Moves like Jagger

Last weekend we attended a birthday party for a Russian friend of ours at a restaurant. We casually walked into one of the hippest restaurants in one of the biggest cities in the world. Just past the chic outdoor seating complete with fur blankets, the smell of Georgian food welcomed us inside the door. Once we arrived at our table, our hostess, the guest of honor, greeted us with three kisses on the cheeks and introduced us to her friends. We saw a few of our American colleagues there as well and greeted them. Everyone brought flowers. There was another girl across the room with the same name celebrating her birthday also. The waitress pointed out that the other girl didn't get beautiful or many flowers.

Throughout the evening we shared good conversation, excellent Beluga Vodka, and the iconic khachapuri cheese bread. Hubby ordered his with an over-easy egg in the center. Yum...or not. I stuck with the lamb shish-kebab. Throughout the evening, slightly louder than the sound of joy and friendship was the ever present accordion. I asked for the Russian word for accordion. It is a "akordeon". Anyway, I found myself bobbing my head to the tune and realized the man near the piano was playing "Moves Like Jagger." The only reason I know this song is because I watched an episode of Glee by mistake once and it featured the wheel-chair kid singing this song. I can't get that time back...

Seriously though, where else could you hear a rousing rendition of "Moves Like Jagger" on the accordion? Shortly after that, the waitress brought out complimentary shots. I typically don't care for things of unnatural colors, but those who did taste them determined it was cheap vodka mixed with some sort of peppers or hot sauce. No thank you. One of the Russian guests put her hand up to me and said, "High-Five!" So I obliged. For the next few minutes we taught them all how to high-five. We also taught them not to leave somebody hangin'.

Our hostess ordered cake and a song so somebody asked the accordion player to pipe down for a few minutes. Like most independent musicians, he was sorely disappointed and huffed his way through the maze of tables. We did not hear from him again that evening. Many toasts were offered in both English and Russian, but my favorite was when a female gave a long, long, long explanation in Russian to her friend. She summed it up in English as, "I told her she is a good friend." As the night went on, the restaurant cleared out and we were asked to leave or they would call the police. That was an easy choice.

Outside of the restaurant, we stumbled across two foreigners looking for a pub. One was from France and one from Argentina but since they spoke such excellent English, we invited them along to join our party. We shared some beers, talked about Versailles, and then walked home in heels and moonlight. I'm not sure yet, but I think I like living in the city.

Therapy

MRIs have been analyzed, diagnosis is in, and physical therapy is three days a week. Sometimes when I'm in a group of people I don't know, I purposely throw out the idea that I have to go to "therapy" weekly. I always wonder, are they gutsy enough to ask me what kind of therapy or will they ask my neighbor? Probably the latter. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is I am always excited for a new adventure in Moscow.

Spring is the worst. I know you think I would say winter is the worst, but winter is exactly what it should be. Cold, dark, icy, terrible. It's the long part that never seems to agree with me. I know that spring will arrive after April 15, but the last few weeks of partly cloudy, mushy, whatever have left me completely depressed. That, and the fact that I know it begins the season of people leaving. This will be my third year saying goodbye. It's like being a fifth year senior. All of our class is moving on, yet here we are. Pity party over.

So....therapy. I am so thrilled at the idea of living in the city where I can walk anywhere that I often choose walking over any other form of transportation. The first time I walked to the medical center, it took me 25 minutes. Not bad. However, my brilliant girlfriend mentioned to me, "What about the bus?" Duh! The bus! For two years we lived where a bus wasn't always an option. Now that it is, I often forget about it. Now when I go to the doctor, I walk for five minutes, ride a bus for five minutes, then walk five more. Way less exhausting and much more simple.

The bus costs 28 rubles. Russians prefer exact change. Each day when I go I make sure I have exactly 56 rubles for bus fare. After doing this for a week, the big-wigs of public transit decided to change the rules. Now it's 50 rubles for two rides. It's actually cheaper but I wasn't aware of this change when I handed the driver my carefully counted 28 rubles. He was not impressed.

Once I arrived at the medical center. I made sure to check my coat, put on the blue booties, and check-in with the clerk. The doctor spoke only Russian so her assistant arrived to interpret and walked me down to the physical therapy department. Follow me in your mind: walk down a steep stairway, turn a sharp corner. Watch your head for the low-lying bulkhead marked with a red plastic lid stapled onto it. Turn a sharp right again. Step over a ridiculously high threshold that looks something like a door on a submarine. Now weave and wind through hallways that are littered with full-size locker cabinets sometimes walking sideways to avoid the chairs in front of the doors. And finally, here we are.

Once inside, physical therapy happens. I've successfully mastered the Russian words for pain, discomfort, and feeling better. Other than that, there isn't much to tell you about except that if you haven't had electro-therapy, you should try it.

Once I leave, I head back to the bus to go home. Yesterday the bus was hailed by a traffic cop. We stopped behind him and sat there for longer than usual. After he was finished with citing another car, he hopped on the bus. So I guess public servants ride the bus for free. No squabbles about 28 rubles for him.

Please remove your pants....while I watch.

I'm not feeling well. It stinks. Usually I am the caretaker. I don't get days off. I don't get sick leave. But I always get a good story out of hospitals.

Yesterday a car picked me up to take me to the European Medical center. They call it European because it bills you in Euros. Other than that, I'm not so sure.

When I arrived, the receptionist took my passport, insurance card, and asked me fill out forms. Of course I had to bring my coat to the coat check and put blue, protective booties over my shoes. Seemed pretty typical. Then she walked me to the appropriate wing and asked me to be seated.

A few minutes later, a doctor came out and called, "Mrs. Gawdy?" I responded. For the rest of the day, my last name was Gawdy. It's not worth the trouble of correcting her. I've learned that lesson a time or two. At Starbucks I tell them my name is Tanya. Once we were in the room, the doctor asked about my medical history and my current symptoms.

She then asked me to remove my pants. She motioned to a privacy screen where I could modestly undress. I was then instructed to lay on the table in the room, pantsless. What was the point of the privacy screen if I had to walk out in the open without pants anyway? After a thorough exam of my lower extremities, I was told to return to the "privacy" screen, put my pants back on, and remove all tops.

I removed all of my upper layers and proceeded to lay on the table in the center of the room topless. No blanket, no gown, but booties on my shoes. I laid on my back. That was not sufficient. Have you ever seen someone prep a model for a photo shoot? They fix the hair, the makeup, adjust the breasts if necessary, and strike a pose. That was me. With one arm under my head and the other on my hip, I tried to imagine myself as a centerfold for some great magazine instead of in this terrible, sterile, cold building with a cardiologist and a privacy screen.

During the exam, someone knocked on the door. The doctor invited her colleague in, he declined. Instead, the two doctors stood in the doorway, door wide open, while people (other patients) walked past us in the hallway. Did I mention I was topless?

The doctor finished the exam and asked to me to redress. As I did so, she flung open the privacy shade and talked to me, face to face, about my perceived conditions and future course of action. I tried to be attentive to her and the buttons on my sweater.

She referred me to a neurologist where I went today. During the consult he was completely professional, however, there was no privacy screen in this room. I was instructed to remove my pants again. It's always easier the second time. He sat patiently in his chair and waited...watching. How weird is that? I guess I wasn't thinking about my choice of panties when I got dressed this morning.

Best part about all of this: I have to pay them.

Unpacking to Pack

I wrote this post earlier, but I thought I should finally publish it. Sorry for the delay.

We moved. It's new and different in the city. It's new and different living within the confines of American soil in Moscow. I will give you some comparisons to give you an idea of the changes.

Old house: 3 bedrooms, 2.5 baths, fireplace, classroom in the dining room, make-shift storage shelving in every nook and cranny, 2 stall garage, main floor, single entrance, long commute. Number 3 wrote this note in chalk on our front step.

New house: 5 bedrooms, 4.5 baths, classroom upstairs, closet space we still haven't managed to fill, no garage, upper floor (16 steps per level: 32 total to go to my room), quad-style entrance, no commute

The view from our old house was trees, a lake, and a wide yard. Our view here is the Russian White house and Hotel Ukraine. For two whole years, we didn't have neighbors in the unit next to us. Now we share a quad with three other families. We can hear the kids next door running down the stairs and their mothers shouting at them to close the door.

Number 2 already made friends with nearly every kid on compound. I have barely seen his face inside our door since we arrived. Number 1 is blissfully enjoying the freedom and privacy of her own room for the very first time. She stays up too late each night reading. I can't complain.

Since we unpacked our house, I have been back to the US twice and we will all be there again in March. But it's okay. We've got a place to come back to with no boxes.

Back-up, back-up, back-up!

Number 1 had a birthday this week. Like every good parent, we took pictures of the face before the cake, blowing out the candles, and the smiles when she took a bite of her favorite homemade French Silk Pie. She is eleven. She borrows my shoes, earrings, and asks me why all the boys in this area like her so much. I wonder to myself, "when did this happen?" (stay with me...this post is actually about data recovery.)

Back-up.

Eleven years ago I was a twenty year-old with a newborn. We still took pictures with film cameras and got them developed at the local pharmacy. If you lost the photos, no biggie. Just take the negatives back to the store and have them re-developed. Data is a little more tricky.

Recently my husband and I had a miscommunication. Shocking, I know, but it sometimes happens. We have been the owners of a very nice digital camera for a few years now. I thought he said he did back up the photos but he actually said he intended to. It wasn't until the drive crashed that we realized there was not a second copy. To my friends, especially you, I know you are shaking your head at me. It wasn't me. For heaven's sakes, I am homeschooling, cooking, and successfully keeping six people alive and going. Photos are not my department.

I was kind of sad when I realized that our trips to Hawaii, Paris, New York, Washington DC, and our lives in Moscow were on that drive as well as important mile markers in our kids' lives.

We brought the external hard-drive to many of our intelligent, high-tech friends who make nerdy jokes that I didn't really understand. Anyway, one of the local geeks we know recommended a company he read about in Wired magazine. Who even reads that?

So we called up Drive Savers and they gave us the protocol involved for sending our drive. We didn't have to pay any fees or commit to anything. They would wait to see if they could fix it before charging us a dime. Who does that? They called every couple of weeks to update us on the recovery process.

Good news! Today we received our drive via FedEx. It contained 12,943 photos beginning in 2006. As I copied them onto our PC, I literally watched six years of my life flash before my eyes. I had forgotten about my trip to Florida with my best friend in 2008, Hubby's trip to New York to see Old Yankees Stadium, how beautiful Sacre Coeur gleamed in the sunset, and how much my kids have actually grown. Thank you Drive Savers. Thank you Wired.

So friends, this is a commercial. Back-up your stuff. Make CDs. Load them to an online archive, because believe me, it would have been a lot easier than paying $891. And trust me, those little people in your house won't be small forever.

Babushka

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all. I realized today that trying to teach the kids school after Christmas is like trying to spoon-feed a baby on a trampoline. Unusual metaphor, I know, but you get the idea. I have declared tomorrow a day off so we are all free to enjoy our new gadgets, sip some cocoa, and watch holiday classics.

That being said, I am taking some time to blog and I want to talk about somebody special. The Babushka. This is pronounced "Bah-boosh-ka". Contrary to popular opinion, it is not a scarf. It is a grandmother. Not my grandmother or yours, but somebody's. Something I have come to realize while living in Russia is that the place is teeming with Babushkas. They lurk in corners, they strut on buses, and they hit your feet with their cane on the metro.

When I go anywhere in this city with my children, we are like a parade. We hog the sidewalk and if somebody has a tune in their head (this is very common) they may gallop or skip to the beat. Babushkas are not impressed. They are looking at me with hawkeyes to make sure that my children are covered properly. Are their scarves wrapped well enough? Are they wearing tights under their jeans? In the Spring when it gets warmer, I still make sure my kids are wearing hats because out of some dark alley, a Babushka will hop out and yell at me. Not them. Me.

When I was a child my father used to yell out, "Close the door! Are you paying the bills?" In similar manner, I tell my kids each time we walk out of the door, "Cover your head! DO you want me to get yelled at by a Babushka?"

The other day I was on the metro escalator without my children. As we ascended, my hands crossed in front of me and brushed the Babushka's coat. She turned around and slapped my hands. I apologized in Russian and put my hands at my side. A minute later, she turned around, put her hands on my shoulders and pushed me down one step. Apparently, this particular Babushka did not want me to stand so close. I can't imagine why she cared. If you're not shoved up against somebody here then you're doing something wrong. It's the way of life.

One last thing about Babushkas. They are always right. It doesn't matter where or when. They know all. One particular Babushka in the 1970s wanted an Orthodox church to be re-opened. Of course this was the time of Communism and it wasn't permitted. She sent so many letters, so aggressively, that the government agreed and opened her little church. They were so tired of her endless complaints. Perhaps the Communists should have hired her. She may have made their regime last longer.

(The photo at the top is of Number 4 dressed for -10F on a bus. We rode this bus for 45 minutes dressed this way. It wasn't worth the risk of a Babushka getting on the bus.)

Things Can Change

I feel like the senior in the freshmen hallway. We've been here for almost two and a half years. Most people are braving their very first Russian winter while I am entering my third.

Today it is 12 degrees. That's right-twelve. When I suited up to go outside, I smiled and said to myself, "It's kinda nice out today." When I lived in the States, I wouldn't shop for the necessities in 12 degrees, much less go out. But today I volunteered to walk to my friend's apartment to pick up my son from a sleepover. It wasn't far. Only a 15 minute walk one way. My smiling boy echoed my thoughts. "It's pretty warm out today, isn't it?"

My mistake was wearing my boots. These are Sorel boots from Canada. Russians say, "there's no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing." We've found this to be mostly true so I paid $200 for boots from Canada. I wore them all last winter, but today they chafed the back of my Achilles and I returned home with bloody feet. "Geesh," I thought to myself. "I should have worn my heels." For this typical comfort-over-fashion girl, things sure have changed.

This is, however, my first winter living in the city. It's beautiful. All the shining Christmas trees and traffic sounds a little bit more like "Silver Bells." Well....maybe not. When we got out the Christmas decorations, my four small people decorated everything while I sat down and drank a fresh cup of coffee. I didn't have to police their arrangement of the ornaments or remind them not to break anything. They did it all perfectly by themselves.

This morning I woke up with a sore throat, a headache, and sore joints. My kids dutifully took care of the dishes, worked on their school assignments, and tidied up the house. I laid on the couch and tried to feel better. There was a time when these little ones ran circles around me. Now they are waiting on me and telling me to take it easy. What a difference.

I know this post is random. At least I had five minutes to write it. I just wanted to stop and recognize that things can change and they often do; right in front of your very eyes.