So I'm a Kinda...What's the Term? Oh Yeah- "Not Able To Leave the Country"

Not to bore you with visa chat and all, my temporary visa is about to run out, and I've been waiting for my multi-entry visa to arrive at the office. If I want to leave Russia and be able to get back in, I must have this.

Well, it arrived today. And listed me as a citizen of Cambodia.

Cambodia.

You may know it as the country where Angelina Jolie first started her human collection. It is also nowhere near Canada:

See?! You have to click on the map just to see it.

And not to nitpick, but THERE IS A PICTURE ON THE PASSPORT. Not to mention the fact that visa application itself requires yet another brand new photo which I also provided. I know it's a big racial assumption here, but you'd think that looking at all three photos of a blond chick may cause someone in the visa office to at least double check about that southeast Asian heritage thing...

Now, if I leave Russia, I'm not allowed back in.

So props to the Russian bureaucracy; they are not only slow, but woefully incompetent.

I should have it all fixed up by Tuesday, when I'll likely be receiving a visa for free passage in and out of Russia, issued to "Larissa Supleve, native-born citizen of Camaroon. "

Be My Friend Now, BEFORE I'm a Famous Journalist

I am not a woman who has previously given much thought to food shopping. There was that month of oatmeal, and a weekend where I decided to eat nothing but yoghurt for no reason at all. And I have, more frequently than I‘d like to admit, felt that a couple scotch-rocks and a bag of microwave popcorn are a perfectly adequate meal, but at least I always knew how and where to find those items (the LC, and my mother’s pantry, respectively). So I do know hot to get groceries, provided you play fast and loose with the term “groceries.”

Buying groceries in Moscow, however, has proven to be a bit of a feat, not because I don’t speak the language but because there seems to be aisles and aisles of “what-the-Hell-is-that” on the shelves.

Now you’ve already read my beer-shopping expose. If you liked that, be prepared to get blown.
Away. I mean. Blown away. By my excellent reporting skills.

Because next, I am going to uncover what goes with that beer---what I eat in place of meals--- what is missing from every Canadian 7-11---what every drunk grabs on the way home to crash with in front of the DVD menu because they fall asleep during the previews before they actually manage to hit play---THE SNACK FOODS OF EASTERN EUROPE!

BOOYAH Barbara Walters--ya burnt!

If you guys can’t get a hold of me for the next week or so, it’s because I’m keeping my lines open for the Pulitzer people.

First up, we have the seafood-chips category. Yes--it is a category. Because I have found not just one fishy-tasting snack food, but two. First off, there are these salmon chips:




Not too weird, right? The picture looks pretty appetising. Little salmon, little dill…yummy. And they are.

So then there are these:



Yes. That is a crab. A big, shiny, pinchy, red crab:

What exactly about this packaging is supposed to be appealing? It looks threatening to me. Or maybe itchy, on a smaller scale.

But you know what? They really taste like crab. And they are bloody delicious. No joke.

At another grocery store I discovered, to my amazement, gin-and-tonic in a can:

[FOOTAGE NOT FOUND]

I have no idea if this is a Russian thing or if it’s generally sold across Europe, but I was completely amazed and prepared myself to write about this incredible innovation in inebriation technology.

The people have to know, I reasoned. This is for science. So I bought it, brought it home, cracked it open, and poured a glass.

I took a sip. I swirled it around in my mouth. And this is what I discovered:.

It tastes like a gin and tonic.

You read it here first.

I’ll wait for you to recover from the smack-down of that journalism. Y’know, cause it was so hard-hitting.

Finally, have you ever thought to yourself “Hey--my cheese just isn’t dry enough., and it doesn’t taste enough like meat. I wish there was something I could do about that.” but then went along, eating your moist, cheese-flavoured cheese like a sucker, resigned to the fact that the world is an imperfect place?
Well my friend, if you were in Russia, such dilemma would never have even crossed you mind. Because to my taste buds and fingertips, this:

seems to be some kind of cheese jerky. It’s really salty and stringy and I think it is cured with meat. I don’t hate it but…it’s not great. Maybe I just haven’t figured out what to do with it yet? I’m probably going to find out that eating it from the package causes blindness, brain damage, and sterility.

Question: if I get a tapeworm, could I consider that a pet? Then I wouldn’t be talking to myself when I’m alone, right?

...And that sterility thing just starts to sound more and more necessary, doesn’t it?

The Metro, Kievskaya about 6pm Last Night

Not the worst I've ever seen it, but the worst I've been able to catch it with a camera so far.

The dots in the back are heads of people waiting to get on the escalator.

PHOTO CONTEST TIME!

Hey Guys! Now, reading this blog could actually be (barely) profitable!

The topic of my first-ever photo contest is "The Weirdest Thing I ACTUALLY Found Laying Next to the Sidewalk."

The winner will receive 500 roubles.

Let it be known that I expect no actual entries to this contest. Because the winner will have to truly believe that he can beat this:

I'm going to guess thatr this is some kind of chicken foot? But it was about four inches long, so I dunno...and it was just lying there next to the walk boards.


So, yeah. If you think you can win against that, please e-mail me.

A Russian Point of View

I have a student, Aleksey, who has taken it upon himself to worry over me.

“Why, why,” he asks shaking his head, “does a well-educated young woman leave Canada to come to Russia? People usually leave Russia to go to Canada. Why would you come here?”

This is not a slam at Russia. Because were I to make that exact same statement, I’d get chewed out by a patriotic Russian telling me that I just don’t understand them. There is a good deal of internal bitching among Russians about their country but it is, I presume, similar to the way a person is allowed to whine about their own family, while immediately crucifying any outsider who dares do the same thing.

I confess to Aleksey that I actually prefer not knowing what is going to happen to me next month, next year, in ten years. “I’ve tried to make steady plans,“ I tell him, “But it suffocates me. If I have too many plans, I start to feel overwhelmed. So I decided I’d prefer to live without them. I am much more relaxed in the midst of chaos.”
Aleksey shakes his head (something he has been doing during the entire conversation) “You and I, Larissa, we are very different people.” He pauses. “With that attitude, you will do well in Moscow, though.”

He then proceeds to tell me, with the protective attitude that I have found to be the norm among Russian men, all the things I should do to stay safe. What neighbourhoods to eat in so I don’t get flirted with in restaurants is a favourite topic . “No one should be bothering you in a room when you are seated to eat!”-- he says when I tell him a story of a slightly intoxicated man who was trying to speak to me in a restaurant. That particular incident didn’t really strike me as odd, but it horrifies Aleksey. I tell him it’s pretty standard back home.
“Any man who does that here is not he kind of man you want to talk to.” he says. “Not in a restaurant.”

We talk about the construction taking place on practically every block of Moscow, from facelifts of historic buildings, to the apartments going up everywhere. We discuss what will happen to all the construction with the economic crisis. I ask him about the construction workers outside my window, and mention the lax Russian attitudes toward safety.
“Ah, these are all workers from Arab émigré nations,” He informs me. “They work night and day because they must finish the job quickly-they are contracted by private firms and not being paid much. So it is up to them what they use for safety. So they use nothing.” He sighs. “Unfortunately, life is cheap for these people in Russia. So cheap.” Life, it seems, is cheaper than harnesses.

The militsiya (police) are another favourite topic of his “If they ever speak to you--ever,” He instructs, “Do not say a word in Russian. Not even privyet (“hi”). Just talk to them as much as you can in English, and act like you do not understand them, even if you do. If they speak English (which they won’t) just act as if their English is so bad that you can’t understand it. Then they will get bored. They won’t know what to do with you, and they will ignore you, because they can’t get money from you. Always do this.”

Then, with his characteristic love of country, he tempers all his gloomy perspectives with the following “Russia is a very young country,” he says. “It is an infant. We just are just learning to make things work. We have never been a democracy before. Give it time, and it will become what everyone hopes. It is starting already. It gets better. It has gotten much better since the early nineties.”
“I’m not scared of Moscow,” I insist. “Millions of people live their lives here everyday. If they’re not afraid, I’m not going to be afraid.”
“Good, good,” he says. “You can’t be. You should never be. Just be cautious. That is all I ask.” I promise him I will.
He looks me in the eye, “This is a good time to be here,” he says, “Right at the beginning.”

A Tale of Horror

Sunday, October 19th

5:18 pm

I again apologise for the lack of posts lately, but I have been really, truly, ear-plugged, bed-ridden date-cancelling sick. Yup, that sick. For five days now. I haven’t taught a class since Wednesday. On Friday, I called everyone I know in the hopes of hearing a friendly voice because I was both stir-crazy and restless, congested and scared of my sheets. So if you got a nasaly call along the lines of: “Heeeeey….where are you? At work? Really? Why-yyyy?“ in your voice mail at about three pm your time, understand the underlying factors.
And so tired am I of coughing and nose-blowing (and did I mention date-cancelling?) that I have been forced to do something I never believed I would do:

Gather ‘round children, and I’ll tell you the tale…

Picture a closed, dimly lit room. Not a sound to be heard* for miles. Your heroine was truly in the blackest of despair--what could she do but believe the folk-tales? There is said to be a mixture here that will cure all ills. What other hope had she? Suggested by every toothless witch-woman in this land, she has looked to this potion with the same fear as one would look at a brew concocted of eye of newt and tongue of bat. But so deep was her pitiable desperation and suffering that she had no choice but to go in search of whatever unholy cure she could find. She was driven far from the warm safety of home, turned out on a desperate search into reaches unfathomed** into weather as foul and howling as that of Hades itself***. And there, between the dried animal flesh**** and frothy, foaming green liquid*****, she found the quested item:

Garilka. *clap of thunder/lightning* *cue scream*

For those of you that did not gasp, garilka is peppered-vodka. You actually can buy it back home, though here you have several options as to brand in even the most poorly-stocked convenience store, and it‘s only five dollars a bottle. To reiterate, this is vodka. With pepper in it.

And I am to drink it. *cue another scream*

It sits on my bed in front of me right now, a fire-coloured liquid swirling behind the glass. A hot pepper bobs along the top like a severed finger, twisting and spiralling and dancing inside the bottle…mocking me… knowing I will come…knowing how desperate I am.
I cannot do this…

5:25 pm
Oh shit oh shit…..what f*cking foul potion of the Devil is this?….If Lucifer himself spit in a glass…oh Jesus, Mary and sweet Saint Joseph…it burns…save me…

5:29 pm
Dude, that stuff is totally working. For the first time in six days, it does not feel as if someone could crack my lungs with a ball-peen hammer.

6:00pm
Aw, man….this stuff is awesome... Screw chicken soup.


And they all lived Healthfully Ever After******


*except for traffic, construction, and the neighbour's some seventy five dogs.
**the next apartment block.
***It's super cloudy out
****jerky.
*****Fanta lime.
****** (I can breathe through two nostrils!--at the same time!)

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.