclectic and artsy. The only thing that really threw us was the party in the private room, when a drunken WWII-style soldier stumbled out with a saloon girl. And no, despite the fact that this was the weekend following Halloween, that had nothing to do with anything. It was apparently the “soldier’s” birthday. Don’t know what was going on there, but I guess I’ve seen weirder in Russia.
Over dinner, we discuss the cat, and it turns out that I am the only one who hates it.
“He’s just nervous!” Kira defends the evil black monstrosity. “And territorial.”
“Yeah, well, Hitler was nervous and territorial when he invaded Poland, too,” I counter. “Doesn’t mean we should all get over Hitler.”
After a great meal, amazing mulled wine, and gorgeous bottle of white courtesy of Cybelle, we decide to head back to our rented flat for the night.

***

On the St P’s metro Slava takes a minute to point out the gates to the track--they are like elevator doors and you cannot even get near the train until it is in a stopped position. Even then, you can`t walk alongside it-- all you can do is board. Slava tells us that this is to prevent suicides.
“In this city,” he says, “there are a lot of people who commit suicides.” Not surprising. Despite it’s obvious beauty, St P has an average frost-free period of just 135 days per year, and is overcast 165 days of the year. They daylight can las as little as 6 hours per day. Never mind the bone-soaking cold that I already know all-too-well.

We have to change trains to get back to the flat and the cat who we have all by now begun to refer to as “Hitler” (I’m am slowly winning my anti-cat PR campaign). As we descend the escalator, I notice a drunk-looking man staring at us. I am transfixed out of simple shock that people in Russia do not stare--they are generally unfazed and more than happy to ignore each other. He says something to his friends that I’m not sure seems good, and does not back down in his stare. I lower my gaze and follow my friends to the metro platform. As we stand discussing tomorrow’s breakfast, the man approaches.

“Excuse me,” he begins “where are you from?”

Without thinking, and like a moron, I answer “Moscow.” Obviously, he is unsatisfied with this answer, and persists. “Where are you from? What language are you speaking?” I find this an odd question since--hello--you are speaking to us in English. Slava breaks in and tells them we are Canadian (sorry, Cybelle). Immediately, the man`s face changes from tense to very relaxed, his hands gesticulating as he talks with Slava. Then, unceremoniously, he bids us goodnight and goes back to his friends.

“What the Hell was that?” we ask Slava.

“Oh, he thinks we were German, and he say he hates Germans, and so he wanted to fight. But he was glad to hear you were not Germans.”

Um, okay, so let me get this straight--we almost got out asses kicked on a train platform for being German?
Slava says that he’s sure no one would beat up a woman, but that the guy was angry about some outcome of a football (soccer) game, and wanted to tell us how much he hated Germany.
Good to know. I have never in my life felt so defensive of the nation that started two World Wars, but there you go. And this still does not answer my most vexing question--If he thought we were German, why did he speak English to us?

Now back to the flat, and to little Hitler, for whom I feel refreshed resentment over this anti-German mix-up. But of course this cannot be it for our first night in St Petersburg, because we board the train and--lucky us--German-hater and his drunken friends get in the same car as we do. This is so not over….

To Be Continued…