When Translation Problems...er...Rise

All names and identifying details in this story have been changed at the request of the individual who provided this story to the Expatella.

No Mum, this story is not about me.

So an English-speaking friend of mine, Mary, is dating a Russian man John, who speaks English well enough that they can converse fairly normally. A missing word here, a brief hesitation there, but by and large, they have managed to get past most major communication issues.

Recently, Mary and John began the physical phase of their relationship. One night, after a little too much champagne, it starts getting really hot. Thinking that she is not quite ready for this, Mary tries to slow things down a touch.

"Okay John," she tells him mid-makeout, "That's enough. You need to put on pants."

"Okay," John says, and begins to walk across the room, away from his pants on the floor. Just as Mary is about to ask what the Hell he is doing, he returns to the side of the bed, a box of condoms in hand.

"Here--I have some pants."

"Pants" is a pretty basic, low-level word. Just goes to show you that men the world round are never thinking of slowing things down. He heard "You need to put on..." and his brain shut down completely.

I am certain that the ensuing laughter out of Mary was more than enough to cool things down.

Random Weird Russian Thing

Every once in awhile, I come across things in Russia that inspire me to wonder "WTF were they thinking?"

This is one of those things:

It is some kind of...er...statue. On the lawns of a very expensive apartment complex. If you think you can figure out a reason, please, leave it in the comments section.

It Has Nothing to do With Russia

But I am posting it because it is one of the most awesome things I have heard all week.

The Gods are truly just.

If you hate right-wing pundits who don't know when to shut up, click here.

Oh the delicious irony.

Happy Friday indeed...

A Russian Point of View

“I think that Russians, we want all the options so that we can be proud that we bought the best thing,” says Maria, a woman about my age and one of my most advanced students. “When you see a Russian on the metro, maybe, we are always wearing the best of everything we have everyday, to prove to everyone that we are good enough for the best.”
What had started as a discussion of consumer demand in the workplace has evolved into her pondering the differences between materialism in the West versus materialism in her homeland. She lived in the United States for a year and has had the experience to reflect on the issue firsthand. Only having been her two months, I myself had never really considered that there could even be a difference. Consumer-obsessed society is consumer-obsessed society, right? Sure, there is a distinctly different feeling to Russian luxury and must-have items; they seem a little showier, a little more logo-intensive, a little more in the taste of visible wealth. But until now, I had naively chalked this difference up to a divergence in taste and style. But Maria insists that this is not the case--that the entire intention behind Russian consumerism is completely different.
I tell her that consumer pressure is a real social issue back home. I tell her a story about being 12, and begging my parents for a starter jacket (remember those?!) under the intense belief that it would automatically make me cool. It would obviously not have, and I did not get one, but I firmly held the belief all winter that if I could just get my hands on one, my life would be that much better. Even then, I was already succumbing to the power of the logo, and it’s happening even younger a decade and a half later. Style over substance, I assure her, is an issue in Canada.
“Ah, but you see why you did that?” She asks me. “To be like other kids. To fit in. Here, is not the same. We want to stand out. After the collapse of the Soviet regime, where everybody drove the same car, everybody had the same clothes, same apartments, same everything, we very much wanted things that were not all the same. Nobody could stand out before, nobody could feel special. Now we all can, and we buy many things because we can.
I agree that the rampant desire in Moscow for top-of-the-line everything is likely a backlash to the Soviet era, but is it really any different than the mood in the West, I ask sceptically.
“Okay,” she says, preparing an anecdote, “I have a friend from Portugal, and he says that everywhere else in the world, men acquire clothes, cars, these things to impress women, to make themselves seem important in this way. But Russian men, he says, they do it only to impress themselves. So they can look at it and feel that they are worth something.” She pauses, “maybe to prove as well to other men, sometimes. Even the women they date, they buy them expensive gifts of jewellery and clothes so that they will also seem more…important. This sounds horrible I know, but perhaps it is just hard for me to explain in English. Maybe it is not very good.”
But I suddenly understand the unselfconscious flaunting of furs, and diamonds, and iphones that cover the shoulders, and fingers and ears of Muscovites from all walks of life. They are, to the owner, like a pat on the back, a shout of congratulations, a hit of a drug. They provide the self-esteem needed to put on the thick armour in this tough world. They are a (false) form of self-validation. I insist to Maria that this is actually well-explained, and that it is really no better or worse than the validation we seek from others with these same items in the West. But it does explain the unselfconsciousness of Russian displays of wealth. They genuinely don’t seem to care if you notice their stuff.
Do you think this will settle down? I ask her. Maybe that it will stop once the Soviet era is merely a distant memory of the eldest generation.
“No,” she answers firmly. But perhaps it will…how to say…”
“Level off?” I offer.
“Yes, yes,” she says. “There cannot always be so many new products. We want always what is new, but this can’t last forever. Not with economic recession. Recession is like Darwinism, natural selection for products. Only the strong and the necessary will survive.”

And THAT, my friends is the greatest quote I have heard about the economic crisis so far. The most astute and unique observation of the effect on consumer spending habits that I have heard since the market went to Hell. Courtesy of a 25-year-old receptionist at a sports-facility construction company. Fantastic.

I Cannot Tell You How Much This Creeps Me Out

This is a promotional standee in the Mc Donald's at the Tverskaya stop. I had to sit across from it last night.

Here's what you should do if you're ever in the same situation: order a cheeseburger. Because it's very hard to eat a salad when you can't look down at your plate because you know that the instant you take your eyes off that creepy-ass clown he's gonna run over and stab you in the eye with a hockey stick.

Just a little tip from me to you.

An apple pie would be okay too.

The Bible Omits a Few Technical Details About Raising from the Dead

So turns out that the camera is not exactly perfect.

In a glitch that I don't understand at all, it can only take pictures in the dark. Like if the room is completely dark and it has to rely on its own flash, it's good, but if there is light in the room... it looks like this:

Kind blurry, little lines on it... so it's not exactly "good as new."

But you know I bet when Jesus came back, even he probably came back with, like, a limp, or a stutter, or he wore socks with his sandals or whatever, and his friends didn't just go out and get a new Jesus. So, yeah. Think about it.

It's still cool that it's back. And hopefully, I can get it fixed. In the meantime, I'll just have to take photos in pitch black rooms. No problem.

This, by the way, it the Christmas tree in the marble lobby at one of my employers' offices...
*sigh* If they'd let me turn off all the lights in the lobby like I tried to, instead of holding me for three hours as a "security measure," I could've gotten the prettiest picture...

I Don't Know How to Feel About This

I'm not sure whether I'm more bothered by the situation itself or by my own (non-)reaction to it...

I get on the metro last night and head to the corner of a car to get a seat. As I sit down, I notice a shoebox sitting on the ground, apparently left behind by some long-gone passenger. No sooner do I see it before I calmly think to myself, "that could be a bomb." I initially chided myself for thinking this so instantly. I do tend to have a very vivid imagination. But the more I consider it, the more odd the old box looks. And it's not necessarily the craziest suspicion to have, considering this, among (too many) other things.
So I mentally weigh whether I am overthinking this shoebox or not. But I am calm. I mean CALM. I honestly put more angst into trying to decide between the McDonalds on Tverskaya or the other McDonalds on Tverskaya. I notice a couple more people eyeing it, but for whatever reason, they decide not to react in any major way beyond a sideways glance. Of course nobody touches it either...
As I am thinking about it an intellectual-looking gentleman in his sixties, across the aisle shifts his gaze from his newspaper to the box on the floor ever so slightly. He, too, appears to be pondering it, his eyes moving several times from his newspaper, to the box, and then back again. Finally he stands, and calmly asks everyone nearby whether this box belongs to them. We all answer negatively and, back straight, newspaper tucked under his arm, he strides calmly to the radio on the otherside of the car to report his find, presumably so the militsiya at the next station can take a look.
I decide to exit the train at this station, as does another couple sitting near us, while the older man waits on the train. As I stand in Mayakovskaya, waiting the two minute interval for the next set of cars, I realise that I still feel nothing but a little bit of hunger and sore feet.
I wonder, did I really believe that there could be a problem after all? I mean, I must have, because I got off the train, didn't I? At the same time, I never once debated mentioning it to someone. Okay, I didn't know about the radios, but even if I had... It seemed to much like panic. Like paranoia. Like the kind of fear you can't really afford to feel at every opportunity. Or to spring onto others unnecessarily.

I have no idea how to feel about this. But I still don't feel nervous.

Of course that in itself is what is unnerving.

Happy Birthday Katie!

Today I have to give a shout out to my little sister Katie, who turns 25 today.

In honour of the date, I'll share a little Katie story with you...

Growing up, Katherine and I shared a room. Of course, when it was time to go to bed, we'd often keep each other up most of the night, giggling. One night, when she was maybe nine, we were particularly giggly. My dad must've come in the room three times to tell us to keep it down. But Katherine--known in our family for her hyperactivity--just could not settle down. Even after all the warnings, she was still trying to talk to me. But my dad has had it, and from the hallway he yells:
"Katherine! That's enough! Go to sleep!"
"I AM asleep!" She yells back in a moment of particular brilliance. My father was so dumbfounded by this answer, I think he just gave up trying.

So today we celebrate this human being going twenty five years without accidentally drinking cleaning fluid or trying to bring a blowdryer into the shower.

Aw, I kid, Katie--you're very smart.


I love you! Happy birthday Peanut!

For you, A Russian Birthday Song.

Ironically, I Have No Picture to Go With This Post

My camera is actually working.

You see, I dropped it two weeks ago, and then the lens wouldn't retract, no matter what I tried, and I figured that that was the end of the camera. I laid it to rest in a drawer, resigned to the fact that I would have to shell out for a new one, which I had planned to do today.

This morning, as I was leaving my house, I was going through that drawer looking for a memory stick, and decided to turn it on for no reason at all. And the lens retracted. It is back to new. Actually, it is better than new, because this camera has the ability to heal itself.

It's like that time that bible guy was all "Aw, man, I'm totally dead," and his friends were all "Oh, no way! This sucks!," but then three or four days later he was all "Oh dudes, I totally punk'd you guys! I am so not dead!" and everyone was totes happy and stuff.

This is just like that. I am so happy, and plan to commemerate this day yearly with eggs and rabbits.
And fireworks. I like fireworks.

Five Minutes in Moscow

Like so many children in Moscow, this boy is carrying a balloon. He guides it into the metro, the airy yellow mass bobbing above the heads of serious commuters, and takes a seat with his mother next to the door. Wave after wave of stony-faced Muscovites enters the car. There must be at least seventy five people in here. The train starts up again, rocking along to the deafening roar of the tracks, lulling its human cargo into an efficient daze in which we all stare at nothing and think our own private thoughts. Alone in the crowd, silent in the noise, virtually comatose for the duration of our transit.

*BANG!*

With a start, seventy-five previously over-composed adults jerk upright, attention snapping toward any sound capable of rising above the mechanical roar of the train.

The noise is followed by a startled silence, unexpectedly broken by a small giggle. The boy by the door is staring at the faces, amused that his now-broken balloon has caused such a mass reaction. His giggle intensifies as we all identify him as the origin of the commotion. His mother tries to admonish him for scaring people, but she’s having a hard time--his laughter is infectious. We, too, smile conspiratorially at the boy, sharing his joke, relieved that the noise was nothing more than a silly accident. At first, the smiles catch on to just the few of us around him. But then it spreads, as we each silently succumb to the complete silliness of this moment in the most banal and routine of settings. As the giggles spread outward like ripples in a pond, and a genuine laugh begins in the centre as the little boy can no longer contain himself. Neither can we. It is full fledged laughter now, and this too spreads enough that by the next stop, two thirds of the car is in stitches.
We exit at our stops, refreshed by our encounter but not entirely surprised to have found such lightheartedness behind the hard exteriors of other Muscovites. If we were all really that thick-skinned, no one would live here. There would be no reason.

Okay: Two Canadians, an American and a Russian Walk into StPetersburg (pt.1)

We board the train for St Petersburg departing Moscow at 9:30 am. I have never taken a train before and have no idea what to expect. The ride is nine hours, and I’d gotten only five hours of sleep the night before so all I am hoping for is a bed. Kira, Cybelle (from Kansas City), Slava (from the office), and I board the train and find out compartments. Four pull down beds--jackpot. We open them, lay down the mattresses and sheets, and survey our handiwork--feels like we’re spending the next nine hours at summer camp. But it’s comfy enough, and we take off our shoes and settle in.
The train has not even pulled out of the station when Slava begins to spread a rather impressive selection of groceries on the table between the bunks: yogurt, cheese, bread, ham, apples, chocolates, tea bags, and instant coffee.
“Eat, eat. Everyone should eat something.” He tells us gesturing at the food.
It’s a little early for us, and Slava seems frustrated by our lack of appetite. I have flashbacks of car trips of my childhood, my mother insisting that everyone eat the fruit she brought “Do you want an apple A pear? A plum?” She’d ask approximately every twenty minutes, “We have to eat it, before we get over the border! Have some fruit!” She’s insist, and there would be four kids trying to choke down their ration of two pieces of produce before arrival in Grand Forks, which was less than two hours away from the house. To this day, I don’t understand why we even brought it; I suspect that it may have just been her trick to get us to eat fruit because as a child I was positive that something horrible would happen at the border if we were caught smuggling the banana I did not eat. Well played, Mum.

Or maybe it’s just something in her Slavic blood, because here is Slava, insisting on the same nutritious intake before we’ve even left the city.
I opt instead for a little Anna Karenina and a nap before my lunch. And for the hour of day to be at least in the double digits.

***

I wake up with difficulty. The gentle rocking of the train, and the rhythmic sound of the tracks beneath us is amazingly soothing, and it‘s already 2pm. Slava and Cybelle are on the lower bunks chatting and eating sandwiches. I lower myself with a great difficulty, but finally, finally have found a moment when all my yoga has come to my aid. We spend the next several hours drinking tea, eating, and trading Slava English lessons for Russian lessons. We also spend a great deal of time exercising our bladder control, since the swaying, grungy squat-toilet is not a place we want to spend much time in. Hours and kilometres of Russian countryside roll by--forest after forest, town after town. It is so soothing, and despite the close quarters, a nice reprieve from Moscow’s packed streets and chaos.

Slava, at our request, tells us some stories about Baba Yaga, and I think to myself that if we put a flashlight under his chin, our little summer-camp scenario would finally be complete.
One more little nap in the rocking womb of the train car, and it’s tine to wake--we’re in St Pete’s!

***

I step off the train and am immediately hit by one thought--cold. It is so much colder in St Petersburg than it is in Moscow. I quick look at the digital read on the platform tells me that it’s actually hovering around zero, but it feels much worse than that. It is a city built on rivers, so the dampness and the wind make for a completely different feeling. A bad one. This is not helped at all by the fact that it is raining.
We head for the subway station and wait to buy tickets. Stuck in the long line (presumably because the train emptied) Slava leans over and tells us to watch out purses. “People will steal your money here,” he warns us. “Be careful.” I wonder if anyone had ever pointed out to him that he lives in Moscow, and that there are, indeed, pickpockets in the worlds fifteenth largest city. But he insists that pickpockets are rampant here. As I secure my purse for his sake, I realise that I cannot find my passport. Frantic that I lost it on the train, Kira and I squat in the middle of the St Pete’s metro station, and methodically go through my purse and luggage compartments one by one. It is found after way too much panic.
We board the metro and go off in search of the private flat we rented for the weekend.

***
After a 25 minute walk in the rain, wind, and pitch black night, we arrive at the apartment building. “Please, at least say zdrasvutye, to the woman” Slava pleads, “You might not be Russian, but she should not think that you are rude.“ We debate saying it in unison so that she thinks we’re crazy, but a reproachful look from Slava reminds us that St Petersburg is totally booked for the long weekend and we can’t afford to unnerve anybody. A young woman of about five feet lets us into the building at to the elevator. Two months ago, I’d have called the place “dodgy,” but now I’d say it’s “Russian.” Or as the Russians call it, “sovietsky” (Soviet era). We enter a tiny elevator, all five of us and our luggage, and emerge in a barely larger hallway. There are four flats on this floor, and if one door is totally open, the neighbour’s door cannot open at all. Even by sovietsky standards, this gets a giggle out of me.

Turns out that the woman lives in the flat with her two very young sons who are extremely cute. They are going to Paris for the weekend, they tell us, and will be back on Monday at noon to collect the key. Please feed the cat.

Umm--cat?

We begin to unpack in the small, neat, if kinda funky-smelling apartment. As I go through my luggage, I notice that my camera battery charger is rolled in a neat bundle right where I left it last--on the bed back in Moscow. Kira promises to take pictures of whatever I want with her camera. I go to change my clothes for dinner slightly appeased as Kira and Cybelle go in search of the elusive cat. From the bedroom, I am griping about the lost opportunities to take pictures of whatever I want in one of the most picturesque cities in the world.
“I mean, really,” I grumble as I open the door, “Nothing else could have effed up sightseeing in St Petes more.” And with these poorly chosen words, a lightening quick, massive black cat attacks my foot and does not let go. I manage to kick it off, but he has already drawn blood, and earned my hate for the rest of the trip. An infected foot may indeed be worse for sightseeing than a dead camera battery. Before dinner, I quickly look up the Russian word for “tetnus.” I will summarily spend the rest of the weekend missing my hand-sized kittens and standing on the bed and on chairs in this flat, brandishing a stick that dear Kira found to ease my mind and ensure my safety.
But we are not here to spend the weekend in an apartment with a giant (evil, mean-spirited, violent) cat. We have St Petersburg to see…

It Happens to All the Greats

I am having, hands down, the worst case of writers’ block lately. I can’t write a thing these days. Emails, creative writing, this blog… someone asked me to sign a cheque the other day and I nearly had a nervous breakdown. This is hard, so I’m going to work my way up. Before I can get to the creative writing, I’ll work on some letters home. And before those, this blog. It took me several greeting cards and half a shopping list to get this far, so be patient with me.

I’ll put up the St Petersburg weekend recap in installments, and hopefully get over it soon.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to freak out about what kind of graffitti to write in the bathroom.” “Larissa was here”? No wait--should it be “wuz here?” Dammit--I think I know what drove Fitzgerald to the bottle…

Question: What is the Funniest Thing in the World?

Answer: A kitten having sneezing fits.

Particularly when said kitten is still small enough for her tiny sneezes to blow her backward.

Little Miss Mashka started sneezing yesterday, and it got to the point where she woke me up last night with a sneezing fit (she was sleeping next to my neck.) Then, when we woke up, her left eye was glued shut (ew). And while a sneezing and snotty kitten is surprisingly cute, I'm pretty worried. I know upper respiratory infections can be very bad for little cats, so I'll be taking her to the vet. Vets here are open 24hours and surprisingly inexpensive. We would know, because Koshka, as it turns out, had a parasite, a fact we discovered when she vomited all over Kira's laundry. Then the doormat. Then on the laundry again. Poor thing needs medicine about four times a day.

And now the other one.

It occurs to me that our kittens are like that annoying, sickly, snot-nosy little weenie kid from elementary school. You know the one I mean. He was always out first in dodgeball and peed himself on the fieldtrip to Lower Fort Garry? There was one in every class.

There are two in our apartment.

I'm actually afraid to take them out, for fear the other, cooler cats steal their Whiskas and do that "Why you hitting yourself?" thing. At which point Koshka will go hide in a cupboard, and Mashka will stand on top of my left foot and cry until I pick her up.

*sigh*

I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, feel soothed by the picture of me and Mashka pretending to be mad at each other for the camera. Haha! Aren't we hilarious?

Five Minutes in Moscow

5:30 pm--
I’m running through the station courtyard to catch the train to downtown. The middle-aged women from early this morning, along with their heaps of blouses and sweaters, are gone now. In their place stand magazine and newspaper racks boasting throwaway-publications on every imaginable topic.

As I pass through the entrance to the metro, I notice a woman who by my estimates must be a hundred years old. She is squeaky clean, bundled in quilted layers for the winter, despite the fact that it is an unseasonable fifteen degrees outside.

Reaching into a pocket filled with kopeks, I blindly drop some into her plastic cup. With the outdated currency system, this handful of coins is nearly worthless in all value except sentimental. What she could ever buy with them? They can provide little more than sympathy. Our worthless circles of metal do nothing but say “I understand. Poor you. Life is hard. I sympathise.” But in a country where life does seem harder, and compassion just a little rarer, these condolences are valuable. This is Russia: doleful and lamenting and tired of hardship. As necessary to getting though the rough days as food or water, these sentiments are something of a currency...

She straightens her scarf and rocks slightly. I’m through the turnstile before we even have a chance to look at one another.

I'll be Posting Again ASAP

I've had some concerned inquiries as to where I've been for the past week. The answer is:
St Petersburg for four days, recovering from absinthe for one day, working a new schedule for one day.
Thanks much for your concerns, all, but I am totally fine (minus that absinthe thing).

I'll be back to it as of tomorrow. In the meantime, why don't you just reread some of my old posts? My writing is just the gift that keeps on giving...

Russian Halloween

Well, there isn't one, per se. Not a big thing here. But any bar that caters to an English -speaking clientele is trying to have their own event, just to try. For example, as we speak, I m taking advantage of the free WiFi in a place called "Hot Dogz" (I do not know whether the misspelling is intentional or not).



The place is LOADED with orange balloons, but the place is, at best, half-full...





There are two or three Russian girls wearing witch hats...





There is a (male) bartender dressed as a cat...





A guy dressed as "Braveheart" is eating soup...





The chosen music for the everning is salsa music with Russian lyrics...





For the most part, everyone is playing poker...





There is a waitress in a scoolgirl costume wearing gun holsters...

Another waitress is wearing a pirate hat and a beaver tail...

A cat the size of a dog just started rubbing up against my legs under the table...

A guy wearing a very impressive Jack Sparrow costume is trying to make small talk with virtually everyone in the bar....





I DARE you to have a dream this weird...





How do I not have a camera right now?

So if Jeff Had Just Been on Time...

Hey, remember I said I wasn’t writing much because I had nothing really to tell you guys? Well thanks to one very dense Russian, I got a good story now, kids…

I was at my metro station Wednesday night, waiting to meet Jeff. I arrive ten minutes early (I know, right?) but get a message from Jeff telling me his class is running a good 20 minutes late. No problem, I think. This is a busy location with a lot of things and people to see… I’ll just go grab myself a beer and a spot to sit outside, and I’ll wait awhile.

On my way into the store, this guy is staring at me. I ignore, but he follows me in. My Russian has come along a bit, so when he asks me what I’m getting, I manage to respond.
“Which kind are you getting?”
I tell him, and he puts the money on the counter and orders my beer for me. I try to refuse, but he and his friend insist. I thank them, take my beer, and head back outside.

Of course this cannot be the end of it. They approach me where I am outside and try to strike up a conversation. About one minute in, it is clear that they are not going to have an easy time of this. For about twenty minutes we manage to chat in a weird mix of Russian, English and Ukrainian (one of the guys is from Kiev) but it is absolutely painstaking. We talk about jobs, how long I’ve been here and why I came.

The much more chatty guy pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. I can’t quite figure out what he’s saying, but after a bit of reading and a lot of slooow description, I figure out that this paper gets him out of giving the militsiya any bribe money on the street. Bear in mind that the topic of the militsiya did not come up at all. He just brought this piece of paper out as a conversation starter. I think--I think--this was meant to impress me. Apparently this is the low-rent Moscow equivalent to “accidentally” pulling out the keys to your sports car.

They are friendly enough, but I have to wonder how much half-understood conversation they really want to put up with. The chatty one in particular is clearly trying to pick me up, but hasn’t been anything worse than a little annoying. They are waiting for two friends, and--hoping to put and end to this-- I tell them that I’m waiting for a man.

Not a deterrent, apparently.

Then Jeff calls: problem with transport. He’s going to be at least fifteen more minutes. I tell him that extreme affection is necessary upon arrival, because these boys are kind enough, but obviously dense. Wherever he is in Moscow, he is amused and assures me that he‘ll be at the station as soon as he can.

It’s been about half an hour, now.

“Your man isn’t coming!” Chatty says. “You’ve been waiting too long!”
“Uh-Your friends aren’t here either,” I point out. (Yes, I’ve been perfecting my sass in Russian.) He finds this funny.
“We are going to (name of some bar) with our friends. You should take the metro there and drink with us. Our friends--they are women,” He reassures me. (yeah, that makes the situation more appropriate).
“I’m waiting for someone,” I say for what has to be fifteenth time.

Then, suddenly, in the most basic and broken UkRussian he’s got, he says to me:
“You are so beautiful. My heart, your heart--they are one heart.”
I can’t help it and burst into near-hysterical laughter. Aw shit. I don’t think so, buddy.
“Nyet,” I say deadpan.
“Why not?” asks Chatty in earnest.
“I’m…waiting for someone…so…He’ll be here right away. So…I’m not going anywhere.”
Long pause.
“Will he be mad that we’re talking?”
“Um, no. I don’t see why he would.”

Another pause. “Your man who is coming--is he a big man?” He gestures tall, makes a muscle-flexing action.

Fantastic. Now I can have some fun with this. “Yes,” I answer truthfully. “Very tall. Tee sznayesh mot ‘military’?” Chatty nods, ”Yeah, He’s in the Navy. Amerikanski militari. Pretty big guy.” I mimic his gestures. “Big.”
One more pause. “Maybe we should go?” he asks with concern.

Bingo.

I give them a “whatever-you-think” shrug. And we’re getting somewhere now.
He touches my shoulder “But I love you.” He says in English.

Jesus *^%, this guy

“No, you do not.” I reply in Russian.
“How do you know?” he asks wide-eyed. “I do!”

Mercifully a very late Jeff calls--he’s at the station finally. He finds us, and this must be the end of it, right?

Not for Chatty. He reaches out to shake Jeff’s hand and introduce himself and his friend. In a conversation that takes place entirely in Russian and is only explained to me later by a very amused Jeff, Chatty says that he hopes he doesn’t mind that they were talking to me, that they appreciated the chance to chat with a foreigner, especially one that he finds so pretty. Jeff assures them that it is not a problem.

“We just wanted to talk to her.” Chatty repeats with a good deal of enthusiasm and smiling, telling Jeff that they bought me beer as well, but that it is all very innocent, and that Jeff is a lucky man to be taking me out tonight. He tells us to have a good time, thanks Jeff for his “understanding,” and another round of cheerful handshakes all around.

I really don’t know what to make of this situation. Funny? Of course. Creepy? I’m not sure, but I think at least little. Weird? Hell yes. Especially the redundant explanations to Jeff. I’m suspecting that a Russian guy would have kicked Chatty’s ass? Or maybe just this is expected from guy to guy in this siituation. Maybe Chatty’s just as weird as he seems?

On a definite upside, I learned more Russian in that 45 minute conversation than I have in the last month. And I got two free beer.

So my Wednesday evening. Moscow. Yeah.

A Weak Update

I haven't really done anything worth posting about lately--
Correction, I haven't felt like posting about anything that I've done.

And I was going to take pictures of a very cool thing for you guys this morning, but turns out that my camera battery was too weak. I wasted it doing...something naughty*...

Stay tuned for pics of St Petersburg, where I'll be spending my long weekend.





*"something naughty" may or may not include "a nude juggling submission for 'America's Got Talent'/'Playboy'"

Because I Control the Blog; That's Why

The best part about having your own blog is that you get to write shamelessly about whatever you want. In fact, I'm pretty sure that that is the only reason for blogging. Know now that the day will come when I decide to list books 1-50 from Sweet Valley High, just to prove I can.

That said, and without any regard whatsoever as to whether this will be interesting for you guys, I'm going to write about my new kittens!

Cat haters: suck it. Get your own blog. (And for the record, if you do, I think you should name it dogblog. Get it? Awesome.)

So without further adieu, I introduce to you Mashka and Koshka, the kittens Kira and I picked up.

Yeah, we have two. Funny story how such total near-sightedness and irresposibility came to be, actually...

Kira and I had been talking about getting a kitten, because you often run across babushkas with boxes of kittens when you are leaving the metro, and they are too painfully cute to pass up, especially when you are new in town, a pet's love, greet you at the door, blah blah blah...

So last week, we decided that the next time we saw one, we would bring it home. But no matter how hard we looked, we couldn't seem to find any after that.

Until Kira finally brought one home on Wednesday night.

So did I.

Koshka is "Kira's". She's about 2 mos old. Super shy and tries to hide all the time. She likes to explore and chase stuff, and is smart enough to use the litter box. Unfortunately, she's pretty camera shy. And she won't eat in front of us. She'll come around. She's just mad because we had to give her a bath. We named her Koshka because that is Russian for "cat."

Mashka is the little one I found. She is young enough to make that heartbreakingly teensy little
"mew" sound, and falls asleep on the nearest warm body every chance she gets. She is also dumb enough to poop on the floor then run to me crying about it. And we suspect she's partially blind because she gets trapped in corners. Then she sort-of cries at the corner, thinking it's some big bully that keeps popping up in front of her to be mean. Sometimes this goes on for awhile, and we have to pick her up and turn her around, but it's all good. She's a sweetie pie.
We named her Mashka, because that is what the woman who gave her to me told me to name her.


Mashka sleeps with me and Koshka with Kira, and they have totally made my week. Enjoy the cuteness guys, and happy Friday.

Mashka, lost.

Koshka plaing with foil.
Kira with Mashka

Mashka crawling on-and almost peeing on-my computer.

Koshka watching Mashka eat.

Mashka and her stub-tail.

Mashka asleep on the newspaper.

Mashka's baby face.

Sleepy Mashka.

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. "