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

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."

Loko - MOTIV

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.

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.

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

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)!

Tour Guide

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!