Quote of the Day

"It's a problem dating a foreign man--you can't Google him."

---Anonymous Expat Friend

We tried to Google him. Everything was in Russian.

Guess we could've seen that coming.

The Visitor's Guide to Moscow

A few friends have contacted me looking to visit Moscow. Portage is coming for White Nights in St Petersburg and a brief stay at the luxurious Dom Kiraskaya y Larissaskaya. Two others are up in the air.

And while I can honestly say that this is a great city, I can't help but think that there are a few tips I should pass along to anyone thinking of coming out here.

And so I present to you:

LARISSA'S VISITOR WARNINGS FOR MOSCOW

1) You need an "invitation" to visit me. Basically, the government wants to know that, should you turn out to be a terrorist, they can blame me later.

2) Squat over all toilets. Just trust me.

3) We may not have water when you come. The odds are good that we will, but... well...there is this possibility (see #4).

4) Mind the babushkas. They may look like cute little old ladies, but they know how to use their elbows. And they will yell at you (last week I got yelled by one of them, insisting that I was "harming my woman parts" by sitting on a cement staircase outdoors)

5) Waiters consider you lucky to be at one of their tables. You are bothering salespeople with your questions. And did you SERIOUSLY just ask a metro employee for information about the metro? You are so needy...

6) You can only buy food at food stores. You can only buy clothes at clothing stores. DVD kiosks for DVDs. Meat at deli counter. Pharmaceuticals from a pharmacist.
Alcohol? Anywhere.
No, really, anywhere.

7) Quit smiling at people you haven't been properly introduced to. You're freaking people out, dude.

8) The cashier always tears your receipt halfway accross the centre. I've been here seven months-- I still don't know why.

9) You can know the name of a street by reading the sign that tells you it can be found one hundred metres away. Sh*t outta luck if you are any closer than that. Be prepared to ask many people how to get to the street you are already on.

10) Non smoking? hahahahhahahha.... You are so cute, Westerner...


There are more. But these stand out right now. I'll let you know if we think of more.
But Kira, the kittens and I can't wait for our houseguests!

I'm Sure it was Just my Phone Card

Yesterday i was chatting on the phone with my mum. Somehow, the topic of conversation came round to the Cold War (yes, topics of conversation in my family are normally this erratic and at least this political.)
My mother says something about Cuba.

"That's funny," I say. "I always associate the Cold war with Russia. With Kruschev."

*BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP*

Then nothing. My mum was gone.

Then a Russian recording saying, I think, something along the lines of the fact that my phone card had no funds left.

But maybe, just maybe, someone was monitoring and didn't like what I had to say?

Do you guys think that the government could possibly be--

!!!ВНИМАНИЕ!!!

!!!жаль, связь закончилась. Войдите в контакт с властями для информации. Но не спрашивайте вопросы!!!

A Contest for Spanish Speakers!

Last Sunday was basically a throwaway for me, because of my Saturday night.

Kira and I attended a party that lasted until 4:30 am, at which time everybody decided to go to a club. Really, the decision to go was less due to my party-girl nature and more based on practicality: if I stayed out until 6 am, the metro would be running again and I wouldn't have to pay for a cab. The Moscow Metro inexplicably ends service at 1am, thereby resulting in most people going to the club for 11 or midnight and staying out until service resumes at 5:30 am. I, of course, have no problem with this.

Excessive partying is just good financial sense.

Anyhow, the party consisted of basically fifteen Spanish men, Kira, myself, and one other Russian girl. Ladies out there, I ask you: who could have a complaint? Who would go home before 6am?

"Where are you from in Canada?" they'd ask, and I'd prepare myself for inevitable disappointment. I've been asked this question dozens of times, and rarely get a response that doesn't involve a totally blank look.
"Winnipeg" I answered each time. And each time, I would get an enthused response.
"Ah! Winnipeg! I know that place!"
"You do?!" This time, the blank shock was mine.

Apparently, a lot of kids in Spain had to read some book in school, the title of which they all translate as something along the lines of Panic in Winnipeg. I mean, they all grew up going to different schools in different parts of Spain, and they all remember the book.

I tried to find it online, but no dice.

A prize of beets, caviar, and matryoshka dolls to the first person who finds it...

PLEASE Visit This Link

Moscow Stray Dogs Evolve to Suit Urban Life

I know I'm just linking you a lot today, but this is way too good to pass up.

And I HAVE seen these dogs on the metro several times, and they really did always get off in the centre of the city, almost as though they understood the anouncer. Maybe they did.

A great read.

It is my Duty to Pass This On

Got it here. And it's a story worth passing on.

Apparently a Russian man had a fir tree growing in his lungs. Doctors perfored surgery to remove a tumor and found a fir tree growing inside the tumour. I decided not to post it, but the photo of the actual icky, christmassy mess is in the link, if you want to see it.

And you thought smoking was dangerous.

Try living in a coniferous forest region.

And it Wasn't Annoying at All

So today I'm on the street near Novokuznetskaya, on the way to school, and I notice some Militsiya eyeballing a car.

Obviously the owner of said car was someone they wanted to talk to. Not sure why. Parking violation? Nah, unheard of in Moscow, expecially on a street where no fewer than three cars were parked on the sidewalk and one made use of a half-space by parking sideways with his front end pulled onto the sidewalk.
So no, that couldn't have been it.

Anyway, they decide to find the owner of the car using the following method: giving his tire a good, solid kick to trigger the car alarm, and waiting for him to come out of whatever building he was in.

I don't know how it worked out.

I'm assuming super well and friendly-like.

Just for kicks, the image is from http://englishrussia.com/ a great site with actual pics from around Russia.

This pic... I don't really bat an eyelash, anymore.

So Kira Has a Cough

So do I. I chalked it up to allergies and whatnot, but Kira cancels a class and gets the following message from a student:

"It is very bad, Kira. Now in Moscow epidemic of cough. Buy in
drugstore of a kidney of a pine, boil milk 200 ml, then add on the table spoon,
wait for 50min and drink three times a day. Very much helps."

That is some witchy shit, right there.

And a fifty ruble prize to anyone who explains what "kidney of pine" is.
If we figure it out, I'll let you know how it tastes and what it does.

My money is on superpowers, natch.

Sentence of the Week

"I think my fascination with moss goes back to when I was a child..."

---Anonymous Friend

Maybe you have to be as tired and punchy as we were when we heard this, but Kira and I were literally breathless from laughing as soon as it was said. Yep--I know and love someone who used this sentence without irony.

Why was I so exhausted? I'll tell you tomorrow, when my computer isn't about to die...

RUSSIA MULLETWATCH 2009: UPDATED

Despite serious monitoring of the situation (ie Kira and I watching in horror) the problem only seems to be on the rise.

While the Mulletwatch Team does not recommend staying indoors, we do recommend that you acknowledge the situation and take precations to avoid coming directly into contact with it.

The beast is best viewed for the purposes of education in its natural habitat. We recommend vintage NHL trading cards and episodes of Degrassi, both Junior High, and High versions (now available on DVD at your nearest quality retailer).

The Mulletwatch Team also reccomends keeping an electric raztor near the entrance of your home, in the case that a Mullet should try to enter.

We will keep you updated, and keep track of any progression the Mullet might make accross the pond.

Good Night.

And God Speed.

UPDATE:

Due to requests (hey Stef!) The Mulletwatch Team has accumulated pics, courtesy of diznila (since I'm lazy and my camera is meh):

I Can Stay in the Country!

I'm not going too much into detail, but just know that thanks to some favour somewhere, I managed to get a visa without leaving the country, or even missing a single day's work.


I know it sounds dodgy, but believe me, the details are also incredibly sexy and filled with adventure. I mean boring. Yeah. Not interesting at all, and it never involved a car chase, several wig changes, the seduction of a high-up government official whose name rhymes with "shootin," and a series of clues each one more mysterious than the last. Yeah, no, it's all boring paperwork red tape stuff.

Yeah.

And so I am once again safely nestled in Russia, with paperwork valid for at least one year.

And with that out of the way, I promise to write more. Well, once I'm done with this treasure map.

Now a skull and crossbones is code for "good", right?

The Russians Make Us Look Like Assholes

I open my Moscow News to the news that Russia is banning baby seal hunts. In two paragraphs learned both that Vladimir Putin believes “It’s a bloody industry and…should have been banned long ago”, and that Canada is home to the world’s largest annual commercial seal hunt.

So... Canada is doing something that Vladimir Putin thinks is irrationally violent.

Hm.

And I'd like to mention that I for one am completely for the clubbing of baby seals. But only because a gang of baby seals killed my father. They got it coming.

Though in the name of political correctness, I’m not using a club. I've got a tube sock filled nickels.

You can't change nickels at the money-exchange..

I Guess He's Here in Case of Wednesday Noon Hour Fights

There is a security guard who has been hovering about 5m in front of me for half an hour now. He has not, however, deinged to do a thing about the dude in army fatigues who has been sleeping 1.5m to my left for the last forty-five minutes:

But I should mention I've been using the internet for an hour here, and haven't bought a thing.

People sitting at glass tables should not throw McNuggets. No judgement.

This is What I'm Working on These Days

Edwin and I on our usual Friday night decompression session. We both quit the old school, so relaxation is in order. In the form of:

This is 3.5 litres. And 22$. Financial crisis, you just got owned.

Because Meat is the New Bread!

If this doesn’t like like something that emerged from the Tracy Jordan Meat Machine, I don’t know what would.
They seem to sell them in every deli in Russia. Overly spicy. Not to my liking.
But now bread will never maybe eat away at my brain again!
Classic video below, if my embedding code works. If not, here's the link

I Don't Really Need to Translate This, Do I?

Everyone's a wiseass. Even on the other side of the world:

Works in every language.

Stuff DID Happen While I Was Sick

Not to me, that is.
But do you want to hear a story about the best bad night ever?

It's Saturday night. Kira is getting anxious, because she is supposed to go out with friends she has never gone out with before and wants me to come. I am sick. Crazy-person, sleep-deprived feverish sick. But I've been stuck in the house for about a week, and am completely stir-crazy. I'm insanely envious of Kira getting to go out, and I tell her so.
But she's not so sure about this night. She has a feeling that her student is trying to set her up with his friend, because he's been so insistent that she meet him. Something about the evening gives her an uneasy feeling, but she doesn't know why.
Still I'm jealous.
"You're jealous of ME?! I'M jealous of YOU! You don't have to go out with a bunch of people you don't know! I wish I were you."
"I wish I were you."

Then ensued a five minute fever-and-wine- inspired conversation about how If we actually were to get to switch bodies for the evening, we'd then, by transitive properties, still want to each be the other person. Heavy stuff. Think about it.

So anyway, she goes out for her fabulous night in Moscow, and I sit in bed with two kittens. Unfair trade.

Then, she's back at midnight. Midnight. Very early, by Moscow standards. She walks into the apartment where I, in my fever-and-cold-flashing state, have settled on an outfit consisting of 1970's track shorts, a tank top, a touque, and a bedsheet wrapped around me toga-style. But this bit of crazy was nothing compared to her evening...

As she tells it:

When she gets in the car, Elvis (yes, his name is Elvis) gets a phone call from the friend they are to meet. Kira makes use of her limited Russian, and understands that he is telling the guy that she speaks only English. Oh, and it's not a big group, either.
So this can't be a set up. He'd never set up an English girl with someone she can't understand. In fact, why would he even bring her out in such a cozy situation when she'll be virtually cut off? What is going on here?

The phone call ends and he tells her:
"That was Slava. He was asking about my girl and whether you speak Russian."
His girl?
Oh, and did I mention Elvis is married? Yeah, that's important here.
Kira gets that oh shit feeling and makes a feeble attempt to explain that her roomate is sick, and she's got to come home early. But she is also trapped in the car and has no choice but to ride this night out, at least for a little.

Elvis takes her to a little cozy Uzbekistani restaurant. As she described it to me later, it was exactly like that restaurant in the Godfather where Michael shoots Salozzo and the police captain, where home cooked food and discretion are key. Except Uzbekistani.

He guides her to the table where his "most important" friend is seated with a woman (also not his wife, for the record). This is Slava: "hairy, lots of jewelery, cashmere-wearing, and spread in his chair relaxed and refined, drinking his cognac. This man does not condescend to speak in any English." The word presence means everything here. Oh, and the word scary.
Slava, as it turns out, is a casino boss. Little surprise.
Over dinner, they discuss going to Fabrik one of Moscow's hottest clubs, famous for employing face-control on a regular basis. Face control, if you don't know, is when they don't let you in because of...well, your face. The good-looking only.
Kira registers concern over not getting in, and they all laugh.
"If you're with us, you'll get in."
Aha. We're dealing with that kind of people, then (read: scary)
Kira needs a drink and a smoke in a big way. But they don't drink. Or smoke. Though adultery is a harmless enough vice, apparently.
She reminds everyone, over the very expensive cognac (the only acceptable beverage) that she needs to get home to her roommate who is sick and she can't go to the club.

But guess what? The other woman at the table just happens to be a doctor, and tells Kira that her plan to bring me ice cream is a bad one. Kira must then endure ten agonising minutes of feigning concern to an actual doctor about an illness both she and I know is just a nasty flu. And Kira is a piss-poor liar. Poor girl.

But Kira is not to be swayed, and insists on a ride home after the dinner. The whole way home, Elvis is teasing her, upset that she won't go dancing. Then, because the evening was not awkward enough, he informs her that he is a singer. It's his hobby. He sings and records cover songs. Like Bryan Adams and George Michael.
For real.
So of course, he pops in a CD, and makes her listen to his covers of these songs. As if that were not enough, next comes up an instumental track of a song he plans to record next: Please Forgive me. Of course, he treats her to a sing along.
Of course.

Kira endures this, wondering if he's ever considered recording this song for his wife.


When the Elvis serenade is over, he pops in trance music, and proceeds to dance to it in the driver's seat, complete with the white-man overbite.


Kira is camera shy, but she showed me, so allow me to demonstrate:





He drops her off, and she runs into the apartment, to me in my Farrah-meets-snowboarder-meets-Animal house getup and makes a beeline for the kitchen and the wine. She has earned it.

So to sum up:
Kira accidentally went on a date with a married singing -and-dancing Uzbekistani man named Elvis and his mobster friend.

Good times, Moscow.

Still wish I'd been her, that night.

Anna Banana's Birthday!

Today my big sister turns 30!

Gee, what to tell you about Anna? I could tell you about how when we were little, we'd play school. She'd INSIST on being the teacher, and then assign us actual homework. And if we didn't do it, we'd actually get in trouble. (she is, for the record, a schoolteacher now.)

Maybe about how she and my brother stuffed my little sister into the hide-a-bed and wouldn't let her out?

Maybe about how when she was eight, she asked Santa Claus for an Alf shirt? Yeah. Clothes. From Santa. She asked for a typewriter for her birthday that same year

Nah, I think I'd prefer to talk about the time when I was seventeen and she secretly gave me her birth certificate, Social Insurance card and Manitoba health card so that I could go out and get a fake ID in her name with my photo courtesy of the ever on-the-ball provincial government. I remember I asked her for them and explained the situation. Silently, she got her purse and pulled them out of her wallet, looking me in the eye, saying nothing but: "If you get caught with these, you stole them. That'll be my story."

It was the best.

I LOVE her.

To my big sis:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Hot Tempered? Me?

Let see...got sick, got healthy, bought Mad Men on DVD...A busy week.

Oh, and I quit my job because my boss hung up on me during a disagreement. Like hung up on me while I was in mid sentence. And it was a non-swearing, non-yelling, rational sentence that he just happened not to feel like discussing. I just requested a discussion over the phone rather than in person because of my schedule, and he said that he didn't care what my schedule was, but that I would cancel all my private classes to come into the office for a ten minute meeting. I didn't HAVE private classes, actually, but he thought I did, and insisted that I toss upwards of a hundred dollars out the window so that I could come to see him.

"Does this need to be done in person?" I asked innocently. "I'd prefer to do it over the phone. It's more efficient that way, if it's just a talk."
"Yes, it could be done that way. But I want to see you here. You're not teaching one of my classes tomorrow morning so you'll come in. You don't have a choice."
Pause
"So you are telling me that you want me in the office just to prove that you can get me into the office?"
"You'll be here at ten tomorrow morning. You don't get a say in the matter."
"I could do later in the afterno--"
Click.

Yeah, I don't play that way.
So I texted him: If you chose to hang up on me, I choose to quit. Via text-message. Efficient, no?"
Which I realise was facecious, but I didn't play that card first here. Plus, I love irony.

So now I have to reapply for a visa, jet to Ukraine for at least 24hours to make me legal again, and refill my roster with private students. It's all actually quite possible, just a good deal of work.
In retrospect I guess could've kept my temper and not had to scramble around for a visa.

But I prefer it this way. At least if I get deported, my self-respect will be intact.

I'm Sick

Again. Like "God-hates-me-because-of-that-time-I-stole-a-dollar-from-the-collection-so-i'm-being-punished-now" sort of sick. And it's been pretty stead for 2 weeks, almost.

Not just a cold but fever, chills, congestion, night sweats, aching, everything. Again. Why so sick so soon again? I’ve heard some expats say that the stress of completely uprooting can cause a fair amount of illnes the first year. Although Suriya says that “fever is going around very bad in Moscow right now” (which fever, she does not say. Scarlet? Dengue? Disco?) Allison says it’s because my Canadian immune-system is not used to the Russian strains of all the illnesses. Kolya says it’s because I didn’t wear my hat when we went on a night-snowman-walk.

Maybe they are all right. Maybe none of them are. I've been the kind of sick where I can’t write or even read. The point is that I spent my entire long-weekend (a long-weekend!) and three working days marathonning the following: Californication Season 1; 30 Rock Season 1; The Godfather I ⅈ Arrested Development Seasons 1&2; My So-Called-Life (The Complete Series); The Shining; 28Days Later; The Mary Tyler-Moore Show Season 1.

Good thing I moved all the way to Russia. You sure can`t get this kind of experience back home.

But panicked about the missing work days, I knew I would need a note from a doctor. Unfortunately, the only doctor I had contact numbers for was out of Moscow. So I messaged Kolya (at 4:20 in the morning, bless him) and told him that I needed help finding a doctor. In fact, by 9:30 Friday morning, I had asked no fewer than five people to help me find a doctor.
Harder than you`d think.
Kolya calls around to several different “medic centres” which are basically dispach-centres for doctors. After four won’t take me because they have no English-speaking doctors, a fifth offers to take up my case for 6400 rubles. A little quick math here: that’s just over 180 bucks. No effing way, even if my insurance will reimburse me (and who ever really knows if they will). I call work and explain it to them, and Tony tells me that I ought to put more effort into sleeping and getting better and less into calling every medic centre in the North end of Moscow. I sound like absolute crap on the phone, and am cancelling some of my favourite classes. They believe me, they believe me, they say; enough. Go to bed. there are either worried for my health, or sick of my whining, and I suspect that it is both.

Ah yes, sleep and rest. But as of Thursday, my neighbour (who’s apartment is adjacent only to my bedroom, of course) has started using some kind of appliance that vibrates. I have no idea what it is, but randomly, at any hour of day or night, it kicks in at a decibel level just low enough that I’m not sure if It’s my poor plugged ears or her new refrigerator/belt sander/vibrator.

Because when you’re in the throes of fever, what you really need to be wondering is if you are hearing things.

Anyhow, all that was left to do was go to the drugstore and get myself some meds. Fun fact: did you know that you can buy penicillin and antibiotics over the counter in Russia? Well you can. And, knowing my body, and knowing what strep throat feels like, I decide to get some antibiotics. Except that the pharmacist, despite not being able to talk to me, won’t sell me anbiotics. Not like she’s against it on principle or anything, she just happens to think that this whatever-mystery-pill that she has will be better. It is the only thing she offers to sell me (all over-the-counter meds are literally over the counter here) so sick, sleep-deprived, and still hearing humming in my ears, I buy the mystery-pill. Three dollars for two-weeks worth. Weird, considering the cost of a doctor’s visit, right? Vova, the store security guard who always greets me by name notices my coughing and insists I buy cognac and, like every other Russian who I have spoken to in the past two days, many different forms of lemon-products. Lemons are to sick Russians what oranges are to sick North Americans; God‘s contribution to curing what ails you.
Still, feeling no better, I am rummaging through my makeup bag, looking for tweezers (maybe to do my eyebrows, maybe to stab myself in the brain--it’s a tossup at this point) when in a side-pocket, what do I find? Two NyQuil tabs, still in their foil smuggled over from Canada and long forgotten. I screech in a tone of voice that makes Kira think one of the cats is dead. I pop them from the safety packaging and stare at them with the love heretofore reserved in my life for human beings, Heineken, and reruns of Saved by the Bell. Like to glittering green emeralds in my palm, there it is: Western medicine.

Anyhow, the way this tale of self-pity twisted and turned, you were probably wondering where I was going with it. Here is the moral of the story: Be glad you can read pharmaceutical packaging wherever you are. It’s something I took for granted.

Also, if you’re reading this, please send me NyQuil.