Russian Mafia

I had a brand new experience last night.

Many of you may know I wear glasses. Once I tried going without them and I tripped on a flat sidewalk. It’s that bad. But last night, I wanted to show off my style and cast off my specs for a couple hours. I took my hubby’s arm and we went to a bar in town called Chicago. It’s supposed to be an “American” style bar with live music, Tex-Mex menu, and abundant seating.

We joined our house guest, a student who is studying Russian, and my husband’s co-worker, Bob, at a large table surrounded by couches. Honestly, at that moment, the evening did not seem promising.

Then many of Bob’s Russian friends started arriving. They were warm and friendly and each of them spoke English well enough to make small talk. Once the visiting was over, the sun began to set (making my vision ever so much worse) and there we were in the dark and the man at the head of the table, Ivan (pronounced EE-vahn), says with a thick accent, “Eeet eez time to play…MAHHFEEEA.”

Then he looked at us. “You know theez game?”

We didn’t, but our house guest explained it and we smiled and went along.
So here’s the idea: There are three members of the Mafia, one doctor, and the rest are citizens (grazhdanin). Each person draws from a hat a piece of paper which holds their identity. Then you go around the table explaining why you are not Mafia. Of course even the Mafia says they are not Mafia. Then everybody votes on who they think are Mafia. It can be explanations like “he moved his eyebrow when somebody looked at him.” Or, my favorite, “Sasha is always Mafia so he must be mafia now.”

My explanation: “I am not Mafia because I am bad liar. If I am Mafia, I would giggle.” This drew out a few giggles from our companions.

When people vote that you are Mafia, you die. Obviously not really, but it means you’re out of the game. Sometimes the doctor can bring you back to life, but if the Mafia finds out who the doctor is, they kill him too. It was extremely fun.

After the game, poor Nadezhda wanted to play again because she died first. And sure enough, Sasha was Mafia and he is 12 for 12. I guess statistics can go against you even with paper scraps drawn from a hat.

Then she asked about our work. I simply explained, in slow clear English, I don’t have job. I stay home with our четыре дети (cheteeri dyeti-four children). This was when I was glad I didn’t wear the glasses. The entire table began to ooh and aah that I must, in fact, be a good liar because that is impossible, "I don’t have body that has four children." I was flattered to say the least.

They asked about how long we’ve been married and about our preconceived ideas about Moscow. I told them about my son who thinks Russian women are beautiful.

Then Sergei, who had been seated next to me all evening without saying a word, spoke perfectly, “Your son, he can take Russian woman. But do not leave your girls. Russian men are bad.” This was said slightly humorously, and slightly not.

We talked about translations, people’s work, and Moscow in general. Some of them said they want to see New York City. I said, “New York City is not all of America.” Ivan said very slowly, “yeez. But there are those who say Moscow is not Russia.” That was not the first time I had heard that.

Right before we left, I got up the nerve to find my way to the restroom. I walked slowly, barely able to see anything and found the door marked ‘Ladies’ in English. I laughed when I got inside. All over the walls were pin-ups of American magazines from the prohibition era (again--bar named Chicago). I laughed out loud.

I am so happy here in my host country and yet pieces of America through Russian lenses make me feel even more welcome. I was glad I took off my lenses to see these warm, wonderful people who make up Russia. And look out! The Mafia could be anyone.

Dacha (Cottage)

Fourth of July weekend we did dacha. I can’t say we went to dacha because that is like saying I went to the store. We did dacha. Some friends of ours temporarily moved out of their 22 story building to enjoy the Russian summer in the rustic country and invited us to join. We ate shashlik (meat on a stick) the first night with all kinds of Russian salads made mostly of beets, carrots, and mayonnaise. They just can’t get enough of their mayonnaise. We even drank Kvass which tastes like sour, liquid bread. It is, after all, made of yeast.

Then we did banya which is basically an outdoor sauna. You go in until you sweat a bit, exit, and either pour cold water over your head or jump in a lake, and then go back in and do it again. They believe it aids in circulation and general health.
My friend, also a mother-of-four, and I modestly wrapped ourselves in towels as we sweat. Then we sat in the “parlor” and drank water to cool off. It was relaxing and comfortable. The men…well…men are different.

My hubby, our friend, and a neighbor we just met, stripped down to their birthday suits, walked into 240 degree Fahrenheit steam, which was so hot it felt as if the hairs in their noses were burning. After three rounds, they finished off by smacking each other with sticks that makes hell-fire seem cool. Then, finally, cold water over the heads. They got dressed and came out. We are lucky we have friends. Many people have to pay for banya.

My least favorite part of the dacha was the outhouse. It is not a port-a-jon, it is a permanent building specifically used for decades of waste. I don’t think my vocabulary contains words for the general aroma amidst that side of the yard. The kids made a clubhouse right next to it. Needless to say, I’m sure they wouldn’t get any uninvited visitors.

The next day we celebrated July 4th in typical American style with too much food cooked over a grill, cake, and beer. In a gesture of good will among countries, we offered the neighbors some of our American cuisine like burgers, potato salad, and bean dip. They accepted. A few minutes later, the friendly neighbor brought over his version of good will. A CD of the famous Russian musician Vladimir Vysotsky. I’ve posted a link here for you to get a taste. He has a fabulous ability to roll his “Rs”, unlike me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OBLWDk8q6Tc&feature=related

With our red, white, and blue banners amidst overgrown stinging nettles, we bopped our heads to this Russian masterpiece while naked little Russian boys ran around the neighborhood.

In Short

Yesterday we saw a man at the bus stop in tennis shoes, a baseball cap, and….wait for it….and a knee-length PINK bathrobe. Not sure if his old lady kicked him out in a frenzy or if that was his outfit of choice. We’ve also heard tales of speedos and converse high-tops. Either way, it’s not uncommon for people to be scantily clad here in Moscow. My hubby and I have taken it upon ourselves to spy-cam wherever we go so we can capture some of these delicious examples of extreme lengths. We are usually successful. Sometimes, I have to pose in the picture so we can look inconspicuous.

A few weeks back we walked along Old Arbat street and saw several passers-by in skirts and daisy dukes. I think the lady in the tan skirt stopped In front of the curb because she wasn’t sure exactly how she was going to get up it without exposing her derriere. The lady in the blue toga proved that if you can’t get a skirt, no worries, simply tie a belt around the longest shirt you have and call it good! I have seen thongs riding up 60 year-old ladies backsides and squishy sides peeking out of meshy shirts. I have been told, however, that letting your bra straps hang out is a major faux pas. Who knows why?

The last guy is my favorite. Words are inadequate. That strap wrapped around his back, believe it or not, it’s a fanny pack. It had neon pink on it too. He was a street vendor so maybe he thought when he ripped people off, he could make a quick getaway. Just like the topic, I kept this entry short. Pictures are, after all, enough to prove my point.

Loving and Losing

We’ve been here almost a year.

We’ve made friends.

The time goes so fast overseas that we’ve already said goodbye to friends we made at first. Just this week #1 and #3 found some girls from France whose company they enjoy. They’ve been in Russia for ten years and guess what, this Saturday, they’re leaving----for good!

Is it better to have loved and lost than never loved at all? I’m starting to wonder.

At the same time, we’re contemplating visits home and I dread the thought of reunions that turn into departures. I can see why some ex-pats just keep to their own circles. It’s hard to open up again and love somebody for a brief amount of time. Some of the people here who were strangers at first will be lifelong friends now, but no matter what---eventually one of us will leave.

It’s like a staring contest. Who’s going to blink first?

I could be cranky because I have mild food poisoning and had to cancel afternoon tea today with my friend from Trinidad who is going home for the summer next week. Our compound is like a ghost town. All the corporate ex-pats have gone home. Unless I want to dish out $7K, I’m staying put for now.

One of my friends said it best. “Once you’ve lived abroad,” she said, “it’s like you’re ruined for America.” I get that now. My kids’ friends are from far-off countries like Vietnam, Trinidad, England, France, Singapore, Australia, China, and of course, Russia.

How can they ever go back to a farm community where everybody’s lived in the same house their grandparents built? How can I forget the interesting customs and souvenirs? How will I adjust to not kissing people’s cheeks in greeting? How will you respond when I greet you in Russian? How will we connect? I’m sorry this isn’t funny like usual, but funny isn’t always part of my day. It’s July and everyone is going home

The weather’s fine.
The kids are fine.
But time is passing.

Lawn-mowing and the Green Guys

So here in the city there are workers to whom we refer as “green guys.” The explanation for this is simple. They wear green uniforms in all four seasons. They usually work in groups and you often find them leaning up against a building having a cigarette. I caught one guy ducking from his supervisor in my front yard last week. After the manager walked away, he sat back down and had another smoke.

So anyway, these guys do all the jobs that I used to do at home. They shovel the snow in the winter, mow the lawns in the summer, and basically keep the place spruced up. But I’ve found that in our neck of the woods, so to speak, lawn-mowing isn’t a high priority. It was mid June before I called property management to get somebody out here. My explanation---I couldn’t find #4 in the grass behind our patio. Within an hour they were right out here. So I just call every other week when it seems the grass can’t be managed.

When they do get around to finally mowing, it looks like a kamikaze pilot was driving. There are never straight lines or any general direction at all. Even better is when they weed-eat and trim around the fence, but never actually mow. Or sometimes they mow a three foot path through the grass and never mow around it. Thank goodness for that path.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband had made no-bake cookies and Number #1 thought it would be a good idea to share with the workers. With her cheerful disposition, she bounded out the door with the plate in hand. She figured it was a good opportunity to practice her Russian.

Each man has his job.
One man pushes the mower.
One man empties the bag from the mower.
One man rakes the grass into a pile.
One man uses his hands to put the grass into a trash bag.
One man ties the trash bag and heaves it into the truck.
One man drives the truck.
One man works the radio in the truck.
And I can’t remember what the last man does but I am certain there were eight.

So Number #1 walks out there with our American no-bake cookies made with Jif Peanut Butter and Hershey’s Cocoa and says, “pazhalsta!” (sort of a help yourself invitation). A few of the men obliged but the man with grassy hands shook his head and tried to explain that he couldn’t possibly. Number #1 insisted, “Da! Da!” she said (yes, yes) while nodding her head. He smiled (a rarity) and took one. I haven’t had to call property management since. In fact, I think they hang around our side yard a little longer each week hoping we’ll bring out a snack.

Toi-Toi, Squatty-Potties, and other reasons to stop at Dunkin’ Donuts

It’s a necessary topic. Bathrooms. Where to find them, which ones you pay for, and how little you can spend to use a restaurant bathroom. When we first arrived, we always kept change in our pockets for the toi-toi (Hubby calls them Blue Rockets---basically a group of porta-jons in a row). Outside, a babushka charges anywhere from 15-20 rubles for one person to use it. One of the potties is actually her hut. In the winter especially, she will sit inside and smoke, read trashy magazines, or eat her lunch. Yum!

You have to take your toilet paper ahead of time and hope you’re right. The picture shows me with a few of my kids at a stop along the Moscow River. This was a special treat because she let my youngest through without paying. I was 20 rubles richer that day!

Then there are the squatty potties. Even at some of the most beautiful statues and parks, they have buildings filled with these. They also cost money. There is no concern about somebody taking too long because they are like urinals in the ground. Thus the name, squatty potty. I have three daughters. Our visits to the squatty potty are long and unpleasant. Number 3 often proclaims out loud, “It smells so terrible in here I think I’m going to throw-up!”

A few weeks ago we had some guests here. It was late at night and we were sight-seeing. We had heard about a really neat diorama in the lobby of one of the nicest hotels in Russia so we decided to walk there. After strolling past the guards in our casual get-up, we found the diorama. It was incredible! On the way out, we spotted some bathrooms. I know well enough to stop when you see one, especially if it’s free. Forget the diorama, THEY were incredible.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned that Russian women pose in front of everything and apparently, fancy restrooms are no exception. I have to admit, I took a little bit of toilet paper to show my friends because it was seriously thicker than most tablecloths I’ve seen. There were warmed, individually rolled, hand towels for each patron and the fragrance was very inviting. I lingered in there a little bit longer than necessary.

And my last example: restaurants. Last night I stopped at Dunkin Donuts with a friend on a very busy street. After we waited in line behind nine people, they told us they didn’t have smoothies, iced coffees, or anything else cold despite the 80 degrees and humidity. But, since I waited in line, I definitely deserved to use the jon. On the back of the door, the very poor English translation said, “DO NOT THROUGH YOUR PAPERS INTO THE TOILET.” I forgot to mention that some potties have little baskets right next to the can so you can toss your paper. Ick.

One last warning. If you walk into a water closet and see a member of the opposite gender, don’t sweat it. Maybe you’re jet-lagged. Or maybe you’re in a fancy, recommended restaurant in Moscow where bathrooms are co-ed. And don’t forget, janitors may walk in at any time. Guys, they’re usually female. Don’t worry, they don’t mind. You do your business and they’ll do theirs.

The Housekeeper

Russia is dusty.

In fact, our recent American visitors kept commenting on how much the dust swirls around everything---everywhere. Back home I lived next to a grain elevator. I had to dust my house every couple of weeks to keep up but it wasn’t unmanageable. Here it is unmanageable. Which leads to my dilemma. I home-school my four children and spend 4-5 hours a day in the kitchen preparing our meals. Each load of laundry, in the European washing machine, takes about 3.5 hours to complete. Needless to say, I don’t have any spare time to clean the house---or maybe I don’t want to use the little spare time I have to clean the house. That’s more honest.

Most people in our international community are well off. They drive Bentleys, send their kids to 16K per year International schools, have housekeepers, nannies, and buy virtually whatever they want. We are the oddballs. We budget for food, drive a beater van, and home-school to save money. It’s not as glamorous as it seems.

So my husband encouraged me to get someone to clean the house every so often. Most of the housekeepers/nannies are Filipino, but every time I called one of them, they didn’t come through. So my friend introduced me to a Russian woman named Svetlana. (I have changed the name for the security of the real person, but her name is as traditionally Russian as Svetlana.) She comes to clean about every 10 days and is wonderful with my children and the dust.

She arrives at 9:30 in the morning and stays until 5:10pm. She takes her time wiping the nooks and crannies that I don’t bother to notice and last week she folded 4 loads of laundry. She’s wonderful! On the days she comes, I’ve found I am a nicer person to----well, everyone. At about 1:30pm, she wants lunch so I serve her black bread, mayonnaise, meat, and cheese on an open face sandwich. Sometimes she wants tea.

One time I walked into my kitchen where she was mopping and she was wearing my “house shoes”. These are brown Dr. Scholls clogs that I only wear on the cold tile floors. I looked at her with a wondering face and she said, “I wear your shoes.”
I said, “I can see that.”
She said, “they’re nice. Very comfortable.”
I said, “I know.” And she went back to her mopping.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a complete stranger try on my shoes and then continue to wear them, but she did. She has worn them every week since. I quit wearing them after that first day, except one time when I broke a glass and I was desperate to protect my feet.

Once I was trying to explain to her that I had a friend who would like to call her about services and she didn’t understand at all. Her response “Akreel and Seleet.”
I said, “the cleaners?”
She said, “yes, please buy Akreel and Seleet.”
I said, “Okay, I will, but can my friend call you.”
She says, “Your English is confusing.”
I smiled and said, “okay.”

This past Monday, I was doubled over in pain. Initially I thought it was back pain, but as the day went on, I realized it was a re-visitation of kidney stones. Lucky me. So by Tuesday when Svetlana came, I was feeling better but still a little slow moving. It was 55 degrees outside and so I was in capris and bare feet. When she understood my pain, she rubbed my back and then pointed to my bare feet and said, “no---tsk, tsk, tsk, bad for body.”

I smiled and put some socks on to subdue her. Ironically, I felt better by the end of the day. She, of course, attributed my success to the socks. Not to the mega doses of Motrin and Vicodin I had taken. She will be here again soon. I am thankful for her help. Next time I’m thinking about walking outside with wet hair in a swimsuit just to see what happens.