Escort a Pony

For the summer months, we are doing our very best to get off the Embassy compound as much as possible to see friends and this amazing city. But some days we stay put. A good friend of mine arranged a co-op for the summer where we plan group activities and take turns organizing. Each Friday is designed to be an in-Embassy field trip. These tours include the Diplomatic Post Office, the Medical Unit, and other regular offices that seem interesting to the kids. The tours last about thirty minutes and help us all to better appreciate this complex living/working situation.

First up was the groundskeeper. The day of the event, my friend was surprised to receive a phone call from this man requesting access for a pony. Now keep in mind this tour involved naming varieties of trees, explaining the significance of the floral arrangements, and other interesting facts. Who would think of a pony? Pavel would. Here is how the conversation played out.

"I wonder could we get in a pony?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. Can we even get access for a pony?" She replied.

"You can escort person, yes? Maybe one person can escort pony?"

At this point she was trying to stifle the laughter of such an hilarious request. Hilarious or not, a pony would be a good diversion for our hot, bored kids.

Because we knew about the details, the day lingered on endlessly. We passed the groundskeeper in the hallway and he grabbed the kids by the shoulders and encouraged them to come to the tour later. "It will be very fun," he promised. By noon, there was an email announcement sent to the general population so everyone would come out to see his special surprise.

It was nearly 90 degrees that day and at 3:30 in the afternoon, the kids were not entirely impressed with his olive branch design in the flowers, or that the trees in front of our house were half the size ten years ago.

They wanted to get to the good stuff.

Just as we were about to retreat for a water break, up walked a pony, saddled and ready for some fun. The kids quickly lined up to experience this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Watching the kids smiling and giggling was entertaining, but watching Pavel was even better. He leaned up against a trash can with a satisfied look on his face and smiled. Who would out-do a pony?

For the rest of the summer, when we hype the tours inside our Embassy, our kids will ask, "Will there be a pony?" We will disappoint them by responding, "No pony at the Post Office today."

"What about at the Med Unit? Will there be a pony there?"

"No. No pony at the Med Unit."

Well done, Pavel. Well done.

The Circus

Last month my hubby's boss (whose children are all grown) volunteered to take us all to the circus just so he could witness the delight on the kids' faces. In Moscow there is the 'Old Circus' and the 'New Circus'. I'm not sure about the differences, but he suggested we attend 'Old Circus'. In the memories of my childhood, the circus is really no different than the carnival. It comes to town, does a few overpriced shows, and then tears down just as fast as it set up.

This place was different. The permanent building was circular with tiered seating all the way. You could see everything from everywhere. It felt like the show was just for you and you were practically close enough to touch the action. Before the show, they had some animals on display for photo ops. Our host indulged us with a photo with the tiger. The kids were thrilled! There were also dalmatians, elephants, birds, and other circus-y animals. Strangely enough, none of these animals were featured in that evening's show.

Anyway, my personal favorite was the very first act. The lady was an aerialist with a long, curtain-like rope. It was graceful, beautiful and I couldn't help but enjoy looking down the row at my kids' open mouths. The clown show was re-occurring and very funny! I'm pretty sure somewhere in the show they announced that he was from the US. That wasn't surprising since he counted using, one, two, and three, instead of adeen, dva, tree.

When the high-wire act began, I felt ready to be underwhelmed. One guy would walk across the line, then another. When the drummer began a drum-roll, the real action happened. The strongest man had one woman standing atop his head and another standing on his shoulders. Very slowly, they tiptoed across the line. The girls had safety lines, but the enormous man walked simply with his long pole. I felt like I couldn't breathe. I am sure I would never like to watch that live again!

There were horses, hoop-jumping dogs, a pirate clown and some dancing birds, and a live orchestra. I fully expected to simply tolerate the night, but I left thoroughly impressed and pleased.

Easier for Tourists

A few weeks back my hubby and I read a newspaper article that claimed Moscow was trying to improve itself so that it would be easier for tourists. We literally laughed out loud. We have been here long enough to know how to negotiate, navigate, and avoid, but we have not been here long enough to forget how confusing it is at first, especially for a non-Russian speaking foreigner. We read this in April after a long, snowy winter spent mostly indoors.

But Spring has emerged and so have we. It's true. The claims are true. Everywhere I go lately, I feel like shouting "AHA!" when I see something new. For example; the metro system is pretty simple, but with 12 lines of different colors and numbers, it can be confusing at transfer stations. The city has installed brightly colored decals on the floors of the platforms so that as you are walking, you can know which way to head and it's in English.

Also, they have marked the floors where the metro car doors will open so people can line up appropriately. When I say line up, what I mean is shove in.

Secondly, more signs are posted in both Russian and English. One we found at a nearby park with directions to the children's playground, bathrooms, and information.

And bathrooms! What a change. In English we say, "Where is the restroom/bathroom?" In Russian you ask, "Где туалет?" Literally "Where toilet?" More recently, the bathrooms are well labeled in the British manner "WC" for Water-closet, and there are even signs directing you where to find them. And not just squatty potties, but actual toilets. But wait...there's more! Some of these new bathrooms are free! Can you imagine? I said FREE BATHROOMS!

Now I am going to address the metro/bus passes. I may have mentioned previously that the metro fare was 26 rubles. It behooves you to pay exactly 26 rubles or in the case of two rides, 52 rubles. Or in the case of 20 rides, 520 rubles. On the bus it was 28 rubles for one, 56 for two. You get the point. Now, in one EASY pass, you can get 60 rides for metro and/or bus for only 1200 rubles! What? A discount for multiple rides? That's right! One ticket makes each ride only 20 rubles. I can't tell you how enormous this is. I feel like a wealthy oligarch walking around with my 60 ride ticket. Well, actually the wealthy oligarchs are in the fast lane of traffic. Nevermind.

Lastly, I want to add this brief note about wi-fi. What if you're out one day by Catherine the Great's Summer Palace and you're picnicking in the park. What's that? You want free wi-fi? No problem. Here it is. Some metro cars advertise wi-fi, but I don't know about the accuracy of their claims.

I feel like I've got it mastered. Maybe it's time for a new challenge...

Hello Mother, hello Father

If you have been alive long enough, you will remember these catchy commercial lyrics from the 80s. It featured a little girl writing home to tell her parents about camp. More and more lately, I feel like my life is like camp and I will tell you why.

When I was a girl, each summer I saved money, sold consumable food items, and begged so I could go to camp. I went several years in a row and when weekly camp wasn't possible, I went to day camp. I learned the buddy system for the swimming pool, became proficient in the leather-works shop, and saved my quarters to use at the canteen. When I wasn't at camp alone, each summer for one week we went to family camp. We had our own grade appropriate counselors, mom and dad went to hear speakers about improving your family, and the afternoons were filled with beaches and sunshine. We were never rich but I've come to realize that the camp experience tops the charts in my memory bank.

When my husband and I were engaged, we were camp counselors. I became that iconic college student who got little sleep, was always up for a round of four-square, and held kids' hands on the way to the beach. One particular little boy wrote to me years later telling me how special I was to him.

So now we live on the compound in the eternal twilight zone of camp. I'm making relationships that will seal in my heart forever. I can visit the commissary (canteen) and get good ole' American candy any time I want and still use my quarters. If I don't feel like cooking, we walk down to the cafeteria or restaurant and we go swimming as much as possible. There are activities in which to get involved and everything is just a walk away. As my kids and I march to the gate, we often hold hands, swing arms, and sing a camp song.

Obviously I still have my regular duties here, but most of the time it feels like organized fun. The downside to all this fun is that camp usually only lasted a week. I have endured several months of these pumped up activities and family togetherness. I like family togetherness, but lately I really prefer my family. This doesn't mean I don't like yours, it's just that sooner or later, you're going to leave anyway. I'm ready to exchange addresses and pretend like we'll keep in touch. The truth is, it rarely happens. Everyone is well meaning when they say, "We'll see each other again," but we probably won't.

So camp is fun. But somewhere deep in my heart I'm ready to come home, when I figure out exactly where that is.

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.