Mitino

To begin, I want to list some of my favorite things about the metro in Moscow.

1. There is no division of classes.
Although the politicians and 'mucky-mucks' ride around in limos and black sedans with blue lights, the rest of the population uses the metro. This could be your average homeless guy (who may or may not be an alcoholic depending on the smell) or the CEO of some major company using his smart phone to do business.

2. If you miss this train, there will be another one in a few minutes.
At the front of each tunnel, there is a timer that counts down when the last train left. I have rarely seen the timer go past 3 minutes. If a train is too full or we don't feel like shoving, we just wait for the next one.

3. Rides cost 28 rubles and kids are free.
I know I've mentioned this before, but for a family of six, there is NO cheaper transportation. Technically kids over six years-old are supposed to pay, but we have found that the guards often have pity on such a large family and allow all of the kids to go through free. If I have only one or two of the older ones, we pay for them. The fare is not based on amount of stops or destination. You simply pay 28 rubles and ride until 1am if you want. Once you go up to the surface through the gates, you would have to pay again.

4. The interior of some stations are lovely enough to be in museums.
Yes, some of it is methodical and rigid, but some of it is colorful and breathtaking.

5. I can read my Kindle and skip the traffic.
No honking drivers, no crazy six lane mergers, and no sitting with miles of cars in front of me. It's a peaceful feeling.

So with that, I would like to share with you my favorite station and why. This station is called Mitino (pronounced Mee-tee-na although some insist on calling it Mit-no) and is among the very few stations that don't end with "skaya". It is my favorite because it is our "hometown" metro stop. I have been here more than any other stop and it is new, clean, and very accessible. When I hear the announcement over the loudspeaker for "Stansiya Mitino" I know I'm almost home.

Metro Madness

I apologize for not writing much lately. I have a bad case of "senior-itis." I'm not a senior in high school or college, but I am a homeschooler and the Spring time brings promise of projects getting finished, hours of the kids being outside, and simply put; no school.

Officially my husband's contract ends in August. This doesn't mean we're leaving, but we are behaving as if this is our last summer in Moscow. My husband is the master of hair-brained schemes. I have found myself reluctantly following him to the ends of the earth only to discover that the results of his ideas are profound and wonderful. His latest idea---visit and photograph every one of the 185 metro stations in Moscow which span 305km (190mi). The best part about this plan is that a metro ride costs only 28 rubles (about $1) and we ride as long as we want.

So every weekend, we run off for a couple of hours to tour the underground greatness that is the metro. We are struck by the beauty of the stations and also intrigued by the people who use them. They are intrigued by us as well. Standing in a metro station taking pictures tends to draw attention in such a dismal routine.

Last Saturday we left our house at 7am to travel a particular line. We forgot about the Russian holiday the week before and the strange arrangement that it requires of employees. It's like this. If there is a holiday on Tuesday, you get the day off, but you have to work Saturday to make up for it. It begs the question, why have a vacation day at all? What's the difference? Anyway, what we thought would be a leisurely ride turned into a cutthroat, shove-all to get a standing spot inside the moving wagons. As I flexed every muscle in my stomach and legs, I discovered, for the first time, why it is Russian women have such nice legs.

As of today, we have completed 44. To begin, I am posting a picture of the metro map itself so you have an idea of what we're trying to cover.

Good Day Sunshine

When I was a child, my mother always warned me about being a "fair-weather friend". I didn't really understand that until about middle school when I was sitting alone at the lunch table because I wasn't considered cool anymore. My "friends" smiled at me from the popular table and I understood perfectly what it meant.

I like Moscow.

Some people call me crazy. It's true that it's dirty, overcast, and the traffic is terrible, but the eternal optimist in me can't help but see the good side. I always liked the story about Pollyanna because she saw good in everybody and everything. But lately, the crummy weather has me moaning and sighing about this place.

But I've begun to see myself through this lens of fair weather. The snow melted, the sun is shining, and my mood is lifted. The summer last year was so beautiful that I felt it had forgiven the hard winter. Why should the winter have to be forgiven? Moscow seems so near the North Pole, it would be considered uncouth to be overly warm.

A friend of mine in the neighborhood is always pointing out to newcomers how courteous Russian drivers can be. Courteous? After really paying attention, I see it too. There has never been a time when I couldn't merge from a shoulder into an actual lane without somebody letting me it. I have never been run off the road by somebody honking their horn and giving me the bird.

The good weather has also warmed the hinges on my front door as the kids come in and out...in and out. Yesterday we did school in the yard and Numbers 1 and 2 burned ants using a magnifying glass. The sun has so many benefits. I will stop paying for tanning (which, by the way, I do medicinally to ward off severe psoriasis symptoms). I will skim off the winter pounds by walking to my friends' houses, jumping on my bike for a ride, and strolling longer than expected in downtown Moscow.

Call me a fair weather friend. I can take it.

How many underwear?

If you don't already know it, I have three daughters. They all share a room. I grew up with two sisters and we all shared a room. I don't ever remember it being inhabitable. Then again, I don't ever remember specific toys we played with other than blocks and crayons. On a weekly basis, I have to cajole, threaten, and encourage my girls to clean up their room (which is, by the way, the master suite). My husband, Mr. Fix it, says to me, "It's simple. They have too much stuff."

After defending my right to overindulge my kids with worldly goods, I though I might give his suggestion a try. yesterday was our first official day of Spring Break. In less than an hour, I managed to sort out all four dressers (my son's included) and found that each child had a garbage bag....maybe you didn't hear me...A GARBAGE BAG of unnecessary, superfluous clothing. I'm pretty sure Number 3, a fashionista, will never need three, green, long-sleeved shirts or 14 pairs of pants. I think she can exist with just seven.

I have never been like this before. It's moving across the world that's changed me. Somehow inside I panic. What if I need that for another child? What if I find I can't replace something of equal value or quality for a decent price? But the true fact of the matter is that my wardrobe, though limited, gets me through life just fine and I manage with 5 pairs of pants.

My son's room cracks me up. He is the only one in the house who lives alone. In some ways I envy him. Free to keep things tidy. Free to sort and organize any way he wants. Until I went into his dresser.

Here's a math problem for you.

If a boy wears a clean pair of boxers each day and does his own laundry every Thursday, in what situation would he ever need 25 PAIRS OF BOXERS?

And what's more, many of them on the bottom of the drawer had never been worn or washed since outside Walmart. That being said, somehow the hand-me-downs didn't quite add up this round because Number 3 has no socks at all! Go figure.

Anyway, today is day two of Operation

"Why are we storing crap we don't need, use, wear, etc?"

Can you have etc. in a title?

Here's the other truth that occurred to me. Imagine your kitchen. Imagine that each type of utensil is in a plastic container the size of a shoebox. Then imagine that the shoeboxes are stacked up in a corner that's somewhat hard to get to. When you get one out, you have to unstack the pile, open the container, stack them back up, then put it back later. Would you bother or would you leave everything in a pile in the middle of the room. Exactly.

They need better storage. Thankfully, IKEA is close-by. I rewarded myself for all the hard work by going there today and purchasing much needed storage for the girls and a meatball or two for myself. Call it retail therapy or what you will. If it makes it possible for fireman to get to my girls in a fire, then it's worth it.

Stick in the Eye

When I was a student, I was a good one. I handed in my work ahead of time, always did the extra-credit projects, and generally expected others to do their best. As you can imagine, I was sorely disappointed on a regular basis.

The summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I attended the Summer Institute for a few weeks at a college campus hours from my hometown. I was one of those students who opted to spend my summer break learning more and spending time with like-minded, self-proclaimed geniuses.

The focus of my intensive classes was creative writing. For this small town, conservative girl, it meant spending time with kids who flippantly used colorful language (in the name of creativity) and had more "worldly" knowledge than I cared to explore. But their writing was amazing. Maybe even because of these things their writing was amazing.

My roommate was another conservative, small town girl from a different area of the state. Her focus was biology. She is a nurse now so I guess we're both using our experiences properly. She was upbeat, beautiful, and painfully optimistic, even for me. She used this phrase that is maybe more common than I give it credit:

It's better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Those words rang in my ears today as I did school with Number 2 looking out a window of yet more falling snow.

Well, it's better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Number 2 is a bare minimum type of kid who just wants to pass. He's always asking to opt out of certain lessons or somehow simplify the process. I admit I have given in on more than one occasion and it may be biting me in the rear. The lessons today were physically painful.

A couple years ago my hubby and I were desperate to expand our income. I mean, really low. He had been laid off for several months and the credit cards were maxed out. Just then a plasma donation center opened up a reasonable drive from our house. So we both donated plasma to make $50-$100 a week.

Did I mention that I'm anemic, have a really super-fast heartbeat, bruise easily, and generally don't like giving away parts or my anatomy? Well I'm mentioning it now. All this to explain that today, I would have run into a chair to let a nurse stick me with a needle just to escape the responsibility of educating my offspring. If teachers around the globe ever feel this way, we should require goggles just in case anybody wants to test the sharp stick in the eye theory. I have my doubts.

Maybe I'm upset that a security guard doing rounds yesterday wrote me up for leaving my trash on the front porch for ten minutes. Maybe I am in some serious need of a Spring Break. Maybe I can expel some of my frustration by making lovely greeting cards and drinking Mai-tais by the fireside tonight. Yeah. That should do it.

There's one other phrase I never could figure out. "It ain't no thang but a chicken wang" Maybe I'll use that one tomorrow during school. Or maybe there'll be a snow day and we'll cancel altogether. Maybe that's where it's better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Snow in March

I began my week with a play-date across town so we cancelled school Monday morning and drove to the metro. As I was patiently waiting for a parking spot to open up, a man (not Russian) pulled his Lada in front of my fender, rolled down the window, spit toward my fender, and scowled as he drove away. "Huh?" I thought. That's never happened before. Either he felt the need to spit right then or he knows what the special numbers and color of our license plate denotes. I proceeded to unload the kids and headed on our way anyway.

It was a fun day, but I was a little nervy because my husband was in Washington DC taking an exam for a possible new job. My friends were supportive and hopeful as we sipped coffee that tasted amazing! I said to her, "What kind of coffee is this?" She replied rather sheepishly, "Maxwell House?" We both had a good laugh about what we considered luxury. We also realized that the cubed, raw sugar she bought tastes pretty, darn good.

A few hours later when we arrived back at our side of town, I decided to get an impromptu haircut. After all, it had been five months and I was well past due. I opted for a straight around bob that I haven't sported since 2003. I walked out of there feeling taller, prettier, and flaunting my bare head because it was a balmy 33 degrees! Once we got to the car, I realized the lights had been left on and we had no battery. There was a time when I would have cried, fallen down, or screamed mutiny. But I didn't. I apologized to my kids and we caught a bus.

Once home, a neighbor, who is Guatamalan and all of 4.5 feet tall, drove me back to my van with a mobile charger. The battery wasn't exactly easy to get to and considering my vehicle is notoriously filthy and the snow was knee deep, I think we did pretty well by getting it started. We had Russian male spectators the whole time. I'm sure they had a good laugh. Or maybe not.

So my husband didn't get the job.

When he came home from DC, I couldn't believe the gifts he brought back and how much he thought of me while he was gone. From a Starbucks Washington DC mug to Yankee Candles, I was feeling pretty special. But the best gift of all came the next morning.

I have been feeling really tired lately because I am anemic and I ran out of iron two weeks ago. I know they have iron at the local pharmacy, but every time I go in, I forget the word and can't communicate what I need. So I have gone without. As I unpacked his bags to get out the laundry, I found one container of iron from an American pharmacy. After 11 married years with this man, how is it that iron could speak so much love?

On Friday morning, I headed to Bible Study. It's half a mile away so when it's cold I drive, but yesterday the snow was so pretty and the birds were chirping. I felt like I was in Narnia. It's hard for me to believe that I am so optimistic about the snow that I used to despise. Here it is, end of March and we're still getting regular snowfall. But I've been here for a spring/summer and know that once the warm weather arrives, we will have sun for 20 hours a day and beauty that seems to last forever.

Last week when my girlfriend was over, her four year-old son kept interrupting us to whine about wanting my son's lightsaber toy. She knew that he was getting one at his birthday party the next day but he whined and whined anyway. She shook her head and said, "If you only knew...." This is how I've felt about my life lately. God has something. I keep grasping at it and trying to make it mine, but He knows the proper time for it. Hey, if this girl can learn to find the beauty in snow, then certainly I can wait a little longer for God's timing. I hope.

First and Last

I've been feeling melancholy lately. I could attribute it to the still wintery, cold snow or maybe the prospect of visiting home makes the days seem longer. It could be caused by a wonderful friend telling me about her pregnancy and my husband confessing that he was slightly envious. With his hand cupping my face, I felt sad, happy, and complete all at the same time. For the first time since I've lived in Russia, I was homesick this week. I wanted home. Not the stuff, stores, or food. I wanted friends and family who make up home. I repeated several times over to myself words of wisdom from my mother; this too shall pass.

It did.

Imagine every time you celebrated a birthday, milestone, or holiday that it was jam-packed with the expectation of being your first. Then, reverse it and apply that same wistful, bittersweet emotion to the fact that it may be your last. We have a two-year contract. Shortly after we arrived, it was our first Thanksgiving among new friends only (no family). We realized this past November may have been our last Thanksgiving. I've started making lists of souvenirs I just have to have and need to send out to friends I've promised.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. My life motto is "write your life in pencil and carry a big eraser." It could be that all of my intricate emotions are ill-spent because we could be here another two years, or in some ways, we could be gone in a blink.

Have I learned anything? Yes, though that seems too small a word for an affirmative answer. Just today I made a meal for a new family who arrived thinking to myself, "what if I'm not even here long enough to become a good friend? Will it be worth it?" Of course. Doing the right thing is always in season. Jesus said that loving others is the greatest commandment. That's why it brings so much joy!

I'm not a touchy-feely. I never have been. Tears and hugging actually tend to drive me nuts and yet they have brought me such security this week. Somethings coming. I can feel it. I started Spring cleaning and taking inventory of what I would want to pack. This could be premature. It could be ridiculous really. Maybe we'll know or maybe we won't.

Either way, I'll keep you posted.