Vodny Stadion

Q: What will you do when you get back to the states?

2009-08-06T08:52:00.012-04:00

I know you're expecting that here is where I will mope over what I've lost, but there's been entirely too much of that lately, so I will limit myself to delights and whatever gripes don't involve a solid 25 hours of traveling.

When Danielle was helping me carry my FIVE bags downstairs to find a taxi to take me to the airport express train to take me to Sheremetevo (whew), we were stymied by our broken door. Then a typical Russian man (all in black, sunglasses, cell phone attached to belt, briefcase) came barrelling through it, and he asked us where we were going. He offered me a ride to Vodny; when he learned that I was actually going to Savelovskii Vokzal, he offered me a ride there instead. I'd already popped half a xanax, Danielle had the number of the militsia, and I had a 70 pound suitcase. So off we went.

This was one final test of my conversational Russian before I leave, and I have to say, I rocked. Vlad and I talked about work, our respective salaries, traffic in our cities, green spaces, and fencing. It's a measure of my cultural adjustment that when he told me that my suitcase was "just impossible for a girl to take on the metro," I agreed -- and completely meant it. When we got to the vokzal, Vlad and the militsia officer had an argument about parking his car there, and he insisted that my bags were too heavy to park elsewhere. Finally, when I offered to pay him a little, he shrugged it off and insisted that it was all in the spirit of international friendship.

What followed was the usual airport maze, a 10 hour flight to New York, then a 5 hour layover. I know you don't care about that. Actually, there's probably only one question you have.

Q: What was the first thing you ate when you got back to America, Ebeth?

A: A turkey sandwich. It was terrible, I'm sure, but I really enjoyed it. This was followed by a Frosty and french fries.

Q: A Frosty? I thought you only liked Russian morozhenoe!

A: I'm on some kind of campaign to eat everything in sight for the first 24 hours.

So what do I have to show for my time in Russia?

- some research

- Russian that's good enough to carry on a general conversation

- insatiable hunger for ice cream and Milka bars

- a dead computer

- a serious grudge against the established media

- new appreciation for hot showers and public parks

And what do you have to show for my time in Russia? Let's test your skills.

Go ahead.

poll by twiigs.com

Moscow/City

2009-08-03T13:39:00.015-04:00

Unlike this guy, I experience preemptive nostalgia. So the last few days, or sometimes weeks or even months, before I leave a place take on that special glow. This is usually wonderful: it makes pleasant things bittersweet (so I really try to enjoy them) and unpleasant things bearable (I have in mind here mainly the cold water affair -- really not so bad after a long day on the metro). Just keep this in mind when you're tempted to roll your eyes at the following.

Yesterday Kostya and I met to exchange gifts, and then we got a bite to eat. I have to admit I was apprehensive. He speaks very little English, I find men on the whole more difficult to understand, and finally, what did we have to talk about? I needn't have worried about the last point -- we covered:

a. Joe Biden in Ukraine and Georgia

b. Chechnya

c. the Gates debacle

d. Russian stereotypes

e. the Cuyahoga River

f. Kazakhstan in comparison with other Central Asian republics

g. tomato-growing and attendant problems, именно raccoons -- "енот," in case you were wondering

h. why Russia and America don't get along

It was a good test of my conversational Russian, and I understood at least the gist of everything above. I also hit a career high for ice cream consumption, which due to aforementioned phenomenon, did in fact taste sweeter than usual. But the best part was that, because of the Blue Beret festivities (who are they? -- be warned, it's more than you ever wanted to know) and subsequent mutual fear for my safety on the metro, he drove me home. There is, in my opinion, very little that compares to being driven through a city at night at high speed (excepting, ahem, my doing the driving). It's a great way to see the city, it's a special treat after the metro, and it's summertime. This was made even more, скажим, interesting than usual by the fact that Kostya kept pointing out his various projects while driving, bringing us alarmingly close to the guardrails on the on-ramp. Someone who can talk on his cell phone, shift gears, and point out nighttime attractions all at the same time is a guy after my own heart. So what did we see?

Moscow City, where he proudly showed me the largest digital clock in the world, lit by his company. Here is a hilarious entry about it.

His other project was construction crane on top of a building; these are semi-permanent fixtures now that the crisis has called a halt to a lot of building projects. It was outlined in neon blue. Tacky? Actually no. It's a crane -- anything's an improvement.

These are all newish buildings towards the center. Out by me it's all strip mall-type neon lights. Look, I know you think it's ugly and modern. And if you're like Andrew Biliter from the link above, you might add cheesy AND dystopian (only here is that combination even possible). But I think it's gorgeous.

But that's not all; the glow extended much, much further. I also:

1.had TWO great interviews, one set up just hours in advance. However, when I arrived at the second one on time -- a minor miracle in its own right given that this organization had two different offices at the SAME address but actually in two different buildings (yeah, that's what I've been trying to tell you) -- I asked for a glass of water, and in the midst of changing the water cooler, my interviewee pushed a plastic piece into the bottle, at which point I watched as all five office employees attempted to retrieve it with any number of implements, including a ruler, tongs, several knives, and fingers. Needless to say, the interview was a raging success.

2. bought all the souvenirs I could carry, including one fantastic purchase that the recipient will probably be less excited about than I am, in which case I'm keeping it. You know something strange is going on when I'm able to tolerate Arbat Street.

3. had another heart-to-heart with another Russian. Как ни странно, the Cuyahoga River did NOT come up. Weird. Also, it's not fair that I've only just discovered poppy-seed blinchiki.

4. found the Baltika rainbow in my supermarket after all,

5. saw the sky glowing across Leningradskoe Shosse,

6. opened the broken door to my apartment building to find the whole staircase smelling of flowers, and

7. discovered a use for the abandoned washer.

Oh Moskva. Never has one woman loved you for so many of the wrong reasons.

One unrelated thing [Q: Unrelated to what, Lizakhon? This whole post is a jumble of things. A: Oh please, this post is about how amazing Moscow is, AGAIN. This paragraph, on the other hand, is about the bad news for Dmitri Anatolyevich]: Danielle and I went to see the Faberge Exhibit at the Pushkin Museum of Art Special Collections Museum [Q: How was it? A: I am strangely seized by the desire to own a cigarette case. That is to say, fabulous] and it was there that I first noticed the striking resemblance Nicholas II has to a certain leader close to our hearts. It's uncanny. Apparently I'm not the only one who has noticed this: Look at this! It's incredible! No wonder Putin is more popular with the Russian public. Don't worry Dimz, you're still #1 with ... me.

Cold and Hot (much like my taps, assembled every which way such that even Katy Perry would be confused.)

2009-08-02T07:18:00.002-04:00

Since we last hung out and listened to music together,

I have:

1. had my hot water shut off for the annual pipe-checking (or whatever it is they do for 10 days while the hot water for a whole neighborhood is off). I don't know how everyone else deals with this, but I do not.

2. flubbed an interview.

3. seen the trashiest wedding dress of all time.

I've seen a fair number of wedding dresses here and there, but this one made my jaw drop, so I know you want to hear about it (or at least JPey does). Imagine the reverse mullet as interpreted in ivory lace. If you only saw it from the back, you would think it was inoffensive, if fussy. It had a floor-length full skirt, a vague but functional top part, and a floaty, half-hearted veil. Perfectly normal and appropriate. But the front was -- well, the top was a transparent corset, and the bottom a mini-skirt. Of ivory lace! That sloped down on the sides to a full-length skirt in back! Oh, how I wish I had managed to get a picture.

Now if it is your fondest girlhood dream to look like a prostitute on your wedding day, I can respect that (with minimal snickering) and admire your audacity. But the combination of the two -- one part Victorian bride, one part stripper -- made me wonder if this dress was some sort of compromise (between the bride and her mother, the bride and her sister, the bride and her own twisted, Posh-like sense of fashion) or just a failure of nerve. I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit this, because it's awfully snotty of me, but I thought the best part was that they were taking pictures in front of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. Fitting.

4. been to a fantastic museum, just a hundred yards away from above event, and just when I thought I'd seen everything in the way of art museums here.

This is the part of the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts (Государственный музей Изобразительных Исскуств им. А.С. Пушкина) called the Gallery of American and European Art of the 19th-20th Centuries.

Now before you get all huffy that I'm excited about the American and European art wing in Moscow, just look here.

As in other museums, there's graduated pricing: for foreign students it's 150 r, about three dollars more than the Russian citizen rate (forget about the Russian student rate, which is practically free). So I was scrounging for change and getting increasingly pissed off in the process (I was mainly upset because I didn't have enough money on me, and because the exchange rate has taken a dive over the last week, and because I already take enough flack for being foreign. Okay, that last one's not true, but I object to discriminatory pricing practices.) So I scowled broadly, told the woman that I didn't have "sufficient money," and walked away.

"Devuska," I hear behind me, and I turn to see her motioning to me conspiratorially. She slides across the calculator with "100" typed out. I shell it out (hey, it's a 33% discount), and she gives me a 60 r. citizen's ticket. Where does the extra 40 go? Who knows?

I'm just happy to get into this fantastic little museum. I snuck some photos for you again. That's the main hallway. See the lights?

The first floor was 19th century. The second floor was mostly Impressionists, which I'm not crazy about. I like geometric things.

At the top of the staircase:

That is my kind of Notre Dame, all straight lines and grays and browns (it's even more severe than the picture makes it look). The thing in front is a burned violin encased in plastic. It's called "Burnt out Violin."

But I also got to see Paolo and Francesca, Kandinsky, Picasso, a whole room of Matisse, and then, in the last little alcove, two Chagalls that were breathtaking. I didn't even get irritated with the loud English guys in front of me.

5. attended "Giselle." Perhaps my feelings on this ballet could be surmised from the following summary. Giselle, initially dressed like Dorothy, falls in love with a nobleman who's disguised himself as a peasant. When his true identity - and betrothal to a condescending artistocrat -- is revealed, Giselle dies of a broken heart. But! In the second act, she returns as a ghost to save her very betrayer from death. You see, he's come to mourn her in a graveyard at night, where he almost falls prey to the ghosts of other jilted girls who, dressed as a troop of dead brides, like to take their revenge on men by dancing them to death. Here's a clip.

Did you guess how well I liked it? If this is what Misha and Tanya had tickets for when they were late to the Bolshoi, they didn't miss much. But maybe I'm being unfair -- my Russian friend seemed to think this group in particular was mediocre.

As far as I understood it, the choreography from their performance debuted in 1944 and has not changed since then. Notice the peasant girl ultimately triumphs in the class struggle of the first act. Well, morally.

Check it out:

This was performed in the National Youth Theatre. There was a sign asking spectators to refrain from bringing large purses, drinks, and ice cream into the auditorium. Ice cream, I thought, Really? Is it that much of a problem? But at intermission, everyone was drinking chilled champagne and eating ice cream from Mary Coyle-style bowls, which made a lot of sense since the building was not air conditioned. Poor Giselle.

I have not:

1. had a single pleasant experience in the Russian post office.

Me: I'd like five stamps, please.

[I'm holding out my 50 r. bill because each stamp costs 10 r. It's a straightforward transaction.]

Pochta Lady: How many postcards do you have?

Me: It doesn't matter; I'd like five stamps please.

PL: How many postcards do you have?

[Look. I have one postcard. But you know what, I might buy more in the future! Maybe I have a letter I want to sent -- gasp! -- WITHIN Russia! Maybe I want to send a package somewhere! Maybe I want to send a heavy letter, not just a postcard!]

Me: I have one. But I want five stamps.

PL: But you need two stamps per postcard.

[For the love of God, lady, I know that it doesn't make any sense to you why someone who can't remember the genitive plural of "stamps" (argh, I should have asked for 4) would need an ODD number of them when each postcard requires two stamps, but just SELL THEM TO ME ALREADY.]

Me: I UNDERSTAND. BUT I WANT FIVE STAMPY-THINGIES.

[Just because you're allowed to open and read my mail does not mean you know my postal needs better than I do.]

Pochta lady #2 -- interrupting her own functional transaction to step in -- getting me five stamps out of her drawer: Here.

Me: Here. Hmph.

Incivilities having been concluded, we part ways -- five stamps in my pocket, 50 r. in their coffers, and I'll make sure the next postcard I write, with my extra decyat' stamp, is addressed to them.

2. bought any more presidential merchandise. On that note, I'll leave you with this:

"There are also fewer of those who want to 'lie on the president' than those who want to 'lie on the prime minister.' Pillows with Putin's likeness sell much faster than those bearing the face of Medvedev."

Liza's Russian Mix/Day 40

2009-07-27T11:03:00.004-04:00

With audio:

Radio Nowhere, Bruce: I've had an unexpected attraction to radio since I started working on Ekho Moskvy, and this song has particularly weird echoes because of that station's situation (singular status in the world of Russian media, too few listeners, uncertain future). Also it reminds me of the Cuyahoga Valley -- one of the most beautiful and unearthly places to drive on a summer night.

In my apartment, there are TWO non-functional radios and one I can't get reception on. So when I sit down to breakfast I often have no news. In an ideal world, I would eat delicious kasha (what'sthat?) every day with milk and butter while reading three different newspapers. In my little kitchen, I make "bez barki" (instant) oatmeal in assorted flavors and can't find 91.2 fm. It doesn't compare.

Why, yes, that is me sitting in the editor's seat giving directions.

The Fever, Bruce: You're coming on a little strong with two in a row, but I'll allow it. When I get home from my job, I turn on the tv. But I can't keep my mind on the show.

Here's my first problem:

That itty bitty square in the corner is my television set. But the larger problem is that shows are often dubbed in English such that I am physically unable to listen to just one language and as a result end up understanding nothing at all. So I avoid American shows. Luckily, Danielle has found the greatest show called "Brachnoye Shtuvo" which requires little listening comprehension to get. First of all, because indecency laws are different, the show has graphic footage where the only things blurred out are the people's faces. Scandalous! Second, the hosts/investigators take themselves very seriously.

I did a screen shot to show you.

1,2,3,4; Feist: I have a story for you. It's the story of EVERY SINGLE TIME I have tried to go anywhere. First of all, building numbers are never in obvious places, different sides of the street have misaligned numbers (so you can have #20 across from #2), and buildings can span half a block or more and all have the same number. In the latter case, you also need to have an entrance number. But here's the thing -- entrances aren't always marked with their numbers, and sometimes entrances are not on the street but inside a courtyard or around the back of the building.

Once you get to the correct building (dom #) and entrance, there is often a propusk station. This is the place where you must get a pass in order to enter the building itself. To get the pass, someone from the office you're visiting has to request it, which requires your name, passport number, date of birth, citizenship, and so on. It has taken me up to 4 hours and 5 trips back and forth to get this sorted out in the past.

Of course, all of the above assumes you have

a. a clear idea of which metro exit you need to take,

b. the telephone number of the person who will get you a propusk if it's not ready,

c. at least half an hour of extra time and

d. an extraordinary tolerance for bureaucracy and its rituals.

Radiation Vibe, Fountains of Wayne: Yeah, you were right about this one. It's the kind of quintessentially American song that could never translate for Russia. Right? But isn't California Dreamin? And the Bee Gees? Nevertheless I've heard all of those remixed and played with a booming bass. Songs from the 90s are especially popular. And then again, I've heard "You Can't Always Get What You Want," "Creep," and "What's Love Got To Do With It" interpreted by a crooning jazz type and accompanied by piano and saxophone.

Let It Fall Apart, Helio Sequence: I'm on my way home, and even though it's almost 1, the metro is completely full, all the way to vodny stadion.

We pour out of the station, and there's this tiny strip before I get to the residential area that's full of little markets, cafes, and video shops which is always packed; it's like a boardwalk, complete with the smell of warm food, a neon glow, and tension.

First Night, The Hold Steady: BOYS AND GIRLS IN AMERICA. Don't have the problem of pda of boys and girls in Russia, nor the ruinous divorce rates, not to mention uneven life expectancies that leave all the babyshki alone. These women are in charge of the residential areas. They sit on all of the benches unoccupied by abovementioned pda couples and gossip loudly/talk about us when we walk by/accost me in the hallway to complain about the boys outside.

The thing about the uneven demographics is that it results in uneven couples, at least to my mind. A typical Moscow couple is about my age (a quarter of the population is under 35). The woman is pretty and stylish; tall, thin, beautiful hair. She's wearing a chic and perfectly fitting dress with awesome stiletto heels. She's only carrying flowers, because her fantastic bag is being carried by her dude, who's markedly less attractive than her. He's got on either a dark-colored shirt with random, incorrect English writing OR the inoffensive light-colored, short sleeved, buttoned shirt. He's almost always wearing white sandals over dark-colored socks and is carrying his own bag, which may or may not be larger than the purse. He either already has a mullet or is actively trying to achieve one. Also, she probably paid for their date tonight.

Wait for Love, Josh Ritter: I've got nothing to say here, unless by "Love," he intends "Freedom of Speech and True Democracy," in which case I completely reject Josh Ritter's exhortation.

During my tour of Ekho Moskvy, one of the reporters visiting from the regions got into an argument with the editor speaking with us; she said that even independent media was run by those with money and that reporters in all practical terms have to adjust what they're saying accordingly. She got a tongue lashing from the editor, who I believe told her that she should quit her job because she's the problem with press in this country. I completely agreed; reporters who self-censor make the job that much more difficult for ones who stand up to various sources of censorship. Don't worry, my self-righteousness met shortly with reality: when I worked for just five unpaid days at an English language paper, I experienced an overwhelming pressure to self-censor. Can you guess which part I wanted to take out?

In the blogosphere, Stephen Walt faulted Obama for not achieving any breakthroughs, calling the summit another example of Obama's "triumph of style and attitude." Michael Idov warned that Obama's courting of the liberal press and civil society is potentially harmful, while his attempt to divide Putin and Medvedev may be working: "Talk of it is guaranteed to flatter Medvedev and piss off Putin, thus making the split a tiny bit less unfeasible."

From the archives:

Slow Show, The National: If I get started here, you're in for a lecture on the National, the way I loved them before any of you johnny-come-latelies, and so on and so forth. Let's talk about novodel instead. That's the Russian word for buildings that were redone recently in such a manner as to look old (AHEM).

This includes the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, which has a fascinating history. It was built in the late 1800s to commemorate the defeat of Napoleon much earlier in the century. But then in 1931 it was destroyed to make room for the planned Palace of the Soviets, which was intended to be THE TALLEST BUILDING IN THE WORLD. Like many other Soviet plans, it was a giant failure. In this instance, there wasn't enough money for the project. So instead, it became THE BIGGEST SWIMMING POOL IN THE WORLD, which apparently was quite a successful replacement. In the 1990s, though, a replica of the original cathedral was built.

It's pretty nice for novodel; it's pretty uncool to admit this.

Ooh, Moscow Times just covered something similar.

Where you End, Moby: I've said it once before, and I think it on a daily basis: I like my personal space. But apparently so do Russians, who insist on invading it on any pretext. In St. Petersburg, our hotel's guidebook noted that often foreigners think that Russians have so sense of physical self-awareness, which I thought was an excellent summary of their physical interactions in public. They seem not to have any concept of where their own bodies end and yours begins. Instead, they bump into you, stop randomly in the street and force you to bump into them, poke you with their bony little elbows, stand too close, sit on top of you in the metro, try to hit you with their cars, approach you on the street for any number of reasons, etc. My personal favorite is that people walking behind you never actually pass but instead continue to follow at an uncomfortably close distance. How can one group of people be simultaneously so suspicious of strangers/outright xenophobic and so willing to get so close to each other?

Always on my Mind, Pet Shop Boys: This is what I envision the Russian remix would sound like. You know what's always on my mind?

Wait. Seriously -- you don't know by now? Think hard...

Aha, there you go.

Here's my official Russian ice cream ranking:

1. vanilla (first and best)

2. pistachio (bright green, delicious)

3. chocolate (also wonderful)

4. almond

5. red (aka klubinka or raspberry -- not bad)

6. papaya (mostly for its bright orange color)

7. coconut (what's the point if you can't taste it)

And the losers: caramel, white, mango, and black plum (absolutely repulsive).

I'm not going to make Elvis' mistake: when I get back to the US, I want to be so sick of Russian ice cream that I'll never want to look at it again. Until my next trip. Mission very nearly accomplished.

Every Moment, Rogue Wave: Speaking of the weather, I've heard from certain authoritative sources that Petersburg and Moscow have very unpredictable weather patterns. That doesn't begin to describe things. This morning the sky was overcast and there was even some rain as I walked out of the metro. But by the time I got to the Kremlin, it was picture-perfect:

I thought other places had unpredictable weather, but here it's the worst. It's gotten to the point where Danielle and I look at weather.com and do exactly the opposite of what it says.

The Seed, The Roots: Um, let's address the sound. It makes me feel super American, which comes in handy when I'm standing in a big crowd shuffling towards the bottom of the 100-yard escalator and I'm running late for an appointment or just generally pissed off at the fact that Russians can't do this any more efficiently. (Getting on an escalator involves congregating at its bottom, getting to the front of the crowd, then stepping on exactly two steps below the person in front of you, on the right side of your step. This rigidity of rules involving spacing is a. surprising and b. the reason there's always such a big crowd to get on the escalator.) Usually when this happens to me at rush hour, I decide that I'm going to walk up the elevator and everyone better get OUT OF MY WAY, which is a good idea for about the first twenty yards. Then suddenly I realize that I've run twice in the last six weeks and I'm desperately out of shape. I have two choices: a. admit defeat, step over to the right, and act like a normal Russian, or b. forge ahead, weirding everyone out as I do so. It's usually worth the five minutes of panting.

Somehow, Someday, Ryan Adams: So about four years ago I was all signed up for a year abroad in Moscow and decided at the last minute (aka at the DC airport) not to go for a very good personal reason. Since then I've been intending to get here, and the longer I waited the more awesome the proportions the city took on in my head.

And the longer I'm here now the more I wonder about that trip. The conclusion I've come to is that it would have been an unequivocal disaster. I had had one year of language, and my spoken Russian was not even good enough to order food at a cafe. Spending ten months in Moscow at that point would almost definitely have curtailed my Russian studies right then and there. So chalk that up to the reasons it was a good decision (along with Naz, obviously).

And even though I've spent four years building up Moscow in my head, it more than lives up to that. In fact, we could return to track 2.

Just one more glimpse of the god of my idolatry:

Enough of this lovefest.

Chocolate, Snow Patrol: Ugh. I hate Snow Patrol. Can we pretend this isn't here?

FINE. Pull it together yourself:

Aqua soccer, featuring 4 v 4 in six inches of water.

Competitive arm wrestling, with referees:

Check out that intensity. Also, I believe the loser over there has a shirt that says "Another beer." Sounds about right.

My nearest playground, home of the disappearing portrait of Lenin.

And my dom:

Daydreamin, Lupe Fiasco: Someone totally beat me to the punch. Outside of Moscow a smaller version of Peterhof is going up.

Valerie, Mark Ronson/Amy Winehouse:

a. Sometimes I go out by myself and look across the water.

b. And see this:

Muscovites dancing, without audible music, and doing whatever dance they feel like -- waltz, salsa -- who cares? It's Friday night on the river!

Not to dwell on it, but Ira Glass was SO wrong not to ask me for guidance in this city.

Homecoming, Kanye West: I know you're trying to make me homesick for Chicago, but it's not going to work. Let's compare:

	Chicago	Moscow
Public transportation	Overcrowded, overbudget, limited coverage, BUT accessible	Not overcrowded (but apparently only because of layoffs), not in constant need of multimillion dollar repairs, comprehensive but wheelchair inaccessible
Public spaces	Millennium park+ Grant park+ free beaches = you get a choice of distant and dirty or distant and clean	Lots of smaller local parks and big ones in the center; I'll take the various prudyover Foster Beach any day
Price of living	High	High
Shows	Excellent, but expensive; great smaller theaters	Although the chance I'd ever see a WNUR band is slim, all the shows I've been to have been cheap and really pretty good
Body of water	Lake Michigan and its fake beaches	Moskva
Climate	Ugh	Even worse
Population	Much beloved	Mutual indifference
Government	Daly dynasty	Luzhov [an unexpected tie!]
Sightseeing	Pretty good, and tourists are treated with Midwestern friendliness	Spectacular, but the opposite treatment can be expected
Beer	Hopleaf, Goose Island	Stardog/Every supermarket, Russian & Czech beers
Theme song	All of Kanye’s Chicago songs	“Ya idy”

Verdict: Moscow gets the win, but I'm coming home again anyway.

Let’s Kill Saturday Night, Robbie Fulks:

This town's gonna go down kicking and shouting: transcriptions over chai, Loko vs. Dinamo, Baltiki, Chisty Prudy, fireworks.

Waiting for a Star to Fall, Boy Meets Girl: I get a good chuckle out of this every time it comes on. I hope you do too. Possibly the cheesiest song of 1988-89, facing some stiff competition from Eric Carmen's "Make Me Lose Control" and anything by the Fine Young Cannibals.

Dear Readers: I intended this to be a sort of compilation of daily experiences/highlights, but somehow it turned into my love letter to Moscow, which is understandable given that I only have about ten days left. But talk to me again once I've eaten a Swenson's burger, drunk water from the tap, slept in a bed, and not had to read about the resident government opening mail/reading emails/influencing media/killing human rights activists; and see how I feel then.

Loko - MOTIV

2009-07-26T11:32:00.009-04:00

See the locomotive back there?

Rossiiskiye zhelezny dorogi and I have not seen eye to eye since my overnight train back from St. Petersburg (oh I know, I know, the Russian railways are where you meet the most interesting people; well to you I say, yes, and also where you meet the most disgusting germs/bird diseases). But I set aside our disagreements to go see Lokomotiv (who's that?) take on Moscow's Dinamo, who are ranked 10th and 5th in Russia's Premier League, respectively.

Since this is my second Loko game, I'm going to go ahead an call myself a fan, although I'm not a fan of their colors -- red and green. They look like Christmas trees in their away uniforms. Anyway, because Dinamo is a better quality opponent than last time (that was Tom, whose record against Loko in the last four games or something is an astonishing 0-0-4, with a total goals scored of ZERO), tickets were more expensive. Thus for the same price which last time got us tickets at about Tomsk's six (see right)

we were only able to sit in the fanataky section, which are located behind the goals. (At those prices, they still only filled about 60% of the stadium.) The nice devushka at the kassa, however, helped me out, guiding me towards seats in the back corner of the section, away from the shirtless crazies.

So here's the view from our seats this time:

Q: But VB, why can't you see anything?

A: Well, in addition to the men who showed their fanhood/macho character by standing barechested and smoking the whole game, there were also flags and the smoke of fireworks set off at various times during the match.

Like when we scored! And about time too, because Loko dominated the whole first half. Although to be fair, we could hardly put any shots on frame. I think it was maybe the 70th minute before we got our goal, which was beautiful. Unfortunately, Dinamo answered just a few minutes later on some terrible defensive work by Loko.

But possibly even more entertaining than the game itself were the fans. First of all, when you arrive, you (being a 20 to 50-year-old Russian male) have to shake hands with everyone in the seats around you before you get serious and start flicking off the opponents. Then you have to get out a giant flag/your scarf and wave it around at the command of your section leader, who also starts the chants. It's all typical soccer behavior from then on out (booing at the refs, hugging everyone around you when your team scores, spilling red bull over the railing when you're ticked off, etc.).

I had been eager to learn some obscene football chants, but the only thing I could actually understand was in English and pretty stupid.

Because this was a crosstown game and there were so many opposing fans in the stadium, the militsia was on hand to empy the stands section by section. We were next to last, before the Dinamo fans.

The game was only marginally more entertaining than the last game, but since I come from a long tradition of solidly mediocre teams, I'm more than happy with this result.

At least he was straightforward.

2009-07-24T15:06:00.004-04:00

So I'm in Kievskaya Stantsia metro waiting for someone to go on a boat tour of Moscow. I'm early for a change, and I sit down on a bench. The young man (henceforth MCh) sitting next to me turns to me and says,

MCh: What time is it please?

I've been thinking in English all day and I'm not feeling very good, so I just take the lazy way out and hold up my watch so he can see the face. Note: It's 6:40. I'm meeting Ksenia at 7.

[Pause.]

MCh: Tell me, please, what metro is this?

Me: This one?

MCh: Yes.

Dude, are you serious? You're sitting here in a metro station that's well marked and where there are actually three connected stations all with the same name and you're asking me what its name is? I'm still processing kind of slowly and having none of this.

Me: I don't know.

[Pause.]

MCh: Where are you from?

Me: From America.

MCh: America?

Me: Yes.

[Pause.]

MCh: Do you have a morsh?

Me: A what?

MCh: A morsh, do you have a morsh?

Oh man, is my Russian really this bad? What the heck is a morsh?

Me: And what's that?

MCh: Morsh, morsh, morsh. You don't have a morsh?

He seems to think this is a really obvious word. Wait, is he saying muzh? Oh my, that's direct. I start laughing, which is the wrong thing to do. He probably thinks I'm flattered rather than flabbergasted.

Me: No, I don't have a husband.

MCh: Would you like to meet one?

Me: What?

MCh: Would you like to meet one?

Man I KNEW there was something I wanted to do in Moscow. I can't believe I almost came back home without a Russian husband!

Me: I'm sorry, I don't understand you.

MCh: Would you like to meet one?

Me (Shouting over the train): I can't hear you! I don't understand you! I don't speak Russian very well! [All previous protestations to the contrary aside.]

MCh: ...

Me: I'm sorry! I don't understand!

The conversation ends there, but I'll be darned if I'm giving up my primo seat on the bench to avoid this guy. So I sit there stubbornly for the next 15 minutes until my friend texts me.

In retrospect, I would kind of liked to have seen him in action with a Russian woman. I wonder if he just hangs out at Kievskaya asking women in they're married, like the Dan Hammond of the circle line. On another note, the other day when I was standing in line at the Kremlin ticket office, I heard some overaged frat boys asking the Russian woman in front of them where her wedding ring was. I thought at the time that it was a ham-handed, language barrier-inspired pick-up line specific to Americans. Dear overaged frat boys: my apologies. Also, dear man I spurned: I bet you feel silly for approaching possibly the only woman in the whole station who didn't understand the word "muzh."

Tourists, part ii

2009-07-23T09:26:00.003-04:00

For the past few days I've taken my parents sightseeing in Moscow. This included

1. visiting the Imperial Porcelain factory, former purveyors to the tsars. For my mother, no trip is complete without checking out the local pottery/porcelain/china. I don't know much about this (for example, I couldn't explain the difference between three things above), but I know THIS has to be the best stuff she's seen. I mean, look who uses it:

I just really love that they thought it was necessary to include this picture in their store.

2. A trip down Arbat street, a place I've been avoiding all month, and rightly so -- it was full of tourists, Russians dressed in traditional "Russian" garb, and artists selling their abilities with pictures of Dima and Britney Spears.

This picture doesn't begin to capture what it's like. I'm not sure what the draw is.

When I went in to look at a store, the salesgirl quoted me a price on something that was over three times what I'd paid in St. Petersburg (with a little bargaining). I turned to leave, and before I could get out the door the price dropped two more times -- but was still higher.

3. St. Basil's.

Isn't it nice?

4. An Uzbek restaurant for dinner, which had

a. servers who weren't familiar with non (bread)

b. enough horse on the menu to freak out my mom

c. enough morozhenoe on the menu to pacify my mom

d. belly dancers.

It might've had cockfights as well, but we didn't stay long enough to see.

5. A tour of the two places in Moscow open at 8 am, Coffee House

and the bakery near Patriarch's Pond. I like it better at 8 pm.

6. Sparrow hills, another place that's way overrated, to get the panoramic of Moscow.

It's not even a great view. You can see a few churches from here but mostly you just see new skyscrapers. Again, I don't know what the big fuss is about.

7. Yet more Kremlin sightseeing. This time I saw in addition to everything else I got to see the Armory museum, which was amazing. They had Ivan the Terrible's throne! Faberge eggs! Boris Godunov's armor! And other things that are exciting only to Russian history geeks.

Beware Macdoof

2009-07-22T14:54:00.011-04:00

I went with Daniel and Danielle to see Bolshoi Theatre's production of Verdi's Macbeth. The cheap seats -- neudobny, or inconvenient ones -- are just 50 rubles if you show up an hour before the show. Unfortunately, the box office to the biggest theater in Russia is poorly organized. There's the window for pensioners and others entitled to free tickets, the window with a line of woman that's not moving at all, and one window with no cashier. Everyone, not just the foreigners, is wandering around trying to figure out where to buy tickets.

Daniel, who's gone here before, took the lead in approaching one ticket window after another until a cashier finally told him to just wait a few minutes and she'd have tickets ready. We milled around for a little while since it was long before 6:30. Then another woman wandered up to the window to wait. After a few minutes, there was a loud argument between her, the guard, and the cashier. The latter two both vehemently protected Daniel's right to be first in line. They kept telling her to get behind the molodoi chelovek. Nevermind us -- we got shoved to the end of the line. At any rate, thanks to Daniel's in with the cashier he/we got first crack at the discount seats.

On the far wall is a little model of the theater.

Because the Bolshoi is undergoing an enormous renovation, this show was actually in the New Bolshoi. This is in the hallway leading to the auditorium...

And here's inside the auditorium:

Isn't it fantastic? Don't you just expect to look over and see Madame Olenska scandalizing everyone?

But let's settle down and pay attention to the opera. Oh wait, we're not done with the ticket problem. Although we bought three tickets at once, one is in a separate section. These particular neudobny seats are so far to the right of the theater that you can only see 60% of the state, and the third ticket is in the farthest section. The usher wouldn't let us sit together even though there were plenty of seats. (She was actually pretty nice about it; later she yelled at a patron who had hauled the usher's chair in from the hall and set it up at the railing.)

So we take our respective seats and watch the first two acts, wherein there is a whirlwind of predictions from about 50 witches who spend a lot of their time swinging their hair at Macbeth.

At intermission we stop by the refreshment room, where tea, salmon sandwiches, salami, champagne, and caviar are available for purchase.

You serve yourself hot water for tea from a giant samovar in the middle of the room.

And then after intermission we return to find in our seats two elderly ladies holding hand written tickets with our seat numbers. I'm just waiting for the strict usher to return when they figure out that they are in the wrong. Once everything gets sorted out, we can pay attention again to the play.

Highlights:

- the Russian subtitles revealed the spelling Макдуф, which is pronounced "Macdoof" in Russian. This adds an entirely new, unheroic dimension to his character.

- I know an opera is not a play, but I wanted to see some action. I mean, most of the characters die violently. The murders and battles were disappointingly abstract. Duncan was murdered with a slashing of black fabric, Banquo just ran off stage, and Macbeth staggered off stage. Eh.

- In general, there were a lot of abstract elements, some of which made no sense to me. Random extras were wearing red gloves. Fleance, who was approximately seven years old, showed up at the banquet with the ghost of Banquo. The strangest part was the use of these long poles with cotton or tin foil on the end of them. Picture a series of giant q-tips: that was Dunsinane Wood. The tin foil ones were alternately apparitions, Dunsinane Wood, and Banquo's descendants.

- I'm happy to report that no one actually answered his/her phone during the opera, which I fully expected.

1,2,3, etc.

2009-07-20T13:37:00.011-04:00

1. Remember the jaguar benz? Well apparently that's a real thing here. For example, this young man had a picture of a woman (not his girlfriend) surfing on his car. But the best was in St. Petersburg, where I actually stopped on the sidewalk and gaped at a black Porsche Cayenne with naked female body parts on it. I would have taken a picture, except that it was sort of X-rated. Can you imagine driving around in that car? Can you imagine it, period?

2. In the past few weeks I've been to two events that required a line of policeman to stand between the event and the metro in order to keep crowds in line. Here's the second: a Lokomotiv game. (They tied Tomsk 0-0, which apparently is the same result these teams have had the last four or five times they've faced each other. The first half was great, the second pretty dull. Why? Because Tomsk was counting itself lucky to get a tie, which meant they sat back all second half and defended. I'll try again this weekend.)

3. In Russia, there's a flavor of ice cream called byely, or "white." It is frozen cream with sugar, I think, and it's disgusting. Or as disgusting as frozen cream with sugar can be. White ice cream should be vanilla, or coconut, or even pina colada.

On the other hand, here I was, calling these ice cream flavors by their colors because I didn't know what flavor they were, and it turns out I was absolutely right. Sometimes (consider my predilection for dark literature, need to take off my shoes inside the house, reckless sincerity, adoration of Russian women, ability to shake my head at the hijinks of young people) I think I was meant for Russia.

4. In the U.S., when an area is roped or fenced off, no matter how small that barricade, it's generally respected. But not so here. Let's take a look.

This is part of Alexandrovsky Sad, the garden just outside of the Kremlin. It has a very low (maybe 6-inch high) wrought-iron fence around it to keep people out of the geometrically perfect flower beds. Does it work? Nope! It's all one with the picture-taking culture that requires people not just to look like idiots but to actually climb over guard rails into fountains to take pictures.

5. You asked about food. Here's a salad:

FAQ

What's the white stuff all over it? Sour cream.

Where's the lettuce? There isn't any.

What about that green stuff? Dill. Get used to it.

6. Finally, here's where D.A.M. works every day when he's not on vacation in Africa/getting drunk at the G8 (look, allegedly -- you know I don't buy it):

So today while we were at the Kremlin maybe eight black Benzes pulled up, and we (by we I mean I, as I frantically scrambled for my camera/Russian introductory phrases) thought that D. Prez himself was going to emerge from the cars to briefly interact with the people. But it was not to be. Alas.

If you were the Baltic Sea and I were a cup.

2009-07-18T12:43:00.040-04:00

Okay. I might have been just the slightest bit wrong about Petersburg. I will review the evidence, and you can judge for yourself.

Exhibit A. My friend Charlie is working there for the summer. This means that we got to hang out a bunch, and the following took place:

a. an interview with a drunken Russia at a little market. Charlie, whose version of the evening's events you can read here, doesn't give credit where it's due. Mostly to his own patience. He must've talked to this man for 10 minutes, in the course of which d.r. asked six times, "Do you know Russian?" (Answer: Obviously.)

Not only was this accompanied by hand gestures, but the man grabbed Charlie by the shoulders and shirt, gave him a lecture about his beer choices, then proceeded to get out his ratty notebook and write down Charlie's information. D.R. also lectured him about a city tour and some other b.s. I couldn’t hear because it was a man-only, confidential chat. Charlie is completely right that I got a kick out of it. I made no effort to help him; instead I documented events for you (and for YOU, readers of Charlie's blog who never get to see him in action):

b b . b. an evening at the Irish pub where they played a lot of western music, in the course of which I realized I’m not the only one who really digs this:

c. viewing of St. Petersburg's bridges at night. The bridges are illuminated when it gets dark, and then a bit later, around 1 am, portions of them are raised for big boats to pass underneath. It was pretty spectacular. Look here:

and here:

Charlie illustrating how the bridge mechanism works:

And here's what I would have done if Charlie weren’t so common sensical (“uh, sure, if you want to fall in the Neva”).

But Lizachka, you’re saying. Charlie is not a permanent fixture of Petersburg. That doesn’t really count. That's not very nice of you, but point taken:

2. Peterhof. Yes, it's true: this is one of the most beautiful places I've been. And I almost didn’t go. Thank you to those of you who expressed in no uncertain terms what a life-altering experience it could be (that would be Olya and Olya) and no thanks to everyone else.

So Peterhof is Peter the Great’s summer estate, which has been greatly expanded since he designed it. It was wrecked during the war but there’s been extensive renovation. If I lived in St. Petersburg, I would be a regular visitor. Also, I would get married there, preferably to an oligarch who would buy me a piece of the property before fleeing the country.

Let’s discuss at great length.

So when you get off the boat

you see in front of you a long boulevard with a canal. At the end of it are huge fountains and the palace at the top of a hill.

Wow, you think. How wonderful. Well, Moscow-jaded veebs says that. You would more likely gasp in awe and start making plans to move here. But wait! On the grounds there are both wooded areas

and more than one nice beach.

Here’s one of the brides.

This is a landscaped terrace on the outside of the one of the smaller palaces.

There are a series of gardens around the palaces, and this one

included a fountain that was suspiciously similar to the one in Millennium Park (open mouth spouting water, unpredictable timing, low water level and all). I suspect whichever jerk designed it ripped this one off.

This fountain, without any machinery, rotates.

Here's the view from the steps of the palace looking out towards the Gulf of Finland. We did a tour inside the palace but a. you’re not allowed to take pictures there this year and b. those kinds of overly ornate baroque/classical rainbow rooms leave me kind of cold. My favorite part of the tour was actually going underneath the palace to see the fountains' internal workings.

From the spot in the picture above, I walked down a short set of stairs and then back underneath the black and white floor to get into the stone passageways. After you go through the pipes, you come out to stand at the level of the fountain itself, a place that is not only covered in water but constantly getting hit with the spray from other fountains. It was like Louis XIV's version of a water park.

[Don't look too closely -- I'm frowning for some reason. I really don't know.]

Not sure yet how you feel?

How bout now? Are you ready to come visit?

Exhibit C/Begrudging Admission: The people in St. Petersburg are much nicer than Muscovites. Maybe they’re in a better mood because their city is prettier or maybe they’re just used to tourists, but it was a pleasure to have people smile at me when I spoke with them in a way that didn’t convey contempt.

Exhibit D: the Dostoevsky factor. How could I not be charmed by a city that was home to such fantastic artists? Like Jpey, I snuck some illegal pictures.

Dostoevsky's study.

There were a lot of other contributing factors, like four days of glorious weather with only a wayward rainstorm, cheap cab rides, charming waitresses, and the color of the Hermitage – oh wait.

Exhibit E: The Hermitage. I guess maybe from watching Russian Ark (what's that? -- ugh, it still makes me shudder), I had this image of the museum as a dreary, dark place. But it’s actually incredible. So the Hermitage is the biggest museum you can imagine, set up in the winter palace of the tsars. Lots of rooms are exhibits themselves, but what’s really astounding is the breadth of art contained there. There’s some incredible statistic about how looking at piece of artwork a minute for the rest of your life wouldn't cover a fraction of what's there.

Here’s what it looks like from the outside:

Inside it alternates between disgusting (full of tourists/opulent) and amazing.

Finally, I'd like to draw your attention to two things. First St. Petersburg's anti-corruption campaign takes the form of these stylized ads. Here the fist is crushing "corruption." Moscow, not surprisingly, has nothing along these lines.

Second, look what I found on the shelves of my local bookstore.

Just to really underscore the difference between the cities, the night train back to Moscow was waaay less interesting/wonderfully old fashioned than it sounds/Cary Grant made it out to be, and the conductor hated me. Now that I think about it, she was probably from Moscow.

So I'm back home, where I can scowl all day if I want to, bitch about grimy streets and bad weather, obsess about the state of Russian media, and not have to worry about tourists getting between me and morozhenoe.

2009-07-16T13:00:00.022-04:00

Guys. The best thing happened to me today!

I didn't meet D. Medz or score a sweet interview that would help revolutionize our understanding of Russian media. But the next best thing! So what happened was, I went with my parents to see St. Isaac's Cathedral (that's this one at left). At the ticket office I went through the rigamarole with the cashier, who at one point told me to just go to the next window because she didn't understand my order. To be fair (mostly to myself), what I wanted was a little complicated. But with some persistence we made it through together, and although I wasn't demoralized it wasn't a shining moment for my language skills. (But when's the last time YOU had a shining moment for language skills, everyone but Charlie, who apparently now knows enough meat products/cooking tools to barbecue a whole cow?)

I'm afraid of heights. Deathly, chest-constricting, have to stop every five steps/get someone to distract me in high speed elevators/forget about flying afraid of heights. But in what's becoming kind of my m.o., I said, oh screw it, and bought a ticket to the colonnade on top of the sobor.

Here's me braving the interior steps, which went on for quite a ways. Normally at this point I would half close my eyes -- hoping to avoid the sight of how far I have come/ have yet to go while not risking a fall that would kill me instantly.

But look, I'm smiling! That's because in the stairwell I happened upon two devushki. We took each other's photos (guess who posed in her pictures) and finished climbing to the top.

Allow me a little brag:

Here's the exterior staircase, which I couldn't fully capture because it's actually three times the length at right, completely exposed, and not especially sturdy-looking. But I made it up them without a panic attack (but with some severe self-talk).

And it was totally worth it. Look, I'm even kind of excited. You can see all the beautiful parts of the city, all the parts still being renovated, and the fact that down in Senatskaya ploshad' the flowers are planted in shapes of giant butterflies.

Let's go in for a close-up:

Oh Russia. In one of the pretty gardens of your most beautiful city, you've put these giant butterflies. You could have had something spectacular and/or powerful but chose this tacky, over-antennaed thing.

But back to my glory. Those of you who have been with me in a 50-mile radius of an airport, an elevator in the Sears Tower/Pru, the dome of St. Peter's Basilica, or just on your third story balcony may be silently congratulating me. Actually that's not what we're here for, but thank you. I take my victories where I can.

Meet Olya of Olya and Olya.

Now that is glamour. Yes, you're thinking. From everything EVB has told me, these are classic Russian devushki. Belorussian, actually. Thus I know that they like to pose, are fantastically beautiful, and have designer sunglasses. Probably they are wearing three inch heels to climb those stairs Elizabeth was such a wuss about, they fear nothing, and huh, they must be fluent in Russian.

Aha! You have hit upon my point exactly. Not ONLY did I successfully offer to help them take pictures, but we followed that up with lovely chats about our home towns (Boston and Minsk), our jobs (all school teachers!), our vacations (all in St. Petersburg), and our plans for Friday night. And finally, they complimented my Russian. Twice.

Well technically they complimented my Russian once. And the second time they told me that they would have guessed I was from Bulgaria or Romania. Faint praise, I hear some of you (ahem) saying. But friends, this is a major step forward. No longer will I be taken for the American who can't say "prefer." Now I will be mistaken for the non-Slavic speaker who just can't say her r's and l's correctly.

P.S. I might have actually scored a sweet interview. But that's a story for another day, namely the day I write my thesis.

Dear Everyone: you were totally wrong about Petersburg. [At least for now.]

2009-07-15T15:14:00.008-04:00

Yesterday my parents and I arrived in St. Petersburg on the express train from Moscow. Wait, let me back up:

1) Yesterday I had several experiences that were truly the first unpleasant ones I've had in Moscow. There was
a. the two hour bus ride (non express) to Sheremetevo 1,
b. the realization that I was at the wrong terminal and needed to get to Sheremetevo 2 in negative 1 hour to meet my parents on time,
c. the shouting match with the marshrutka driver. It was not about the price or about how many large suitcases we had. It was oddly enough, about how much Russian I understood, with me rather unconvincingly arguing my point by shouting -- no, literally shouting -- I DO UNDERSTAND RUSSIAN! And him shouting, "POORLY!" And me shouting, lamely, "WELL NOT EVERYTHING!" It was just like being 12 again, only with a smaller vocabulary. And finally,
d. moldy yogurt. You know by now that there are approximately four foods in Russia I love, all of which are milk products. And come on, yogurt, really? It's already got bacteria in it, plus a load of preservatives, and I get -- and accidentally eat some of-- a moldy one?

That's it, Moscow. The honeymoon is over. You can take your reliably terrible weather, your grimy pigeon-strewn sidewalks, your disappearing Lenin picture, and your quickly rotting produce and keep it, because I'm done with you. You couldn't even show up and look decent for my parents? That's it; you're not the only game in town. I'm leaving for Peter!

2) And I did, on the 16:30 express with my parents. We arrived in broad daylight at 10 pm and were met by someone from the hotel, who drove us down Nevsky Prospekt towards the hotel. Our conversation consisted mostly of him explaining Russian-American interactions: "Putin. From Petersburg. Gorbachev. Friends with Bush. Yeltsin. Clinton. Monica Lewinsky. HAHAHAHA."

3) But the point is, as we drove down Nevsky, the central road in Petersburg, the different colored buildings all lit up with the last real sunlight of the day, the trolley wires kind of glowing in a way that made them look less pedestrian, the crowds of people everywhere, I felt a little twinge. It didn't go away immediately, so I prodded it. What was that little ache? Was it...homesickness? Oh my god, I thought. I miss grimy old Moskva. No one misses Moscow. It's like missing the grippe, or your middle school boyfriend.

So here we are. I've just compared Moscow, city of my dreams, seat of Russian power, and arguably home to the most crazy/beautiful women on earth, to your middle school boyfriend. Things are in a sorry state. More pictures, etc. when I've regained my equilibrium.

Addenda to Moscow Metro

2009-07-13T13:24:00.001-04:00

1. Sometimes a train doesn't run all the way to the end of the line at Rechnoy Vokzal but stops at Sokol, a few stops before my station. At this point everyone disembarks and waits for the next train. I have yet to see what happens when someone doesn't get off the train and catches the wrath of the conductress, although there have been two close calls. 1. The drunk guy (I realize this is a somewhat vague term, especially regarding the patronage of the moscow metro, where I have seen any number of men just passed out, but I'll leave it at that), and 2. me, when I got so wrapped up in other activities that I just sat there while everyone else got off the train. I should have known better.

However, the young man with the only clean-shaven nape in Moscow alerted me to the danger and...disaster averted. (Actually, I say two disasters averted, because, well, he didn't have a mullet.)

2. The Moscow equivalent of swiping someone through on your transfer and charging them $2 is waiting until someone swipes and then following her through the turnstile to avoid paying for yourself. This requires excellent timing and some smart consideration of who you're going to get that close to. I've seen it happen, and once it happened to me. Now, I don't know what the correct protocol is here -- maybe Muscovites like subverting the system. But I'm an American female, and I'm really attached to my personal space, plus, it's 22 rubles, people. Just pay the fare. Finally, I didn't have one of the highest gum fine yields at Nazareth for nothing.

So when this dude stalled at the turnstile as I flashed my metro card and got right up behind me when I started to walk through, I didn't rush away from him. Instead I dallied: I stood there a second and slowly put my card away in my purse, then ambled on through the turnstile. Perfect timing: when I passed through, the bars snapped out and caught him. Then the metro lady yelled at him. I smiled to myself and went on down the stairs. Is that so wrong? If I had to do it again, I'd probably also turn around and berate him in English. What? Cities make me hostile.

3. Guess who I saw the other day on the metro!

Ready? Did you guess:

Probably not. Because who expects Waldo to show up on Moscow's public transportation? But he did! I really, really wish I had a picture to show you but trust me, he looked just like this but without the hat.

You know, when you're a young man who's tall and thin, with Harry Potter-style brown hair and Buddy Holly glasses, you might want to look in a mirror before you leave the house in a red-and-white striped sweater. No matter how hip you are (and reading Stranger in a Strange Land on the Zamoskvoretskaya line is pretty damn hip), the resemblance to Waldo undermines everything else.

So the take-away for today is: pay attention
a. or rely on the kindness of non-Dimaesque strangers
b. or you may inadvertently contribute to fare jumping
c. or you could miss Waldo.

I'm bored of cheap and cheerful.

2009-07-13T12:46:00.003-04:00

In the last week, I have:

1) killed my computer
This, friends, is why you haven't heard from me in so long. I'm fine, my computer is not. My thesis work, however, is safe. I knew you were wondering.

2) seen a Russian wearing a shirt I own
How did I know she was Russian? Her friend was wearing a mickey mouse t-shirt. Guys, it's official -- the transformation has begun. Wait til I tell you about Kostya, my counterfeit Gucci bag, and ability to wear 4 inch heels in the rain.

3) read, analyzed, and summarized every known English language media source on the topic of the Obama visit in Moscow.
Ask me anything.

4) gone to the Moscow Beer Festival... three times
(p.s. Thomas -- when someone texted you asking if you wanted a shirt from the beer festival, who did you THINK it was?)

5) mastered the art of cutting in at the escalator, elbowing my way into a car, and getting the best seat on the metro.
I refined my technique from a mere week of rush hour commuting. See #2 above.

In the last week, I have not:
1) tried a new bakery
Why would I, when it's so delicious?

2) refrained from buying film star Meddy merchandise
Ditto, sort of.

3) managed to actually get into the Botanic Gardens
Although we did circumambulate them.

4) gone on the Baltika hot air balloon
Details will follow in an account of how Daniel and I have an unofficial competition to see who can make the other do the most ridiculous thing. Spoiler: Daniel is winning.

I'm sorry I don't have any pictures here, although I have been saving them for you. And stories about propisk frustrations, six men with 30 beers, even more crazy fashion, and a special feature -- a blog exchange with Charlie while I'm in St. Petersburg.

If you get through this post, I will show you the best song

2009-07-07T13:16:00.010-04:00

So Sunday I went out to ВДНХ/VDNKh with someone I met at Ira Glass' lecture. Some clarifications are in order.

1. VDNKh is the All Russian Exhibition Center; it's a large chunk of land with gardens, various monuments, a small souvenir mall, and a fairgrounds (or at least a ferris wheel). My guidebook says that "No other place sums up the rise and fall of the Soviet dream quite as well." That's quite a tagline. Let's see how it did, shall we?

Pamyatnik to Soviet space efforts. That's a rocket ship at the end of it.

Giant statue of Lenin.

I guess our evaluation has to end there, because it was raining, so I myself didn't see much more of it than that.

2. "Someone I met" is the Russian who sat behind me and talked during the lecture to his companion/on his cell phone. Yes, he answered his cell phone and carried on conversations. Maybe three or four times; honestly, I lost count. Anyway, he SOMEHOW sussed out that I was an American and asked for my number because he likes to practice his English, which I'll admit is quite good. The correct answer was, «I don't have a Russian cell» (seriously, can you imagine another time when you can legitimately pretend that you just don't have a phone?), but I'm here to try new things…like becoming acquainted with be-mulleted, insistent men.

Here's me; that grim line my mouth is making = "How did I get myself into this, and what are we supposed to do now that it's raining?"

3. Answer: we huddled together under my umbrella, wandered across the fairgrounds, and then sat down at McDonald's, where he attempted to pay for our lunches. I would call it a date, if not for my antipathy and his condescension.

I wasn't offensively eager to end the afternoon (hell, I wasn't offensively eager to start it), but that's more a reflection of my diplomatic nature than my true feelings. Why? Let me give you a few sample exchanges that run the gamut from awkward to openly racist:

him: "I have trouble understanding your English because of your accent. You're Southern, right?"
me: "…"

[Prerequisite knowledge: he is shorter than I am.]
him: "So what do you think, are Russians taller or shorter than Americans?"
me: "…"

him: "No, Russians don't really like Michelle [Obama] as a woman. Because she's black, and tall, and also big."
me: "… ..."

[Sidenotes: First, no ellipses can properly convey my emotions. Use your imagination/experience with my indignation/knowledge of Michelle-crush/your own indignation as guides. Second, I don't know why you guys all give me so much grief for being quiet. Sometimes it's best to just let other people's comments speak for themselves. Sometimes there's no way to respond to something. And sometimes, you just can't say something nice.]

But the best part was when we got on a metro car that was decorated with quotations about authors (for example, “the writer’s job is to tell people the truth.” Right, until Stalin has them killed), and illustrations aimed at children – bright, colorful, simple.

him: “Can I call this… 'bling-bling’?”
me: “No.”

And that about sums up the afternoon.

You need something to wash that taste out of your mouth, don’t you? Did I mention that it's been rainy? Well as a result, I’ve been thinking a lot about a movie we watched last summer. And a particular song from that movie. It’s not especially relevant, but it a). mentions summer rain, b). shows the Moscow metro escalators in action, and c). is suuuuper catchy. It was the only thing that could lift my spirits on Sunday afternoon, and I’ve been humming it ever since. I promise you won't regret it.

Fourth of July!

2009-07-05T05:31:00.023-04:00

Poor Daniel and Danielle. They had no idea what they were in for when they agreed to go to the American Chamber of Commerce's "Extravaganza" to celebrate the Fourth of July. To be fair, I didn't really know either. I thought we'd eat some barbecue (fail), hear some American music (fail), and see some fireworks (ehhh). None of us was prepared for the Russian perception of Americana, which included counterfeit Carebears, a mechanical bull, and tepees. But they did get some things right, including corn on the cob (well, not exactly right, but it was a start) and old cars. So let's begin:

1. The event was held in Kuskova Estate, which we had a hell of a time getting to (leading me to think that the proficiency exam for our master's should maybe be replaced with a practical -- locating places in Moscow). But it was well worth it. When we walked in, the first thing we saw was the lake on one side, with a forest beyond that. Beautiful, tranquil, green, etc:

On the other side was mayhem: small-sided football games, in Russian; troops of people on pogo sticks; inflatable playgrounds; women dressed clownishly who were throwing random things at passers-by; and so on. I didn't know where to start.

2. But just ahead, pulling us on like a beacon of Americanness, was the rodeo. Only "rodeo" is to be understood as "single mechanical bull, with cowboy hat." But because this is the U.S.-Russia festival, held at an estate which is "a grand symbol of Russia's rich history," the mechanical bull is set up across from an 18th century palace.

The estate is so large that most of it was actually empty and quiet. Look how pretty it is:

The main thoroughfare had all of the food tents, a large stage, a mock Statue of Liberty (Daniel's favorite), and retro cars. Here we are:

3. The vintage cars were actually kind of disappointing.

Except for this:

Look at that gorgeous car. The women inside are the car's owners, looking pretty slick with their 60s-ish fashion and skinny cigarettes.

I took maybe 20 pictures of this, so just indulge me:

I don't know what that guy is looking at. Also we won those scarves by (how to explain this?) decorating a dish of candy. It was exactly as weird as it sounds.

Finally, away it went, into the night.

A car like this deserves to have American music blaring in the background. Instead we got a lot of Russian rock, bad covers of the Rolling Stones and Red Hot Chili Peppers, and a speech by the American ambassador to Russia.

4. Although the whole evening was strange because of the hybrid of real Americans and Russian perceptions of how Americans celebrate the Fourth, this was perhaps the strangest moment: at a festival purporting to be for Independence Day, the ambassador wasn't talking to us.

The gist of his speech was that although July Fourth is a day to celebrate America's independence, it can be celebrated by Russians too. He said that the holiday recognizes the independence of all people in the world, especially people who love freedom. This was all delivered in Russian. Draw your own conclusions.

5. I've really been craving one food -- corn on the cob. And bless their hearts, the food vendors (who didn't have any pizza without meat, real barbeque, or beer under 100 r.) came through. Tell me this isn't all-American:

Ok, so the corn was lukewarm and came in a plastic bag. But I was delighted nonetheless.

6. The band B-2 (that's B-dva) was the musical highlight of the evening. I thought they were great. Here's Daniel and me with an enthusiastic fan.

I don't know what to say about the face I'm making. I'm not smirking, really. Danielle just caught me in a transition from "isn't this awesome/Russian/who is this crazy girl PINK??" to "playing it cool." Obviously I'm just not as good at the latter as Daniel is.

7. This one game (make five baskets and win) featured giant carebears as prizes.

a. I sank five and didn't win one, which was tremendously disappointing, although the Russians running the booth were impressed. Sexists.
b. The carebears are actually...fauxbears. Since when did their ranks include a pig and an elephant?

Another failure: we arrived too late for the mechanical bull. Here's us, really sad about it.

8. The night concluded with the shortest fireworks display ever -- about 15 minutes. They were set off from across the pond, and we watched from the palace steps with disco music in the background.

Ready?

All things considered, Moscow: not bad.

Dyevushka: (unmarried) girl (and a form of address)

2009-07-03T14:57:00.017-04:00

I met Sophia last weekend, and although her English is better than my Russian, she was good enough to always speak Russian with me, showing extraordinary patience in the face of my accent. She introduced me to: her friends, blinis, the notion that both Luke Skywalker and Ramzan Kadyrov (who is he? -- no, really, this is an important link) could be considered hot, and a whole host of characteristics that fall under the general category of Russian womanhood (as far as I can tell, valuing female friendship, matchy-matchiness, generosity, importance of lipstick, audacity, posing correctly for photos, ability to wear fantastic -- verging on the Conradic indescribable/inscrutable -- footwear, and Pantene commercial-quality hair all belong there).

Our tour of Alexandrovsky Sad and Red Square was somewhat shorter than the usual tourists'; we hit 1. the gardens for pictures and 2. red square for pictures, 3. rolled in and out of a souvenir shop, 4. turned around well before Lenin's tomb, 5. attracted the attention of numerous babyshki in the shadow of the Kremlin with our conversations, 6. tried to go to MacDonald's (as usual, huge line) but settled for sushi, and then left.

Let's take a look, shall we?

Exhibit A:

Dark, somber dress
Genuine photo smile
Diffident, somewhat awkward pose
GIANT horse fountain in background

Exhibit B:

Bright, vibrant dress
More of a smirk, really
Badass pose (strictly standard, I promise)
Beautiful flowers in background

Dear readers, I can only propose that, in the interest of bridging this cultural divide, further research be done on the questions of blinis and relative hotness of world/galactic leaders (the Obama-Medvedev-Putin meetings should prove instructive); I will do everything in my power to retrieve the secret to the Pantene hair and footwear, although the latter may be sadly inexplicable.

In the meantime, happy Fourth to everyone (even you, Kanadka)!

Ice cream + (at least possibly) successful negotiations in Russia = a good day

2009-07-01T08:45:00.011-04:00

For one reason or another (end of radio festival, possible resignation from internship), today was my first free day in a while and also a beautiful one. So I put on my summer dress po-russki (which is to say with fuchsia lipstick), the lovin' spoonful, and my frowny face (just like stockings, de rigueur in public Moscow) and headed out to "run errands." This is what I tell myself/my records I'm doing when I want to do neither research nor sight-seeing but just enjoy the day.

First up:
GUM: The huge mall in Moscow (see here for details) Some people like to shop here: you know, look at clothes, go in the fine gourmet stores. I like to buy ice cream from the ice cream carts. Here's my little cone in front of GUM...

[It's klubinka/strawberry, and it tastes pretty much like American strawberry, but – you guessed it – sweeter. Also, a little airier in a not unpleasant way.]

...and here it is in front of red square:

Look, I'm not trying to visually equate Russia's ice cream with any of Moscow's architectural wonders. But if that's the conclusion you choose to draw, I won't take issue with it.

Pochta: The post office located nearby must get its share of tourists. But when I ask how much it costs to send a letter within Moscow, and I've addressed it to a place within Moscow, I mean, how much does it cost to send a letter within Moscow. The other customers in the post office were very nice and helped me argue with the attendant, so we'll see what happens.
Also, those of you who have not given me your address should do so if you want to be, like everyone else, disappointed when the postcards don’t arrive because she was wrong about how much postage to use.

And I finished up my outing back in our neighborhood

with cherries and Argumenty i Fakty.

Now Argumenty i Fakty is not an especially reputable source, as you may have gathered from its cover. But I desperately wanted to read, "Can V. Putin knock down prices at stores?" because I had heard on good authority about his trip to the supermarket. And in fact, here it is, reproduced in full as a dialogue on the pages about prices of meat. [Poor translation all mine but punctuation faithfully adhered to.]

Putin: And why do the sausages here cost 240 rubles?!
Manager: These, obviously, are sausages of higher quality. But there are also ones for 49 rubles! Sometimes we even sell them at a loss.
[Some joke I don't get. Moving on...]
Putin: I can show you your markups: here, bologna.* 52% mark up. And let’s go on to the pork… (to the vendor): And what is your wholesale price on meat?
Vendor: 150-160 rubles
Putin: So (he exhales**) that means you buy it at 160 and sell at 335. A 120% markup! Is this normal?
Manager: What, a large markup?*** Tomorrow we will lower it. (He smiles).

* As you know I’m not a big meat-eater and I don’t eat pork products at all. So I’ve never come across the term used here: “doktorskaya kolbasa,” or doctor sausage. Can someone please confirm this is the word for bologna?
** This could be my favorite part, not that Putin exhales during the intensive part of this exercise but that A&F chose to record it.
*** This is the THIRD different Russian word for "markup" used in this dialogue.

The dialogue ends there, and it's not clear if we're supposed to assume that the store owner is full of it or if Putin's intervention has made life for the common man a little bit easier.

Kstati features other presidents making trips to supermarkets, and I know you want to know what Medvedev did:
"President D. Medvedev in March of this year unexpectedly stopped his motorcade at a store in order to buy the local gingerbread (?). He took interest in whether prices had strongly increased recently. The sales clerks assured him that prices had gone up a little. Incidentally, Medvedev refused the suggestion that he take the gingerbread as a gift -- he handed his aid a thousand-ruble note and asked him to break the bill at the register."

As promised, part a

2009-07-01T08:40:00.004-04:00

Highlights from the Festival for regional radio:

1. Ira Glass gave a lecture on Sunday where he he talked about how This American Life gets put together, played some excerpts, and discussed his general approach to journalism. None of the Russians thought it was funny; meanwhile, I was cracking up the whole time, a. which was sort of part of the phenomenon where you meet someone abroad who is American and you have an instant if spurious bond and b. while sitting in the middle of the second row, right in his line of vision. All of this culminates in my approaching him after the show and gushing over any number of things, including chicago, tal, my old commute, harvard, moscow. I have to give him credit for playing it cool when I couldn't and even managing to look pleased. Anyway, here's us with my new friend Evgeniy.

2. Lots of interesting lectures, or if not interesting at least relevant to my research, plus a free bag and a directory of independent outlet journalists. (I know this is not of general interest, but a free bag! journalists' contact information!)

Honestly, that's about it. Otherwise I spent five hours a day listening to lectures that I just KNEW were packed with important information but which I couldn't quite get my ear around.

What's that, Andrew? You want to know about the vodka?

2009-06-29T15:33:00.004-04:00

I'm totally beat from a weekend of non-stop Russian lectures, so I'm just going to leave you with

a. this picture
b. a promise to tell you about it
c. the question of what exactly you want to know about foods, because right now you're looking at a long explanation of milk products (including the molochniye cocktail, or liqueur milkshake, but I'll save you the suspense: it's delicious) and not much else
d. and a final thought for today: Russians think Medvedev is hot.

Some terrible/strange/wonderful things

2009-06-27T09:13:00.008-04:00

Recently spotted:

1. The eight-year-olds in our complex standing at the crossroads of paved paths, eating ice cream, laughing, and ... smoking cigarettes.

2. The jaguar-spotted Benz. Seriously, how popular would these be in the US? I'm all over this business opportunity.

3. If you were to imagine a hulking corporate building of evil, would it look something like...

THIS?

Danielle says yes.

4. The real highlight of our metro station: the giant container of Квас that sits outside day and night AND actually dispenses kvass. (What is that?) I am a little scared to drink out of this, but I desperately want to try it. (Deep breath, mom.)

6. Fake Hermes Birkin bags at approximately every fifth metro station. (What is that?) Please advise: color? price? Possible thesis topic switch?

7. The best, and the one you've been waiting for:

Yup that's me, in the hallway of Ekho. That expression is the closest you'll get to seeing me starstruck (except for the Jeff Tweedy concert circa 2002). For the first ten minutes I was so excited to be there that I couldn't understand what the editor was saying. As opposed to later, when I just couldn't understand what he was saying.

And yup, that's the location of Ekho's office, in the same building as Yedinaya Rossiya.

Your long-awaited metro guide

2009-06-24T11:05:00.047-04:00

I've been promising a post about the Moscow metro, so today I went out and made an idiot of myself all over Moscow for you. Those of you who know all about this, please forgive me this rave and feel free to skip any of the following: the metro system here is AMAZING. Where to begin? First, the least discounted ticket you can buy, for 1 ride, is only 22 rubles, less than $1. When you buy lots of trips, each one costs about 50 cents. Second, the trains run every three minutes. And when they say the trains run every three minutes, it means they run every three minutes -- or sooner. That's right, for your benefit I timed them today. The stations are kept very clean, people give up their seats for the elderly, and everything is well marked (ahem, Boston). But really, the thing to love about the metro is that it's beautiful.

Let's begin at home. On the Zamoskvoretskaya line, our stop is Vodny Stadion, which you've already seen. Compared to, say, any Howard- Dan Ryan/95th stop, it's brilliant.

As is the next one south, Voykovskaya. But compared to all the other stations here, neither is anything to write home about.

Sokol is also a little blah.

Aeroport is the first really beautiful station along the way.

After it comes Dinamo, which I have done wrong by with this picture. Because Dynamo Stadium, home of FC Dynamo, is nearby, the other walls have little reliefs of soccer players. Between the two tracks is a high corridor that looks similar to those in some of the pictures below.

Next comes Belorusskaya, which is like the Belmont (or Park?) for our line -- you can transfer to the ring train here. Unlike those stations, the path to the transfer is just as amazing as the station itself.

Station:

Transfer:

Mayakovskaya is even more beautiful. I would say it's the best station between us and the center of the city.

You think that you wouldn't get used to this kind of grandeur, but... you do. Tverskaya is only ho-hum.

It's all squat and functional, and I demand grandeur.

Actually, Tverskaya is very nice, and it has the transfer to Pushkinskaya, which we'll see later when I go to the purple line.

But continuing on the green line -- Teatral'naya is my favorite. It's splendid and beautiful and impressive, but mostly I love that you can walk over the tracks. Right over them. Like, you could drop things onto the train as you make your transfer. These two pictures show the path to get to the red line.

After the transfer to the red line, the first station is Oxotny Riad. Nice, right?

I skipped Lubyanka, the next station, because it looks almost the same.

And because I was sitting across from the Russian Jason Siegal. What? I was curious.

Chistye Prudy has a beautiful park right outside (more on that later). The station is okay, too.

So after that short side trip to Chistye Prudy, I returned to the metro and switched over to the purple line, or what is properly called Tagansko-Krasnopresnenkaya.

Pushkinskaya does have a nice station, but somehow I managed to get a picture without ANY of the highlights, namely the bronze pieces (I don't know how to describe these, they're giant sheets on the wall) with quotations from Pushkin and cute little pictures of quills and country estates. And THEN, when you go to transfer to
Tverskaya, there's a giant statue of him in the hall.

Here is Kuznetskii Most (take that, Foster):

And then Kitai-Gorod,
with its fantastic columns.

My favorite art, though, comes from Taganskaya and Proletarskaya:

Can't see this one well enough?
There you go.

Tsvetnaya was a pleasant surprise. First in the main hallway there's these lovely little windows.

But then at the exit:

Wow.

So enjoy your rides today on the CTA/MBTA/whatever Washington's is called/in your Honda/Toyota. I'll be on THIS:

One final note about the metro system. Some stations are much farther underground than we're used to. The escalators, however, are not broken into several shorter ones. No, no. You just ride one very long, very steep escalator. So steep, in fact, that I get dizzy looking up or down them. But for you:

(Ok, I cheated and shot it without actually looking. But they're really long, and did I mention steep? Like climbing a mountain. But without exerting any effort because Russians don't like to walk up -- or down -- the escalators. Escalators move so you don't have to.)

Morozhenoe, parts ii and iii

2009-06-24T10:24:00.006-04:00

On each of the little ice cream vending carts there is the following model:

No way is that representative of what's inside the cart, right? Wrong. That is EXACTLY what's in the freezer. I knew from the moment I saw this, I had to have green. (What I actually said to myself was: Man, I have to try that zelyonoe. Some progress is better than none.)

The other day I did in fact try the green, which is far lighter in color than the model (disappointing) and pistachka (imagine my delight). I would say this rivaled the initial vanilla for robustness of flavor and creaminess. Although the pistachio was just as sweet, it tasted more like pistachio and less like plastic.

Today it was 63 degrees, which is not too cold for ice cream, and I was long overdue to try the red cone above. But the ice cream lady (who joked with me about global warming -- joked! nothing warms my heart like a Russian who thinks I understand enough of her language to do this) steered me away from the red cone to the "most tasty" treat, a white block on a stick. Gamely, foolishly, I went for it.

As you can see, I'm thinking, I don't know about this. That uncertainty persisted for approximately the first third of the ice cream bar because at first, it tasted sort of like the vanilla, sweet and fake. But underneath that was a flavor I couldn't place but which is probably akin to wet cement. Maybe I was prejudiced by how it looked. At any rate, that flavor eclipsed everything else. It was a cruel trick; this was not samoe vkusnoe at all -- it was samoe gross.

Thankfully, when I was two thirds of the way through the bar, it fell off the stick. I threw it away, left only with the knowledge that I had made the wrong choice.

A sad day for morozhenoe.

Oh yeah, plus this...

2009-06-22T13:59:00.001-04:00

...article about building an elevated highway. The residents' responses at the end are also pretty great.

Tour Guide

2009-06-22T13:08:00.008-04:00

Yesterday we met a very nice woman named Asya (or Asia, her preferred spelling) who took us to the Tretyakovskaya Gallery and actually led us on a tour through the museum, with the help of her guidebook, a prepared speech (!), and an electronic translator. Her English is excellent, but doesn’t include words like “washed out” or “peasant.” She also, by the way, answered my question about why people are always asking me for directions – no one who lives in Moscow actually knows how to get anywhere in Moscow, except within their own little area. Between the metro stop and the museum, which are maybe two blocks apart, she stopped passers-by to ask directions four times.

So you buy tickets for the Tretyakovskaya Gallery in the basement of the museum, which means that to get into the exhibits you climb this grand staircase in a huge marble hallway, full of beautiful chandeliers. You take an immediate right into Room 1 (they’re all numbered so you know where to go next, which is actually really useful). Room 1 is pistachio green, and completely packed, floor to ceiling, with portraits. They’re all hung from the ceiling, and there must have been three rows of pictures one on top of the other, maybe six or seven across per wall. The room is also completely full of people. Jam packed, like row upon row of identical, one-dimensional portraits are the highlight of the museum.

There were some communication breakdowns on our tour that not even the electronic translator could help with. This is less than surprising, given my and Danielle's laconic natures (ok, hers, and my modest Russian). So Asya wasn't aware, for the entire duration of the museum tour, that Danielle and I are in a Russian studies program. This meant that there was no way she could have known that Danielle is actually an expert on imperial Russian history. A sample exchange runs something like this -- Asya: “In this portrait, you see the fine detail of her clothing and more background than in some of the other paintings. This one is a portrait of Elizabeth, who as far as I know was Peter’s wife…” There’s a pause, while I take in the painting, Asya turns to walk away, and Danielle looks over at me. Then I think, Wait, that’s not right. I look over at Danielle, who’s just silently shaking her head at me. Between the two of them, I did okay; we saw a lot of famous paintings (including some from the Russian art project) and some beautiful ikons.

After the museum, we headed over the bridge to a park I don’t know the name of (Sara, help?). There’s a large sculpture at one end of the park, the subject of which is how adult vices affect children, to the tune of, we should protect children, who are our future. This is possibly the least controversial sculpture subject ever. At any rate, it depicts several personified vices in a semicircle around two golden children. Not really my style, but whatever, I’m interested. I’m more interested when Asya jumps the ropes, disregarding signs about not touching the sculpture, to translate each vice for us in turn (please note, they were already translated into English). The two older women behind us were all, “How shameful!” but I thought it was great.

P.S. Sabrina:

Mumi!

Turisty

2009-06-20T09:49:00.009-04:00

Yesterday Danielle and I hit all the high points of the Kremlin:

1. Ticket office, where the woman refused to honor my Harvard ID as a real student id, even though the sign (alas, only in English) promised a discount for foreign college students. A bilingual shouting match ensued, with me, pointing at my id: "It says student!" Please note what I actually said was, "It says студент!" as if that would help. And her saying, "ISIC only" very sternly. And then me saying, "The sign says student!" All of this took place through the tiny window at the bottom of the glass, which forced me to stoop awkwardly in order to talk to her (doubtless a set-up deliberately constructed to demoralize would-be troublemakers). We went back and forth for a while until I was shamed into handing over the extra 150 rubles.

2. I'm sure this is blasphemous, but this (the State Kremlin Palace) is maybe my favorite building there:

It's very downtown Cleveland 1965, which I know is not really the point here, but I still love it.

3. After the cathedral square, we moved on to “The Secret Gardens” (I can’t say this without hearing the only Springsteen song that makes me cringe). It was here, amidst the elaborate flower patterns and in the brilliant Moscow sunlight, that I had my first taste of Russian morozhenoe. It was magical; I don't know if you can tell, but that goofy look on my face is actually one of bewildered wonder.

How to describe the taste? There aren't true flavors -- one's first impression is simply of intense fakeness rather than any specific taste. This is quickly followed by overly sweet, delicious vanilla, like syrup (in my case -- there is chocolate as well). The texture is similar to a marshmallow's, but it's chilled. I imagine Russian children must believe that this is how clouds taste. For me, I would describe it more as... vicarious nostalgia.

[Actually, I'm thinking: I am totally trying all the other flavors.]

The only thing missing was Dimya; we could have a picnic and I’d tell him my views on free media. He would swoon over my brilliant analysis, buy me ice cream, and ask me to accompany him through The Secret Gardens. I would admire his navy suits, tower over him, and garble my syllables. We would be perfectly awkward to/for each other.

I won't bore you with the rest of the details of our tourist activities, but I will say that Annunciation Cathedral smelled like Widener's stacks, I really enjoyed the circa-1993 wedding gowns we saw, and the secret to Moscow fashion appears to be combining as many different trends as possible (Jodhpur/cargo/harem capri pants? Fabulous. Mullet/mohawk/braided rattail? Super chic.).

Gogol'

2009-06-18T14:23:00.004-04:00

1. The Kremlin is closed on Thursdays.

2. I went out to Gogol' tonight (I picked it randomly but then realized Sara had also suggested it) to see indie rock bands (although I would call them straight "rock"; there was nothing "indie" about them) Polyusa and someone else, don't know who.

They were great, all angsty and head-bopping and enthusiastic. And loud.

3. 10 pm, broad daylight:

4. Number of times asked for directions: 2
Number of functional conversations in Russian: 2
A ∩ B = 0.

Day 1.5

2009-06-17T10:19:00.001-04:00

Everyone:

1. Dima Bilan looks grosser than ever, maybe even grosser than you thought possible. The life-sized billboards of him certainly caught me by surprise. [If you don't know who he is, google image search, then thank your lucky stars you're not seeing what I am.]

2. I appear to look like I know what I'm doing. In approximately six hours on the street (to be fair, about two hours of that consisted of my loitering creepily in metro stations), four people have approached me to ask me something. Probably something legitimate, although I can't be sure. Possibly they all wanted information about how to get somewhere, maybe they asked what time it was, they might even have inquired about where I got my awesome shoes. But the point is, I have NO IDEA what they wanted, which leads me to number three.

3. I haven't the slightest idea what I'm doing here. I mean, I can use the metro, but that may be the end of my abilities. Make change? Nope. Light a gas burner from a match? Maybe one time out of ten. Use my cell phone? Absolutely not. This makes me somewhat hesitant to charge ahead with my interviews/carrying on a normal conversation with a Russian.

On the plus side:

Our kitchen is larger than mine at home.

My room is fantastic and contains...

a statuette of Ferdowsi!

Our entryway: to the left the exterior set of doors, to the right Danielle's room. Straight ahead: Ten Thousand Persian Proverbs, General Linguistics, Means of Connection of the Signifier and Signified in Modern Tajik Literary Language, and so forth.